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Pete, grab my legs. Got me? Okay, I'm gonna dangle my jacket over the edge of the cliff.
Man, that's not gonna hold him.
Don't worry, dude, it's wool - seriously tough. Okay, we're gonna pull you up. Ready?
One
Two
Three
FUCK!
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Dude! What were you thinking? You said you had him!
Jesus... That crazy motherfucker let go of the jacket.
Maybe his hand slipped.
....
You think he's alive?
I don't know. Is he moving?
Fuckin' A - what are we gonna do?
I don't think he's moving.
Why the hell did he decide to come back up this way anyway? I mean, shit, if I've got the option to head up a path or scale a goddamn cliff -
He's definitely not moving. Is that blood?
No, it's ketchup - whaddya think, moron? He just fell about 200 feet.
We gotta call the cops.
Screw that! You know what's gonna happen if they decide to take a look in the car? He's just some stupid hitchhiker anyway. We gotta get out of here.
Man, you know we can't do that - he's dying down there.
Wakeup call, idiot - nobody alive can touch their ankles to the top of their head. He's dead.
Damn. You realize he just died in front of our eyes?
....
yeah
....
What was his name again?
Nate.
Why the hell was he going to LA anyway?
Said that it was too rainy in Portland. Look, I'm not gonna shed too many tears over this mofo - especially after that story he told us in the car.
So he slept with a retarded chick... who gives a fuck?
Just something about the way he told the story... bugged me. Ugly when you treat people like cattle.
Hell, you want to leave him down there and not tell anybody!
I didn't say that. I just didn't want to call the cops. And I gotta remind you that you were the one who decided we needed to stop and stretch our legs.
Well I didn't expect him to head all the way down to the ocean. But ya gotta admit, it was nice sittin' down at the beach down there. Too bad he was stupid about coming back up.
And now his fuckin' body is our responsibility. Yep, that was worth it. Fer sure.
Stop being a shit and get back on track here. We gotta call somebody. After all, someone's gonna find him eventually, and then there's gonna be an investigation, and then they're gonna hunt us down and slap our asses in prison. Trust me, man, I watch CSI.
Bullshit - that's just fuckin' establishment propaganda. It's such a load of bullshit. Remember that time I found the top of that girl's skull in the woods and turned it in? The fuckin' cops didn't do squat. The damn thing is still sitting in a box back at the Napa police station.
Dude, let's just keep this simple - we hit a phone booth, drop a line to the local cops telling them where to find him, hit the 1 and be in LA by morning. You think they're gonna try and track us over 300 miles for some no-name drifter?
The air is clear, clean, the scent of salt rising from the edges of the iceplant and scraggly dune grass. A muscle bulges, flexes, releases, pulling the lean, pockmarked body up the inside of the cliff. A yellowed smile breaks out as he cranes his neck to look at the paradise of sea and sun spread out before him, a rippling cascade of blue, white and gold. A seagull hovers before him, hovering on the thermals, surfing the wind.
There are three times in his life he can remember feeling this happy. The first was when he met his father at the age of eight. His father was a tall man, handsome, rich. When he pulled up to their trailer in that BMW, he knew - knew in his heart - that his papa was going to take him away from the smell of cigarettes and whiskey, knew that the beatings were going to end, knew that he'd never see his step-father again.
He was wrong, of course. But this moment, when his papa stood in the doorway with the light shining behind him and all the bad air whooshed out of the trailer and he ran towards his dad, his real dad... this moment stays with him.
--------
The second time was at his father's funeral. The mortician had done a marvelous job with the bullet holes - one could barely tell the man was dead. The gun, untraceable, had been disposed of. As he stood by the casket, the assistant DA came up to him. Blah blah blah, sorry for his loss, respected member of the community, "and you'll be pleased to know that we've arrested a suspect".
A moment of holding one's breath.
"Unfortunately, we've found that your stepfather was responsible for the shooting."
A smile beneath the sob, a sob that surprised him. But nonetheless, it had worked.
-------
The third time was the first time he tried tweak. Giselle had never paid attention to him before the inheritance, but she sure liked him now. "Come on baby, it will make things great between us for days."
Nose touched down to rough powder. A burning drip down the inside of his nose. And then, divinity. Passion bursting through the lips, souls singing in every touch, mind racing towards relevation in ever ascending spirals and spirals and spirals and never having to sleep or think or stop.
And the sex. Sex beyond desire, beyond need, beyond anything but sweat and pumping for days and days and days.
Giselle had been wrong. It lasted for nearly two years, until the money ran out.
-----------
His body is like a wire now, light, stripped, quivering. He lets himself dangle, first with one hand, then the other. The seagull casts a glance his way, then plunges down out of sight. Above him, he hears exclamations - the two college kids he caught a ride with have just spotted him.
He thinks of her eyes, not Giselle's cold blue, but the soft, brown cow-like eyes of the girl at the shelter. She had followed him to the blanket closet, a thin string of drool hanging from her lips. He tried talking, but when he opened his mouth, she had gently stuck her fingers in, letting his tongue lick the tip of her middle finger.
It had been over a year, and his starved body was lit aflame. She was a heavyset girl, but agile, reaching eagerly for what she wanted. Shaking, he wrapped them both in the heavy wool blankets and gave himself to her.
She clung to him without restraint, hungry only for pleasure, allowing herself to fall into every touch and movement. It was not ecstasy. No fireworks, no shuddering orgasms. But enveloped in her flesh he felt comfort for the first time in years. With a whimper, he let his essence flow into her, and fell asleep in her arms.
It was the first time, since the passing of his father, that the nightmares didn't come.
He awoke still entangled in wool. Her head was resting on his shoulder, soaking it with drool. He realized he was naked, naked with this sub-human cow, and oh god, he'd just slept with her. How fucking worthless did he have to be, when the only comfort he could find was THIS? He pulled himself free without waking her, packed his things, and hit the highway.
Later - when the two kids picked him up outside of Santa Cruz, sparked up a spliff, and started listing off their romantic conquests - he began talking about her. Slut, retard, moron, horny bitch. Desperate to remove any trace of vulnerability in his story, he begins to make things up, things that he forced her to do, things not even an animal would do willingly. He doesn't even notice the disgusted expressions of the college kids - he has to purge her.
And he can't. Not even here, hanging above the ocean as the sun begins to set. Somehow, her eyes stay with him, vacant and sweet, offering a gift he could not accept, only steal like a thief.
"Pete, grab my legs. Got me? Okay, I'm gonna dangle my jacket over the edge of the cliff."
The two kids are shouting something down to him, and he looks up. The big one is hanging over the edge of the cliff while the smaller one holds his legs. The big one has lowered his jacket down within arm's reach. In a daze, he reaches up to grab it.
His fingers find the jacket, the wool of the lining, feeling the scratch of the fibers as his grip tightens. His other hand releases the rock, as the big kid slowly pulls him up to safety, away from this divine view, back to rotten teeth and shivering nights beneath the Sellwood Bridge, back to the night of the gun kicking against his hand, back to watching as his father falls face forward on the living room floor in nightmare after nightmare after nightmare.
Or maybe it's just a dream. He can't tell the difference anymore. He can't run anymore.
He can't do anything, but let go.
