Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead (8 page)

Glory and history, this is crazy. Why did I stop? Just make the best of it, I guess. What’s your name, Sam asked.

What’s yours? he roared back.

Sam.

I’m Tom, he said, then grabbed Sam’s hand, and jerked it like a pump handle.

It’s the barber, Sam thought. He ran the shop where my studio is now. I wonder if he remembers me.

You don’t seem happy. What’s wrong?

What’s wrong? he barked, repeating the question, then walked over next to Sam and looked him square in the face. I don’t know why I’m here. That’s what’s wrong, and you don’t either. He turned, and stomped back to the tree.

There’s nothing wrong with getting old, Sam said. Do you remember how you got here?

I’m an insignificant grain of sand, and most everyone’s in the same boat, Tom said. We can count the few great people who have done anything momentous on our two hands. Imagine, out of the billions of people in the world, and only two handfuls that do anything significant. How does that happen? Why is that? Why? Do you know?

Wait a minute, Sam said. I’m sure you’ve done something to make the world a better place. We all have a purpose here. Just have to find out what it is.

Tom looked at Sam. Is that right? What have you done to make it better? Why are you here? What’s your purpose?

Well, Sam said, then paused. I started a business, a studio, I take pictures.

Tom snorted like a racehorse, and asked, How’s that helped anyone?

I’ve traveled a bit, Sam said.

Oh, yeah? Where? Tom asked, pointing his finger at Sam. Well—? Tell me . . . you don’t know jack-shit!

You ask a lot of questions, Sam said.

You’ve made my point.

What point?

That you’re an insignificant speck of nothing blowing in the wind! People are a bunch of zombies. I didn’t tell you to stop here. Tom walked around the tree. You did that on your own. Go ahead . . . and . . . leave. I’m not stopping you. Get the hell out a here!

No, you didn’t. I stopped because I thought you needed help. Do you need help? Can I do anything for you? Sam said. His voice vibrated in waves of anger, like a bubbling spring, ready to blow, then thought, I hope he says no, so I can leave. I always liked the barber, but now . . . I don’t know. The guy’s an asshole.

He stood there with his back to Sam looking at the tree, then turned sharply like a soldier doing close order drill, and asked, Got a camera?

A camera?

Yeah, a camera, he barked. You said you were a photographer? You have one, right?

Yeah, sure, I have some cameras in my car, and one right here in my phone. Sam aimed the phone at Tom. Want me to take your picture with it?

Camera in your phone, Tom snarled, waving his hand, and shaking his head in disgust like he’d just eaten something bitter. Are you kidding me? That’s no good. I need a real camera, with real film.

I’ve got some of my gear in the car because I’m on my way to a job. All of my cameras take nice pictures. One of them should do the trick.

Are they all new fangled digital machines?

I brought a film camera along, Sam said. I’ve got an old camera I’ve had for a long time. Have color or black and white film. You can choose the flavor you like, then laughed expecting Tom to crack a smile, but he stood stone-faced.

Black and white will do nicely, he said, nodding, then walked over and stood by the tree again. He pointed to himself, and gestured at the tree. Can you take my picture standing here? Do your best Ansel Adams type shot.

Next to the tree? Sam questioned. Why is being next to the tree so important? And, you know Ansel Adams was known for landscape photography more than taking pictures of people.

I want a picture of me standing next to this tree, he said slowly, then fired off in rapid succession, I know he was a landscape photographer, and you said you do portraits. Mix them together, me, the tree, hills, valley, then he pointed at the ground, and then at the tree. Right here, this spot, right next to the tree.

Sure, wait right here. This guy’s goofy. I’m keeping an eye on him. I’ll get the camera, and be right back. Sam started walking down the hill. I should just go. I should leave now.

You got anything to drink in that car of yours? Tom yelled.

Sam stopped, and turned. Drink? he asked. Now I have to take care of this old fart. He wants to be wined and dined.

Yeah, Tom growled. Booze—man—booze. Got any?

I’ve got a bottle of whisky in the car, and a cooler with some beer in the trunk.

That makes you my best friend, Sam. Go, go, go, he ordered, and pointed down the hill.

Get the camera and booze. I’ll wait here.

