04.24.2020 | The Future Forest

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Murph

Do either of you remember what the intersection at 19th Street and Campus Avenue was like when we were children?

One half remains more or less unchanged since then, since the summer you, Wuck, left Upland for Pittsburgh: a family nursery on the southwestern corner and ten or so acres of wilderness to the northwest. The other half, by comparison, is unrecognizable. Where that same wilderness used to extend endlessly east—a rugged one-lane highway through its middle—there now sits The Colonies Crossroads, the sprawling “commercial and social center of Upland,” according to its official website.

The only crossroads, twenty years ago, was a four-way stop and a western-facing sign announcing the number of miles to San Bernardino.

I traveled that rugged highway—an undulating stretch of pavement between Campus and Sapphire—often in my youth: to daycare as a toddler, to Bob’s Big Boy or Thrifty Drug and Discount as a grade-schooler, toward Casino Morongo or CSUSB as a teenager. One of the inclines was so steep that with enough speed you could feel your stomach drop.

We set out east along that highway—Pat and Scott Aldworth and Chris Gualtieri and I—the night you left for college, Wuck. This was still years before The Foothill Freeway spanned the gap between La Verne and Fontana, so we had to make do with surface streets all the way to Interstate 15. We stopped at the Circle K, I remember, to tide us over until the planned breakfast bacchanalia at the Rio buffet. That was the idea, anyway: trail Wuck and his folks to Vegas for a fitting send-off, see him safe and fed and loved into the great unknowns of Utah, Colorado, Nebraska, and beyond—a gesture worthy of our friendship, a pilgrimage.

We traveled in lockstep for a while, I know—at times pulling even with the Webbers for shared laughter over, I’m guessing, a naked rear end—but it wasn’t long until the vagaries of the road separated us: Mrs. Webber’s wee bladder? Cheap gas in Yermo? A strawberry milkshake from <quote-01>The Mad Greek<quote-01>? I don’t know. We may have stopped a time or two more than you did, Wuck, but I find it difficult to believe that the Webber contingent beat us. Because—while I don’t remember much from the evening’s outgoing trip—I do vividly recall hitting 120 on that eight-mile downhill stretch between Nipton Road and Primm, Pat’s Connecticut Blue Mazda 626 shaking like a jetliner through turbulent skies, Gualt egging him on from the backseat, Cooter and I similarly sheepish, scared, and disbelieving.

It was still dark out when we landed in Vegas. I know this because our first stop was The Excalibur’s auxiliary parking lot lit a vibrant orange by the streetlights of our youth. There we eventually found <quote-02>Chris Gualtieri’s father<quote-02> dozing in the back of a pick-up truck, his slender form wrapped in a thin fleece blanket, rising and falling with sleep. In my memory this bald man smiles dreamily at us, not at all upset that we’ve just roused him by pounding in unison on his rusted camper shell. From there—minus Gualt—it was on to the Rio.

It was likely this detour that put your arrival at the Rio, Wuck, ahead of ours. Still, your family could not have waited long for us after discovering the buffet was closed. This fact alone—exacerbated perhaps by your many excuses over the years—accounted for our eventual and prolonged grudge. I can remember the three of us loitering beside the Rio in the first dull light of morning, leafing through the pages of assorted escort rags, waiting for the Webber caravan to pull up so that we could breakfast elsewhere.

With each minute our confusion grew—then animosity. I searched the horizon for a glimpse of you. Scott hunched into his pockets and found his feet; he kicked at a patch of grass. Pat’s childlike optimism began its descent into outrage.

These were the days before cell phones, of course. Thinking back on it all, I wonder why you weren’t with us for that first leg of your journey into adulthood (or was it the last leg of your journey through adolescence?), there with us in Koontz’s hand-me-down four-banger, sandwiched between Cooter and Gualt, zooming through the pitch-black desert night at a hundred miles per hour. Maybe the answer’s in the question; still, having you as collateral would have ensured our communion. At any rate, we were one roaming cell phone away from a promised land of syrup and butter.

And speaking of “roaming,” I don’t think I had any conception of it back then, probably not until two years later when, crossing into Arizona on Interstate 10, the pixelated “AT&T” vanished from the screen of my Nokia 3300. The next time I glanced to it: “VoiceStream.” This particular ignorance is probably why, in between scanning the Las Vegas Strip and a pulpy catalog of its most affordable prostitutes, I never thought to find a payphone and check my voicemail.

