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emmy-writes-sometimes · 4 years ago

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Running Wild

Your boyfriend, Jaeden, takes you on a graduation, anniversary, and birthday trip all at once as you confront the possibility of spending your lives together.

“Where are you taking me?” You asked Jaeden over the phone. He laughed and you could imagine how his nose always scrunched up when he laughed. God, his laugh was like sunshine.

“I’m not telling you! Just pack for a while. Like, a while. Cute clothes and sweats for pictures and not pictures.” It was not only your eighteenth birthday, but your first year anniversary with Jae, too. So he’d told you to pack because he was coming up from his parents’ house the next day.

“I’m incredibly suspicious of you right now,” you said. He laughed again.

“It’ll be fun, I promise, babe.” You narrowed your eyes and finished your conversation, agreeing to meet him at eight the next morning in your driveway. You had a small idea that he was taking you somewhere, definitely, but you didn’t know where. Your dad wasn’t budging, either. And he walked into your room to hand you your laundry basket as you hung up.

“Why won’t you tell me where he’s taking me?” You asked. He chuckled.

“Because it’s a surprise. Just get ready for dinner.” That was the last he spoke about it. He didn’t even entertain the idea at the family dinner that night. All he said to you and your family was that you’d be gone for a month. It was right after your high school graduation, too, so you had the whole summer, and Jae was off from filming so your dad had agreed to let you go with him for that amount of time. You loved the relationship they had, but you kind of hated how often they conspired against you and kept secrets, knowing you didn’t like surprises.

You went to bed that night after packing a few pairs of athletic shorts. You woke up the next morning and tried to call him, but he didn’t answer. Your dad was already making breakfast for the two of you, eyeing you with a smile. Eventually you heard a horn beeping, assuming it was Jaeden.

“Go on,” your dad insisted with a smile on his face as he flipped a pancake. You eyed him and walked out of the front door to see that Jaeden was driving his mom’s Volvo, but that wasn’t the weirdest thing. It was towing a silver Airstream behind it. You grinned as you saw the SUV shut off and Jae got out of the car.

“No fucking way!” You said loudly, walking over to your boyfriend and hugging him for the first time in a month. “You got us a trailer?”

“You’re always saying you want a great American road trip, so here we are. It’s got an Apple TV, all the plugs for all of your chargers, and we can cook. You wanted to get off the grid for a while, and I want to drive through Utah.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Everything is worked out. As soon as I get some of those pancakes, we’ll go.” He followed you inside and greeted both your dad and the dog, then the three of you started getting your breakfast together.

Most of the time on the trip, you kept your phones completely off – you had an old Polaroid camera you’d gotten when you were probably fifteen, and he had a video camera he was going to cut together footage on. You kept them in the glove box and called your parents every so often. But most days you would sleep in a state park or a camping ground, squeezed into the small bed together, listening to the sounds of the generator running the air conditioning.

One morning you were in Arizona, almost all the way out to California where you would spend a few days just driving around the coastline. You woke up and wrestled Jae’s arms from around you, eyeing your mint green camera from the shelf beside a succulent you’d named Marty for whatever reason. The trailer was hot, even though you had an air conditioner at night, so you were only wearing a t-shirt and Jae was only wearing shorts. You turned around, grabbing the camera, and took a picture of Jae.

“What are you doing?” He asked, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. You’d dyed his hair the other day with peroxide, and it looked almost like a halo against the dark sheets in the trailer. His hand snaked up your thigh as you straddled his torso, taking another picture.

“Taking a picture,” you replied with a smile. You handed him the polaroid when it came out of the camera and he set it down by Marty. You set the camera down on top of it and collapsed back on top of him.

“Grand Canyon trail today?” He asked you as you flopped back down onto the bed. You’d taken a three hour-long detour to see it, since neither of you had been before. You nodded. “Then we should probably get up and pack for the trail. We should take some extra granola bars because you get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“I do not!” You heard a noise outside the trailer and sat up, pulling Jae’s shirt down in case it was a state trooper. You’d had a couple of those so far because, well, the trailer wasn’t very stationary and every time you moved, it moved. You sat up, grabbing at a pair of shorts you’d thrown off the bed last night because it was so hot.

“Take my wallet if they need to see an ID,” Jae said, “it’s rented in my name.” You gave him a thumbs-up and walked outside, expecting there to be a state trooper asking to see some ID. But there wasn’t anyone out there. The other RV that had been there last night had gone, so you two were alone on the campground. You eyed the trooper station, where one was usually sitting, and no one was there. But you looked down when you heard a panting. Standing in front of you was an Australian Shepherd, one who was obviously under a year old. It was a freaking puppy. It wasn’t wearing a collar, and you couldn’t see any sign of a microchip. It was definitely a boy, though.

“Hey,” Jae said as he came up behind you. “What’s the dog doing here?”

“I don’t know. There’s no one else out here.” You sat down on the step that led up to the trailer and pet the dog. He was friendly. He was happy, and he wasn’t distressed at all. “We should take it down to the strip mall, the pet store. Maybe they can scan the microchip.”

“Yeah, I’ll get him some water.” Jae returned in a minute with a silver bowl you usually used to make soup filled with cold water, sitting down next to you and placing it in front of the dog.

