Yesterday was something of a weird day. I woke up in the afternoon only to realize that the friend I actually like to be around, had stopped by and given my father a dead thing to give to me. My dad had left for the lake, but there were some odd texts, and a picture of something fuzzy. After a search of the garage, I found it hidden in a corner in a Wal-Mart bag, with little buck teeth and cute, wolverine-like claws.
Somehow we ended up at the river with our significant others, collecting sticks and stealing them from one another. I went walking in the stream and looked for rocks. We played with the dog, and visited some of the campsites. Then we went over to their house, where I fed everyone (surprise, surprise, I’m a fucking feeder), and we watched a horror movie.
I woke up this morning and made plans to go to the rock quarry with her (what’s with me and rocks?), only to discover after the long drive up the mountain and the ten dollars in premium gas, that there was a toll booth at the top. We turned around and went back toward home, then finally toward the caves, where we stayed for awhile, climbing down into the cold, rocky tunnels. We found a bird’s nest and a couple of squawking parents who guarded over it belligerently. My friend, of course, had to take a photo of the nest and piss them off some more.
Then I’m driving, going between 75-80 mph, down a road that looks like it belongs in a horror movie. There’s potholes that are circled with spray paint, and they’re so deep that someone lost a tire to one, which is splayed all over a section of road in black, curled husks. We’re talking about brothers and sisters fucking, when a small bird comes flying at us, and hits my side of the windshield so hard that he literally impacts and disappears. We stop a moment later, curiously looking behind us for a telltale sign of the dearly departed. I turn the car around, and we go searching, looking for the dreadful thing. I think I see a crack on my windshield, which she finds out, with a swipe of her fingers, is nothing more than the insides of a crunched bug. We part at a spot where she thinks she sees a bird hopping. We comb the bushes and find nothing, much to our disappointment. I’m almost out of gas and we’re in the middle of nowhere, my old Audi parked halfway on the road with the sunroof open, and the sides filthy from the crappy roads. We decide we’re going to switch cars and go to the butte.
She doesn’t have money yet, so we go a few houses over from her own to borrow some for a day. We check out the cold cellar, which is full of jars and all manner of wrappers. Their yard has chunks of obsidian in it, which I am fascinated by. The ground is covered in a lush, beautiful ivy, and there’s a cluster of trees back behind the house, arranged together, and non-native, which makes the small spot seem to be something of an oasis. It’s shaded and darker, and we stand under the trees, talking about nothing like we always do. Somehow it never seems to get old.
Eventually, after some exploring, we get into talks with her mom about how my friend was supposed to be the medicine woman of the tribe, but never went through with it. They might as well be talking another language when they get into salves and herbs and whatever the word is they keep calling this medicine woman career. They’re talking about shoving weeds up someone’s foot when her mother mutters something about zombies, which peaks my interest even more. Then we’re talking about the story of the robed people who live deep in the forests.
We went on a two hour search for the albino people and their albino Satan dog (long story) and the backwards river, wherein we took her rinky-dink little car onto quad trails that no car should fit on. I don’t know if they’re joking with me or not, but oddly enough, they seem entirely serious, and they both say they have seen such a place. An adventure is an adventure, and I decide I’ll believe in a village of albinos so long as I get an adventure out of it. We squeeze her tiny car between two trees, and somehow made it passed, the dusty trails sending plumes of dust in our faces. I rolled up my window only to discover that the dust was somehow still coming in.
“Car has holes in the bottom,” she says with a grin, and then apologizes. I laugh and we keep driving, following these strange lettered/numbered signs deeper and deeper into the forest until we both look at one another and admit that we’re probably lost. We laugh at that too, even though it’s getting late. We found a butte and a cluster of well-to-do homes and log cabins, but no albino people.
We find a meadow behind a barbed wire fence. Strangely enough, she walks up to it and starts yanking on a post, which I suddenly realize is only attached by looped wire. I help her push on it, and with some effort, the post comes loose of its confines and we’re able to lay the section of fence down on the ground. Like a dog marking its territory, I immediately take a piss (being attacked by ten mosquitoes in the process), and wander over to where she’s standing, staring off at the acres of field in the middle of the spindly-treed forest.
More trails, and another hour, we finally make an attempt to find the way home. She mutters something about all the paths leading to home, and I point her in the general direction. It only takes ten minutes to find the main road, which is surprising after how many trails we followed.
We drive to her home talking about penises and how marriage never gets you any, while I sing along terribly to the radio. She says there’s a map to the albino people, so we’ve planned to make a day of it next week to search again.