Horsetooth

CW: Language and drinking throughout

The breeze had picked up just moments ago, brushing Rachel's face and tickling her nose with the smell of water, the aroma intertwined like lovers with the rock and dirt of the Fort Collins Mountains. Even though cars passed by like city people, to and fro down the winding mountain road, the air had a certain calm to it. Reassuring, and warm.

"It's nice", Dan said, his window rolled down fully and the wind blowing his dusky hair back. "The weather, I mean."

Rachel rolled her head from the window to Dan, a smirk on her freckled face.

"...what else would you mean?"

Dan chuckled, turning to look at Rachel a brief moment before returning his gaze to the road.

"I mean, I guess there are some other all right things around me."

Rachel laughed, jabbing Dan in the arm with her elbow.

"I kid, I kid", Dan pleaded.

They continued up the road which rounded like a curly hair strand.

"When we get there, we're gonna have to hike back down to get to the reservoir . Kinda sucks, I know.”

"I've been to Horsetooth before, you know."

”Oh yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I wasn't trying to be an ass or anything.”

Rachel smirked, looking at Dan.

"You? An ass? I don’t think that’s possible.”

Dan smiled, and they continued up the road. An old, brown Subaru Outback drove down, inside a man and woman, their tiredness displayed on their sunburnt faces, in the back two jumping kids that didn’t know the meaning of the word.

"Was it with Harold?”, Dan asked, his gaze focused ahead of him. "The last time you came here?”

Rachel pursed her lips, opening them.

***

There was darkness, and then there was light when Harold awoke Rachel, tucked under her Pixar Cars cover. He turned on her bedside lamp, and pulled open the curtains, the sun only just risen, much like Rachel.

"Up up, kiddo."

Rachel groaned like a drunkard, and rolled over like one.

"…what?"

A mischievous smile overtook Harold's lips.

"It’s time to party."

***

"And what else", Harold said, pushing the already snack filled cart down the aisle, Rachel keenly surveying the shelves.

"Sour worms", Rachel said, grabbing it off the shelf and putting it in the cart.

"Sour worms check", Harold said.

"Oh! Hot Cheetos!", Rachel said, grabbing hot Cheetos off the shelf and likewise tossing it in the cart.

"Hot Cheetos check", Harold replied, his kind eyes lethargic, but letting out a genuine chuckle. "Anything else? It can be whatever."

"Mmm", Rachel replied, studying the shelves like a doctor studies the results of a terminally ill patient. "I think that's it. Unless you want something?"

Harold let out a booming laugh. The kind that dads do. The kind that's loud and boisterous, unseemly, but makes you feel warm and giddy inside.

"No, I'm pretty sure the treasure chest you have here is plenty. This alone will triple my diabetes...actually, I may be dead by morning."

Rachel laughed, snorting like a pig without shame. After they (or really Harold, as Rachel had only ten bucks to her name, the reward of toiling away on the neighbors yards) had paid for everything and returned home, Harold put on some music, poured himself some wine (and Rachel as well, but just an inch) and began to prepare the sandwiches and chips and dip. Rachel loved to watch Harold cook, as if observing some type of beast in its natural habitat. Goofy and majestic was the only way she could put it. They were both grooving on the floor, sliding across the kitchen tile as if possessed by the very spirt of the boogie. Harold had told Rachel to pick the first song, Rachel looking through the cassettes before putting in "Come and Get Your Love".

"Did you know this band was made by two Native American brothers?“, Harold stated more so than asked, putting another finished sandwich in the Ziplock bag. "It's so fucking cool, pardon the language, but it's so fucking cool."

Harold had always interjected that thought each time he heard Come and Get Your Love playing, and as always Rachel smiled, nodding her head in agreement, her eyes shut as she grooved to the music.

"Alright, sandwiches and snacks are all done", Harold said, putting the last pile of sandwiches to the side of the counter, along with all the others.

"Will we need this many sandwiches", Rachel inquired, walking over to the counter.

"Yeah, of course we will. What if we make new friends and only have enough sandwiches for ourselves?"

Rachel laughed, even though she knew Harold was dead serious in his logic.

"Alright, help me load these bad boys in the cooler and then we'll hit the road."

***

The drive up to Fort Collins was an adventure in and of itself, this being the middle of August and Rachel and Harold not the only ones having the idea of spending this nice but scorching Friday cooling off at the reservoir.

"You know", Harold said, turning down the radio which played 'Electric avenue'. "Me and your uncle Dave used to grow marijuana out here and sell it. A little side hustle when we were at Boulder."

"What?", Rachel exclaimed.

"Yeah, yeah", Harold said, a grin breaking out on his already impish face. "Start of me and Dave's second semester, we lost our job at this car wash place. Was up around Morrison kind of, don't think it's in business anymore though. Regardless, we missed one day too many and got the boot. We knew this kid, Ned Anderson, who bunked with our friend Chester. Ned's dad was a complete hippy and grew the stuff secretly on a farm he had. After he heard we lost our job, he offered us a gig tending to the farm and whatnot and the rest is history."