You took him down to the pet store and they couldn’t find a microchip. They said since it didn’t have one and it didn’t have a collar, it had probably been abandoned, and so suddenly you were buying a leash and you named it Brady to get your dad to let you take him home and keep him. You took the dog on the trail, just in case he got lost with some hikers. He knew simple commands too, and you couldn’t see why anyone could get rid of him.

You decided to stay that night, too, pushing your California trip down a day, but it was fine. You ended up sitting outside the trailer in the chairs, the dog between the two of you, drinking some of the alcohol your dad had let the two of you take as long as you were safe with it. There was a fire pit in front of you, burning brightly, and there was still no one else in the park, probably because it was a weekday. You kept catching Jae looking at you as you scrolled through Tik Tok, grateful that you had a connection at least for a while.

“What?” You said, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. He smiled.

“Nothing. Just happy.”

“I love this. I love being here with you. And I love that we have a dog now, even if it’s by accident. And I love spending time with you and sleeping with you and being out in the middle of nowhere.”

“I could literally murder you and no one would notice.”

“I mean, yeah,” you replied with a laugh. You put your phone face down and looked over at him, tightening your hand around your empty beer bottle. “I’m happy. I’m really happy.”

“Yeah. Me too.” You held hands for a few minutes before you got a call from your dad, updating him on the dog situation, and finally the two of you went to bed.

A month later and you were in an unknown on your second to last night in the trailer. The dog was kind of yours now, and your dad had finally decided to let you keep the dog as long as he got along with Dodger. You were at an overlook, the dog asleep inside, and it was actually kind of cold, so you were wrapped up in one of Jae’s sweaters as you watched the sun set over the Blue Ridge mountains. You heard the door open and Jae walked out in a sweatshirt too, but he was holding something he’d gone to get a minute ago.

“What’s that?” You asked, eyes narrowing as you eyed the navy blue velvet box that looked a little familiar.

“Your birthday present,” he said, blushing a little bit. He handed it to you and you opened it as he leaned against the trailer’s doorway, anxiously watching. You opened it to see a ring, a rose gold ring, with three diamonds in the middle. It looked old, and familiar, and you couldn’t place it.

“The diamond in the middle is your mom’s wedding ring,” he said quietly. “I asked your dad if I could give you a promise ring, because he said we have to wait until we’re at least in our twenties.” You smiled. You knew it was your dad’s idea to give you your mother’s ring, it must have been. He walked over to you and put the ring on your finger and you hugged him tightly, trying not to tear up like a baby.

Your heart absolutely melted as you looked up at your boyfriend of a year and best friend of three, ever since you met him at Knives Out and threw around tennis balls with the dogs on set for two hours. He’d gotten yelled at for messing up the white suit he was supposed to wear and you’d spent another hour bleaching it that night to get him out of trouble. He’d been your best friend for a full year after that, and then after a night when they weren’t ID’ing, he’d drunkenly called you and admitted his feelings for you. And you’d fallen, hard, harder than you had either of your boyfriends before him. You knew that your future involved him and now he was just proving it – with the road trip and the ring, it was more than you could’ve asked for. You wanted time, and he was giving you that.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “I really really love you.”

“I love you too.” You stood on your toes and kissed him for what felt like forever before you buried your face in his neck, hugging his waist. “I’m glad you want to dog parent with me.”

“You weren’t letting it go, so I figured we might as well go halfsies.” You laughed. “Happy birthday. And anniversary. And graduation. And I really, really wanna spend my life with you if you’ll let me. And if you want, I’m planning on getting a house in L.A. and I’d really like it if I could have you move in with me when you’re up there.” You smiled.

“I dyed your hair with peroxide, we’re on a massive road trip, and we have a dog now, and I put the ring on my finger. If either of us changes our mind now it’ll suck.”

“Yeah. It will.” You stayed there until the sun had finished setting and then you went back inside the trailer, where it was Jae’s turn to either get food delivered or heat up some soup on the burner. You could get used to this, definitely, you thought as you saw the dog curl up at his feet while he heated up some chicken noodle soup. You took another polaroid picture and put it on top of the other, smiling to yourself.

A/N: Listen to Running Wild by WYO. I promise you won’t regret it. Thanks to whoever requested both and gave me the idea for this one, because I absolutely loved writing it! I hope you like it too.

Taglist (if you’d like to be added, send me a message or an ask!): @an-adventureland, @firstangeldragonranch, @ssebstann, @winterreader-nowwriter

#jaeden martell x evans!reader #jaeden martell x reader #jaeden martell fluff

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iansjacoby · 6 years ago

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Entry 1: Why we’re here

A little over two months ago I tried to kill myself. I could give you a bunch of reasons for why I didn't want to live anymore: I hated my job, the person I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life didn't want to be in a relationship anymore, I didn't have any purpose, I didn't feel like anyone needed me around, etc. All of those sound pretty heavy and I could convince you that any one of those things was enough to drive me to do what most would consider unthinkable but none of those are the real reason why, on Halloween night, after a devastating conversation with my ex-girlfriend, I sat down in her kitchen and took a dull hunting knife across my arms, and when that didn't work tried to hang myself from a doorknob with a belt. I did those things because my brain is broken. It tells me cruel, horrible things about myself in such convincing and energetic tone that I have no choice but to believe them.