Okay, I’ll be right back, Sam said, and made his way down the hill, grumbling. He walked to his car, thinking, Who does this clown think he is ordering me around? I should just drive away. Sam took out his camera, grabbed the whisky and cooler. I’m taking some pictures, then leaving tree-man the first chance I get.

Sam worked his way back up the hill, and arrived at the top breathing deep, fast, and hard. Tom was relaxing comfortably, sitting down leaning against the big oak tree. His beard blowing in the breeze, looking like the Lord of the land, arms crossed observing the valley below.

Okay, I’ve got the camera, Sam said still out of breath.

What’s wrong with you? Tom asked.

With me? Nothing. Why?

You’re breathing like a freight train?

I’ve just climbed up this hill twice, that’s why!

Just seems for a young guy you’re breathing pretty hard. Maybe you should exercise more, or have a doctor check you out. Doesn’t seem right, young guy like you.

I’m fine, Sam said. What is wrong with this old goof?

Just asking, Tom said. Don’t want you keeling over on me; got enough problems.

Here, Sam said, and handed Tom the whisky bottle.

Now you’re talking, Tom said. He grinned as he eyed the label. This is the good stuff. I believe I’ll have a swig before you snap my picture. I need to relax. Today’s been a trial.

Okay, whatever you say. You’re the boss, Sam said. He picked up a beer, and sat on the ground. The view’s nice from up here. I took some great shots of the sunrise this morning. He popped the beer open, and gulped down half of it. He loaded the film in the camera as he watched Tom take swig after swig of whiskey; pouring it down like water. Man, he’s got a hollow leg. He can really put away the booze. I wonder what happened to him after he sold the barber shop. Why is he here?

Yeah, baby. That’s the good stuff, he howled, then took another gulp, and closed his eyes, grinning like he’d just seen a treasure chest of gold coins.

It’s the same look I had when I first saw Esther coming down the slippery slide at school, Sam thought. Maybe he’s thinking about a girl.

What’s the occasion? What are you celebrating?

I told you, I’m old, and celebrating being old because time’s running out. This could be my last hoorah. After this day I may be on my way out, and . . . it’s my birthday. You ready to take my picture?

Yeah, just about ready, hold on. I’ll have the camera loaded in a second.

Sam stood. Okay done, then motioned for Tom to go by the tree. He aimed the camera, and said, Hold it right there, one-two-three. The camera shutter clicked away. Got it. One more, good, hold it. One-two-three.

Tom began to wobble; the booze was kicking in. Sam wasn’t sure how much he’d had, so he grabbed the bottle and checked.

Man—you put a lot of this away, he said looking at the half empty bottle. It was full!

Did you get the whole tree in the picture? Tom asked, his voice, low, soft, and friendly.

Tom’s tone surprised Sam. What?

Did you get the tree in the picture? he asked once more.

Oh, yeah, got the whole thing in some shots, but if you want me to keep shooting, I’ll take more.

No, that’s fine, just fine, Tom said as he stood next to the tree just looking at it, then he walked around it, touching it, and stroking it—like a pet.

Sam burned up the rest of the roll shooting close up shots, odd and low angle shots, and talking a lot to make Tom feel more comfortable. Do you live around here?

No, just passing through. What about you?

Me, too, Sam said. Do you need a ride somewhere?

Yeah, I need a ride. See a car anywhere around here? Tom said. Where are you going?

Did I just make a mistake, Sam thought. I shouldn’t have asked if he needed a ride. I’m—heading down the highway on my way to Ellsworth. I can drop you off at the next town if you like.

Sure, nothing going on here. Let’s go, Tom said, and took one last look at the old oak. Bye tree, he whispered, and walked toward the path to the bottom of the hill.

You have a small bag there, Sam said.

Got everything I need in here.

Traveling light is the way to go, I guess, Sam said, and grabbed the cooler. Tom carried the whisky, and took an occasional swig as they made their way down the hill. They looked back at the tree several times watching its branches wave on the horizon like a brush painting the sky canvas.

Tom stopped when he reached the road. That’s a nice car you have.

I like it. Had it for a long time, and feels like it’s part of me, and I’m part of it.

Yes sir, a nice looking machine you’ve got here. Can I drive?

