Chipper kept his hand on his empty beer mug like it was the only thing holding him up. He was still pretty pasty, eyes bloodshot. Me, Sandy and Ralphie were just waiting for him to fall apart. Hell, after all he’d been through—especially after what he’d seen that day—none of us blamed him for not wanting to leave The Green Frog. We didn’t care if he was drunk off his ass, but it was bad PR for a park ranger to cry in public.
On the TV overhead, the Cubs and Cardinals were in the eighth inning. The Cubbies were getting pummeled, but a couple of drunk fans in the corner still claimed there was plenty of time to turn things around.
We’d come early for the walleye dinner, which was served with fries and Betty Lou’s famous cole slaw. We’d polished off a pitcher of beer and Ralphie was waving the empty at Linda, our waitress.
A Friday night, the place was packed with downstate tourists who’d come up for the weekend to camp at the state park or rent out the tiny log cabins pinched up next to the lake. A line queued outside the door and Georgia, the manager, had to keep reminding customers to shut the screen door on the swarming Mayflies. These parts, the lace-winged drones live only a few hours, at most a few days. Even so, they’re a real pain in the ass. Our campground general store sells a jokey postcard with a gigantic Mayfly on the front, beneath it the words: “Michigan’s Air Force.” But if you’ve ever gotten buzzed by a swarm of them, you know they’re no joke.
At the table next to ours some dude with an eagle tattoo on his neck was telling a story. His loud pals were laughing along with thigh-slapping guffaws.
The baseball game cut away for a commercial and that erectile dysfunction “Could this be the right moment?” ad appeared–again. Seemed like every time we were in the Frog it came on. Usually the guys ball-bust some pretty nasty jokes about these limp-ass commercials. Me, I sit back and smile. Ain’t my genitalia we’re talking about.
This time none of us said a word.
After a while Sandy broke the silence. “Hey, did I tell you I met this guy who used to be an astronaut?”
Ralphie looked dubious. “Astronaut, eh?”
“Yeah, but he’s retired now. An old-time space cowboy.”
“Fuck.” A soggy fry dangled from Ralphie’s mouth as the word curled out.
“Fuck yeah,” Sandy said, wiping foam off his upper lip. He lifted his sweat-stained cap and ran his fingers through his blonde spiky hair. “Dude told me his name, but now I forget. He wasn’t a famous space cowboy, didn’t walk on the moon. I mean, what’s the fucking point if you go all that way and don’t moonwalk, right?”
At the next table the noise was amping up. Eagle Tat leaned over the table, his big fat pink hands flying around like he was Leonard Bernstein. A woman who looked a lot younger casually sipped at her glass of white wine. She had on thick blue eye shadow and burgundy lipstick and when she opened her mouth you could see a dark shiny stain on her upper teeth. Jet skiers in summer, I thought, snowmobilers come winter. Too much spit and polish to be fishermen, but not Topsider-and-Oakley wannabe-yachters who thought they owned the damn lake. This bunch liked speed and spray, and drank lime margaritas with salted rims. I saw Chipper give Eagle Tat a sideways glance before chugging the last of his beer.
* * *
Every Friday night we kicked back in The Green Frog. It was a comfortable, laid back bar where natives and tourists could co-mingle for a while. It was also the closest bar to the state park. We all knew that particular Friday was gonna suck, especially for Chipper, which was all the more reason we had to be there.
That morning when he got in his car and drove back to the cabins, I had this feeling something wasn’t quite right. Call it woman’s intuition, though I don’t normally go in for that kind of airy-fairy shit. Besides, the guys sensed it too. Like some weird gray cloud blew in off Lake Michigan and blanketed the park.
The Cardinals hit a homer and my hopes sank. But shit, it was just a game, a fucking game. Tomorrow the Cubs would get a shot at redemption. That was more than we could say for the Glennhaven couple.
That’s what we called them–“the Glennhaven couple.” Downstaters, Hoosiers. I’d remembered checking them into the cabin the night before when they’d arrived at dusk. I’d told them to be careful driving back to the cabin, it was hunting season and the deer were skittery, daring unsuspecting drivers to apply the brakes—and yeah, it really was true they seemed to be drawn to headlights.
“It’s like that TV commercial,” I’d said, smiling. The couple looked clueless. “Where two deer are driving and these people run out in the road? The one deer turns to the other and says, ‘It’s almost like they want to get hit’?”
They smiled, vaguely.
I stamped their receipt, handed them the key to Cabin D along with a map, a brochure about the park, and a little plastic bag of goodies the Chamber of Commerce likes us to hand out. Then I sent them off with a courtesy: “Hope you two have a great stay here at the park!” Dudly, our boss, recently jack-hammered us about “customer satisfaction,” said we needed to up the “personal touch.”