I sat down over and over again, slouching all the way to the ground so that the belt around me would constrict my blood and airflow and cut off circulation to my brain. Repeatedly, I felt myself start to faint and I would feel my eyes bulge and the blood vessels around them start to pop and I would imagine Hali walking in to see me, on the floor, eyes bulging, blue in the face. I would sit back up and cry for a bit and then try again and then I would imagine what she would find and again I would sit back up. I was bleeding all over the tile floor from my failed wrist-cutting, black eyed at this point from the hanging attempts and I could barely swallow from the trauma I caused to my own throat. Defeated and angry, I texted Hali “I need you to come home.” She walked in and saw me lying on the floor in fetal position, blankly staring at the cabinet.

“I'm sorry I couldn't do it.”

I didn't look up to see what she was doing but I heard her scream, and then cry. “Ian, this is NOT ok. Yes I have an emergency. A suicide attempt. My boyfriend. He's alive. 903 **** Road, Houston, Texas. I moved the knife. Ok, thank you.” I heard the EMT's shuffle in and then I don't remember a whole lot. They asked me some questions and loaded me into an ambulance and wheeled me off to the hospital where I laid in a bed and cried for a while. That day that I spent in the psych ward of the hospital was spent in a state of what would probably qualify as shock. My mom was there, a couple friends, my dad and step-mom. Hali left as soon as I was checked in. She wouldn't speak to me after that night.

I didn't know what to do with my life so when my dad asked if I wanted to leave everything behind and move to Menard I said yes. He had a spare room I could stay in, I could help out on the ranch, clear my head. I figured “Why not? There’s nothing here for me anymore.”

That was over two months ago. Since then I've settled in. I was offered a good job here in Menard, which there aren't many of given how small the town is. I've traveled a considerable amount. Terlingua in Big Bend, Ruidoso in New Mexico, an unfortunate week back in Houston in which I found out the sad and horrible truth about “the breakup.” Regardless, travel and photography are the only things I’m actually interested in.

I see a therapist now. She– along with the meds– has helped a great deal. I still have days where I don't want to be here anymore and the only satisfying solution to my problems seems to be that I should just finish what I started but those are coming less and less often. The last time I saw her, she asked me what I enjoy. I was honest, and I told her that the only thing that makes me happy is taking photos in beautiful places. So she asked me an honest question? “What's keeping you from doing that?”

I thought about that question a lot and I couldn't find a reasonable answer. So, this is Entry 1 of my travelogue. Starting at the end of this week I'm packing whatever supplies I can think to bring, taking all of the money I was able to put together in a month and heading to a place I haven't decided on yet. I'm going to keep going until I can't afford to drive anywhere but home. My initial estimate is about 3 weeks on the road. It may be shorter and it may be longer, but that's kind of the beauty of this whole thing. I don't know about any of the specifics. I have a general idea of where I want to go. New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Nevada, Arizona. But I don't really know where I'm going. I don't really know how long I'll stay anywhere. I don't know where I'm staying when I get there. I'm taking a sleeping bag and a tent. I'll have my car for when it's too cold for those to be an option. And every few days I'll spring for a cheap Air Bnb or something to shower off and clean up (or I'll just find a Pilot or a Flying J, perhaps America's greatest treasures.)

I plan on taking photos along the way. I don't know what they'll be. Texas Standard is kind enough to be sending me some clothing for my trip that they'd like photos of me wearing, so I'm sure I'll incorporate that but I'm not trying to plan the documentation of this thing too closely either. Mostly I'll be writing about what I do and see along the way. I'm going to post all of that here for anyone who wants to follow along.

I guess if I have any kind of goal it's to have an adventure that makes me feel alive and vulnerable and inspired again. I don't feel that today. I probably won't feel that tomorrow, but hopefully somewhere in this hair-brained scheme will be something of use. Something that pulls me out of the unfaltering darkness I've swam through for the past several months.

I'm going to try to approach this blog with unwavering honesty about how I'm feeling, what I'm doing, what I'm getting out of this whole thing. I don't know if I'll really be able to do that– if anyone ever really does that– and if I can, if it will be too messy or painful for others to read, but I'm going to do my best.

Thank you for reading. My next next entry will be from my first stop, wherever that might be.

Best, Ian

#travel #adventure #mental health #depression #suicide #photography #southwest #roadtrip #national parks #texas #millenials

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the-firebird69 · 3 years ago

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And the Jurassic Park might happen when I go to Utah cuz the two have to go there and it might also be their movie Deadpool in the starkiller and all that stuff might start up this is a west coast of but really they try and cause chaos to kidnap me to take me to UK or Asia etc so make sense

Zues

Haha haha very funny not funny at all not at all I'll be getting rid of each other out of spite and Billium addout of anger and hostility. And Mac is out of justification and Tommy f says out of free judication and say I'm not a Jew Tommy that's you the Jewish lips why don't you think m*********** why don't you stop f****** your mom you homo you're freaking homo I didn't ask your mom that was Lori that's QE

That's great get it all out there we should you're the moron Jesus Christ buddy why don't you put some stink on that ball out because your dad won't leave you alone the hell is it like that out there in the cave Norman I've been watching you

It's probably good enough right there we're going to do this show before it becomes horrendous nobody wants to see me is that stupid cabinet shop guy or bud and honus it's gross look like a troll

So we're going to continue this process to try to get it done but money is coming from the lawyer and the letters coming with the stipulations and some of the money and their dates for the reading and the will will not be read without him being there so God only knows how Brian gets in there we know he makes a corridor he takes over Obama and Coney Island hot dog and Starbucks and several airlines and the restaurants near it takes enormous amounts of times for most people to get stuff just walks up and gets it and they start yelling at Chris so you love doing it and they know delays or anything cuz we have to make it work and we have to be there cuz they are but that's what they do to make it work so I'm going to start making a corridor and I might suggest something else other than la like Arizona this doesn't go over the wall in Phoenix and that's an actual apropos analogy but she hates it and she's mad at him because the Phoenix won't rise they'll say it says that's exactly why it will don't be anybody left there and bjA will think you can collect all sorts of stuff just like Jason does.

