To Chase

He said on the phone that it wasn't a brand new truck, but that it was new to him. Pulling into the Albany, Oregon McDonald's, I cautiously scanned the parking lot. Hoping to spot, in the twilight created by the mercury vapor lights, a Red 4x4 Ford. Not brand new but pretty new. I spied him over by the far end of the parking lot and idled over.

Nervous first meetings foretell a tightrope walk through awkward.

Preconceptions from e-mails, pictures, letters and phone conversations hold little measure when one is face to face with the cruel justice of reality. Rolling down my window, I eased my way toward him. Cole was sitting in his truck, arms resting on the open window of the driver's door, watching me. He was calm with a baseball hat low on his head, the bill formed and twisted into an upside down. His chin rested on muscular arms that were cradled by the window frame. Big brown eyes watched me pull up. Doe eyes. Silent, steady, but never detached. Cutting my engine, I swallowed hard. My worst fears were realized

He was gorgeous.

I debated lots of things in that moment. Considering all of the various possible courses of action open to a coward like me, I applied random outcome models. Risk strategy. Conflict management. Face-saving skills. Things 18 year-olds would never consider. Things 25-year olds might consider but just as quickly disregard. Things 30-something year-olds not only consider, but pursue as if their life depends on it. The conclusion to all this risk determination was RUN! Pride seconded that and told me to just keep rolling.

Unfortunately morbid curiosity kept me frozen, unable to move. I have always been attracted to the flailing public spectacle created by foolish actions. Especially when those actions are mine. Why should I stop now when I was potentially the star attraction? The way I saw it, things were set up just right for some good old-fashioned gutter crawling and foolish acts of desperation, culminating in humiliation. I had no choice. Destiny kept me motionless.

I tried to hold eye contact with him, but couldn't. He smiled at me. I guess I attempted one in return, but it was easier to just look straight ahead through the bug splattered windshield than get caught up in those gentle brown eyes. He continued watching me, studying whatever I was going to do next. My conscience groaned that this was the finest mess I had willingly, with complete foresight, involved myself in in a long time. An inner voice warned, "Tim, do not kid yourself. Only bad is going to come of this."

Finally, I managed the courage to look him in the eye and sort of giggled the nervous laugh I have become famous for. "So…here we are. Now what?"

He shrugged.

I stared at the parking lot asphalt.

"Hungry?"

I turned and looked toward McDonald's. I was. I nodded.

"Good, me too. Let's eat." Cole smiled and got out of his truck, rolling up the window as he closed the door.

I got out of my rig and he stood there looking at it. "That's a sweet truck, Tim. A very nice ride."

I shrugged. "I like your new truck too. Sorry that mine is bigger than yours…but I'm older too."

"Well at least you have one thing that's bigger." He turned and smiled.

I froze halfway across the parking lot as I followed behind him. I didn't know what to say. As he confidently made his way toward the door, I wondered exactly what he meant by that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Our conversations began out of the blue. We first met on the Internet, strangers whose sole connection was his hometown. Residing in a small lumber town, perched on the edge of the high desert, he was from a place that I'd rolled through countless times, been ticketed in, and hanging on the edge of a mountain range, chained up on. Over time, our irregular e-mail became regular. E-mail became voice messages and then long sporadic phone calls. He was one part wholesome good old boy and two parts rebounding, "I ain't going there again," wise. He saw me as older and more stable. After nine months of conversation without obligation, he confided that he wanted to finally meet me. Cole said it was because I was one of the few people in his life who had never led him on. From his perspective, I seemed legit. Everything I'd told him checked out. While I had nothing to hide, self-conscious doubts crowded my composure just the same whenever the topic of a face-to-face meeting was discussed. For a long time I thought this moment would never come.

Both of us were hard-collared, blue-collared and un-collared. He worked in a lumber mill. I worked hauling the products of his labor. He had aspirations of running horses. I had a horse that ran over me on a regular basis.

Now as I looked at the menu board and all the things I could win playing McDonald's Monopoly, I thought about much more than a Big Mac. We gave the perky sophomore behind the counter our order. As she took the money and made change, I realized that I had just "passed Go."

Without knowing it, I'd already made it past the intersection of Boardwalk and Idiot. Sitting down across from Cole, I kept telling myself to remember everything, because this was more than just a shared Happy Meal. This was life after the last life, Supersized, and with extra game pieces. You can't win if you don't play. Chewing a French fry, Cole suddenly looked up at me and winked. I stopped breathing and just tried to hold on to whatever rationality I still had.

"You can't win if you don't play." The words settled in my mind as I leaned back into the plastic booth. I was back in Albany, the worst place I'd ever lived. And I was sitting across from the best looking, seemingly down to earth cowboy I'd ever met. Somewhere up there, in the dark heavens above us, planets just had to be crashing into each other. I instinctively knew that something big was up in the universe. I kept reminding myself to remember everything about this experience.

