Gary Smallwell - June 2015 Mini-Sledgehammer

The following is a short story that I wrote in 36 minutes at the Mini-Sledgehammer writing contest that takes place monthly at a wine bar in NE Portland. Participants take turns reading their stories aloud and two volunteer judges, John and Daniel, come to a decision about who will take the coveted bottle of wine and free book (to be chosen from the plastic bin) home with them. The winner's story is also published on Indigo Publishing's website. Mine did not win (or wine) this month, so I must self-publish on this blog. The following prompts needed to be included, to be a contestant for the prize.

Character: Drummer
Action: Tipping a waiter
Setting: Cemetary
Prop: Cellar Door

Gary Smallwell 

Gary tipped the waiter in his usual way, casually, almost sly, though of course he wanted the pretty young ladies to see his generosity. It was all so natural. By today's standards, Gary Smallwell would be considered overweight, but in his day, over a half century ago now, all the most powerful men in Danesbury sported an expansive torso. Eaiting steak was one of the ways he displayed his wealth. In truth, his nightly tips to the staff at the Nightglow were only marginally above those of the average customer. He flashed a large grin with wide eyes to the drummer of the jazz quartet in the corner of the room. The seasoned musician had seen many men of his type, and gave the respectful smile given to those whose relative status is assumed higher. It was easy and required only smiling in his general direction and gently rocking his head forward and back as he continued to punctuate the passage of time in that cavernous lounge. Mr. Smallwell passed through the swinging black door, shiny with black paint but revealing the battered wood beneath in the irregularity of its shine. He stepped into the foyer, feeling the lower temperature of this room as he stepped over the weathered red mat and into the night beyond another door, this one made of metal and heavier than the first.

41st Avenue was poorly lit and the Nightglow's entrance marked a safe haven where one could rest a few minutes, though its safety ended upon its patrons' exits. Gary crossed the street, still damp with rain that had since halted, and walked toward the light that emanated from the intersection a quarter mile north. The street was now on his right and a chain-link fence ran along the left of the sidewalk. Dim lights lit the cemetery on the other side of the fence. Robust elm trees sprung from the ground and created a canopy over many of the lawns, reflecting light back down from the plots whose graves were lit. Gary often lost track of time during this portion of his nightly walk. The scattered light was enough to ease his fear and cars rarely passed. Occasionally the sound of a car could be heard in the distance but the spaciousness of the night air was louder. For some time he had no thoughts. He was pleasantly tired after several glasses of his favorite wine, a french white. His ears reverberated with the sounds of the lounge, perhaps louder than the first time, now that he had the silence to compare it to. Some time later he realized he was on the street in which he lived, and had been for several hundred yards. He hadn't forgot where he was, but hadn't been thinking any thoughts either to remind him. He saw the stairs leading to his cellar door amid the leopard print of shadows that fell upon the houses and lawns.

You'll always be my friend

Back to the blog. I have a sore throat so I can't call anybody to ramble about whatever I might ramble about. Last time I wrote here I was on one my iconic California road trips. What's to write about day to day life?

So I want to share a story that happened to me recently. Synchronicity, as Jung called it, is when the events of your life take on a symbolic quality, specifically two or more events that relate to each other somehow. It is tied to man's need for "meaning" in his life.

I went to a show two or three nights ago, at a very nice local venue. It has a log cabin theme, but is very upscale, and chic, with amber LED lights providing atmosphere. Larry Yes was opening for Sonny and the Sunsets. I met Larry on a camping trip a while back and his songs are great. He bends the vowel sounds with his voice is a distinct way that gives him a signature style. My friend Landon and I had dinner at the bar beforehand, and Eric joined us for just the music.

It was a great performance, in a great room. Small cymbals hung from the microphone stands of the two musicians. Larry played guitar and baritone ukulele with effects. His comrade Nate played a six string bass, a Squire I think. It's a pretty unique vintage guitar/bass and not a ton of them were made. Nate sings harmony on many of Larry's songs and sometimes their vocal duets are offset, like a call and response. Their performance borrowed from Flamenco and Indian Raga styles at times, and Larry's banter with the crowd was fun.

