CHAPTER EIGHTEEN COEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
COEN
I wake up feeling better than I have in at least five years.
Maybe trying to get home wasn’t the cure for all this burn-out.
Maybe I just needed a little freedom, a chance to hit the road with the prettiest girl I’ve ever met by my side.
Speaking of Sabrina, I roll over to look at her, propping my head on my hand.
She’s fast asleep. She should be after how late we fucked last night.
The sleeping bag slid down her shoulders, exposing the tanned expanse of her skin.
Gently, I touch her spine, tracing it as far as I can see.
It’s been a long time since I slept with anyone.
It wouldn’t matter anyway, because this feels all new to me.
Back when I wasn’t so empty and exhausted, I at least got the thrill of discovering something new.
Then, it wore out, and I felt nothing but a faint hollowness in my chest once I was alone again.
I don’t think I was built for casual anything.
I think I’ve always been too hungry, too all-consuming.
That’s not a negative thing, as it got me to where I’m at with my career, but it’s burning me out hard.
I pushed so hard, I forgot I was a human, and now there’s nothing left for me to hold when the stage lights are gone.
Now, I’m nobody but Coen Taylor, a name credited on the back of an album cover.
The man people call when they need something, but never the man they linger with after-hours.
I made myself too useful, too accessible.
Tired already, I pull on some sweats and leave the tent.
It’s already pretty warm as I get my clothes and head to the bathrooms to dress for the day.
The sun crests through the tree line. I pause and watch it, lifting my hand to see the golden rays filter through.
Faintly, a bit of warmth hits my skin. Overhead, a crow dips down and shrieks.
The waves lap at the shoreline from the lake just out of sight. Everything feels so…distant.
I feel it, though. It just hasn’t hit my brain yet.
Maybe that’s why I keep craving her the way I do. I’m balls deep in her, and I can’t quite feel it the way I need.
Sober, I put my pants, shirt, and boots on in the bathroom after a quick shower beneath the rustic spigot.
Everything is a little better on the other side.
I put my sweats away and head into the woods, intending on going down to the lake and see if I can find a spot to fish.
If I do, I’ll grab the pole and supplies I picked up and see if I can’t get lunch together.
There’s already a man sitting on the edge of the dock.
I recognize him briefly as one of the grizzled gentlemen from the rusted out camper.
Not wanting to disturb him, I keep to the other end of the dock.
He notices me and pulls the battered hat from his head, revealing a deeply lined face with a faint tattoo beneath his eye.
I’m sure it was something once upon a time.
“Good morning to fish,” he rumbles.
I saunter over. “Yeah, I was hoping to catch something for breakfast.”
He nods. “Just you out here?”
I hesitate in saying no. Instead, I jerk my head up the hill. “Got the missus with me.”
I don’t know why the hell I said that, but it slipped right out.
Now it’s a lie I have to keep up, but I don’t mind it.
Maybe just for this conversation in this particular campsite, out in the middle of fucking no place, I can be some ordinary man with his wife sleeping in back at the tent. I like that.
“Got any kids?” he rumbles.
“Nah, not yet. Haven't been together long.”
He shifts with effort. “You don’t wait on it if you want some. Both me and Fred, he’s here with me now, married our ladies pretty late. Think of all that time we fucked away, huh?”
My gut wrenches. “Yeah, I won’t wait on it,” I say. “What was your name again?”
“Larry,” he says, holding out a thoroughly worn and very dirty hand.
I shake it. “Coen.”
“You be good to her now,” Larry says, turning to reel in his line. Looks like he’s been distracted, and the fish nibbled everything off. He doesn’t seem to mind. He just starts baiting the hook again.
“I plan on it,” I say.
I’m thinking he plans on going back to his fishing, but he reaches to his other side and picks up a pole, holding it out. Silent, I take it and sink down, hanging my legs off the side and baiting the hook.
“Good morning for it,” I say.
“Yep.”
I cast my line. He does the same. The early sunlight glints off the ripples, dappled and broken up by the shadows from the trees. Everything smells clean and sort of smoky.
“Where you headed, Coen?” he says.
He’s got a voice like the aftermath of sixty years of cigarettes, which is probably an accurate assessment.
“Nashville,” I say. “Got some work up there.”
“Road-tripping it?”
“Haven’t had a chance to see the US this up close and personal in a while. Usually, I’m in a hurry.”
He reels in, an empty hook again, and patiently baits it to cast back. “My great-grandparents went the opposite way during the Dust Bowl. It’s funny how things change up in a couple generations. They were suffering. Here I am, fishing.”
I’m quiet, thinking hard. “That’s where some of the greatest songs ever written came from,” I say finally. “And books. I think about what it was like sometimes.”
“A lot of folk and country came out of suffering,” he agrees. “Should make us think.”
He casts his line. My bobber hasn’t moved.
My mind is far away, on the porch of that house in Wyoming.
My mother worked a lot of different odd jobs, including at the gas station, which was her most stable source of income.
At least once a week, she packed everything into her truck and drove to a house, sometimes an hour away, to clean.
When I was old enough to sit on a horse upright, I was making a paycheck and handing it over.
She loved me, and we made it work, but there was a lot of uncertainty and suffering when it came to keeping food on the table.
And I always come back to that.
He’s right.
He reels his line back in, and it’s empty again, but without missing a beat, he baits it again and casts it out.
“Does that bother you?” I ask lightly.
“What? Not catching a damn thing?” He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not in a big hurry. If you’re looking to get breakfast, I’d head right over there.”
He points back to the shore, to the left of the path leading to the campsite. A grove of trees spread their branches over the shore, providing shade for a rounded area where the water looks deep and cool. I open my mouth to ask why he’s not over there fishing and then close it.
He’s not in a hurry, like he said. After the last fifteen years, I forgot what that means.
He’s just…living.
That kicks me right in the chest.
“Why’re you in such a hurry, Coen Taylor?” he says abruptly.
My stomach sinks. “You know who I am?”
He laughs, deep and gravely. “They got a banner of you in Walmart, son.”
“I see.”
He casts that damn line out again. That’s when I feel a little tug at my line, and my eyes snap to the bobber, waiting for the right moment. It takes one quick pull for me to hook something that puts up a fight as I start reeling. From the water, with a spray, comes the silvery flash of a trout.
“Look at that,” Larry says. “It’s your lucky day.”
“Huh,” I say.
“You should cast out again, see if you’re on a winning streak.”
He gives me a bucket, and I drop the trout in. It’s big enough Sabrina and I could split it, but it wouldn’t be much. Maybe Larry is right, and I am on a winning streak. I think about it for a minute, then bait and hook and cast it back out. It hits the water in the same spot.
My mind drifts back to Sabrina in the tent. To Sabrina on the sand yesterday, almost naked and glittering in the sunlight.
For the first time in a long time, I might be on a winning streak.