Because, I knew that someday I might have to explain it in a courtroom.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The irony that I was back in Albany did not escape me. Or Albania, as we called it in high school. Land of preserved historic districts, the intersection of the Willamette and Calapooia Rivers. Land of my father's dysfunctional old parish, Faith Lutheran Church, the most remodeled building in town. It was a pure place in a distorted, sick sort of way. Pure on the surface, anyway. Deadly, if you stayed long enough to take a second bite.

In my mind, Albany was my adopted "anti-hometown." During my high school years, I wrecked (or helped wreck) a succession of my father's cars within 30 miles of the place. Albany embraced the Republic of Ronald Reagan and preached family values before it was cool. It was also a place where an Assembly of God youth leader molested a number of his young charges. This was the land of rival high schools and pranks and meager performances at the state playoffs. Designing the winning Veterans Day Parade float for my high school Leadership Class, I landed my picture in the local paper and learned that bad press and bad pictures are as tightly joined as Siamese twins

In Albany, my 4-H club showed barely tamed horses at the Linn County Fairgrounds. Although we were supposed to demonstrate control, poise and horsemanship at all times, more often than not we demonstrated recklessness, helplessness and a certain knack for getting bucked off into ring stewards and judges. Or, if our talent was impressive enough, we were launched into the stands. The fairgrounds were located just behind the Kmart. I would slip away between the crisis-like events in the arena, beckoned by tempting smells, new Hot Wheels no one else had yet and paperback racks filled with historical romances; steamy little delicacies with the pages of all the "good parts" turned down by the outwardly giggling, inwardly yearning, girls from the Busy Bees quilting club.

Across from Kmart, the Golden Arches beckoned. Peso, my quarter horse gelding, loved McDonald's food. Rope shy and not one to stand still, he refused to admit defeat whenever he smelled anything close to a Big Mac. On one occasion, Mom and I left him unattended while he was still cross-tied to the back of our horse trailer. Shortly after we left him, he left us, dragging the horse trailer out of the fairgrounds, making a left toward McDonald's and creating the need for an announcement regarding his departure over the public address loudspeaker. My panic-stricken mother was not comforted by my explanation that Peso was, "the only horse like him in the county." What kind of horse would crave a McFishwich Happy Meal or eat Chicken McNuggets like they were made of molasses?

Like everything else in Albany, Peso wasn't "quite right." He looked like a normal adjusted herbivore, but our one and only non-Arabian Horse had a troubling carnivore streak. We were a meat and potatoes kind of family. But did God really want our horses to follow that example?

There’s another thing about Albany that you get used to. People ask lots of questions. But it's only the fools who wait around for the answers. Albany's seasoned citizens learned this subtle truth long ago and now they know better. The longer you've lived in Albany, the more you understand that there are some things you just better not know. It is far holier to ask than to receive. Blessed are they who ask lots of questions, then disappear before the answers come.

In my mind, Albany became a surreal place of unresolved everything. The downtown merchants fought over scarce city resources and favoritism with the merchants out on the strip. Everyone fought with everyone when the new mall was announced, built and then ignored. JC Penney operated a successful store downtown, moved out to the mall and then moved out of town completely. Sears left downtown. The Chevy dealership followed. Only one business seemed to thrive in the often deserted, spacious historical center of Albany. And that one business had more history hidden within its walls than any other venture in town. It was a miracle of small town capitalism. It was the only adult bookstore for miles. The funny thing about the adult bookstore's success was that no one seemed ready to publicly recognize the prosperity of something so naughty in our midst. But the bookstore was the one thing about downtown that never changed. It was always there as long as I can remember and people just sort of expected that it would always be there. Growing up in a place like Albany, expectations are best left unexpected. Sort of like teenage pregnancies.

Thus the greatest lesson of my adolescence materialized in the hypocrisies, secrets, and memories of Albany. Especially in how the community dealt with the miracle of sexuality. One's existence was never defined by the high and low points, but by noting the exact place one stood when the other shoe dropped. Incorporating this strategy, explanations seemed logical that a missed period wasn't anyone's fault; it was just fate. Most of my Catholic and Mormon friends relied on that game plan when their girlfriends became pregnant or their boy friends got them pregnant. In my case, however, trying the "divine fate" strategy when I came out to the exorcist, the faith healers, and my parents wasn't nearly as plausible. No one bought my "Fate Just Is" doctrine. In my case, "it" was somehow directly my fault.

Sometimes I wondered if Albany wasn't some long lost Native American word that meant "like Alabama but with more snow." Living in Albany described a syndrome that included a complete host of associated mental illnesses. Here, well-intentioned Lutherans tried their hand at a never-ending plea bargain arrangement to guarantee salvation. Living in Albany meant raising children in restored Victorian homes listed on the National Historic Registry. And waking up one day realizing that those children had discovered punk rock and that their hair matched the purple trim on the house. Living in Albany meant accepting a reality that reality was always subject to change, addendum, or revision. Or that reality was the one thing you never ever questioned. Because one day you just might get your answer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Cole and I left McDonald's and took my rig to go find the hotel. Everywhere I looked, memories crowded in, competing with the here and now. To the left was the Tom Tom truck stop, a place where I'd bussed tables on graveyard shift, was groped by drunk waitresses, and where I idolized half the truckers in the place. Across the freeway was Timber Linn Park, home of Albany's World Championship Timber Carnival. And where I made enough bad decisions in one July weekend to make up for an entire two years of saintly living in Bible College. Passing Kmart, another memory charged out of nowhere. I giggled and Cole looked over at me puzzled. I began my confession.

