He plopped a handwritten note on the breakfast bar rather than send a text because, honestly, she couldn’t reply to the note and ask him to pick up the drycleaning or look at the loose board at the top of the stairs or request he pour over their financial records one more time before meeting the next day with Dave about their retirement portfolio. He just needed some space, a few hours to himself. Was that too much to ask, to have a little “me” time, a chance to breathe? The house, comfortable and clean, seemed to be closing in on him of late, the daily routine stale, their lives predicable. Nothing bad had happened. There had been no arguments over money or where to vacation or how to rearrange the living room furniture. Something just seemed off, missing, askew, like a sophomore slump or a midlife crisis, only he was neither a college student nor in crisis mode. He wasn’t unhappy in his marriage or his work, his life was simply blah. So, he decided, while she was grocery shopping, to pull on his hikers and scoot over to Bishop’s Retreat, fifty glorious acres of woods and pastures, a creek meandering through what was once the vacation estate of the local prelate, a lake on the north end where he’d taken the boys canoeing as children, Debby, fetching, desirable, prone on a blanket reading, a picnic at the ready. When had those days evaporated? Where had they gone?
He took Main Street to Hawthorne Haven then jumped onto the Scenic Parkway, the windows down on his navy SUV, the sunroof open, imagining himself in a convertible, or better yet, a Jeep, wind and sun beating on his face. He pumped some Bob Seeger as he tooled along too fast but not too fast, “With autumn closing in…” He parked in the paved lot at the historic site, the Bishop’s chateau now a banquet and reception hall. He checked his beat-up cobalt daypack, water bottle, sunscreen, a baggie of trail mix, his mobile phone and car keys in the front pocket, tightened his laces, and mounted the trail. The oaks, chestnuts, and sycamores enveloped him, sweetgum leaves prematurely turning September colors. He strode past indigo bushes and pawpaw trees, asters, milkweed, and coreopsis, butterflies, dragonflies, and yellow jackets buzzing about, surveying their universe. Robins, finches, and sparrows flit about while berries tumbled to the hard ground. His watch told him he’d walked half a mile at a good pace when a cloud swallowed the sun and hinted at a late summer shower. But he trudged on. The clouds would blow over, he believed. He could beat a shower if it materialized, but measurable precipitation had not fallen in weeks. As he plodded along, his mind attempted to shake off its cobwebs, the sticky, unruly feelings of malaise coursing through his train of thought. As he approached the summit of the lookout over Bishop Lake, he could hear a low rumble like the distant roar of an approaching race car. The sky had slid into a smear of brooding gray and smoke-colored clouds ladled over an inky blue backdrop, menacing and cross. He moved under a rustic structure that housed a memorial bench, an Eagle Scout project that was usually a restful spot where hikers could enjoy the view, and surveyed his surroundings. Then, as if Mother Nature had jacked a giant hose, a deluge began to pour in what his grandfather had called a “gully washer”. He could feel the temperature plummet as the rain beat down in white sheets. In his peripheral vision he spotted a white tee-shirted figure darting into the shelter. “They sure didn’t predict this,” a voice called out above the din. The hiker shook his arms and legs like a damp dog.
“It’s the Midwest. You know what they say, ‘If you don’t like the weather, stick around. It’ll change again any minute’.” He stepped aside to give the newcomer some personal space.
“Yeah, I’m originally from here, so I know how it works.” He glanced around, his face handsome and inviting. “Nice of ‘em to build this little shelter.” He sat down on the bench. “I guess we might as well rest up and wait it out, huh?” he smiled with perfect teeth. “My name’s Doug,” he extended his right hand, and they shook.
“Kevin. Welcome to the shelter,” he upturned his palms in a mock greeting. The pair sat in a moment of silence, the situation a bit unusual, awkward, total strangers alone in the middle of a wood, uncertain when the summer storm would abate, unlikely to meet anyone else.
