#thread start // Every tale starts with 'I was havin’ a beer’.

[bugged-candies]

TAG DUMP - PT 2

[1232andthinkingofyou]

The Captain

I took a deep breath as I walked towards an old iron gate I had entered a thousand times before. I stopped just before to gaze up at the sign that hung above the entry, McMartin Peace Camp. This hippie commune I had grown up on, been so desperate to leave as soon as I could, I never thought I would return. It was by no means an eternal Woodstock, but rather a ranch with few rules and many members. The faces were in a constant wave of change, vagrants took advantage of the camps arms open, hearts open mentality, but a few people had been there constantly since I found myself at the porch of Mr. McMartin. The man who held the biggest place in my mind was Carl Corbin, or The Captain as he had always wanted to be called. As luck would have it, The Captain was the first person who was alerted to my presence as I found myself wandering the familiar commune. Little dorms circled around gardens and fire pits, and the overwhelming smell of the honeysuckle vines covering the buildings drowned out the farm animal stench that wafted in from over the hills. The ranch itself was huge, and people who stayed very long were expected to earn their keep in the hills of Peace camp, doing whatever odd jobs necessary to keep the place up and running. The result was a peaceful, organic environment, with the sounds of children running and laughing intermingling with quiet music and the calls of animals in the distance. The sounds and smells and sights of this place jettisoned me back to a simpler time 5 years prior when all I wanted to do was leave. It was a big slice of karma that landed me here again, now realizing the beauty of camp. It was right then, as I was reeling in the memories, when I felt a strong hand land on my forearm. “Well look who found his-self back here at the farm! Been many a plow stroke, boy, and nary a letter to be found between!” The Captain had found his way over to me and was now greeting me in the way only he could. Growing up, my campmates and I would swap stories over fires and garden plots conjecturing where The Captain came from. Was he a pirate, an Irishman, a lunatic, or a poet? No one knew, but his unique dialect and grizzled appearance could weave propositions for eternity. I turned to him and smiled. He looked exactly the same as he did when I had left, like time overlooked him. It was another cheery anomaly of the ranch, people never aged. I would like to think that when people are truly at peace, their soul remains young, and their body is left in limbo. The Captain looked 65, with leathered skin, salt and pepper hair, and a cloudy left eye that added to his mystique, although no matter how many times the kids would ask, he would say “I’m as old as the soil I plow, and as long as I treat it good, it returns the favor.” “Hi, Captain. It has been a long time, hasn’t it? But,” I raised the bag in my hand in emphasis “camp is always going to be home. That’s what they always say, right?” It was true, from the minute you first set foot in the camp, its well-known you are always welcome back with open arms. I was grateful for that right about now; I was yearning for the place I could breathe easily like I once did. “That’s no tall tale for ya, that’s for sure and all! Come and sit, have youself a pint and a puff, fancy man. Tell me of yer travelin.” I was happy to oblige his offer, and soon I found myself leaned against a well-worn stump sipping a beer. The Captain filled a pipe to the brim with whatever he smoked today, and soon was ready to talk. The Captain was always ready to talk. “So what have ya gone and done to youself. Runt off with a lass half a decade ago and we nary hear from ya atall. Figurt ya been havin the time of ya young life, makin yer magic and moolah and maybe a youngin or three, but seens as ya got one bag and not a little skittler in sight, I must be a mistaken man. Have ya been to the moon, or are ya too good for we “smelly hippie peoples” tat ya were yellin to the gods about when ya left to drop us a declaration of your health?” His question was pointed enough to make me grimace. I had left in a loud mess, promising to go off and “be normal”; I had met Lindsey, a beautiful woman with promises galore, and the lure of suburbia was strong enough for me to cut ties with the only family I had ever known. I had bounced from homeless shelter to street corner before I finally found myself at the camp, and I had gotten spoiled to the life of the commune. No one looked down on me, I was given respect and work and a place to stay. It was