Sam looked at Tom, hesitated, then asked, You got a license?

Sure, he said nodding. Had one for years.

Cheese? Sam asked to get Tom’s mind off of driving the car.

Cheese?

Sam opened the cooler and grabbed a hunk of cheese. Here, go ahead and try this, Sam said, and handed Tom a piece of cheese.

Tom raised it to his nose, Smells nice, he said, and took a bite, then remarked, This is good stuff, thanks, very nice. Got anymore?

Sure, here, Sam said. It’s left over from my birthday party yesterday, and nothing but the best on my birthday. Not planning to ever let him drive, Sam said, Maybe, I should drive for a while to start, and let you give it a try later. Okay?

You’re the boss, Tom said, and looked into the backseat, and around the car as they headed down the highway. When did you get this car?

Had it since I was eighteen. It was a dream of mine to get it.

Yeah, I’ve had dreams, too, he said. A lot of them have come true, but some never will, then he choked up. Well, no use thinking about that anymore. Got any more beer? Tom asked.

In the cooler, Sam said.

Tom opened the cooler, took out a beer and said, Here’s to dreams that come true! You want a beer?

I can’t drink anymore. I’m driving.

Tom looked around, pointed at the trees, then at Sam. Are you kidding? No one’s here. We’re in the middle of nowhere. This place is like the Garden of Eden. One more won’t hurt. Com’on—like having forbidden fruit, go head.

Tom passed him a beer. So you’re a photographer. When did you start doing that?

Well, I’ve always liked photography. My uncle was a photographer, and I got a camera from someone on my sixteenth birthday.

Oh, yeah, what kind of camera was it?

Nikon FM 2; the same one I used to take your picture. Ever heard of it?

Oh, sure, that was a fantastic camera, Tom said. Solid, and extremely well made, like a tank. Great camera, here’s to Nikon cameras, then tipped the can of beer, and gulped a mouthful.

Do you like taking pictures, Sam asked. Got a camera?

Don’t need one anymore. If I want a picture of something I just buy a postcard. I’ll leave the picture taking to you.

But what if you meet a beautiful woman, and want to take her picture?

Well—then I’d write a poem about her, carry it in my pocket, and read it every so often to remind me of her. His voice cracked, then he took another swig of whisky, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grunted with pleasure. Tom was choking up, and getting misty eyed. A trigger had gone off, and a door opened to a secret place hidden in his mind.

You sound like a romantic. Do you write poetry?

Yes I do, he said, and published some of it. Are You Casablanca is the name of one.

Just like the movie? Sam asked.

Well, not exactly like the movie, Tom said. It’s about love, heartbreak, happiness, and longing to relive some great moments.

Is it hard to write poetry?

Not if you’re drunk, then belted out a laugh. Just kidding, sorry. Yeah, it’s damn hard, and easy at the same time. It usually begins from an idea, then a thought follows a certain path. Or goes off in a completely different direction, and we hope it ends up being something special for the writer, sometimes for others. He paused and was just quiet for a time then said, A good poem will make you cry.

Have you written anything else?

Sure, he said. One novel.

What’s it called? What’s it about? Did it take a long time to write? Do you like Ernest Hemmingway? Sam fired off more questions. Can I buy it in a book store? Online?

No, you can’t! It’s never been published.

Why not? What’s it called?

I wrote it, and now I have to explain what it’s about? Cripes, man!

Sorry I asked, Sam said. You don’t have to tell me the whole story, just the title, about some of the characters, and the place or setting.

I’m not saying any more about it except that it took years to write, and I was miserable toward the end of it because I’d read it so many damn times. It practically drove me crazy. And it’s more of journal than a novel.

Why do something you don’t like?

Because I had a story to tell, and justice has got to be done.

Strange that you don’t write anymore. Want to again someday?

Maybe, not now, not at this moment. I just enjoy the view wherever I am. Tell me, why are you going to Ellsworth?

To photograph Alan Roger’s house for a magazine story about him. I got a call from an editor a while back. I’ve always been interested in architecture. Studied it in school, and Alan Rogers was a fascinating fellow.

Like I said before, one of the few you can count on your hands. Disappeared didn’t he?