After their set, we went upstairs to smoke and stood near the firepit on the patio. We went back downstairs and the second act was playing, though I didn't realize it at first when I walked into the room. It sounded like a song being played over the PA, not a live person, if that makes sense. She didn't have any backing band, but played distorted guitar with drum beats and tracks behind her. I made some snide remarks and when she finished I went upstairs again to bid the two guys goodnight, and I returned back to the venue to get at least a sample of the headliner.

Coming down the stairs between the bar and the venue, I saw somebody look at me like they knew me. I was puzzled for a second, and then recognized him. I first met him when I was twenty years old, and a college student. He had a demo tape on the internet and was looking for a drummer to form a band. I loved his music and we played in that band together for maybe a year. They were fun times. We were only just becoming drinking age, and playing the part of the rock star was alluring.

At the end of our golden summer, our bass player moved to college, I kicked out the guitar player for being a weirdo cokey, and then James kicked me out for not wanting his GF to be our new bassist.

After that, we remained friends and his band played at my 23rd birthday party. He lived with me for a month or so after my dad died in 2008, while he was seperating from his wife. He gave me his oil paints when he moved out, as I'd been painting that month.

In 2010, he invited me to be a roommate in his house. I was living with my mom at the time, doing very little with my life, sort of studying spirituality and self-knowledge. The invitation came at a good time and I decided to accept it during a mushroom trip in my mom's backyard.

I lived there with him in NE Portland near MLK Boulevard for a little less than two years. It was a pretty good time in my life, having new experiences, becoming more independent, though lacking clear purpose in myself. I waited tables and went to yoga classes. I walked to Alberta Street and I sat in the parks. I finally moved out because I was running a monetary deficit and I had some strange notion that maybe I was meant to be a station-wagon gypsy.

I didn't get my security deposit when I moved out because the new roommate didn't have the money. So I was supposed to wait for it. Anyway, no surprise, the money never came. By the time I got around to making a fuss about it, the new roommate had caught a chair on fire in his room, and since moved out. So I definitely was not going to get any money. What upset me was not just the money, but that James wouldn't admit any responsibility for the situation, even though the new roommate was his friend, and not mine.

So I didn't talk to James for a long time, over two years. While I knew he was like my brother, I felt I had been disrespected. Neither of us reached out. At one point, somewhat recently, I had a dream where James was there and told me I was a beautiful person. The feeling of the dream was powerful enough to nullify whatever bad blood was there. Still I had not had any contact with him.

Once I recognized him coming up the stairs, as I was going down, he said to me: "I'm sorry I've been an asshole. You'll always be my friend." "I'm not easy to be friends with" he added.

"Neither am I. That's just the way it goes sometimes."

"Yeah I guess so" he said.

We hugged awkwardly on the stairs and said we'd have a beer sometime.

The Wheels on the Bus

Here I am in the TV room at Sierra Hot Springs, a place that has been good to me. Even with the terrible movie currently playing, here, right now. You know, one of those modern romantic movies where the guy and girl and so effing smart that they know how to play the game, and every few minutes they screw so that you don't turn of the TV. I wouldn't judge anybody for watching this stuff. I'm sure it gets a little slow and lonely when you're staff here. A day in front of bad TV must be a respite from all the natural beauty and beautiful and ugly people alike.

So I'm doing the vagabond camper thing again. I'm getting better at it. It's one of those things in life where I've been here before, doing this, cooking over my one-burner stove with an old pan that doesn't balance quite right but I've figured it out and I know how long it takes to cook a pound of chicken and how to add water to it and cover it with a pie tin so it doesn't burn. So yeah, I'm pretty proud of myself, but it's just chicken, you know? That's how it goes in life. One day you're making your coffee, and you say to yourself "Here I am, again, doing what I do." Maybe you get some deja-vu out of the whole deal, or maybe just a cup of coffee. You can't be too greedy.

Some things take practice. Like using hot springs. Earlier this year I was here, doing this, and tried the thing where you alternate between hot and cold soaks. The hot pool is very hot, about 108 today, and the cold is very cold. I found that afterward my back seemed to have loosened and had a sort of electric feeling in my legs. So I tried it out again today. The jury is out, but my back did feel better. Maybe there's an ideal timing for moving between the hot and cold. I think the idea is that the expansion and contraction of the body's cells with the temperature change is beneficial. I learned today that returning immediately to the hot after the cold doesn't feel good. I think it's great to research how to care for ourselves, but paying attention to how things feel is a good indicator as well.