Rachel only laughed, not entirely sure how else to respond to this bit of new lore. Rachel opened her mouth, then closed it just as fast. She thought for second, brows furrowed, then reopened it.

"...does mom know you used to sell weed?"

Harold chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah, she knows. I sold her some on more than one occasion."

Rachel's eyes went so wide her eyeballs threatened to roll out her head.

"What? Mom's smoked weed?"

"And then some", Harold replied. "But that's a story for her to tell you, not me."

Rachel sunk back in her seat.

"I'd rather you both tell it to me."

A dry smile cracked on Harold’s face.

"Me too."

***

The bright, burning sun which shimmered and reflected on the water bore witness in secret to all human affairs that day.

"Oh, right here, right here!", Rachel exclaimed, wearing her maroon swimsuit, sunglasses shielding her hazel eyes. She put her hand above her brows as she observed the jagged piece of rock which stretched out from the mountain. Their only place of seating, as all the other jagged pieces of rock were taken by couples or families or teens.

"Ah, this is nice", Harold said, walking onto their own slice of paradise, the water directly below them.

"Good eye, kiddo", Harold said, setting down his backpacks and the cooler. "I'm going to lay out the blankets, then it's chillville as far as I'm concerned."

***

"Mmm...underwear."

"What type?"

"...men's underwear. Boxer briefs or whatever."

"How do you know so much about men's underwear?"

"God! Dad, I'm thirteen, I know about these types of things. I'm not little anymore."

"Oh! Okay kiddo, my apologies. Sincerely."

Harold chuckled, sprawled out on the blanket next to Rachel, their gaze taken by the clouds.

"...will you be there for my fourteenth birthday?", Rachel asked tentatively.

Harold cracked a wry grin, his dark brown eyes smiling under his red sunglasses. He raised the Blue Moon can in his hand, his second so far, to the sky.

"...God", Harold said.

"...God?", Rachel repeated

Harold aimed his pointer finger that held his beer can to the blue canvas.

"The one to the left. It looks like a man with a beard. God."

Rachel laughed.

"I guess, yeah. There's God."

Harold smiled, turning his face towards Rachel.

"Doesn't that make you feel better? Knowing that God is watching over you?"

Rachel stared at God, who’s face started to scatter at the whim of the wind.

"I guess. I'd rather have my own parents watch over me though."

Harold studied Rachel a moment, before turning his gaze back to the blue.

"Hm."

"Plus, you guys are never around. When it's all over, I'll probably hardly ever see you around anymore. And moms at work all the time now. There, but never really. I don't need God for that, I have you guys."

They both lay watching the sky, the waters crashing below them, and kid's screams and laughs playing like music in the background.

"…you know, since I was about thirteen, I basically all but lived on my own. Me and Dave. I had to take care of him. Mom had passed a few years earlier, and dad...dad was-"

"Injured from the war and spent most of his time in the hospital", Rachel interjected. "You've already told me this. And it doesn’t make me feel any better right now."

Harold turned his face to Rachel.

"That version I told you...it wasn't the most accurate. But it answered any questions you might have had, and it made me feel better. So in a way, it's the story I prefer, though I never got to live it."

Rachel's brows furrowed.

"What? What does that m-"

A volleyball flew from jagged cliffs farther up and hit Rachel square on the top of her head, bouncing into the water where it floated, bobbing up and down.

"Ouch", Rachel exclaimed, rubbing her head.

"You okay kiddo?", Harold said, jumping up from his towel.

"Yo! Sorry about that", a male voice loudly announced, a moment later two college boys jogging down the trail.

"What the fuck?", Harold said. "You could have...seriously injured her."

"I know, know", said one of the boys, a somewhat tall and muscular man with sandy hair covered mostly by a Boulder baseball cap. "It’s my bad, I'm so sorry. I hit it too hard, and…"

He approached Rachel, crouching down.

"You okay, shorty?", he asked, his concern genuine.

"Shorty?", Harold repeated. "She's fucking thirteen."

"Thirteen?", the sandy haired frat bro repeated, his brows furrowed, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "And you're talking like that?"

"I-", Harold began, before petering off and shaking his head.

"Listen", the sandy haired one said, standing up. "Me and some friends are up on the spot above you. Come chill with us. We're playing beer pong, and got a fuckton of snacks and shit, pardon the language."

Rachel looked at Harold, eyes wide. Harold opened his mouth, nothing coming out but a sputter then closed it just as fast. He rolled his tongue in his mouth then sighed.

"One game."

***

"Alright, so you want your wrist like this", Harold said, holding the ball and doing a mock throw over the surprisingly large foldable table.

"Like this?", Rachel said, arching back her hand.

"No…”, Harold said with a groan and a sigh, repositioning Rachel's wrist as the sandy haired boy approached.