Don't be a fool and talk about me damn it Jason says this says you're not Mr t calm down, so I see I'm going to try and make it work and make a corridor every once in a while

It's not a bad idea cuz what usually happens everyone just sits in here and stifles and starts hitting us mac daddy says

It's actually true it was a stifled so it's called me a homo and starts hitting me tell me if says

It's kind of true I just sit here and start getting stifled and everyone tries to ding me to try and stop them from doing it I keep telling them you're making a little harder for me to do the work and you're not them they say so what I say what are you really doing usually it's not much so I have to call my relatives and then they beat the s*** out of them too and

So it's kind of horrible to keep doing it we keep doing that and then they come up and bang on my door and say get out of here they've been doing that last two nights physically Sean and Dan it makes me wonder if there's something hidden inside the house all sudden was starting to fight over something here and I didn't hide anything in therem. Well I mean if it isn't something it's a gammel house well there might be something I put in there yeah.

So I laughing cuz he's lying all the time he put stuff in there and sometimes it's just stuff it's high tech and usually doesn't go into the last minute he goes you have to put it somewhere else was messages and sticks sometimes it's our stuff

Fact daddy says so we're moving along Hera...

Going to try to get out of here this time around at least some of the sweltering nightmare here and he has no money so it's not fun in any way it's hellish enough I'm putting it forward to a whole bunch of people

Thor Freya

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lodelss · 4 years ago

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Len Necefer, as told to Frederick Reimers | Longreads | August 2020 | 3,211 words (12 minutes)

It’s early March, the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic in the United States, and I-25 in downtown Albuquerque is nearly deserted at nine am on a Wednesday. It feels like a risky time for a road trip. After filling morgues in Italy, the virus is propagating across the globe and countries everywhere are closing their borders. No one seems sure exactly who transmits the disease or even how it is spread. Every day feels like living on a knife ridge. A light rain is falling and the signs hanging above the highway that normally display traffic times instead read: Stay Home, Save Lives.

I’m trying to save a life by dashing across five states. Driving eastward from Tucson, where I’m an assistant professor of at the University of Arizona, I’m bound for Lawrence, Kansas, where my 72-year old dad lives. He’d retired from teaching at Haskell Indian Nations University there four years ago, and has been living alone since. “I’ll be fine here,” he says, but when I ask him who can do his grocery shopping or who would take care of him if he were to fall ill, he can’t think of anyone. All his friends there have moved away or passed away. I can’t bear the thought of him riding out a pandemic alone if cities and states are locked down, and don’t really trust my older parent to take precautions against the virus. I’m going to get him.

I throw in some N95 masks and nitrile gloves I have from tinkering with the van engine, clean sheets for the van’s bed, and food to cook on the camp stove. I don’t want us eating in restaurants, and figure we can share the bed instead of risking a hotel. I notify my students that class, already moved online, is canceled for the week, and drive out of Tucson just before dark on a Tuesday.

* * *

The next morning as I’m driving through Albuquerque, I call my mom, who lives there with my stepdad Dan. I tell her that I am on my way to Kansas to bring dad back. “Was he open to the idea, or did you have to convince him?” she asks. My mom, who is Navajo, knows that like a lot of white guys of his age, Dad has trouble accepting help. He agreed to shelter with me for a couple months, I tell her, though I’m planning on him staying much longer. She invites us to stay with them on our way back through, and it’s good to think that at least right now, I’m within a few miles of her. This road trip has already gotten a little weird.

The night before, I’d driven until I was tired, past one a.m. I pulled off the highway to camp at a spot I knew in the open desert in western New Mexico–just a clearing in the saltbrush and sage flats off the side of a dirt road, earth packed down by the tires of successive car campers. I’d been surprised to see the broad white side of RV after RV appear in my headlights at each potential turnout. I had to drive a few extra miles to find a vacant spot. Other campers always make me uneasy when I’m pulling in late at night, and I really couldn’t understand what all these people were doing out here in the middle of the pandemic.

Their attitude towards the pandemic is, ‘It’ll work out,’ because for them, things always have.

Then in the morning, I’d been awakened by texts from friends in Salt Lake City, where there’d been a 5.7 magnitude earthquake. No one had been hurt, but the shaking had knocked the trumpet out of the golden hands of the Angel Moroni perched atop the highest spire of the principal Mormon temple; my friends noted wryly that the Latter-day Saints were counting on Moroni and his trumpet to herald the second coming.

Finally, two hours past Albuquerque, I pull off the highway to cook lunch at a place called Cuervo, New Mexico, that turns out to be a ghost town. Standing beside the van, waiting for the water to boil, I scan the crumbling husks of houses and a fenced off stone church. Thinking of The Road, Cormac McCarthy’s haunting novel about a father and son traveling together through abandoned towns after an unnamed apocalypse, I laugh to avoid thinking of this rest stop as an omen.