Now the television is chanting "more Viagra, more Viagra!" Yeah, whatever. I learned last week that cheap Merlot is a nice beverage with a little sugar and water added. Tonight I learned that I'll try it unadulterated next time, if it's with a meal. Tonight's entree was steamed/fried Chicken, seasoned with mixed herbs, over potatoes, kale, and peppers. The chicken turned out great. I should have kept it separate though because the cooked down gravy it produced was really nice. I still have part of it for tomorrow, so all is not lost.

A Good Luck Day

It's been a while now since I've written an entry here. Today I will recount a story from about two months ago. I was at the tail end of an eleven week road trip through California and Oregon. I had spent the night in my car on the jetty near Florence, Oregon. I woke early and drove north, stopping to buy groceries on my way to a hippie festival in the coastal forest. I sat in my car in the parking lot of Ray's Food Place, waiting for a call from a friend to provide me with directions and coordinate meeting. As I sat in the car, I watched a man and his son walk past nearby. The man dropped a coin, paused briefly to scan the ground for it, but did not bend down to retrieve it, and continued walking.

Though I was awaiting the call of my friend, when my phone rang, it was a number I did not recognize. I answered, and was greeted by a strange male voice, speaking English, but perhaps from a call center outside the United States. As is usually the case with sales calls, my full name was used in the request to speak with me. I hesitantly confirmed that indeed I am who I am. It soon became apparent that I was being pitched a warranty for my car, which is now seven years old. They were calling from the Vehicle Processing Center.

(I change to present tense here, FYI grammar police)

It sounds very official, but this does not reassure me that I ought to be engaging in the conversation. Since I have nothing else to be doing, however, I stay on the line. What do I have to lose? He asks me the odometer reading and I give an honest answer. The previous day I had broken 100,000 miles. Without warning, I am immediately transferred to another agent, perhaps in another physical location altogether.

This man's tone is very different. He sounds American, but I can't really be sure. He talks very quickly, and is clearly trained in customer service or sales. My tone is not nearly as congenial as his and I tell him that I don't expect to buy a warranty, but they may provide me a quote if they would like to. I speak with him for perhaps a minute before I am again transferred, this time to a man who sounds African American, more confident than either of the prior. "Do you have any questions about the policy?" he asks. I tell him that I'm really not that interested. I was only staying on the line so that they could provide me a quote. By now, I am feeling manipulated by the tactics of this sales team. "I don't have time for this sir. Good luck" he says with impatience. "Okay, bye" I answer. "Yeah, Good luck" he repeats, he voice terse and sharp. The call ends.

I remain sitting in my car, somewhat stunned. Why did I waste my time on this? Why did the first two men persist when I showed almost no interest, yet the third would have told me to fuck off if it wouldn't have cost him his job? I sit for another moment, left with a general distaste from the experience. Then I hear out my window, an old lady exclaim to her friend, "Look, it's a good luck day!" as she holds a penny in her hand.

Well, I s'pose I'm gettin' by...

Late June finds me on the north California coast. I'm writing from Gualala, near the Sonoma and Mendecino county line. Last weekend I attended a regional Burning Man event near San Jose. I had some hesitancy since I have fewer friends in the Bay Area than in Oregon where I attend SOAK, a festival in the forest of the coastal mountains. I'm so glad I went. There were a bunch of great people who had a great time being great people together. I picked up my friend Alex from the train station in San Jose beforehand, and another friend joined from the Petaluma area.

After the festival I dropped Alex at his apartment in SF, and drove about 100 miles up the coast where a friend has an acre property, at almost exactly 1000 feet above sea level. I am currently squatting there (with permission) while I take a few days rest and evaluate where I will be able to replace a tire. The used tire I bought about a year ago has worn through. That's forty bucks well spent. Though I have the privilege to use this wonderful piece of land to camp on, it is a challenge for some reason to accept how easy and good life can sometimes be. Though I have a mild car problem to solve, there is no particular hurry, and I am in a beautiful place, only minutes from the ocean.