"You got great form", he said, sipping a Fat Tire beer.

Harold tossed a ball, which flew through the air and landed in a cup. He pointed at the sandy haired boy's Boulder cap.

"Class of '95", Harold said, grinning. "I know a thing or two about beer pong."

"Alright, old timer", the sandy haired boy said with a grin, stepping back behind his side of the table. He took off his shades, revealing brown eyes.

"Let's dust off those old skills."

***

The Great Beer Pong Battle of '88 at U-Dub. The Bud light Boofing Brutalities of '04 at ASU. The Flip Cup Fatalities of '92 at UMass Amherst. All among the most lethal and dangerous duels and battles to ever devastate a campus. Blood was shed (via of course the accidental drunken slip or beer pong thrown slightly too hard at the forehead), cans were emptied, balls forever lost in overgrown campus lawn and forest, and boys made into men. None however compared to the battle of The Aderman clan vs the Fat Tire Boys. Balls traversed through the air like missiles, cups being knocked off course like war ships. A ball landed in Harold and Rachel's cup, Rachel screaming as Harold threw his face in his hands.

"Time for another shot, old timer", the black haired boy said.

Harold nodded, picking up the shot cup with unsteady hands and drinking it. He grimaced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Stuff's strong, isn't it?", the sandy haired boy said, laughing.

"In Russia", the dark haired boy said, doing a mock Russian accent. "You don't drink vodka, vodka drinks you."

Harold felt like he had nasally ingested horseradish, and a sickness began to swirl within his stomach, his already blurry vision becoming more muddled.

"I-I think I'm gonna go sit for a minute", Harold said, rubbing his face.

"Are you okay?", Rachel asked, running to him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine", Harold said as his body slumped against a grassy incline. "These kids...it's just hard to keep up with them. The spirit is willing, but my body-"

Harold laughed, displaying his arms to Rachel. "-my body is old."

Rachel frowned, studying Harold.

"Go. Go back and play a little more before we head out. No shots though, if you lose it's gotta be apple juice."

Rachel stared at Harold.

"Go", he said, waving his hand, eyes half-closed.

Rachel sighed, turning around and rejoining the game.

"Your old man", the sandy haired boy said, rearranging the cups. "He's all right?"

Rachel nodded. "He's fine. Just a little tired."

The sandy haired boy nodded, arching his wrist back for the throw.

"I get it, my dad got tired a lot too."

They played until the sun began its farewell speech, and the last vestige of its presence made the water and ground gold. Harold still laid slumped against the small slope, the breeze blowing his red and white Hawaiian shirt.

"Um...", Rachel said, about to toss yet another ball but setting it down on the table. "We should probably head out now. Thanks for the game though, it was fun."

"You sure?", asked the sandy haired boy, slightly dismayed.

"Yeah, it's getting dark, and Denver's a bit of a drive."

The sandy haired boy nodded, walking from around the table to Rachel. He outstretched his hand.

"It's been an honor."

Rachel laughed, taking his hand and shaking it.

"Thanks for teaching me to how to play beer pong."

"Of course, I consider it a necessary life skill. Like bicycling, or swimming."

Rachel laughed, and the sandy haired boy smiled, letting go.

"...earlier, you said your dad got tired a lot. W...what did you do? To help him?"

The sandy haired boy smiled, looking at the ground and kicking a pile of stones. He looked back up at Rachel and chuckled.

"Nothing. I was a kid, what could I do?"

Rachel's brows furrowed.

"...but-"

"It's not our job to raise our parents. It's the other way around."

Rachel studied the boy, his ever present grin making his face nigh unreadable, though a certain obsidian lurked beneath his eyes.

"And your dad? How is he now?"

The sandy haired boy stared at Rachel for a moment, then shrugged.

"I don't know. Really...as you get older, you find that's your response to a lot of things. That or I don't care. In a way, I think I understand my dad now more than I ever did. You probably will too, just give it a few more trips around the sun.

Rachel opened her mouth, then closed it.

"...you're drunk, I think."

The boy laughed, shrugging again.

"Like I said, I understand my dad more now than I ever did."

The boy came close, taking off his baseball cap and putting it on Rachel.

"I'll see you around, kid."

Rachel walked to Harold, kneeling down and gently shaking his shoulder.

"Dad? Dad?"

Harold groaned, rolling over as he blinked open his eyes.

"Holy shit", Harold said, leaning up and rubbing his eyes. "Where'd the sun go?"

"To bed."

"Ha."

Harold stumbled up, Rachel bracing him somewhat. He stretched, then looked down at Rachel.

"You ready to head out?"

Rachel nodded. "Yeah."

Harold picked up their bags and cooler, before leaving looking back at the college boys. The sandy haired boy waved, Harold returning it. Rachel didn't want to, but she looked back as well, the boy looking at her with a smile. He put his hand up, doing a small wave. Rachel sighed, turning away and following Harold up the trail. After a few steps, she turned back around, waving back.