“So,” Doug breeched the void. “How long?” he nodded at Kevin’s wedding band, silver with engraved rings of infinity around a ring of infinity.
“Oh, uh, thirty-eight years.”
“Wow, that’s a long time. Congratulations. I couldn’t do it. I mean, kudos to you, but that’s a long time to stay with the same person.” Kevin nodded politely. “Do you ever wonder, you know, what it would be like to be free of all that?”
“You make it sound like a hostage situation.”
“No, no offense intended. I’m just fascinated with the social construct, that somehow to be complete, fulfilled, we have to mate for life, surrender ourselves completely to someone else,” Doug spoke with an openness that was infectious, that invited discourse.
“I don’t see it that way. I see it as working hard to make a commitment that builds something pretty wonderful, something worthwhile,” Kevin still couldn’t decide if he was offended or intrigued by this random, forward guy in the woods but felt somehow compelled to engage.
“As do I. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not bashing the whole marriage thing. I might marry someday. Never say never. I’m just saying that in order to achieve that wonderfulness you speak of that you have to at least somewhat abandon yourself, divorce who you really are. Marriage is about compromise, following somebody else’s rules and expectations. I just don’t see why anyone would want to do that.”
Kevin contemplated Doug’s manifesto, his pitch for freedom, selfdom. “Your way sounds lonely.”
“Sometimes. But I think being able to do whatever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want is worth a few solitary Christmases and forgotten birthdays.” Kevin could see Doug was passionate about this, but he also wondered if the guy was really trying to convince himself this is the life he preferred. Had he maybe been jilted or had his heart stomped on? Maybe he’d been abandoned at the altar or watched his parents’ marriage disintegrate.
Doug continued, “I don’t know, man, sex with the same person and nobody else? Doesn’t it get, you know, boring, predictable? Don’t answer that. Too personal. My bad.” He put up his hands in surrender. The rain continued to wash from the glaucous sky like a torrent, beating on the roof of the little shelter like angry fists, sluicing off the edges with force. “It’s just the anticipation, the mystery of exploring all kinds of different bodies, women’s or men’s, I’m good either way, is one of the great thrills in life.” He smiled as though reflecting on such experiences from his past. “That nervous energy, the anticipation of discovery, yowzah.”
“To be honest, Doug, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation about something so personal, so private, with a complete stranger.” Kevin’s voice betrayed genuine discomfort.
“Who better? It’s like confession, safe, without judgment. We can say whatever we want because no one will ever know about it,” Doug reasoned.
“Good point,” Kevin acquiesced. “But I think we live in two very different worlds. Don’t you ever wonder about the safety and security of lying in the arms of someone you know will always be there for you, who would maybe give their life for you, who will be there in sickness, in troubled times? Don’t you wonder about the joy of parenthood, the everyday pleasures of watching your children grow and learn and mature? Talk about unparalleled fulfillment.”
“It’s a hell of a conundrum, Kevin. Like that Frost poem about two paths, right?” Doug took a swig of his water. Then he suddenly stood up as if a teacher had asked him to recite in class. “Life is full of tough decisions, irrevocable choices. Can’t go back and fix our regrets.” He turned to Kevin, who was staring at the unrelenting rain. “Hey, have you ever heard about that tribe in South America that has a Soul Washing Ceremony? When rain comes and waters their crops, they strip off all their clothes and dance in the rain to show the gods how thankful they are to be alive and blessed. They believe it takes away their worries.” He paused. “Let’s do it. You and me, man!” He waved at Kevin to join him. “Totally serendipitous moment. It’ll do us both some good, clear our heads.” He chucked off his hiking boots and socks, pulled his shirt over his head, dropped his shorts to the ground, and ducked into the rain. Kevin watched in disbelief as Doug flapped his arms, flailed his legs, and jumped like a child in the downpour, his man bun glistening in the drops, his left arm rippling with a glorious tattoo sleeve that looked like a cornucopia of nature symbols: a lion, an eagle, a sunrise peeking from behind a misty mountain, all entangled in lush, tropical flora in bright reds, tangerines, lemon, and various shades of green. “Come on, Kevin! Dude, what are you afraid of?” he taunted. “No one will see you. No one will ever know. Man, it’s exhilarating! It’s cathartic!” He continued to dance with abandon, “Yeehaw!”