Last night I read a short story my father wrote in 1988, when I was five. It is called Sandpiper Coyote Man, and I am one of the primary characters. There are only four characters; me, my mom, my dad, and Coyote, who is a Vietnam veteran on the beach. My father and I approach him to give him some change, but we stay to hear how his leg was lost, and I get to feel the stump that remains. My dad had told me about the story before. I think it is one that he was proud of. I am glad to have the experience of reading this story today, as it is part of my history in this world. I am able to read it today and appreciate my father sharing his experience and perspective, in spite of a bias in the story against my mother. That there is a negative attitude toward my mother does not surprise me. My dad had issues with women. While I can accept his "story," I do so while keeping in mind that all of our stories and colored by our individual biases and limitations. So, I do not defend of pretend to admire the parts of his story that indulge in self-pity and hate. I have some of that same darkness inside me. Most of us do. We are allowed to be angry some of the time. Besides, were it prohibited, it would do no good. So, I accept you, dad, for how you were. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And if you were here now, we would experience the spectrum together. And when you got shitty, I would listen a little bit, and if I was feeling saintly enough I would smile and give you all of the love that I had. I then I would say, "Please stop. Discipline yourself. Train your mind on something that brings you joy."

I'll close this post by sharing the lyrics to my most recent song:

To be on the open road, is a dream my friends say
Well I'm livin' it today, and I s'pose I'm gettin' by

I ain't bathed in a week, and my car is full of junk
But I'm free, 'cept for the highway patrol

And the park rangers, who all want their cut
For the privilege to sleep in this land

Don't got no license to drive or to fish
To use my camp stove, to park in the snow

So I must lay low, know when to say hello
And when to look, down, into my book

I'd ditch my blue car, if it weren't, for my guitar
My possessions are weighing me down

I'd eat me some drugs, and hike into the woods
I'll keep running 'til I find my peace 

Well maybe it's a job, that'll move me along
And show me a pace to the day

A good lay, from the waitress who's thin
And who's apron always holds an extra corkscrew

Or maybe it's a gathering, at the end of the rainbow
That will blow my mind once and for all

And once I've found wisdom, then what will I do
The serpent can only eat it's tail twice

Take respite, my friend, this is not the end
Your wagon won't be the last to break down

To be on the open road, is a dream my friends say
Well I'm livin' it today, and I s'pose I'm gettin' by

Life in the Mountains

It's been a month and a half since I left Portland. Since my last entry I spent about three weeks in Yuba County, where my father lived before his death five years ago. My sister and I still own the property, but neither of us live there. I caught up with some friends and invested some time in the perpetually needed yard work required to minimize fire danger. I stayed longer than intended, partly a matter of inertia, and partly because my car broke down near Truckee when I left after two weeks. AAA took me back to Yuba City, and my friend Rene was gracious enough to pick me up and let me stay at his place until my car was repaired six days later. During my time in the foothills, I recorded two original songs; not exactly prolific, but at least some creative productivity.

Upon leaving, I ascended into the Sierra Nevada mountains, above the old mining town of Downieville. I explored this area two summers ago, after a Burning Man that left me feeling raw. I returned to some of my old haunts, little nooks and crannies that one finds when time is plentiful and the thirst for solitude is strong. The area along the Gold Lakes Highway is where I've focused, and it is so rich in it's beauty and geography. In spite of being a popular area, it is not difficult to escape the masses. This year I spent eight nights camping in DIY sites, two nights at hike-in sites away from my vehicle. My competence in backpacking is much less than car camping. So I tested my skills, with less than perfect results, but learning from the knife of experience.

I decided to set up my tent on a platform opposite the lodge of an unnamed lake. It is only a twenty minute hike in, so a good trial for me to test my aptitudes with a different set of gear and circumstances. I fished that night and caught a small rainbow trout that escaped before I could land it. I cooked some curried vegetables and rice on my stove shortly after dark. Nothing was going smoothly for me. I tried to cook inside my tent because the mosquitoes were really bad. I immediately filled my tent with smoke. I was using a different pot to cook with and it burns more easily. Exiting my tent I spilled my beer, but saved most of it. I felt unwise to be cooking after dark in unknown territory. There could be bears in this area. I finished cooking and eating outside my tent, then returned inside. This time I succeeded in spilling the remainder of my beer completely. A lot of it, perhaps ten ounces. It pooled in my tent, opposite the previous spill. Fuck, man. I have never drank beer off the floor before but there is a first for everything. I slurped as much of it as I could from the bottom of my tent. Perhaps I am a drunk but it benefited me not to sleep in a puddle too. On my last day in the vicinity of the Sierra Buttes, I climbed to the glaciers and collected water which I drank untreated, a first for me. I don't take the risks of this lightly, but I could literally see the source, and there is virtually no animal life on these rocky slopes. In spite of humans being perhaps the most vulnerable to the elements of all life, with technology and intelligence we are able to visit some of the harshest environments on Earth.

