The “Tourist”

Sometimes I walk up the giant hill in my yard and wonder, what now? It’s the only place that isn’t level ground. Wyoming is pancake flat, except for the smooth swells that come up out of nowhere. Once on it, my tired shoes crunch over crumbling rocks and bits of quartz. It’s not really a hill, more like a cartoonist rendition of one, circular, symmetrical, a perfect smoothness to it, sort of like a large zit. I don’t go up there much in winter. There’s nothing around me but white. Nothing of visual interest near me, but that hill. That’s how my mind works most of the time. I can only focus on one thing, and I can’t make connections to others. For as far as my immediate reality is concerned, any distant bluff doesn’t exist.

Two weeks ago I was walking around the local store. While browsing the liquor section, I noticed someone I hadn’t seen before. It was a younger man, my best guess was mid twenties. I say best guess in that his demeanor seemed to age him five years more. The guy was a half head shorter than me, had brown hair that screamed a few good days of bead head. He wore faded tennis shoes, a Pokemon shirt, orange basketball shorts, and a backpack with cartoon pony figurines attached to the zippers. It didn’t take a genius to realize he was from out of town. The outside temperature was below seven. I had no idea how he’d survived the morning without a coat or pants.

His chubby fingers were grabbing a six pack of Iron Maiden branded beer. I’m old enough to know what that is. I’m also old enough realize this man was fascinated with it in the most peculiar way. His cracked lips sputtered out the first few lines I could hear.

“Whoa, look at that, British beer.”

He was talking to himself, not me. From what I could gather, he’d been doing it for a while. A phone with a pulverized screen shook in his caffeine ridden hand. He held it on video over the cans. His free fingers turned one to show its label.

“I’ve never had British beer before. I think they sold these at the Piggly Wiggly in Chicago, but I never got one. There selling them here though.”

One by one. He took the cans out of their cardboard box and lined them up on the shelf.

“Run to the Hills, the trooper....”

The listing came out in a long stuttering monotone drawl. For a second I suspected he was having trouble reading the words on each can. He pointed his phone at each label before moving to the next. His entire figure exuded a tired temper as he went on his knees to get the right angle. This part of him remained so for the entire time I encountered him, but it didn’t become apparent until now.

“Why do my stupid legs have to be so tired all the time? I’ve been breaking my back over Doordash, that’s why. This stupid loser gave me two stars last week because I couldn’t find his stupid driveway which looked like a hiking trail. I do not deserve that shit. We’re in the pandemic, I’m an essential worker. Do you hear that? An essential worker. People need my services in this time of need. How ungrateful do you have to be to shit on an essential worker? Very shitty!”

He took the basket at his feet and knocked each can into it. The thin aluminum clanked against the plastic bottom.

“Well you aren’t getting five Chickfila meals from me today asshole! Not from me! Your getting nothin! I bet you’ll miss me to. It’s not like anyone else can find your stupid driveway. It’s not like anyone else knows how to go speeding down neighborhood streets without crashing into someone. What I do for you people in this damn job. I’m an essential worker. If people like you don’t know how to treat essential workers, maybe I’ll just leave huh!”

Again, he wasn’t speaking to me, only some nebulous adversary. I got my usual pack of buds and left. The guy was still mulling around in his area by the time I got to checkout. It didn’t take peak observational skills to find his car in the parking lot. In the third to last row sat an unfamiliar gray mini van with a missing front bumper. The thing had to be over ten years old and had several dozen pony bobble heads glued to the dash. Even from a distance, it was obvious the back seats were buried in yellowed Styrofoam containers. Several yards behind me, the man exited the building. He took his bag full of beer, trudged to his car, and flung them in the passenger seat.

“No one’s getting on my ass today. No sir. I got British beer.”

When he’d entered the car and closed its doors, I could still hear him cussing as he fiddled with the ignition. I’d never heard a voice I’d describe as anal until that moment. The minivan started with a cough and loud techno music blared from its tinny speakers. It pulled out and made a fast tight turn onto the road. I could still hear the Skrillex beat a block down before it faded away.

I’m getting too tired to climb the hill these days. When I do get to it, my thoughts are already swirling by the time I get to its base.

“Now what?”

That horrid question with infinite answers, many of which are only answers in my fantasy. I ponder on them for hours in that high cold. I’m a lonely man. That doesn’t mean I’m not curious, a little too curious for my own good. It’s not good for me anymore, I’m aware of that, but I wish I had some closure to it all, an assuredness of what the future held beyond my passing. This will never come unless I believe it so, but belief is nonsense, so are those far bluffs.