Like most stories, that evening at Kmart begins innocently enough, complete with the good intentioned halos of youthful energy as its primary substance. It was the summer of my senior year. My friends and I were out cruising long after curfew. My father's two-tone Dodge Power Wagon Club Cab pickup could seat five. That night there were seven of us: Carla, Kim, Sean, Becky, Phil, Eric, and me.

The troubling truth about youth and sin is they seem to go hand in hand. I do not believe that most young people make a conscience decision to engage in sin. Especially when, like me, they are pastor's kids. Usually we are merely pursuing "fun" and somewhere along the way fun turns into sin when no one is looking. For some reason, sin and fun seem to be in cahoots with one another. They are never very far apart. I believed this theory with my whole heart then. I am a living example of it now.

My parents needed substantial evidence before they could support such logic. For them fun and sin is all about blame. People make choices. People suffer the consequences for their choices. People pursue fun. The result is sin. IT is all so simple to the parental units. Holding fast to their mature logic that our actions always result from the choices we make, they have never accepted or tolerated my "things just sort of happened" excuses.

But when you are 18 and mostly good most of the time, bad things still befall you. Retracing those steps, all examination of the crime scene supports the notion that fun begets sin, and the resulting chaos truly seems to have happened on the whims of chance. Choice? What choice? How could anyone have seen, (fill in the blank of the particular disaster under heated discussion here,) something like this coming from what started out as a basically good idea. A fun idea. A "we were just having a good time" idea. Eighteen year-olds never purposely set out to get grounded for the rest of their adolescence. I truly believe that. And I am sure that my friend Carla might see it that way now.

So let the record state that on that early June night, no one chose the fate that befell Carla. Nearly twenty years after that fateful evening I still cling to that hope. I am sure that Carla feels the same.

From the outset, the night seemed meant for youth like us. We were basically behaving that night but even good kids have to be bad once in awhile just to see what it's like. We did a few Chinese fire drills as a warm-up, but then sought braver mischief. Mischief that we found in the Kmart lot after most of the other cruisers had gone home for the night. How we ended up at Kmart, I cannot say. It just sort of happened. Fate.

Pulling into the parking lot of the darkened store, we drove behind the building. We were looking for something. An object. A diversion. But what? We all saw it at the same time. Calling to us. Standing solitary, magnetically drawing us closer. Unable to turn away, we acknowledged the wonder of our ticket to fame. A lone shopping cart. One carelessly left out, parked quietly by the dumpsters near the back of the store. The shopping cart spoke to us. And we answered.

It was our precious angel Carla who came forward, responding to the beckoning voice of temptation. Stepping up into the cart with little effort, she smiled weakly. Turning to face us, she looked brave and adventurous. A new improved, empowered, eighties lady ready to face the horizon. Or at least the other side of the parking lot.

Our beloved Carla defined pure and wholesome. Only she among us had never been in trouble. Carla's name was unknown to the Albany Police or Linn County Sheriff's Department. Carla was a virgin. She'd never heavy petted, been past the pitch, much less ventured to first base. Yet tonight she was to be our sacrificial virgin. Thrown out to the Gods of misery, probation, and, "You only get one phone call, honey."

Prior to that soft warm June night, whenever someone needed to see the face of innocence, they thought of Carla. But tonight she became a wild, uncontrolled woman who still resented those who had sat in judgment and who decided she did not have what it took to be a West Albany High School Varsity Cheerleader. Carla had an old score to settle.

Tonight Carla lettered.

Remembering the judging that occurred years prior, I recalled that no one doubted that Carla had true cheerleader spirit. But she lacked coordination. Her legs were, well, leggy. Grace was not her strong point. The thought of trying to lift such an uncoordinated teammate gave the cheer guys strong reservations.

It was difficult watching her on that deserted cheer tryout stage. Clearly pained, she looked to me as the only friendly face evaluating her. The lone sympathetic judge. And I was. I made my marks and applauded when necessary. I wanted her to do well. Poor Carla, surrounded by the prettiest girls in town and overwhelmed by the feat of coordinating her pompoms, those gangly legs, she flailed in front of me and the other judges.

The other more perfect girls were the spawn of doctors, dentists, and lawyers. The best children from the best families. The girls whose parents afforded them braces, jazzercize and VW beetles. Perfect children who the other girls looked at with longing and envy. Precious and sweet on the outside, underneath they were bratty heathens with fake smiles and fake love for their letterman-jacketed boyfriends. We gave these vicious pretty things a name. They were called fluffs.