The man seemed nice enough. A little shy, a bit grumpy, but who could blame him driving I-96 at rush hour, a real pain in the ass. And the woman—the guys would’ve been happy to gaze at her while they officiously tipped their ranger hats. She was one of those people who looked like a celebrity or someone you thought you should know. Long hair with natural-looking streaks, not a bottle blonde. My sister used to dye her hair once a month until it looked like a handful of straw tied back with a scrunchie. This woman’s hair was soft and silky, as if she’d just come from a pricey salon. And her eyes were violet, like Elizabeth Taylor’s, peepers you just can’t turn away from.
“I don’t fucking get it,” Ralphie said after we’d gotten back to the office, after we’d gone out there to help Chipper. “That guy was one lucky dude. I mean, what the fuck? What the fuck?”
Chipper had gone out to the cabin because the woman had sent an odd text to one of her relatives in Indiana, and the relative had contacted us, concerned.
We’d just come in from working on the sky-trail where we’d been checking out the wooden planks, seeing which ones needed fixing. As soon as we entered the office Dudley said, “I need someone to do a goodwill on ‘D.”
It was 9:15 in the morning and Ralphie and Sandy were joking about what a person might find out there. Ralphie said, “Might find two folks who’ve found ‘the right moment.’” We all laughed.
Chipper said, “I’ll go.”
By rights, it was my turn to do lone shit work. But his volunteering spared me the effort.
Dudley handed him the key and we watched Chip’s big hulk fit through the door frame. He used to play full-back in college, NAIA, and would have been good enough to play Division I or II had he been a better student. “I messed around way too much,” he once told me when we were cutting down a dead beech tree out by Lost Island, a sandy-bottomed peninsula feeding into Lake Michigan. He finally grew up, he’d said, and met his wife, Angie—although by the time he’d told me they’d already split. “D-i-v-o-r-c-e-d,” he said before letting the axe come down. Then he discovered Buddhism. Swore it eased him through the tough times. “Let it go, man,” he’d once said. “You just gotta let it all go.”
That morning as we watched him hop in the truck, I think we all wondered what he might be driving into. Before I’d hired on as a ranger, I’d heard about another time when Chip had walked into a situation and found his wife with another guy’s bare ass grinding into hers. Sandy and Ralphie said Chipper was a changed man after that, and who could blame him? “’Course, he held it together,” Ralphie had said. “Chip never lost his temper.”
The drive out to the cabin only took a couple of minutes and it wasn’t long before Dudley’s cell chimed.
“Hold on,” I heard Dudley say. “Slow down.”
We all got quiet. Dudley looked at us with the cell planted on his ear. I’d never seen him look so pale.
“Don’t touch anything,” he said, and as soon as he hung up, he said, “Fuck, we got us a couple of dead campers. And Chip’s out there shittin’ himself. Let’s go.”
We all got in the truck and drove through the camp grounds. Campers were just coming out of their tents and RVs, kicking back in folding chairs, walking around in sandals. Dudley told me to call Sherriff Hanson and tell him we had an emergency and needed back up.
When we got to the cabin Chipper was out front pacing back and forth, rubbing his forehead. When he saw us, he stopped pacing, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stared at the ground.
“Don’t go in there,” he said way too calmly. “There’s blood everywhere. The woman’s face—her eye’s not even in its socket.”
Dudley walked over and peered into the window.
“Jesus God,” he said.
Ralphie and Sandy looked in too, didn’t utter a word.
I didn’t look. All I could think of was that woman’s beautiful eyes. I’ve seen some shit, believe me, the brutality of the forest, but I didn’t want to singe that memory into my brain.
Fortunately, Sherriff Hanson and his team showed up and took over. Hanson said he’d never seen anything like it. Later that afternoon he stopped by the office and told us it was murder-suicide.
* * *
“Pretty soon anyone will be able to go into outer space if he wants to,” said Ralphie.
Linda poured all around and let the foam set up in our glasses. Sandy grabbed the salt shaker and shook some into his beer, claimed it kept down the acidity.
“You all can have my ticket,” said Linda, her brown eyes scanning the room. When she was done pouring, she went to Eagle Tat’s table.
I heard Eagle Tat say, “Nuthin’ but a serving of you, honey.”
“Did you know that weightlessness can screw up your insides?” Sandy asked no one in particular. “Bones and muscles get weak. And your face gets puffy on account of all your fluids shifting upwards–you know, no gravity to pull ‘em down.”
We all stared at him.
“Why you think they call it a ‘moon face’?” he said.
It’s funny how people in the news said the husband “was such a nice guy. Always minded his own business.” His neighbors and coworkers were shocked he went crazy and murdered his wife.
I looked at Chipper. He was still clutching his mug, like if he let go, he might fall over.
When Carly and I split up I was tired of her shit. Tired of mine too. But I didn’t have a bone in my body that could have harmed either one of us, and anyway I don’t believe women are violent unless someone messes with their kids or they’re that rare bird like Aileen Wuornos. I’m not saying I wasn’t jealous when I’d found out Carly was running around with a woman who worked at one of the souvenir shops in town. I’d have to have been dead not to be. I’m just saying it was time we called it quits, and we did.
