Fifteen Miles

Fifteen Miles

by

Jim McMahon

    Every day this summer, since the draft notice arrived in June, I’ve been trying with alcohol and drugs to induce amnesia against this moment. But Walter Cronkite and the CBS Evening News, live from Viet Nam, won’t let me forget.

    “And that’s the way it is,” I mutter.

    “What?” Dad says, and we climb into his red Mazda Pickup. It’s a short distance to Highway 395, and fifteen miles to the airport. Hopefully, we can cover that distance without getting into an argument. It seems like that’s all we’ve done since I got out of high school.     

    Morning sun coming in through the window lays out Dad’s face in harsh relief: the Depression, World War Two, and fifty-three years etched into his skin. Right now, frown lines predominate; probably a sign that he’s concentrating.

    It’s only a mile to the edge of town. Everything not irrigated is either brown or yellow. Dust devils twist their way across the summer-fallow fields, miniature tornados. Visibility is already blurred by heat waves rising from the ground. I’m wondering what the country will be like at Fort Ord.

    “Feels like August, all right,” I say. Weather’s a safe subject. I’d like to ask him what it was like the day he was drafted, but the moment passes.

    Silence makes me nervous, so I turn the radio on. The KUMA Coffee Hour just started, chit-chat about local events. “Mind if I change stations?” I ask. KTIX plays rock and roll.

    “No, go ahead.” He must be distracted. His look reminds me of the time Khrushchev challenged the U. S. with missiles in Cuba, the only time I ever remember seeing him look afraid. I’m damn sure scared, but at least now the waiting’s over.

    KTIX's morning DJ is his usual over-enthused self. “Good morning, Columbia Basin country, it’s another beautiful day! It’s 9:05 and 96 degrees.” Marvin Gaye takes over with “What’s Going On.”

    The cab of the pickup’s getting hot, so I open the window. Alkali dust, an almost ever-present coating on everything in this country, swirls around the cab of the pickup, leaving a faintly bitter taste in my mouth. “He’s got to be the only person in Eastern Oregon happy about the weather/” I ask. “Think the wheat’s all in?” Agriculture's another safe topic. Dad’s in insurance, and this time of year everyone watches for thunderheads forming over the Blue Mountains. The violent storms they can unleash are capable of ruining a crop in minutes.

    Taking another draw on his cigarette, he thinks for a second. “No, just to the foothills. Dutch Clarke still has two more weeks.”

    To the southeast, I can see the curving brown and yellow stripes that mark the contours of Dutch’s strip farm, right at the base of the mountains. I got my first pheasant there. Over the ridge behind his farm is a Golden Eagle’s nest. Someone not raised in this near-desert probably wouldn’t believe how many creatures make their livings and dyings on those barren-looking hillsides.

    “Get one of those?” I ask, pointing at the pack of Lucky Strikes sitting on the dashboard. Cigarettes are a habit I picked up with the induction notice. With a movement natural to someone who’s done it for years, Dad shakes the pack, and just one cigarette pops out of the opening. He pushes in the lighter.

    “Can’t be too many more days like this before we at least get a dust storm,” I say, and light my cigarette. The heat will eventually brew up a storm, and there usually isn’t enough moisture for rain, so what happens is wind: wind, dirt, and tumbleweeds.

    “It would at least cool things down some. Look!” Dad’s pointing off to the right, where a small section of a recently harvested wheat field abuts the road. Two chiney roosters duck their heads and disappear into the stubble.

    I look without success for more birds, then say, “Not many birds this year--Oh, did I tell you Jim Roy and I snuck up on a family of beaver? We must’ve watched them for twenty minutes.”  

    “No. Where at?” Dad replies, looking genuinely interested.

    “Butter Creek, about a mile above the Middle Ranch. Got so wrapped up watching them, we forgot to fish.”  

    “When’s he head back to school?” Jim will be a junior at the University of Oregon. We’d graduated together from high school, and had been roommates at college. I’d be going back there too, if I’d ‘applied myself,’ as Dad put it. But partying was more fun than studying, and I’d lost my college deferment after flunking out.

    “Another month or so. Cripes, that’s enough of that noise.” Gilbert O’Sullivan’s song about suicide contemplation, “Alone Again, Naturally”, isn't something I care to hear. I turn the radio off.   

    The warmth of the sun coming in through the open window, Dad and I together, no hassles, reminds me of Sunday rides. Every week we’d jump in the pickup and drive the country roads, competing to see who’d spot the first game animal, enjoying each other’s company. I look over and smile. Cripes, when was the last time I did that? I think. He doesn’t notice.

    There’s a fence-line that reminds me of a funny story, but Dad wouldn’t appreciate it. He probably wouldn’t see what was so funny about blowing pot smoke through a goose call. Got so high I didn’t notice the geese answering my call until they’d already flown over my head, out of shotgun range.

    As we pass the top of the dam and head down McKay Hill Grade, I put out my cigarette in the ashtray. Jerry Pickerd, two of the Thorne girls, and I had a party there last weekend. We sat in his ‘59 Ford, close to the water, drank beer, smoked pot, and laughed away the night at the honking of the geese, and the loud quacking of the ducks, especially the mallard hens. We'd necked some, but not very seriously.

   “I’m glad you decided to get your hair cut before leaving,” Dad says.

    Yesterday morning I'd gone to the barber shop as soon as it opened and got my first haircut in two years, since going away to college. I don’t tell him the real reason: there's no way any Army barber's going to have the pleasure of cutting off my hair.

    At the airport It takes ten minutes to see my small bag through check-in. “Well, this is it. Only an hour until the flight leaves,” I try to say as casually as describing the weather.

    “You're ready? Got your ticket and orders?” Dad says. He's waited for me in the bar. I wonder if he managed to snag a quick drink. I could sure use one.

    “As I’ll ever be. Look, you don’t have to wait here until the flight leaves. I’ve got a book.”

    “You sure? I don’t mind the wait.” Dad stubs his cigarette in an airport ashtray.

    “Yeah, I’m going to be a basket case. I won’t be very good company. Too many nerves.”

    “I do have some things to do in town before going back to Pilot Rock.” The hug is awkward, not just because I’m four inches taller, but also because it’s been a long time since we tried it. After the embrace Dad says, “Keep your head down, and your powder dry, fella. We love you.”

    “I love you, Dad.” We shake hands and he walks away.

    From the large picture window facing the parking lot, I watch him walk to his pickup. He opens the door, reaches under the seat, and pulls out a paper bag with what I know to be a pint of Popov vodka. He takes a couple of quick drinks, puts the bottle back under the seat, and heads back to the terminal.

    "Been here all along?” He asks, meaning, did you see me sneak that drink?

    "No, I just sat down to get a last look at those hills. It'll be a while before I see them again.”    

    "That's why I came back in. It'll be a while before I get to see you again.”

    "I'm glad you did.”

    Dad doesn’t say anything after that ,and neither do I. We just sit there, staring at those hills, until it’s time to board my flight.

End