That afternoon, driving Highway 54 through the panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma, more cars began appearing. I’m surprised to see a bowling alley and then a restaurant with full parking lots. Somewhere in western Kansas, I pass a group of high school kids playing full-squad basketball. At a gas station, people look at me strangely as I operate the pump wearing my mask and gloves, and it is obvious the residents and I are listening to different news sources.

* * *

In Kansas, I pass signs pointing to Haskell County, which I recognize from a podcast I’ve been listening to about the 1918 flu pandemic. The Spanish Flu is believed to have originated in Haskell County where it jumped from pigs to humans before hitching a ride to Europe with some local kids who joined the army to fight in World War I, where it mutated into the deadly strain that eventually killed 50 million people worldwide. It’s ironic: that so much vitriol is already being directed at China and towards Asian Americans, when the biggest pandemic in modern history began just miles from here, in America’s heartland.

The 1918 pandemic also hit my people hard, taking as much as 24 percent percent of the Navajo population. It was a population just a little more than a generation removed from an even larger trauma — the Long Walk of the Navajo. In 1864, the U.S. Cavalry forced the Navajo from their homeland in North Arizona, New Mexico, and Southern Utah, and marched them 300 miles to Fort Sumner, New Mexico, in the winter, with only what they could carry. Hundreds died from starvation, hypothermia, or execution when they couldn’t keep up. By the time they left Sumner four years later, more than 2,000 had died. We are taught not to talk about Hwéeldi — “the place of suffering.” Normally when I drive to Kansas, I detour far around it, but in this case, it lay along the fastest route; I’d passed signs for it in the morning. Late that night, I pull into a campsite at Pratt Sandhills, a vestige of remaining tall grass prairie spread atop ancient sand dunes. The dirt road is a pair of parallel puddles from a recent storm and the van loses traction here and there. When I finally turn off the ignition, it’s a day I feel glad to let go of.

* * *

I make Lawrence the next afternoon, embracing my dad, Edward, on the walkway to the small house where I’d spent much of my youth. He has the easygoing demeanor of a good teacher: attentive, warm, a mischievous sense of humor. He grew up in Detroit in the 60s then joined the Peace Corps, teaching English and math in Liberia. Once home, he meandered through a series of jobs in the Bureau of Indian Education, and eventually got a gig teaching math at Haskell, where he met my mom.

“Have you thought about what you’ll bring to Tucson?” I ask.

“I’m all packed,” he says, and it’s a relief. I’d been worried we’d waste a few days wrangling over his belongings. But when we pull out of Lawrence in the morning, we’re in two vehicles, not just my van. He says it is because he doesn’t want to leave his car parked on the street while he is gone, but I’m sure he just isn’t ready to give up that independence. I’m frustrated because I know it will slow us down and leave us more exposed. It means more breaks — I assume he’s no longer capable of driving more than six hours at a shot — and more gas stops, since his Volkswagen GTI has less than half the range of my van.

At the first, just past Wichita, I say, “Let me gas up both cars, so we only have to use up one set of gloves.” He says “Okay,” but when I turn around after getting the second pump started, I see the back of him disappearing into the store.

We’d talked about staying out of buildings — paying at the pump, going to the bathroom behind a tree. Just a few hours in, and he’s already broken that. I stew angrily at the pumps waiting for him to return, trying to keep panic at bay. If I get upset, I think, he’s not going to hear anything I say.

“Dad, I thought we talked about this,” I say when he returns. “We have to make these decisions together. You have to take this seriously.”

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s talk about it. I can stay out of gas station restrooms, but I’m going to need to get a hotel tonight. My back is already stiff.”

I can’t budge him. “Okay,” I say, “but we’ll have to scrub it all down with Clorox wipes — every surface. Let’s try for the Kansas border,” I say. “The town of Liberal should have hotels. We’re exposed in Trump country, but at least we can take comfort in the name,” I joke.

A few hours later, I still feel we the need to lighten the mood, so during a stretch break beside the highway, I show Dad a few quarantine videos people are posting on Instagram — the sock puppet appearing to eat traffic on the street below, and people “rock climbing” across their apartments with ropes and harnesses. “We should make one,” I say. “How about ghostriding the whip?” I explain the concept of the meme, grooving to music alongside, or atop, a moving vehicle without anyone in the driver’s seat. I show him a few examples, and Dad is game. I crank up some music on the van stereo — the Snotty Nose Rez Kids — put the emergency brake on halfway, and put it in gear. Dad does the rest, strutting alongside the open door of the slowly moving van with his sunglasses on and his cap turned backwards under the bright blue Kansas sky, always happiest staying loose.

I post the video on Instagram with the caption, “My dad has ascended to the throne of Quaranking.”

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When the whip contaminated. My dad has ascended to the throne of Quaranking #quarantined #quarantine #quaranking #rona #corona #quaranteamchallenge Shoutout to my dad & @snottynoserezkids

A post shared by Dr. Len Necefer (@lennecefer) on Mar 20, 2020 at 3:45pm PDT

Except that he hasn’t. He won’t give up on the hotel idea. In Liberal, I manage to convince him to drink a can of cold-brew coffee from the van fridge and drive a little longer. Two hours later, at sunset, we gas up in Dalhart, Texas, and I propose we shoot for Tucumcari, New Mexico, an hour and a half further — and in a state where the governor has put some precautions in place. Ironically, when we get there, those precautions keep us from finding my dad a bed. Hotels are only allowed fifty percent occupancy, and there are no vacancies. At the fourth and last hotel we try, Dad holds the door open for a woman also entering the lobby and she gets the last room.

