Someone probably needs to pull me off the ceiling. I feel like running up to Mt. Wilson with a 30-pound pack just to work off a little energy. But I'll have to cool my heels. We're going over to the Swonks' place tonight. Siobahn called. They just purchased some new art and Siobahn can't wait to show Lilalee. No doubt that smug bastard Swonk is probably enjoying the creature comforts having a happy spouse.
Art is subjective. Far be it from me to put a damper on all the cooing over a plain brown flower pot. But even Swonk is swaying back-and-forth, wrists planted on his hips, clearly self-satisfied with what he sees. I doubt Van Gogh got this much adulation.
"We found it in this hole-in-the-wall gallery on La Cienega." says Swonk. "A dump, run by this odd little fellow with a Russian accent."
"He's Czech dear." corrects Siohban. "You can't believe what's in there."
"Good prices," adds Swonk.
Lilalee shoots me a sideline glance. "We're going."
"There goes the camping budget," smirks Swonk and takes a pull on his Modelo. "But, You'll thank me later."
Siobahn gives Swonk a very stern look for his leering smile and takes Lilalee by the arm. "Come look at the print."
I pass before Swonk on the way down the hall. "Speaking of hiking..." he says with mocking jabs of the Modelo, "once again, you've been a bad influence on your goddaughter."
"Won't be the first time," adds Lilalee.
"Don't tell me. She's growing pot in the bath tub."
"Worse," says Swonk. "She's given notice at her job and gonna hike the damn Pacific Crest Trail."
"Honey," corrects Siobahn, "she's just going to do a section. It's only for a month." For Lilalee's benefit she adds, "Julie's going to join her friend Jennifer in Lone Pine. You remember Jennifer?"
"Of course," says Lilalee. She was that clever girl that came to our New Year's Party." What she doesn't say is that Jennifer is the young woman who stormed out of our party because I insulted her. Not my most shining moment.
We gather around the print. We study in silence. It's a surreal ink and watercolor of a young woman singing: could be karaoke, could be a leader of a future matriarchy. A bit on the racy side. Full whimsy and vitality. Completely out of step with the rest of Swonk's art. No cheery flowers or bicycles or fruit baskets. No settled beauty."What do you think?" asks Siobahn.
"I love it!" declares Lilalee.
I nod approvingly.
"Don't you I think she looks a bit like Julie?" asks Siobahn.
"Right," mumbles Swonk. "And I look like Scarlett Johansson."
If you ask me, she looks a lot like Julie's friend Jennifer. But no one is asking
The girls are drinking tea. Swonk and I split a Modelo. We nibble at pretzels and cookies. As usual, the conversation drifts to our greatest shared interest, their daughter Julie — especially when there's a crisis at hand.
"I figure she's now had her fling with the East Coast," says Swonk. He sighs. "I was hoping she was ready to get serious."
"Where's she gonna stay?" asks Lilalee
Siobahn scowls at Swonk and declares for his personal benefit, "She's gonna stay here as long as she wants." She defies any contraction with a challenging smile that suspends the topic. "Well, enough on that. Nothing's more boring than the All Swonk Network. What's new with you? How goes the hiking?"
For no reason other than to move past this awkward moment, I raise my Modelo and proclaim, "Got my JMT permit today. I'm leaving on September 4th."
Lilalee releases her cup with a clatter. "That's nice to know."
That singular edge in her voice leaves no doubt. I have stepped over some tipping point which is prelude to our worst fights. After these years of living together, I should know that when it comes to me, she better know first. Knowing what others don't is a sign above all others of our mutual trust. She is to be my exception. I am to be hers. Aside from the matter of fidelity, this precious sharing is to be ours alone. And while I understand the concept, I've never held it dear and resent what amounts to an accusation of betrayal when none has occurred. A stubborn, silent resistance wells up.
Siobahn sees immediately that the evening is over. Swonk, interested only in the facts asks, "Who are you going with?"
Lila injects with my answer. "He's going with Duane. A friend from work."
I issue a correction in a tone of infallibility I perfected as a manager of recalcitrant programmers. "Actually, that's just for this shakeout hike. I'm hiking alone. The permit is solo."
Lilalee is now visibly cross. "Why can't Duane go?"
"How should I know? I didn't ask. He's got a job and a family." In that moment I am reminded that I have more binds with these three people than anyone on earth. If anyone was to attend my funeral, it would be these people. And yet not one of them shares my exuberance, my exhilaration, for my date at the Mono Meadows trailhead. You would think I was trying to outdo Shackelton or Scott. They are a bunch worryworts.
"Besides," I add dismissively, "thousands of people do it all the time. And, my leg is fine...more or less."
Swonk, as usual, gets right to the point. "Don't forget to leave instructions for your ashes."
We drive home with the radio. She says nothing. We are at loggerheads. She goes to bed early, but not before insisting that I find a hiking partner.
Is this the real meaning of 'human ties?' To hold you back? It shouldn't be this way. I deserve their support. If not, so be it. Nothing like a contrarian idea to lend a coherent focus to the job at hand. I can use the motivation. I've got a schedule to meet. I've got to nail down the menus. My first hike is only 17 days away.