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Session #84 – Alternative Reviews – Breckenridge Bridge

February 7, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

This is my entry for the 84th Session, hosted by me, on this here blog. The topic: Alternative Reviews. Warning: this contains lots of words (even more than usual).

044

David raised his glass quickly but carefully, in one, thoroughly practiced motion. The amber sloshed perilously near spilling, the gyroscope of his wrist and hand the only thing from keeping the bar from a beery bath. “Here’s to life!”

The cry pierced the air above the bar, setting into motion an avalanche of reaction: displeased glares, questioning glances, humorous smirks. Even the drunk karaoke girls stopped to look at David, who by now, was standing on the foot rests of his bar stool like some inebriated half-giant.

Geoff looked at him down the glassy length of his shaker, smiling through his sip.

“It’s good to see you back to your old self.” Geoff said, as he set the glass on the bar. He picked it up again, looking down at the watery ring of condensation kept afloat by the bar’s waxy finish. He set the beer back down halfway on top of the first ring making a tidy two-ring Venn diagram. He turned to David, “Maybe you should slow down. You’ve had a hell of a few weeks.”

David looked back at him, eyes half glazed by the beer that was worming its way through the folds of his brain. “No man, I feel great! Why you gotta be such a cop all the time?” He waved at the bartender, trying to get his attention through the commotion of a Friday night.

“Because I am a cop, idiot.” Geoff had already slipped the car keys from David’s coat pocket into his own. He knew David too well, knew his tiny bladder and even tinier tolerance, and didn’t trust him not to fumble to his truck in three beer’s time, when he was well beyond a reasonable state to be awake, never mind drive. He checked the time on his phone. “Hey, Dave, man, I gotta run. Cathy’s expecting me soon and I’ve got a long shift tomorrow.”

“Aw man! Just one more, come on. COME ON!” David taunted him, holding one fist-defiant index finger near his face, scrunching up his nose and mouth, part demanding, part begging, part unsure he should even have one more himself. Geoff laughed, threw down two twenties, and shook his head. “Not tonight man. Next time. I got your tab though. And your keys. There should be enough there for a cab, too.”

It took another half hour to process that Geoff had meant his car keys; thirty full minutes of crawling around in the stale beer-fog of under bar, looking for any glint of metallic silver of Chevy logo. The beer had done its job, and was still billing hours to the client of insobriety, so David didn’t even entertain being mad at the long-gone Geoff. He smiled at fate, and let the beer decide with infallible drunk wisdom, that the best bet was to walk the eight some miles home, not call a cab.

♦♦♦

055

The late summer air soothed his sing-along-sore throat, Vicks VapoRub on Colorado wind made of purple poppies, peeling pine, and that undeniable smell of coming thunderstorm. David loved August nights in Breckenridge, and for a while, lost in a alcohol-fueled flood of senses and emotion, he didn’t mind his hour long saunter.

He came upon the bridge, an old parker-style in need of paint with rust pocking its metal like acne on a teenagers oily forehead, and could smell the fishy waft from the river below. The crossing marked the halfway point of his trip home, that moment where he was equidistant between bar stool and bed, between drunkenness and sobriety. He took a moment at the center of the bridge to lean out over the rushing, storm-swollen water. Odd detritus lined the bank near one of the concrete supports: several mismatched tires, probably dumped there by Tom from the auto-shop on Lincoln; a soggy, algae stained futon that looked like a reject from an IKEA as-is section; a shopping cart upturned and abandoned at least a mile from its normal home at City Market.

The river passed by without noticing David noticing it, upstream looking exactly like downstream as if it didn’t matter where water began or ended, only that it flowed. If it hadn’t been so late, if he hadn’t been just one beer past buzzed, David might have dangled his legs down over the edge of the bridge and sat there a while, let summer sink into his soul, let the river wash away the night, let the peace of nature remind him how lucky he was to be alive.

As he turned to finish his journey home, some movement near the water caught his eye. A shape, tall and thin, a man down by the bank, near the access road, swaggering in shadow. Then he saw another man, a bigger man, approach from behind, thinking for a moment he heard shouting and crying on the back of the wind. He watched, too far to help, too close to cry out without jeopardizing himself, as the larger shadow slung something out of his pocket and snapped serenity in two with the crack of a cocked hammer colliding with primer.