He is dejected and exhausted. Driving for 12 hours has taken its toll. We cook a pot of ramen in the parking lot, huddled inside the van against the windy night.

“What if we just sleep here in the van?” I ask.

“I need my own bed,” he says.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” I say.

“I’m going to have to get up to pee in the night a few times,” he says, now irritated, “and I don’t want to disturb you.”

“It won’t,” I say, but he’s not having it.

We decide to try to push through the last 175 miles to Mom’s house, but after 100 of those, I can see Dad’s headlights dropping further back.

“How ya doing?” I ask over the phone.

“I probably need to stop,” he says, and we pull over at a rest area, just an hour from Albuquerque, to sleep till morning. There are a dozen others there doing the same, towels tucked into their windows for privacy. Dad sleeps in his car. I can’t talk him out of it.

* * *

We spend two nights recovering at my mom and stepdad’s house in Albuquerque, knowing Tucson is just a day’s drive away. They are all friends and Dad has stayed with them before; any tension is on my end. Over dinner, I’m surprised at how much Dan and Dad minimize the pandemic, and how they assume things will get quickly back to normal.

“Guys,” I say, “it’s gonna be at least 18 months before there’s a vaccine, and because of your age, you’re both in a high-risk demographic.” I never expected to be parenting my folks so soon. “In fact,” I say, “if something does happen, I’m probably going to be the one who makes all the arrangements. I should probably have copies of your wills.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” says Dan.

It comes to a head the next day. I’d watched Dan come home from the grocery store, toss his mask on the key rack, and settle in without washing his hands.

“Dan,” I say, “if you really care about my mom’s health, you have to take this seriously.” He assures me that he is, but I can tell I’ve pissed him off. Later, I have an aside with mom.

“I’m pretty frustrated with Dan,” she says, “and I can imagine you are frustrated with your father, too.” I tell her I really did need their last directives and will documents. “I’ll get that for you today,” she says, “and we can talk it through.”

It’s not surprising that my mom’s approach to the pandemic has been markedly different from my father and stepfather’s. Both of the men are white baby boomers, members of a generation who’d had the freedom to live exactly how they wanted. Their attitude towards the pandemic is, “It’ll work out,” because for them, things always have.

My mother was born in Red Valley, on the reservation near Shiprock, New Mexico. She grew up trailing her family’s sheep herd to high camp each spring and back again in the fall. It was the same journey that my great-grandparents made twice a year, and the same one that my cousins and I tagged along on as kids, walking alongside the herding dogs, and running into roadside stores to buy candy with cash my grandfather or uncle would slip us.

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Mom’s family have always been planners. It comes from migrating with the sheep, and from the cultural trauma of the Long Walk. In the summer of 1864, life was as it had been in Navajo country for hundreds of years. Then, in September, Kit Carson burned the crops, and in January an entire people were being force-marched across New Mexico. “You know, when society collapses, we need to be prepared,” I’d hear my grandfather say.

I’ve inherited that affinity for being prepared. I took my education all the way to a Ph.D., fulfilling the idea that it’s better to be overqualified for a job. I take pains to cultivate my relationships, knowing it leads to more social resilience. Before I drove to Kansas, realizing I hadn’t met all my neighbors yet and that such connections might be critical in the coming months, I knocked on every door to introduce myself and left notes at the doors no one opened. Even my van, fully outfitted for camping adventures, is subconsciously a backup home.

Which is why it is frustrating, and even a little scary, to watch my father resist my guidance. I’m sure it’s how a parent feels watching their teenage children make brash choices in a bid to establish their independence. I realize that all I can do is continue to offer support, and to remain patient myself. Which isn’t all that hard when you love someone, I realize that night as the four of us sit around the kitchen table sipping on whiskey and enjoying each other’s company.

* * *

On the last day we get on the road early, and with just seven hours drive to Tucson, I feel relaxed. When we stop for lunch, I can’t find the utensils to spread the peanut butter — Dad had stashed them somewhere after our parking lot dinner nadir — so I use a 19 millimeter wrench. If I were Cormac McCarthy this is the kind of thing I’d put in my post-apocalypse book, I think.

I’m excited to get home. “Maybe you should look at this quarantine as a trial run for moving to Tucson full-time,” I’d suggested to Dad the night before, glad that he seemed open to the idea. It should be a pretty easy sell — few places compare to southern Arizona in March, with mild temps and the Sonoran desert in bloom. Then fittingly, just around Wilcox, I see that the entire desert is carpeted with yellow and orange fiveneedle pricklyleaf. Clumps of the daisy-like flowers have erupted from the desert in a superbloom, spreading for miles across the basin southwards towards the blue ramparts of the Chiricahua and Dragoon ranges, storied strongholds of the Apache people who were some of the last Native Americans to resist white settlement. I pull off the highway, and Dad pulls in behind me. “Let’s take a little walk,” I say.

“Let’s keep going,” he says. “We’re only an hour away.”

I realized he isn’t seeing the flowers. “Dad, take off your sunglasses and look out there,” I say.

He lifts them up, looks around, and just says, “Oh.”