What’s funny, not ha-ha, is that Carly and Chipper gave it a whirl for a while. I knew it was a cosmic joke but kept my mouth shut. Carly claimed she was trying to “find herself.” Find herself! Yeah, right. At least Chipper was up front with me. One night after work he came over, stood next to my truck while it purred on high-octane diesel, asked if I minded that he and Carly were going on a date to Applebee’s.
I said, Hell no.
I wished him good luck.
Chipper is a good man.
“Shit almighty,” said Sandy, staring at the TV. The Cardinals had just scored another run. Personally, I never thought the Cubs were cursed, and the 2016 World Series proved it. Sometimes a team’s just gonna lose a ball game. I’ll keep rooting for them even if I’m disappointed. I’ll always bleed red, white and blue.
Chipper and Carly dated a few more times after Applebee’s. He always kept things close to the vest but, still, I could tell he wasn’t madly in love.
* * *
Eagle Tat was getting obnoxious. I think everybody in The Green Frog could hear just about every vulgar thing he was spitting out between pitchers of beer. His whole table was lit and even the woman had unbuttoned her gray sweater to the flesh.
We’d drained our second pitcher and were heading around the bases to another when talk of the Glennhaven couple finally came up. We had to be drunk to get there.
“What’daya supposed caused that guy to flip?” Sandy said, moving the salt shaker like a chess piece.
“Guy was psycho,” said Ralphie.
Chipper looked away from the TV. He pushed his baseball cap off his forehead and I saw his tan line. His eyes were still red and he looked shit-tired.
“I seen ‘em this morning,” he said, calmly.
“You did?” said Ralphie.
“Where?” asked Sandy.
Chipper stared at the table. “Down by the damn. We were working on the trail.”
“Huh,” said Ralphie.
“They crossed over the damn,” said Chipper. “I figured they took an early morning hike back to Lost Lake. She was tagging behind. He seemed in a hurry to get somewhere.”
I could see where this was going. I told Chipper he didn’t know that and even if he had known there was no way in hell he could have guessed what was going to happen next. I told him just because you read Buddha don’t make you a prophet. I said, “Ease up on yourself, buddy.”
The woman at the next table was staring at me. Earlier I’d thought I’d caught her eye but figured I was probably imagining things. A beer or two always makes me kind of paranoid. This time though our eyes met. It wasn’t like she was giving me “the look” or anything; she was just looking. Maybe she’d had enough of Eagle Tat and was letting her gaze wander around the room, wondering what everyone else was up to. Maybe she was thinking it was time to get the fuck out of there.
“Hey!”
I heard the words, but I never thought he was talking to me.
“Hey!”
I realized Ralphie, Sandy and even Chipper were all looking over at Eagle Tat, and when I looked over, I saw why: Eagle Tat was staring straight at me.
“Hey, carpet muncher!” he hissed with one final thrust, this time pointing his finger. “Keep your goddamn eyes to yourself. This isn’t the bar you want, Lezzy.”
Chipper leaped from his chair, the veins of his temples throbbing. He curled his long sinewy fingers into fists. The room went silent, oxygen sucked right out of the air. He wanted to pound the shit out of the guy, make an offering with his dirt-stained knuckles. He hauled his arm back like a 500-ton catapult.
I caught his wrist. “Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t.”
“Fuck him,” said Chipper.
“Really, Chip, it’s okay. The guy’s an asshole but it’s just words.”
Eagle Tat stood up.
I said to Chipper, “Let it go, okay? C’mon, let it go.”
His fingers eased up and I said to Ralphie and Sandy, “C’mon guys, we’re outta here.” We all stood up and I shoved Chipper forward, out the door, where a full moon burned through the black velvet sky.
* * *
I wasn’t in the greatest shape to drive, but I was better off than Chipper and made him get in the cab. I drove him to his apartment on 1st Avenue. The whole way neither one of us said a word. He just sat looking at his hands in his lap. When I pulled up to his place he sat for a few seconds before saying good night. That was it, “Good night.” He never even looked up.
“Chipper, please, look at me will ya?”
He turned his head, but his eyes looked past me.
“Remember that astronaut Sandy met?”
He didn’t respond.
“Well,” I said, “it’s true he never walked on the moon. But he was key to the mission. Without him there wouldn’t have even been a mission. He kept the crew together, you know what I mean? Kept them from over-reacting if something went wrong.”
“How do you know?” he mumbled.
“He told me so,” I said. “I met him too the other day. I didn’t want to steal Sandy’s thunder so I never said nothing. You’re like that space cowboy holding us all together. You saw what we didn’t have to, and that really sucks but, you know, you’re strong like that. Thanks. That’s all I have to say. Thanks for being there.”
Actually, I never met the guy. I lied, just like I did when I told Chip I didn’t care about him and Carly, or when I told him sometimes you just gotta let things go.
# # #
DS Levy’s work has been published in New Flash Fiction Review, Little Fiction, MoonPark Review, the Alaska Quarterly Review, and Columbia Journal. Her collection of flash fiction, A Binary Heart, was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. Read more here: dslevywriter.wordpress.com
Photo: Black Chitsulo