Had his mind been clear, he would have immediately called Geoff, had the entire Breckenridge Sheriff’s department on the scene in minutes. But panic closed its powerful grip on his mind, and he could do nothing but run. Across the bridge, down a side street, through bushes and under trees. Muscle memory guided his feet, the world passed by, half buzzed by sprint, half buzzed by the the booze still sloshing in his stomach, and he soon found himself on his own front lawn, lungs grabbing desperately into the night for more air.

♦♦♦

074

A viper, two green slits on dark grey, stared at him from across the room. His eyes adjusted slowly like auto-focus on a dying camera lens, regret manifesting behind them like two jack hammers of you-should-know-better. 11:03. Not so bad, given how late (or early) he had slipped into the silky caress of his down comforter after his mad dash home.

He knew he should call Geoff, but was worried he hadn’t really seen what he thought he saw, that Geoff would just laugh him off and tell him he needed to go to AA. Even if David had wanted to talk to him, he couldn’t find his phone, and weight of his eyelids and slouching slurch of his stomach suggested it might not be time to get up anyway. He let his head fall back onto the pillow and watched the snake disappear behind a horizontal curtain of black.

When he woke again, the viper was gone, replaced by two turtles rolling on into infinity. His headache had mellowed into a gentle sluggish fog, like his brain was covered with an entire bottle of Elmers. The hangover had cleared enough, enough at least, for him to sit up without worrying that a fault line might open up on the back of his skull. He dug around in his jean pockets for his phone, not surprised to see more than a few missed calls, mainly from his mother and Geoff, both of whom, he was sure, were checking to make sure he’d made it home in as few pieces as possible. He brushed away the notifications and nudged the phone with his thumb to call Geoff.

It rang four times before being deposited, like some lowly letter, in a voice mail box. “Hey man, it’s Dave. I’m fine, just really, really hungover. This is going to sound weird, but I think I saw someone get shot last night. Like seriously. I was pretty plastered, but I’m going to go check it out. Meet me at the old bridge at ten and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

The sun had long since exited stage West by the time he pulled into a spot by the old deserted fish packing warehouse. From here he could see the silhouette of the bridge like a lattice against the night sky, lights from down in the city giving just enough glow to make the sky look eggplant, not ebony. The night was calm except for the wind that swept down from the north in sporadic, energetic bursts.

David was late, but so was Geoff. Another fifteen minutes disappeared into unrecoverable history with eyes glued to the street that ran into pines on the far side of the bridge, waiting to see a squad car come rolling past the treeline. Another twenty passed and still no squad car, still no Geoff. Sick of waiting, David decided to see if he could find any evidence of what he witnessed almost exactly 24 hours before.

The water chilled the air near the bank, enough for David’s arm hairs to unfurl, stand up straight, like a frightened porcupine. He moved to where he thought he’d seen the shadow scuffle, searching the ground for signs of blood or foot prints or shell casings, using all of his best TV crime drama knowledge.

If anything criminal had gone down in the midnight deep, the river had washed away all evidence. David was sort of happy Geoff hadn’t shown up, and hoped he hadn’t even heard his voice mail. He’d obviously embarrassed himself enough the night before; no need to add this little costly piece of police involvement. He turned back, laughing at himself and his drunken hallucinations when he smelled the unique smoke of a clove cigarette. Before he could trail it to a source, he heard a loud pop, and pinch a stab of pain in his left side. Slick, stinking mud stained the knees of his jeans. His hands felt numb, like he’d slept on them for too long. The river and his vision danced red, then white, then dark.

♦♦♦

064

He heard the beeping first. A whole cacophony of machine generated pings and dings, some high pitched and rhythmic, others low, growly, but random. Despite sending many signals from his brain, his eyelids refused to part, his mouth refused to open, his throat refused to produce sound. He floated, robbed of three of five, only smelling, listening.

David bobbed in the cosmic darkness for what felt like two eternities. He thought he was thinking about things, about philosophy and theology, chatting up Alpha and Omega over a pint of porter, learning all about life before, and after, and now. Voices from across the bar occasionally chimed in with comment, but one stuck in his mind like an echo: “You’re going to be OK.”