My pager, after all, had been silent all night. And why wouldn’t it have been? We’d traveled through the wee hours of the night. Conch knew where I was. Kristen’s <quote-03>“6000 171647” and “823”<quote-03> had arrived hours before the plan even came to fruition. There was simply no expectation of that thrilling buzz at my hip—and certainly no fear of being “out of range.” Even so, again and again I checked it. No buzz. No beep.

The sky turned tangerine, the air warmer. We grew incensed, unable to wrap our brains around being so summarily discarded after such a grand gesture.

“This guy’s fucking dead to me,” I can hear Pat saying, nearly an hour now in the growing shadow of the Rio All-Suites Hotel and Casino megaplex.

“Should we even eat?” I can imagine responding.

I see him shrug.

“Let’s just go home,” Cooter might offer. I remember him acting as if he’d never been that tired in his entire life, as if he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

Pat looked to me. I was plenty angry.

“Yeah. Let’s get the fuck outta here,” I said.

And we were off.

Cooter fell dead-asleep almost immediately, not even stirring when we pulled off at the state line for gas. Because of this we later tried to convince him that we’d twice ridden the roller coaster at Buffalo Bill’s. He did, in truth, miss a thrilling ride home, Pat entering a dangerously loopy state somewhere between Baker and Barstow, three or four times shooting gaps between big rigs that had me clutching the dashboard and literally shouting at him.

“No! Fuck you!” I’d bawl again at each hint of acceleration, simultaneously bracing for impact and gauging the angle of our approach, our chances of survival. “Fuck you, man! No! C’mon!”

And this fucker to my left would just giggle and go for it, gripping the wheel at ten and two as we careened back into the fast lane, narrowly missing another lumbering bumper on my passenger side. Mind you, he’d totaled three cars already at that point in his life en route to a total of seven. <quote-04>Like I said, thrilling<quote-04>.

The real main event of the journey home, however, was far less dramatic. Just outside of Victorville, my pager buzzed—“909-932-9739”—my own number, a voicemail.

“Let’s get a soda at the next exit,” I announced. “I need to check my voicemail too.”

I still remember the routine: quarters into the slot, seven numbers, the a cappella Knight Rider theme recorded in the Webber kitchen, the pound sign, four more numbers: “You have one new message.”

“Hey. This is Nick,” you began. You didn’t see us when you got there, you said. You waited a few minutes, you said, but your dad wanted to get back on the road sooner rather than later. You said you were now at the Carrows up the street and that we should meet you there. You said that you hoped we got the message. You didn’t say that you felt bad or frustrated or that you were upset with your parents, but I could hear all of that in your voice. Then you hung up.

Utterly clueless about the ranges of early millennium cell-phone towers, I wondered why I hadn’t received the page until now. It was hot out. I needed a shower.

“Nick’s dad wouldn’t wait for us,” I told Pat when I got back to the car. “They went to a fucking Carrows.”

“A Carrows?”

I nodded.

<quote-05>“That asshole’s never getting his shovel back,” Pat resolved.<quote-05>

The more I try and remember the trip, the angrier I remember being in the moment. I think I actually may have been the one to spearhead our immediate and huffy return to Upland. I’m pretty sure, also, that I’d paid for gas by myself and might have said something along the lines of, “I own that tank. We’re going home.” I am not, however, overstating Pat’s resentment or Cooter’s tragic exhaustion. But—in fairness to you—I should have thought to check my messages.

Here goes: my bad.

Of course, in a perfect world, you stand up to your folks long enough for us to arrive. But you did leave a message, and I should have checked for one. What’s more, I should have told Pat how sorry you sounded. <quote-06>It is what it is<quote-06>. That hole’s been dug. As for the legendary spade, you can’t expect Pat to just hand over that psychological big two without a bigger play at hand.

Maybe one day.