Carla was not a fluff. It was not her destiny. The high marks I gave could not counter the momentum of truth welling up against her by the other judges. Carla's last stand, her grand finale cheer to teach the fluffs a thing or two, ended in embarrassment atop two crushed cheer boys. She never made varsity. But for a brief moment in time she'd made the fluffs and the system very uneasy. You had to give her that.

Now, Carla stood in the shopping cart. She gave us a thumbs-up as we slowly idled behind her in my father’s truck. The pastor’s pickup. A vehicle everyone in town recognized. Carla turned forward, toward the parking lot and her destiny, as I gently began pushing the cart with the front bumper,

Moving through the night air, Carla performed those almost forgotten cheer routines as the cart gained momentum. Legs braced, arms outstretched, the cart’s wheels going clackity-clack, Carla looked like a Goddess. With Bryan Adams blaring from my father’s eight track tape player, the breeze caught her hair, her countenance lifted, and it seemed that Carla was transformed. "My God," Phil muttered, "Carla actually looks beautiful."

And she was.

"We got spirit, yes we do. We got spirit, how bout you?" Her voice soared into the darkness. Fierce. Proud. The last true West Albany Bulldog.

The wheels of the cart continued their racket. Carla struggled to remain balanced as the cart sailed sweetly and ever more swiftly across the deserted parallel white stripes of the lot.

"A b-e-a-t, Hey you? (clap) Get beat. (clap clap) Get beat by the bulldogs!" (stomp)

Now standing on one leg, her arms did a perverse sort of dance against the shadows cast by her form. It reminded me of ballet or maybe some type of tribal witchcraft thing. Whatever, Carla was definitely on a roll in more ways than one. And we were right there behind her all the way.

Pushing her faster, I discovered we could give her a breathtaking rush by punching the accelerator and then slamming on the brakes as Carla coasted out in front of us. As she got used to the cart’s erratic movement, her confidence increased. Handstands, straddles and leaps in the cart dazzled and amazed us. Gliding like a midnight mirage, she cheered as if we were at the state championships.

It was at the state championships that a darker side of the West Albany Bulldogs emerged. Here was where the dreaded profanity section was born. A loyal following of fans who learned to get in touch with their deepest darkest feelings. And express them.

The profanity section had a response for everything. Bad referee calls, player errors and special sentiments and terms of endearment for the opposing team expressed in a troubling solidarity. The profanity section defined "hate speech" long before the politically correct crowd gave it a name.

Participation in the profanity section just about guaranteed trips to the principal’s office, lectures from parents and confiscation of spirit awards. We all knew about the delights of the profanity section. And yet I had never seen Carla participate in any of its vulgarities.

But tonight our wild girl was getting wilder. Much to our amazement, Carla's bad girl side now overcame years of suppression. And we discovered she knew all the words to the hallowed sentiments of the profanity section, including the one the refs got when they made a bad call.

"Clap. Clap. clap-clap-clap. Clap-clap-clap-clap. Bullshit!" Carla screamed as she jumped up and down in the cart.

"Holy shit," Sean gasped. "I think she’s lost it."

We stared through windshield in silent disbelief as Carla's inner she devil came out.

"Clap. Clap. Clap-clap-clap. Fuck you!"

"Hot Damn! What's happened to her?" Eric asked.

I shrugged. I was completely amazed. We were pushing the cart again and gaining speed as we came around the far side of the building. Sitting beside me, Kim suddenly scared the shit out of all of us when she yelled, "Tim, it's the cops!"

I slammed on the brakes and cut the headlights. In a combination of hilarious nervous laughter and double horror, we watched as Carla sailed out into the parking lot, full speed ahead. Oblivious to the cops, she was doing the "bullshit" cheer again. We crept slowly backward between the truckstop and the Kmart and waited out of sight of the law. Carla was so involved in her newly found potty mouth, she got nastier and nastier. Physically her cheers suddenly resembled table dancing and bordered on pornographic. The sight of our friend prancing in a cart with a Kmart "Picture-perfect, Goof-Proof " ad near the cart’s child restraint bordered on hysterics.

Gliding solo out across the lot, Carla was unaware we were no longer pushing her, and didn't notice that a different car now slowly followed her. One driven by uniformed men who didn't smile much, and who weren't used to having a woman point at them from a shopping cart with her eyes closed, clapping and yelling, "Fuck you!"

Men who were about to treat Carla to the cop version of Kmart’s "Blue Light Special."

"Clap. Clap. Clap-clap-clap. Fuck you!" Carla screamed, eyes closed, raising her fist in the air. Then she turned and pointed right at the cops, opening her eyes at the exact moment the officers turned on their disco lights and revved up their siren. Carla wailed. Desperately she tried to vacate the cart, but her coordination abandoned her in the midst of panic. The cops continued pursuing as the cart followed an even tighter circle. "Oh my God, poor Carla!" Phil managed, between bursts of uncontrolled laughter.

Trapped in the moving cart, Carla briefly froze, like a deer staring into the headlights. Then the enormity of what she'd done became clear, and she fell to all fours as the cart continue to glide across the lot. Burying her head in her hands, sobs wracked her body. She went from bad girl to scared girl to fetal girl in less than ten seconds.