I returned to the hot springs in need of a recharge, and offered my labor in exchange for my stay. Upon greeting the older gentleman who manages the garden, he eyed me warily, silent. I told him I wanted to work for my stay. He said I could start right then, and I did. He wanted my help removing a particular weed that spreads and takes over. It is a curly fuzzy weed with tiny yellow flowers. I've searched the web to determine its name, but without success. Once he remembered who I was and that I could provide real help, we had a nice time chatting about gardening and life. I asked him how long he'd been at the hot springs. "Most of the day, but I left for a little while," he responded. It's a joke he's developed to answer the most frequently asked question. Actually he'd been there nine years, the longest he'd been anywhere in his life. He was originally from Connecticut, the same state as my father. He told me about the difficulties growing vegetables at high elevation in the Sierra Valley, due to the short growing season and possibility of frost almost any time of year. I like this about staying at the hot springs. I stay there alone, but have the opportunity to chat briefly with folks of various backgrounds from various places. I may speak to them once and never see them again, but learn about a new subject like bike touring, or share some intimate detail of my life.

Now I am in San Luis Obispo for a family celebration. I took a circuitous route, state highway 4, through the mountains back into California's central valley, a place where agriculture may thrive, but little else it seems. Ebbet's Pass rises to nearly nine thousand feet, and the road through it has no median for quite a ways. I wish I'd had more than an afternoon to descend back into civilization, for I'm sure I could lose myself in this area for a while, provided I had enough food and water. That's all for now. I'll return to share some photos when I have the opportunity.

On The Road Again

It's been about five months since I returned from my travels last fall. Seven days ago I departed Portland once more, packing my essential belongings and supplies into my station wagon. My trip began with three days of fishing with my lifelong friend Adam. We camped for two nights at Castle Crags State Park near Dunsmuir, CA. The Sacramento river's upper portion, above Lake Shasta, flows here, and he and I learned how to fly fish here, together, fifteen years ago, when I generous Park Ranger donated ten minutes of his time and expertise to teach us "nymph" fishing. After two nights here, we relocated to the McCloud River, below McCloud Reservoir, where we spent two more nights. Our days were spent on the rivers, and our evenings around a fire eating meat and drinking beer and scotch. Adam caught some very nice fish, and I caught none, in part because I have no fishing license in California.

My first day of travel consisted of about 380 miles, from Portland to Dunsmuir. Somewhere south of Eugene, I got a flat tire. It was not entirely unexpected, as there were wires showing through the rubber. I managed to drive over 200 miles on the tiny spare, being careful not to exceed 55 mph. When we'd had our fun and Adam returned home several days later, I found a place to install a used tire for a very reasonable price in Dunsmuir.

I spent the night in an overpriced campground ($25) that night, and set off the following days to explore an area we'd passed near McCloud. Several miles down a gravel road there was a trailhead that connected to the PCT. I hiked along the creek for an hour or so. It was beautiful and I saw noone. I could have camped here, but felt too vulnerable. You never know who might show up and what their intentions might be. Instead, I found a secluded camp a short distance away. Still, it is a little bit scary to be alone in the woods. I am careful to cook during the daylight, and not leave bacon grease on the ground or anything else that might attract a bear.

The following day I traveled east on highway 89, passing through Susanville, and traveling south to Sierraville, where I now stay at Sierra Hot Springs. It is good to have a place to gather oneself. I hadn't properly organized my car since leaving Portland. I cleaned my dishes. I soaked in the hot mineral water. My legs buzzed afterward and my nearly continuous back pain subsided. I prepared some food in the kitchen and read a chapter of a novel. I got at least eight hours of sleep. Still, I don't know where I will be tomorrow. I am trying to remind myself to move slowly. There will always be someplace else to be. It is not always easy to be here now.