While I’m admitting things, I should maybe also admit that much of the Carrows’ grief I’ve given you since has been perfunctory, purely dutiful. Pat and I remind you because <quote-07>you deserve to be reminded<quote-07>. After all, by the time we rolled through the four-way stop at 19th and Campus, past the now demolished Weeks Roses building, and through the morning traffic that no longer gathers there, I was happy to be home. Yeah, I’d been robbed of a decadent breakfast and a bittersweet farewell with one of my best friends, but, really, what did it matter? We’d held up our end of the oath. I could sleep the sleep of the blameless into the late afternoon if I wanted. Hell, I was in love.

It was not yet ten, I remember. My cousin had left her first-born son with Conch for the week, and—when I got in—he was sitting in my old chestnut high-chair, eating perfectly scrambled eggs with his fingers and watching Blue’s Clues. Later that night—Conch obviously elsewhere—I will change my first diaper and, more memorably, <quote-08>round second base<quote-08> with the girl who—seventeen years later—will bear my own first-born son. And he will sit in that chestnut high-chair, eating those perfectly scrambled eggs, watching—yes, at times—Blue’s Clues, but more often Sesame Street or Peppa Pig. His will be the next diaper I change. It will be a doozy, thrilling even.

Pat—God bless him—will be just to my left.

‍

April 24th

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<pull-quote>The Mad Greek<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>in baker? barstow? i remember those dual cities between rancho and vegas from my families trips to idaho, as well the town with all the zs and ys, a benchmark for any road trip alphabet game.<p-comment>
<p-comment>i had my first strawberry shake at the greek joint with the guys on the way to kevin’s wedding in utah. i also remember driving back from said wedding, and tight for time, worried i’d miss my flight out of los angeles, having to suffer pat crawling through the parking lot around the back of said shopping center at campus and 19th. fucker. bless him.<p-comment>
<p-comment>you would later define the strawberry milkshake at shake shack, murph, as a wonderful middle ground between the freshness of the greek shake and the synthetic flavor of a mcdonald’s shake. i’ve had it numerous times since then and have come to value it more highly than my previous peanut butter go-to as a result.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Baker.<p-comment>
<p-comment>That Shake Shack makes one helluva strawberry milkshake. There's one just up the road from Dodger Stadium now.<p-comment>
<p-comment>[sighs]<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Chris Gualtieri’s father<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>with grandparents in oklahoma and idaho, my childhood was filled with road trips. gualt’s dad being a trunk driver, so was his. his go-to story was how frustrating it was to watch cars speed by them on the road, because his dad would never exceed the 50/55 mph speed limit of big trucks. poor little despondent gualt.<p-comment>
<p-comment>my fondest road trip memory was my calvin and hobbes books. and then there was the rotation of rebecca’s and my contemporary christian cds. not until walking dogs in my late twenties would i again have those lengthy, uninterrupted periods of music listening.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>My mom and I would alternate tapes on our way up to see her family in San Jose. My least favorite of hers: Crosby, Stills, and Nash's GREATEST HITS. Hers of mine: NEVERMIND.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Funnily enough, when she was recovering from open-heart surgery in November of 2017, CS&N is what I chose to put on when she was having trouble sleeping.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>“6000 171647” and “823”<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>?<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>“good night” and “thinking of you” in pager code<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>i get good night, but how is 823 thinking of you?<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>"823" comes from the same school that brought us "143" for "I (one letter) love (four letters) you (three letters)."<p-comment>
<p-comment>"823" was our usual sign-off those first months. We had cell phones by the time we got to "I love you" territory.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>Like I said, thrilling<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>You could make an entire novel of Pat stories. He's totally your suburban Dean Moriarty.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>be better than that stupid-ass novel, that's for sure.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>“That asshole’s never getting his shovel back,” Pat resolved.<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>I just laughed out loud so hard.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>It is what it is<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>had you told me that you got my message? or just not told me that you knew i was hurt?<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>I never said hurt. You sounded upset, defeated.<p-comment>
