18
The Fox River runs a few good miles north of Johnson. It’s a dark, dirty, thin river that scares off plenty of visitors. On some summer days of my youth, I’d wander up and down the river for hours, checking out the boat ramps and seeing what sort of people were going to come and navigate the water. Mostly it attracted fishermen, and there were plenty that I recognized. Some I’d known for years through my parents, and they’d tip their hats to me as I journeyed. Sometimes, I was liable to run up and catch them before they set off for the day and ask them if I could join. They always found that pretty amusing.
“Alright kid, hop in, what the hell.”
They thought I was a little crazy I’m sure, but I didn’t mind. I was desperate to be on the water.
I once flagged down a tiny cargo boat that was moving a tractor on the river. There were only a couple guys, and from the bank, I yelled out asking if they could use any help. They definitely thought I was a maniac, but around here, nobody would say no to a helping hand. There was always plenty of work to go around. They steered the boat near the dock, and I hopped right on. I didn’t end up doing all that much besides making sure nothing fell off the side while pretending to be a lookout. I tried to be useful, making sure there were no leaks or anything like that. The men running the thing were a bit crusty and cold but still rather pleased in the sun and muddy water. I asked how many times they had done something like this, and they scoffed to themselves.
“Thousands.”
While we slowly drifted, I thought about what kind of life that would be, just another river, every day, every night, forever.
The thing is, I loved the river more than the next rat and for a while there, I was obsessed. I would do these long grueling hikes along the shoreline which was completely overtaken by elm and the like. I crawled up and around those massive roots and sometimes climbed out and over the water along the branches of sideways, bent trees growing at odd angles. I loved the ones that had fallen over through storms or were lightning struck. They’d hang out long over the river, suspended atop the moving water, unwilling to give it all up. Those trees didn’t mind that they were different or shattered. They still had their roots, and a better view as far as I could tell. From those banks I would hear coyotes and other beasts. I felt right at home, a young Tarzan in the midst of adventure, looking out for deer, rabbits and squirrels.
A few miles along the shore there’s a westward bend where a coal plant stands fat and tall. When it was first erected, I’d make the journey out there just to stand and look up at the industrial beast spewing its black smoke. The massive metal structure looked angry and loomed in contrast with the setting-sun sky but I admit I found it darkly beautiful. I loved it in a much different way than I loved nature. All these buildings came from the imagination. The insides of our minds were on display but why’d they have to be sputtering black ash everywhere? There was something insidious about it. I would just gaze at it for hours and when the sun finally set, I’d walk through the dusk and graying sky back home, ruminating all the way about coal plants with feet calloused for good. My legs were accustomed to the long journeys with no particular destination at all. I hadn’t ever in my life figured out the destination of things. Not once have I ever known where I was going.
Today, I’m sitting in one of the secluded sections of the river on one of those broken, halfway uprooted maple trees that hangs off the bank some ten feet above the water. The city started an initiative a few years back to clean the Fox up, but they never did shut down that fucking plant at the westward bend. I’ve grown far less romantic about its design over the years, trust me, but that plant and its infection aren’t going anywhere unfortunately. It will play out like this, today and the next and the next, all of us bending the knee to industry. God, I feel sick at the thought. Regardless, the water is cleaner these days. The river has become a little more popular now, though the boats and the houses on the banks are few and far between. There’s still plenty of sanctuary to be found down here on the banks.
Today, clouds hang above me, the white gray kind strong enough to dim the sunlight, but not carrying the necessary amount of water for rain. A subtle shadow covers everything, giving the afternoon that old gloomy romantic feeling. The maple beneath me holds me up sturdy. I can still see my reflection as it conveys some hazy, nostalgic memory. I’m free to dream about anything.
Could Prince and I really make it all the way to Arizona? Imagine roaming across the nation and starting up fresh like a seed, reinventing yourself in anonymity and freedom. In Arizona, I could be anything. I could be a crazy cowboy out on some abandoned ranch or a slick, freewheeling western cat son of a bitch, raking in mountainous sums of cash. Perhaps it was more likely I’d become one of those street bums that went out West on a promise and couldn’t swing it while Prince wandered the illuminated boulevards and found somewhere interesting to place all his wealth. I don’t know. It’s possible Prince would convince everyone that we were young and interesting enough to be believed in, two renegades with a dream. Time would tell.