View this post on Instagram

Pretty unreal welcome to the Sonoran Desert. Full desert bloom of Fiveneedle Pricklyleaf (Thymophylla pentachaeta)

A post shared by Dr. Len Necefer (@lennecefer) on Mar 22, 2020 at 8:03pm PDT

We walk out among the flowers on a faint gravel road, taking in the blooms and the tiers of mountains reaching southward clear to the Mexico border. We wander, just breathing and releasing the tension of driving. “How long do they last?” Dad asks.

“Only a week,” I say. “We’re lucky to be here.”

* * *

The next months are bittersweet. Dad loves Tucson’s ample cycling opportunities and is a good houseguest. Wary of culinary skills atrophied by two decades of bachelorhood, I do most of the cooking, though he does help pack the van for my next road trip. By May, Covid-19 has torn through my Navajo Nation homeland, inflicting the highest per-capita infection rate in the United States thanks to underfunded health resources and food deserts that have increased health risk factors. A Natives Outdoors fundraiser provides masks and hand sanitizers to communities on the reservation, which a friend and I make two separate trips to deliver.

By the time we return from the second, Dad has decided to move to Tucson for good. We’ve found a place for him to rent and a moving company to pack up his house in Kansas. I’m pleased of course, but also sad that our time living together again will soon be over. We’ve bonded over these strange quarantine times, but there’s also a real feeling of accomplishment to having successfully adapted our lives to each other. Multigenerational living is becoming rare — it challenges the supremacy of freedom and convenience, but in that we also lose something, additional layers and complexity to our most foundational relationships.

* * *

Len Necefer is an assistant professor at the University of Arizona. His writing and photography have been featured in the Alpinist, Outside, Beside magazine, and more.

Frederick Reimers is based in Jackson, Wyoming, and contributes to Outside, Bloomberg, Men’s Journal, Ski, Powder, and Adventure Journal magazines. Follow him at @writereimers.

Editor: Michelle Weber Factchecker: Julie Schwietert Collazo

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ecoorganic · 4 years ago

Text

Notes for a Post-apocalyptic Novel

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Len Necefer, as told to Frederick Reimers | Longreads | August 2020 | 3,211 words (12 minutes)

It’s early March, the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic in the United States, and I-25 in downtown Albuquerque is nearly deserted at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday. It feels like a risky time for a road trip. After filling morgues in Italy, the virus is propagating across the globe and countries everywhere are closing their borders. No one seems sure exactly who transmits the disease or even how it is spread. Every day feels like living on a knife ridge. A light rain is falling and the signs hanging above the highway that normally display traffic times instead read: Stay Home, Save Lives.

I’m trying to save a life by dashing across five states. Driving eastward from Tucson, where I’m an assistant professor at the University of Arizona, I’m bound for Lawrence, Kansas, where my 72-year-old dad lives. He’d retired from teaching at Haskell Indian Nations University there four years ago, and has been living alone since. “I’ll be fine here,” he says, but when I ask him who can do his grocery shopping or who would take care of him if he were to fall ill, he can’t think of anyone. All his friends there have moved away or passed away. I can’t bear the thought of him riding out a pandemic alone if cities and states are locked down, and don’t really trust my older parent to take precautions against the virus. I’m going to get him.

* * *

The night before, I’d driven until I was tired, past one a.m. I pulled off the highway to camp at a spot I knew in the open desert in western New Mexico — just a clearing in the saltbrush and sage flats off the side of a dirt road, earth packed down by the tires of successive car campers. I’d been surprised to see the broad white side of RV after RV appear in my headlights at each potential turnout. I had to drive a few extra miles to find a vacant spot. Other campers always make me uneasy when I’m pulling in late at night, and I really couldn’t understand what all these people were doing out here in the middle of the pandemic.

Their attitude towards the pandemic is, ‘It’ll work out,’ because for them, things always have.

Finally, two hours past Albuquerque, I pull off the highway to cook lunch at a place called Cuervo, New Mexico, that turns out to be a ghost town. Standing beside the van, waiting for the water to boil, I scan the crumbling husks of houses and a fenced-off stone church. Thinking of The Road, Cormac McCarthy’s haunting novel about a father and son traveling together through abandoned towns after an unnamed apocalypse, I laugh to avoid thinking of this rest stop as an omen.

* * *

I make Lawrence the next afternoon, embracing my dad, Edward, on the walkway to the small house where I’d spent much of my youth. He has the easygoing demeanor of a good teacher: attentive, warm, a mischievous sense of humor. He grew up in Detroit in the ’60s then joined the Peace Corps, teaching English and math in Liberia. Once home, he meandered through a series of jobs in the Bureau of Indian Education, and eventually got a gig teaching math at Haskell, where he met my mom.

“Have you thought about what you’ll bring to Tucson?” I ask.

“Dad, I thought we talked about this,” I say when he returns. “We have to make these decisions together. You have to take this seriously.”

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s talk about it. I can stay out of gas station restrooms, but I’m going to need to get a hotel tonight. My back is already stiff.”

I post the video on Instagram with the caption, “My dad has ascended to the throne of Quaranking.”

View this post on Instagram

When the whip contaminated. My dad has ascended to the throne of Quaranking #quarantined #quarantine #quaranking #rona #corona #quaranteamchallenge Shoutout to my dad & @snottynoserezkids

A post shared by Dr. Len Necefer (@lennecefer) on Mar 20, 2020 at 3:45pm PDT

He is dejected and exhausted. Driving for 12 hours has taken its toll. We cook a pot of ramen in the parking lot, huddled inside the van against the windy night.