The cops followed until the cart finally came to a stop over by the AM/PM Minimart. The last we saw of her, Carla was frantically scanning the parking lot for us while an officer assisted her out of the cart and pointed her in the direction of the squad car. Somehow we felt that our presence was no longer required and we retreated to the Tom Tom to pursue coffee and speculation as to Carla's fate

-----.

Cole looked at me and shook his head as I told the story. "No way," he sighed. "That was harsh." I nodded my head in agreement as I drove west on Pacific Boulevard. Life is like that. One minute a person steps out and moves toward something bigger in an attempt to find themselves. Then, out of nowhere, comes some unexpected force propelled by fate that puts them in their place. The message is clear: "Don't make waves, go with the flow. And if you don't stay in line there is always some painful reminder to reinforce that conforming is what gets people ahead." Especially in Albany.

Cole and I pulled into a Motel-6 a few blocks down from the Kmart. The man behind the counter was suspicious of two cowboys getting a room together. Asking how many beds we wanted, I said it didn't matter. Cole said, "One is fine."

My jaw dropped and I looked at him while the man behind the counter raised more than an eyebrow. Things got even more interesting when the clerk learned we were driving separate trucks and that Cole didn't know what his license plate was. Imagining the clerk to be full of speculation as to whether our trucks were stolen, I began to feel that strange but familiar uneasiness I have always associated with "life in Albany." The fear of being discovered. That somehow the whole town is on the verge of full disclosure, finding out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, God help you.

The clerk made the decision for us. We wound up with a nice room facing the office, complete with freshly-made double beds. I sat on the bed closest to the door and considered my lot. Cole showered and while he was in the bathroom, I became increasingly nervous. The gravity of the situation was overwhelming. I propped some pillows up on the bed and tried to focus on ESPN. When Cole emerged, I looked at the floor. What was I doing here? I felt awkward and hopeful. Embarrassed and excited. Did other people go through these feelings? Was I crazy for daring to be in the same room with a younger, potentially emotionally important somebody? Fighting the urge to hit the road, "You are pathetic!" I reminded myself. Now that made me feel better. Self-destructive thinking is always such a positive way to pamper oneself and I enjoyed the pity party.

I never dreamed that I would find myself as a single man again. Or, at least not the way it happened. After my free-fall, nothing felt normal. This whole "dating" thing seemed surreal. When did a relationship go from friendship to date? When does dating become going steady? When does it become something even bigger? How do you save face if it doesn't?

I didn't date in high school. My father insisted that his children weren't allowed to attend proms or go on any sort of social outing with the opposite sex. We were forbidden to be unaccompanied as couples by anything less than a small frigid army. Being the eldest child, I was the grand experiment. My life centered on academics rather than matters of the heart. Later, my younger brother and sister made mincemeat of these policies. But during my high school years, my father's "no dating until nearing the end of your life expectancy" policy was a godsend. It gave me a convenient "out." And yes, the pun is intended.

Everyone in town knew my father's policies. "No dating until he is out of college," my father would boast as he spoke at the high school’s "Marriage and Family" class. My classmates were shocked. Afterward, my peers found me in the hallway, telling me how sorry they were and that my father was definitely hard core. Oh, and by the way, would I like to go to the keg up at so-and-so's?

Usually my father also chose these appearances at West Albany High to tell embarrassing stories about his children. We were used to this. Often the pastor's kids were prominently featured in several sermons a month. When my father did his guest speaker bit at school it was a bit worse. He had a fresh audience. Dazzling my classmates with my antics, my father's version of what happened always differed from mine. He always found somewhere in the story where a choice was made that could have and should have been avoided. He remained consistent that our mishaps didn't "just happen." Choices were involved.

I strongly disagreed. Fate happens. Fun happens. Change happens. Sin happens. Guest-starring in the sermon illustration of the week happened.

What I couldn't see at the time was that God truly does handle the whole "revenge is mine" thing. As I sat stewing in my own embarrassing juices, I could not see into the future. I had no idea that my father's need to disclose might someday turn on him. Oh, if he had only known then what he is beginning to know now.

He retired from the ministry. I became a writer. Switching roles, he now paces as my printer whirls, wondering how he will be portrayed. Now he disagrees with my version of the way things happened. Now I torment him as he wonders what family secret will be disclosed next. But I digress.

Borrowing from my father's "choice" versus 'things just happen theory,'' I noticed that Cole, as he lay on the other bed, "chose" to remain in nothing but his underwear. Holding the remote control to the TV, he flashed through the channels in rapid-fire moves, then settled on Comedy Central's "Absolutely Fabulous."

Rolling over, Cole faced me. I looked up from the floor and met his eyes. Swallowing hard, I realized that Cole had an Absolutely Fabulous body. Rolling over onto my back, I stared at the ceiling while we talked. I didn't and couldn't look over at him. Wondering if the symphony of Technicolor thoughts dancing in my head qualified me as shallow, I decided that they did. And that I was in danger of drowning in them.