Kevin perched on the front of the bench, finally rose, and walked to the edge of the shelter. He looked to the ashen sky and felt his chest tighten, remembering his blues but also allowing an unfamiliar feeling of liberating discomfort to bubble up. Then he stripped off his clothes and tumbled into the wash, reticent at first then laughing as the cool water pummeled his skin. Doug continued to run around in circles, whooping, upturning his face to the sky, soaking in the release of these South American gods. As the drops pricked him, Kevin felt somehow lifted from the earth, light, almost weightless. He remembered this same sensation riding a roller coaster as a child, telling ghost stories in a clothesline tent long ago in his parents’ backyard, running the bases in Little League, his heart pounding with effervescence, his breath heavy with joy as he rounded third and headed for home. He darted into the shelter and mounted the bench, beat his chest like Tarzan, then sprinted back into the cleansing rain. Then, without warning or recognition, he hugged Doug. Their skin was suddenly stuck together in a full body embrace, arms, legs, hips, chests, melted together. He squeezed Doug like a brother in arms, a long-lost relative, a victorious teammate, his fingers and toes tingling, the hair on his body erect, his soul rejuvenated through this baptism of release, of freedom. He had never been more spontaneous, so impulsive in his nearly six decades of life. He was electrified.
Then the rain stopped. The woods fell silent as death. The sun popped out like a lemon lollipop and the sky morphed sapphire. Kevin and Doug stood naked on the path surrounded by drenched maidenhair ferns and dogwoods, milkweed and prairie clover, and Kevin felt his body thicken, his inhibitions return. Suddenly he felt ridiculous, self-conscious, inadequate, criminal. “I guess we should get dressed and mosey on,” he suggested. A doe and her fawn appeared in the undergrowth, staring at the men like voyeurs. A black eagle soared across the cerulean sky. A humid steam rose up from the foliage.
“I don’t know about you, but I feel like a new man,” Doug smiled. “Hey,” he spoke up as the two pulled on their shorts and shirts, laced up their boots, and gathered their daypacks. “I’ll be at Liberty’s Bar out on Route 3 around 8:00 tonight. I’m visiting my stick-in-the-mud sisters, and I can’t stand them and their redneck husbands for more than a couple of hours. Join me. We’ll talk politics, religion, world affairs. I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Uh, thanks. Maybe,” Kevin checked his phone then slid it in his damp shorts pocket. They took up the trail, Doug procuring a fine walking stick, almost bouncing on his toes, Kevin pulling to stay even, his head lowered, eyes focused on the path.
“Ever go windsurfing, Kev? It’s a blast. Or ziplining?” Doug asked after a quarter mile. “You really should grab every adventure you can, you know. Skydiving, scuba diving, cliff diving, dumpster diving. Just kidding, but say the word and I’ll set it up. After all, we’re Soul Washing brothers now, right?” Then the trail split into a longer outer and shorter inner loop and the men stopped, nearly dry by now, the heat returning to a sunny afternoon. “I’m the outer, you coming? No guts, no glory, right?” Doug asked, his finger pointing the way.
“No, gotta get home,” Kevin said. “I got stuff to do, but thanks for the, the, see ya.” He branched off away from Doug, who was a tall, masculine figure, rugged, worldly, tan, and muscled. Kevin noticed for the first time that he was shorter, not flabby but a bit doughy, a tad winded, suddenly embarrassed by his mediocracy. “Thanks again for the invite.” He clasped the straps of his worn daypack and turned onto the inner loop because he had never taken the outer loop. Maybe next time, he thought, set his chin, and labored for home.
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