“What if we just sleep here in the van?” I ask.

“I need my own bed,” he says.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” I say.

“I’m going to have to get up to pee in the night a few times,” he says, now irritated, “and I don’t want to disturb you.”

“It won’t,” I say, but he’s not having it.

We decide to try to push through the last 175 miles to Mom’s house, but after 100 of those, I can see Dad’s headlights dropping further back.

“How ya doing?” I ask over the phone.

* * *

“Let’s not get carried away,” says Dan.

It comes to a head the next day. I’d watched Dan come home from the grocery store, toss his mask on the key rack, and settle in without washing his hands.

“Dan,” I say, “if you really care about my mom’s health, you have to take this seriously.” He assures me that he is, but I can tell I’ve pissed him off. Later, I have an aside with mom.

Kickstart your weekend reading by getting the week’s best Longreads delivered to your inbox every Friday afternoon.

* * *

On the last day we get on the road early, and with just a seven-hour drive to Tucson, I feel relaxed. When we stop for lunch, I can’t find the utensils to spread the peanut butter — Dad had stashed them somewhere after our parking lot dinner nadir — so I use a 19 millimeter wrench. If I were Cormac McCarthy this is the kind of thing I’d put in my post-apocalypse book, I think.

“Let’s keep going,” he says. “We’re only an hour away.”

I realized he isn’t seeing the flowers. “Dad, take off your sunglasses and look out there,” I say.

He lifts them up, looks around, and just says, “Oh.”

View this post on Instagram

Pretty unreal welcome to the Sonoran Desert. Full desert bloom of Fiveneedle Pricklyleaf (Thymophylla pentachaeta)

A post shared by Dr. Len Necefer (@lennecefer) on Mar 22, 2020 at 8:03pm PDT

“Only a week,” I say. “We’re lucky to be here.”

* * *

Len Necefer is an assistant professor at the University of Arizona. His writing and photography have been featured in the Alpinist, Outside, Beside magazine, and more.

Frederick Reimers is based in Jackson, Wyoming, and contributes to Outside, Bloomberg, Men’s Journal, Ski, Powder, and Adventure Journal magazines. Follow him at @writereimers.

Editor: Michelle Weber Factchecker: Julie Schwietert Collazo

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lodelss · 4 years ago

Text

Notes for a Post-apocalyptic Novel

Len Necefer, as told to Frederick Reimers | Longreads | August 2020 | 3,211 words (12 minutes)

* * *

Their attitude towards the pandemic is, ‘It’ll work out,’ because for them, things always have.

* * *

“Have you thought about what you’ll bring to Tucson?” I ask.

“Dad, I thought we talked about this,” I say when he returns. “We have to make these decisions together. You have to take this seriously.”

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s talk about it. I can stay out of gas station restrooms, but I’m going to need to get a hotel tonight. My back is already stiff.”

I post the video on Instagram with the caption, “My dad has ascended to the throne of Quaranking.”

View this post on Instagram

When the whip contaminated. My dad has ascended to the throne of Quaranking #quarantined #quarantine #quaranking #rona #corona #quaranteamchallenge Shoutout to my dad & @snottynoserezkids

A post shared by Dr. Len Necefer (@lennecefer) on Mar 20, 2020 at 3:45pm PDT

He is dejected and exhausted. Driving for 12 hours has taken its toll. We cook a pot of ramen in the parking lot, huddled inside the van against the windy night.

“What if we just sleep here in the van?” I ask.

“I need my own bed,” he says.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” I say.

“I’m going to have to get up to pee in the night a few times,” he says, now irritated, “and I don’t want to disturb you.”

“It won’t,” I say, but he’s not having it.

We decide to try to push through the last 175 miles to Mom’s house, but after 100 of those, I can see Dad’s headlights dropping further back.

“How ya doing?” I ask over the phone.

* * *

“Let’s not get carried away,” says Dan.

It comes to a head the next day. I’d watched Dan come home from the grocery store, toss his mask on the key rack, and settle in without washing his hands.

“Dan,” I say, “if you really care about my mom’s health, you have to take this seriously.” He assures me that he is, but I can tell I’ve pissed him off. Later, I have an aside with mom.

Kickstart your weekend reading by getting the week’s best Longreads delivered to your inbox every Friday afternoon.

* * *

“Let’s keep going,” he says. “We’re only an hour away.”

I realized he isn’t seeing the flowers. “Dad, take off your sunglasses and look out there,” I say.

He lifts them up, looks around, and just says, “Oh.”

View this post on Instagram

Pretty unreal welcome to the Sonoran Desert. Full desert bloom of Fiveneedle Pricklyleaf (Thymophylla pentachaeta)

A post shared by Dr. Len Necefer (@lennecefer) on Mar 22, 2020 at 8:03pm PDT

“Only a week,” I say. “We’re lucky to be here.”

* * *

Len Necefer is an assistant professor at the University of Arizona. His writing and photography have been featured in the Alpinist, Outside, Beside magazine, and more.

Frederick Reimers is based in Jackson, Wyoming, and contributes to Outside, Bloomberg, Men’s Journal, Ski, Powder, and Adventure Journal magazines. Follow him at @writereimers.

Editor: Michelle Weber Factchecker: Julie Schwietert Collazo

from Blogger https://ift.tt/31fB7pL via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Blogger

0 notes