<p-comment>I don't think we would have talked on the phone again until just before you came home for Homecoming. I would've been too excited by the promise of your return to have cared in that moment.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Maybe we've never really parsed out the details. All parties agreed to the existence of the message, at least.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>because you deserve to be reminded<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>i disagree. i think you bring it up for your benefit, not for mine. it unites you and pat in your friendship more than it serves as a warning to me against some supposed tendency to forget the value of friendship. also, not insignificant? it doesn’t square with the rest of the paragraph.<p-comment>
<p-comment>a felt betrayal, not an intentional one. i received no silver pieces. a tragedy of technology. zero chance you didn’t feel guilt at not having checked your messages, but better to shirk that feeling and toss me under the buss, allowing for the surer ground of shared betrayal between yourself and pat.<p-comment>
<p-comment>gualt? fuck him. he spits when he talks.<p-comment>
<p-comment>kidding. god the memories with that guy and paul. still can't believe i got suspended with that guy. i remember garrobo bringing me a lollipop back from the graduation disneyland trip i wasn’t allowed to attend. rang at the front door and everything.<p-comment>
<p-comment>back to vegas. my parents were running my story at that point. as married men, we all now know the wife is what matters—the rest the world be damned. better to have your marriage at peace and be at war with the rest the world. shit is biblical.<p-comment>
<p-comment>here my memory is cloudy for the fog of disappointment, but let’s be rational and unpack it. did debbie have to pee as we waited outside the rio? no question. did anthony allow me to hold off our order at carrow’s until the last possible moment he could stave off debbie’s hunger? i have no doubt. debbie, with her eternal supply of nuts and granola bars. were emotions running high on this drive to empty their nest? must have been.<p-comment>
<p-comment>you know i have no memory of any of it, i can only remember the pay phone, but it all must have been.<p-comment>
<p-comment>would you have told your wife, shut up and eat some more trail mix? never. remember honey, it’s pat! the guy that returned my shovel! nick called him over an hour ago, he’ll be here any second!<p-comment>
<p-comment>in an alternate universe, i’m still at that carrow’s.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>“Shut up and eat some more trail mix” would not get the job done, Wuck.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Rest assured, I’d see it through.<p-comment>
<p-comment>As for your betrayal, it was more of the Simon variety than of Judas. Pat didn't totally absolve you of your cowardice-- lovingly renaming you "Wuck" a la Jesus renaming Simon "Peter"--for some time, remember.<p-comment>
<p-comment>You fucked us, bro. Just own it. Hearing your excuses anew just makes me want to unforgive you. And you know a vivid retelling will get Pat on board.<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>There does exist an interpretation of this tale--I'm realizing now--wherein Gualt plays the villain, basically using us for a ride and making us miss our rendezvous.<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>i appreciate the temperate hike on your end, mainly because mine is spiking over here.<p-comment>
<p-comment>and you know a vivid retelling will get pat on board? this goes a long way toward proving my above point.<p-comment>
<p-comment>just own it? in the name of friendship, i’ll own anything. my friends over my ideals, no?<p-comment>
<p-comment>i was told my friends would meet me in vegas for a celebratory send off breakfast, only to find out, in front of parents—whom i had defended my friends to over and over again, taking the side of my friends, forcing them to see how important these relationships were to me, how i had never had anything like it before, never been so wholeheartedly accepted—that i was the butt of the joke. that they didn’t come. that’s not betrayal?<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>oh the other hand, when you tell me i deserve to be reminded, you could be reminding me of how much you love me as opposed to how much i fucked up.<p-comment>
<p-comment>for some reason i didn’t hear that until revisiting what was said for further comment. i suppose the fact that i didn’t hear that until now isn’t a good sign, probably highlighting my more insufferable qualities.<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>"that i was the butt of the joke. that they didn’t come"<p-comment>
<p-comment>What?! Why would this thought have crossed your mind? You saw us on the freeway! We'd just traveled 230 miles to do nothing more than eat breakfast with you!<p-comment>
<p-comment>This is some Simon, shit, bro. You were seeing us through your parents' eyes.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Let the record show that I quickly turned down the famous trip to the Arizona border--with Gualt and Cooter (and Kenric!) no less--to play Big Two just for the hell of it.<p-comment>
<p-comment>I went to Las Vegas for you.<p-comment>
<hr><hr>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>This thread is IT, guys. The show has moved into the wings!<p-comment>
<hr><hr>

<pull-quote>round second base<pull-quote>
<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>just now occurred to me, i must have spent the night before with sharon. then met up with you guys after, then my folks.<p-comment>
<p-comment>come to think of it, the disappointment of the vegas breakfast was probably a nice introduction into what awaits one on the journey into adulthood. it’s like i dozed in the back seat of my parents car at the tail end of the night, and woke up down the rabbit hole.<p-comment>
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