I think about buying Jimmy’s Place with Leon and Prince and wonder if it would be the grand old time we imagined. Could it really be ours? God, Saul’s tired eyes gave him away. It’s no secret he’s ready to go. Would he white knuckle it and hold on for holding on’s sake, or if we slid him a check and took care of him properly, would he be gone in a flash? Perhaps he’d ride out on the wind like a story, finding roots in another hidden corner of America. I don’t think Saul’s ever even left the county. An adventure of some sort is exactly what the guy needs.
I gotta say, the more I think of it, the more it seems like a damn solid proposition for everyone. All I have holding me down is my painting and odd jobs. Prince has no real obligations, and Leon could maybe pull off both pursuits. Though if we’re smart, he’d be the one really running the place while Prince and I would be, whattdayacallit, associates. Yeah. That’d be the way. Well, we’d have to pitch that to Leon and see where that line of thought took us. Who knows, maybe Jimmy’s Place will be ours by year’s end. Wouldn’t that be something? Imagine my father stumbling back through Johnston after a ten-year journey, limping and crumpled. Bearded, drunk and cigarette-mouthed, he’d shuffle up to the bar only to look up and be served a cold one by his long-forgotten son. Chills run down my spine. If my father’s alive, I don’t want to see him in Jimmy’s at night.
And now Amy comes to mind. Her beautiful resilience. The way she was shining in the kitchen, imbuing simple actions with quiet emotion. The wind on the river whispers changes. I remember being a child there at her counter and pouring a spoonful of sugar over cheerios and laughing as Tommy said, “Better not tell your mom!” When was it exactly that we grew up and became men in the world?
I’ve blinked and now I’m climbing my way to thirty, finding Amy angelic and gorgeous in a summer garden sweat. Kind and fascinating. Her love and gentleness in the face of her ongoing heartbreak filled me with adoration. We’ve always shared, at least a little, in our pain. We understand this about one another, our desire to be released from the past. God, I wanted her the other day. I longed to hold her close but struggled to even hold her eyes for more than a second. I can’t be around her without thinking of Tommy and I’m afraid on some level I will always be some sort of distorted reflection of her son. Whenever I saw her, she seemed to genuinely love the person I’ve become, but was I still a kid in her eyes? Or a man? Could she find me beautiful, as I do her?
The romantic days are upon me.
What kind of mystic Midwest miracle has brought you to Johnston, Rose, and for how long? God bless you Saul, your sister!? You have a sister and you never told me? Your whole life and you ain’t told nobody! What a revelation. I need to know her. I need to see her smile and make her laugh, show her all this town has. She’s gone straight into the heart of my life, right where everything begins. Her eyes on mine in the bar light, what are you looking for Rose? Will you tell me? Will you let me help you find it? Have you thought about me since Jimmy’s, or did seeing me weak and ridiculous on the summer sidewalk roasting with the insects repulse you? For a moment there at the bar, I thought you wanted to fight.
I laugh at the memory as the river ripples with water bugs below. That kind of strength, that fight , Rose, I recognized it immediately. My friends and I have it too. It’s the kind that comes about only through a rough life lived. The kind that is earned through survival and bravery. Everyone I love has that look. It’s in the very fabric of this town that raised me. Maybe Rose, maybe you’re not so much of an outsider after all.
Rose Rose Rose . I don’t know what brings you to Johnston, but I hope you will tell me. Do stay. I want to take your hand in mine. I want to kiss your red lips and see through your eyes. I want to look through your greens, and you can look through my blues. We could be the same, in the end, me and you.
I’m going to ask her what gives with the constant ponytail. I’m going to find out how she got her walk all dangerous and tailored musically like she has it. Rose. You have done it. It’s obvious. You swam to the top of my soul and are floating, effortless. I will stand on this maple, and I will call out your name. Rose. The Fox will take the echo. I know this river. Up and down the banks it will travel, and you’ll hear me, I know it. Just listen for it Rose, that familiar sound, whispering everything you were meant to hear from the start.