I lectured myself. "Keep the conversation going. Try to avoid appearing desperate. Try to be cool and aloof. Quit drooling. And whatever you do, don't look in his direction."

Thankfully, the conversation flowed. Cole recollected about his best friends in northern California and about growing up in Wyoming. I told him more about Albany. We talked about McDonald's Monopoly and about winning a million dollars. We shared what we would do with all that money. We agreed that we would both "blow it" though, Cole felt that he would probably blow his wad faster.

Somewhere along the way the conversation changed. Speaking of more than intangible dreams, we talked until it was nearly dawn. Cole wanted to learn to rope and rodeo, and I hoped to get another truck and return to the road. Lying on my bed sprawled in a T-shirt and jeans, with the pillows propped behind my head, I was fading fast. Then Cole asked a question that came completely out of left field. Sitting up in his bed, totally centering his near perfect body so he overwhelmed my entire field of vision, he asked, "Tim, can I ask you one question?"

"Yeah, I suppose. What?" I tried to be even more aloof. Willing myself to close my eyes and act like I was not influenced by hormones in a sex-driven world, I attempted calm composure. 'Timmy cool', eyes closed. Passionately working at being un-passionate. If I couldn't see his beautiful body, maybe I wouldn't feel so cornered. I started more self talk. "Chill, you dork. You have to pull this off. You are a warrior spirit. You are an alpha male. You have just talked to this man for hours. And after all that conversation he is still here. Now just relax, damn it, and pretend you don't feel so awkward."

"Why are you in that bed over there?" Cole asked sincerely. "Why aren't you over here, with me?" For emphasis he pointed at his bed and patted the empty place beside where he lay.

So much for that contemplative, cool, "its all under control" dreamlike state. Eyes wide open and very awake, I stared tensely up at the ceiling. I had a million reasons why I lay where I did while he lay where he did. And no, I do not feel like sharing any of them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A few hours later I awoke and rolled over. Cole slept peacefully and I lay my head back down on the pillow. His arm remained draped across me and I thought about how nice another body feels. Especially when another body has been absent for so long. I still had my clothes on. Taking stock, I figured most of my pride remained intact and there was little to be guilty of. Considering the man lying next to me, I wondered about his motives. Was he sincere? Where was this leading? I didn't think we were dating and I wondered what this was defined as. Buddies merely bunking up together? Pre-dating? Post-friendship, pre-boyfriend? Soon to be, but not quite, ex's? All these definitions seemed premature. Giving up, I closed my eyes, and drifted back to sleep. Awakened later when Cole stirred, I was content that whatever was happening wasn't a figment of my imagination. As conscious thoughts replaced my dreams, Cole’s arm remained protective across my chest. Whatever I was feeling, it was not virtual. It was real.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We checked out of the hotel several hours later. The day was sunny and unseasonably warm. Looking at Cole, I asked him "So are you ready for the rest of your tour of Albany? It gets much worse."

We started by driving to the church. I wanted to see the results of the latest remodeling effort. It was far worse than I expected. Huge dormers and windows dominated the walls of the church. As we idled by, staring at the congregation in their recently renovated sanctuary, I was reminded of hamsters in a cage. Seated, the congregation endured the choir's singing. A few members appeared to be sleeping. The place seemed half empty. Cole looked at me. "That's where your father was a minister?"

I nodded.

"Oh," he replied with a air of emotion that translated into a new greater sympathetic understanding.

I couldn't have said it any better myself.

After a second slow pass by the church, we motored out of town toward my parents’ old horse farm. The house, now painted a different color, was completely surrounded by other, newer homes. The pastures were gone. The three-railed fences I had spent hours painting were demolished. The barn was missing. What remained was subdivided and downsized.

Only the memories were the way I had left them. The ghosts of long dead horses returned, as did the voices of missing friends and relatives. Their silent aura, an unmistakable hollowness, reminded me of their absence without leave. Hoof beats silenced, playmates laughter a faint echo, and lively faces resigned to photo albums. They say you can never go back home. Considering the invisible ghost riders surrounding me, I finally understood the saying. Cole listened quietly as I narrated various anecdotes from my boyhood. But he couldn't see what I was seeing. He couldn't feel the absence or know the strangeness of it all.

Everything in life is temporary. It amazes me how one day we can touch soil and dance in spring sunshine. And the next day, all of what was fades into nothingness. As I coasted past my old home, I could not escape the sentiment that life is always changing. Learning to dance with the faint shadows of what was while embracing what might be still feels very odd. My friend and editor John Boril summed up my feelings when he said, "A I get older I find myself doing fewer things for the first time. And more that I am doing for the last."

Creeping by the old place, visions of bucking foals seemed inconsistent with the lack of open space that confronted me now. Turning onto another road, I passed several neighbor’s homes. One stood out in particular. A part of me didn't want to look. A part of me wished I had no memories to file at that address. I looked at Cole. "That over there is Michelle's house. Or at least it was."