amazing how little regard I had held for it once Lindsey convinced me that this was no real life to live. For a woman I had met at community college, her attitude suggested she already had a plan to better than everyone else. Her aloof charm had snagged my interest, and I proved myself malleable enough to earn her love. She had visited the camp once with me and made it clear that it was the only time. “Glen, those are not people, they’re animals. The kids don’t wear shoes, the men don’t have teeth, the women don’t wear bras, and nobody uses deodorant as far as I could tell. I don’t care what they told you they were, that’s a camp of Druggies and Do-Nothings, and I can’t tell my parents that you go back to Manson Land on holiday. Something has to give here, and don’t expect it to be my standards. You deserve better than that, whatever that is.” She lectured me with a faux air of concern and a tender grip on my hand. The manipulation rang in my ears now as I surveyed the camp. Sure, everyone here was cut from the roughest cloth, and maybe drugs and laziness were just threads of the fabric that held them here, but that same fabric was eager to become a blanket of warmth or a tablecloth to a stranger. No person here was ever in need, and I had never seen someone unhappy longer than due. That is, except for me. I felt my exit from the camp needed to be unforgettable, a show for Lindsey as I piled my few belongings into her car. I hurled condescension and insult to anyone who had ever set foot through that iron gate, and without so much as second look I slammed the door and drove off. “Look at them, Glen! Just smiling and waving. That’s how you know they aren’t right. They’re acting like they’ll see you again, like it’s some vacation.” Of course, everyone knows how those stories end. Lindsey didn’t like parts of me, and the more I changed to her model, the less I felt alive. And now I was back, and the thought of her chastising them, wishing me well off on my way, it made me scowl into the beer I was downing. “You know, Captain, you probably know the whole story. It’s the same one you’ve heard a thousand times from people who leave here mad and come back sad.”   “Oh, don’t beat youself up too bad boy, every robin sings the same song, but they all still fly into a fookin window once in they lives. The important thing is ya know where the glass is now.” I laughed and his eyes danced. He made things seem easy, and his advice was unforgettable as always. The Captain played many roles to the people in camp, one of the last people alive who remembered Collin McMartin, the farmer who left his ranch to the camp before passing. Now The Captain acted as a sort of an overseer, mostly to the crops and cattle, but also as a man of the people. From minister to medicine man, you could assign a title to The Captain and it would seem as if he had always worn that hat. All his abilities added to his mystique, a relic from the time when a Jack Of All Trades was alive and well. He leaned forward to me with a sneaky leer. “Boy, we all had our share of beauties come and try to straighten our spines and clean up our livers. But ya know what this old man has learnt? Thaint a single one of them ladies want us for what we gonna be til times old. Thas why ya find youself here again. But thas aboot nuff talk of the past and poor. Why don’t ya find youself a bed to sleep in. things mightn’t of changed but a smidge, and ya still got a place to lay yer head.” He winked and started to toss logs into a familiar stone ring. “We’s gonna have to have a bit of a get em all to celebrate ya comin to yer senses.” I smiled and started to wander off toward the blank, but was stopped by The Captain clearing his throat. “And, eh, boy.” He walked close and placed a loving hand on my shoulder. “Clear ya head of all that garbage she tolt ya aboot us and youself and everything else. If she saids ya were anyting less than perfect, well thas 4 horses worth of shit in a 2 horse stall. Thaint any point in wastin yer time in the past. Whats done is jus that, and naught a bit more. Yer home now, and thas that. Ya best be brining yer ass down there in a jiff though.” With that, I walked off towards my old bunk, feeling lighter with each step. I walked through the doorway and was overwhelmed with emotion. Nothing had been touched, nothing had been moved. They all knew I would be back. The only addition was a tiny pillow, embroidered and placed on my pillow. I picked it up with misty eyes and read the mantra it declared, summing up everything I knew. “May your lovers be frisky, may your trials be few, may your drinks be whisky, may your heart be renewed.”