Michelle’s family belonged to my father's congregation. Michelle was their only daughter and oldest child. She was a couple years younger than me, and we spent a fair amount of time together while we were growing up. Every year Michelle helped us foal and delighted in nursing the babies that couldn't suckle their mothers. Her laughter echoed in my mind as I recalled her delight when the foals suckled on her fingers. I can still see the simplest joy that lit up her eyes when our four legged babies nickered to her as she walked into the stall.

Although very pretty, Michelle was part tomboy. Surrounded by younger brothers, she displayed broad knowledge, equally familiar with the secret workings of Tonka trucks as she was with Barbie. Unafraid to be the first kid down a virgin sledding hill, grand collector of salamanders from muddy culverts, and a pretty good aim at the horse manure throw, nothing stymied her. She played fair in tag and dated mostly the same guy in junior high and high school. She hated my father's confirmation class as much as I did, but I could count on her to help me out with Luther League duties on a moment's notice.

After college she married, but the relationship soured and restraining orders were filed to keep him away from her. Then, just a year before my return to Albany, Michelle's husband murdered her in a Salem parking garage and killed himself. Their orphaned children went to live with Michelle's parents.

Cole and I drove quietly past their house. A slight breeze blew in through the half-opened windows and the air was fresh with spring fragrances. Noticing children's toys strewn about the lawn, I realized that time would soon mark birthdays celebrated without a mother and father. I could hear Michelle's voice in that breeze and her laughter coming from our stalls. I could see Michelle in the role of the Virgin Mary in the horrible church Christmas pageant we reluctantly participated in. I could not imagine her on that terrible day in a cold parking garage. The worlds of then and now did not agree. The lives seemed at odds with one another.

But now, I had no choice. Michelle was gone. As much as I didn't want to understand any of what confronted me, I could see the future in spite of the sorrow. What lay ahead was already reconciling the past.

Once looking forward to retirement, Michelle's folk's plans were now derailed. The house wasn't kept up as nice as it had once been and I sighed as I thought about Michelle's poor parents. One morning they get up and it's like every other morning, with the typical minor challenges and little dramas. Life seems to be moving along at a steady pace. They are just typical grandparents. Then the illusion is shattered by the unexplainable.

They say you can never go home. But as Cole and I turned onto the main highway leading back toward town, I was glad that I had. And strangely aware that my visit into the past carried a passenger of the future. That keeping time with the ghosts was a man sitting beside me who brought new life simply by his presence. That in spite of everything, life goes on. The toys and playthings spread about Michelle's parent's yard testified that new growth occurs even amongst shattered devastation.

We passed Karsten's Farm and Oak Grove Grade School. We crisscrossed old grass seed fields while Cole talked about his dreams and about his hometown and the many moves of his life. As I listened to his words, the hum of the tires reminded me of the rhythm in the stages of life. As I looked over at him with his handsome young face, he responded by quietly rubbing my shoulder. The affection caught me off guard and I wondered about things that I couldn't begin to find answers to. Were we anywhere close to the same stages in our lives? How difficult is it to find compatible parallel lives and get them going in the same direction? Did I want another partner again and could I ever trust someone? How would I know when I shared the same trails with a rider who would provide his affection unconditionally?. A rider who believed in dream catchers and nightmare chasers. A loyal companion riding steady against the tides of change and who understood the appropriate timing of combining two separate lives.

Finding ourselves once again at McDonald's, I realized we'd come full circle. Now eighteen hours later, our super-sized lives seemed bigger than they had before. New Monopoly pieces came with our breakfast and Cole winked at me as he ordered. Taking our food over to Timber Linn Park, we backed my pickup over a small creek and sat dangling our legs from the open tailgate as we ate. Geese came by, demanding fries, and we complied. Behind us country music played on the truck’s stereo. Cole and I listened to Kenny Chesney and Randy Travis sing about baptism and coming clean before our maker. The sun shown down warming everything and Cole sat close while we peeled open our game pieces. "You can't win if you don't play." And repeating last night’s discussion we talked about "winning it big" and wondered at such change.

Our legs seemed to follow the same beat as they swung back and forth under the truck. The meal was consumed and the disc was repeating. I didn't want the moment to end, even though I knew it had to. Our time together was nearly over and the duties of our lives called us back to reality. Cole had to be at work at the mill in northern California later that night. I had to return to Seattle. Meeting halfway between separate lives seemed like a good metaphor. I was halfway between the past and the future.

Cole stood. Looking at me shyly he said, "Don't want to Tim, but I gotta go." He reached over and pulled me into an embrace. As he hugged me, I wondered what he was thinking. Did he find Albany and her eccentricity disturbing? Did he think this trip down memory lane helped put order into the chaos of my history? More importantly, was he glad that he'd come?

For a long silent moment neither of us spoke. It was an awkward, pregnant minute and the only noise came from the babbling brook and the geese who had moved off in the distance. I thought about how nice holding Cole through the early hours of the morning had been, about the way I'd almost run off when we met, and about the long drive we'd taken. Conversations without obligation, loaded up with generous helpings of minimal distraction and extra attraction. Now I didn't know what to say as I watched the passing trucks on I-5. Cole broke the silence.

"Thanks for everything. I mean it. I had a good time, my love." He said it quietly.

What was that he said? I looked at him, but his expression neither confirmed nor denied his sentiment.

Cole continued speaking softly while he sort of half smiled. "If it’s OK, I'm gonna come up and see you in Seattle this week on my days off. That all right with you?"

I nodded, looking away in embarrassment. Those doe eyes seemed to see right through me and I wasn't ready for that. I looked over at his "new to him" truck. "Nice truck," I grinned. "But mine is still bigger."

He laughed as he got in his truck and started it up. "You don't really want to go there again do you, Tim?"

Cole closed his door and I kissed him on the cheek. I nodded. Yeah, I really didn't want to go there again. At least not until next week.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My grandfather always said that you should never watch someone leave when it came time to say goodbye. If you did, you might not see them again. I usually caught him cheating, but his superstition still haunts me to this day. I try forcing myself to look the other way when someone I love is on some outbound train. But that day I remained watching Cole as he drove away. Standing in the spring breeze, the wind teased my hair and caressed my face. I don't really know how long I stood there but he was long gone before I finally turned and got back into my pickup. Somewhere along the way I'd lost track of time. Somewhere along the line, I'd actually started to enjoy myself. Maybe the distance wasn't measurable, but the wall around my heart wasn't nearly as tall.

I already missed Cole. I wanted the moment to freeze-lock and I wanted to remember his presence for awhile. Standing on the edge between my days in Albany, and my future wherever, I sought one last glimpse. Winter was almost over and sooner rather than later the snows would be gone from the ranch and the days would be long. Life had a special kick to it again that I hadn't felt in a long time. Winter seemed bound for exile. Spring seemed nearly possible.

For the first time in a long time I actually felt like hanging around Albany. And there was one more person I wanted to see before I left. I decided to see if Cheryl was home. Cheryl was the mother of my friend, Tad. Tad and I had gotten into a number of scrapes during our high school years, not the least of which was when we literally scraped the side off my dad’s Rambler Ambassador station wagon.

But Cheryl and I are also bound by more than my friendship with her son. We have shared a history that has kept us somewhat in tune with each other. A kindred sort of connection, and one that is not easily explained. The kind of connection I suppose people develop when they experience and share profound spirituality. The kind of binding connection that stamps itself upon the heart. In the case of my relationship with Cheryl, it was our shared experience of my failed homosexual exorcism. The dreadful, personally disappointing time for Cheryl, when the demons refused to come out. And, as a result, I did. (http://www.highmountainranch.com/exorcism.html)

Now, years later, I pulled up in front of her house. Getting out of the truck, I surveyed the neighborhood. And smiled as I realized that even in Albany, God has a sense of humor. The evidence was undeniable. Right there on Cheryl's next door neighbor's home. Flying proudly on the porch was a rainbow flag.

I couldn't help but laugh. Divine irony? Was there a subtle lesson here? For the Old Testament people of Israel, the rainbow became a symbol and a promise, one believer's still hold fast to. Assured that it was God's promise to never totally destroy the earth again, I also saw the flag in a new way. Maybe the rainbow is a sign extending beyond promises blowing in the breezes between God and His people. Maybe the promise is also meant for people of different groups. A promise that maybe we wouldn't destroy each other anymore either.

Cheryl was still at church, so I sat on her front porch for a minute basking in days gone by. Finally my eyes came back to rest on the flag next door. I wondered about those neighbors. I hoped they were good ones. Daydreaming that they were small town friendly with the most fabulous blueberry muffin recipe on the block, I supposed that maybe waves were exchanged between the households. Maybe they took in each other’s paper when it rained. I wondered if the two families had ever broken bread together.

After a few minutes and a few more thoughts about neighbors and life in Albany, I decided that it was time to hit the road. My work-week starting in Seattle lay 250 miles north and it was getting late. Getting into my truck, I fired up the engine and slowly pulled away from Cheryl's place. As her home became smaller in my rearview mirrors, I again thought of my grandfather and his warning about goodbyes and about watching the things you love fade into the distance. I looked ahead. I didn't want to risk losing any more of the things I loved. And I could honestly say there were still a few good things left about Albany.

As I neared the freeway, I passed the Motel-6 where Cole and I had spent the night. I thought about Cole and wondered where things would end up between us. I could not chart our mutual destination but I also knew that something had stirred inside me. The winter was long and cold and at times I wondered if my emotional state would find its bearings again. Yet something inside remained vibrant and alive. My heart. Capable of risk, and capable of renewal, I'd previously worried that maybe it was forever damaged. But as I passed the motel I noticed a banner just under the trademark. It simply said, " Newly Renovated".

And that said it all.

Newly renovated! Nothing could describe my heart better.

Editor's note: This is part two of Tim's Trilogy. Part three is entitled "Almost Idaho Road." It will be posted soon.