Voices outside the bar, muffled voices, some he thought he recognized, others as foreign as a Japanese tourist in Texas, started to become more common. He regained some audibility, mainly in grunts, but enough to signal to the distant disembodied speech that he was there, and should not be ignored.

Eventually Light snuck in, a piercing, awful light, as if he’d just emerged from some dank cave into the brilliance of a Gobi afternoon. Pupils constricted and dappled ceiling tiles formed a landscape, telling David he was lying down, in a building of some kind. A plus. Geoff loomed over him, a huge face hanging like a moon over his bed. “Dave!”

Two weeks later, the grape sized wound near his left kidney had healed sufficiently for David to be discharged. As soon as he was conscious enough to talk, Geoff filled in the hospital-induced blanks. He’d been late to the bridge because the battery on his phone had died, and he hadn’t heard the voice mail. By the time he had arrived, David was already face down near some old tires, blood seeping down into the river like a sanguine tributary. They’d gotten him to the hospital in just enough time to prevent him from bleeding out.

Despite many, many objections from the nurses, doctors, and Geoff himself, despite his near brush with death, David demanded they go out for a celebratory beer. Convincing him like only a best, old friend can, Geoff obliged him. “OK, OK. Just one beer. I guess you deserve it.” At home, David ditched the mint scrubs the doctors had given him since his clothes had been taken as part of the investigation to find the shooter. He threw on a fresh t shirt quickly, already imagining the lager sloshing sultry across his tongue.

He parked his truck and met Geoff by the door. The bar was lively, even for a Friday night, and a group of tipsy college girls were bullying the touch screen on the Karaoke machine. Geoff pulled up a stool, and helped David onto his, worried about disrupting the stitches. David nodded to the bar tender, ordering two ambers, two ruddy wonders poured perfectly into branded shakers. “I think this moment deserves a toast.”

David raised his glass quickly but carefully, in one, thoroughly practiced motion. The amber sloshed perilously near spilling, the gyroscope of his wrist and hand the only thing from keeping the bar from a beery bath. “Here’s to life!”

Ask Me Anything: A LitLib Q&A – Answers!

September 11, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

I got so many good questions that I can’t focus on anything but answering them.

ro of FarOVale asks: “Do you read blogs written in other languages?”

I would love to read blogs in other languages. The problem is that, outside of some broken French and a few lines of Latin, I don’t speak anything but English. I’ve spent the better part of my adult life studying and trying to master my mother tongue, which didn’t leave me much mental space for the beauty and lilting grace of the myriad other languages out there. I know that I could use something like Google Translate, but then I’d lose all the nuance of the writing, which is just sad.

Melody of Melody and Words asks: “How do you use non-writing activities (such as photography) to jump-start the creative process?”

I think there are two ways, psychologically, to stir your brain into creative motion: sensory deprivation and sensory overload. It’s the difference between seeing the future in a crystal ball or seeing it in the colorful ornate drawings of Tarot cards. My brain likes overload; the more colors and textures and mental speed bumps for me to crawl over, the more stuff I have to hold onto and build from. I think that’s why I love Lego so much.

Using something like photography to jump-start the process is easy, because you’re forced to spend more time with whatever you’re taking pictures of, and as a result, building a mental relationship with that object. I’ll often get an idea for a beer short story just based on how I position a beer for a picture, or how the colors contrast between glass and background. I also then have this vivid reminder of all those ideas in the form of a picture, which almost always helps fuel the creative process down the line.

Josh of ShortOnBeer asks: “When was the first time you were proud of your writing?”

No one has ever asked me this before. I’m not sure I can find the GPS coordinates in my brain for that exact moment where I was first proud of my grammatical creations, but it was probably sometime around December 2011, when I got accepted into the Masters of Writing program at Johns Hopkins. I suddenly felt like real writers thought my writing was good enough to be compared to theirs. I’m proud of my words whenever someone says they’ve helped them or taught them something. That, to me, is the whole reason I type, to understand or help others understand.

Melanie of melanielynngriffin asks: “What is the best argument, in your mind, for each side of the question about bombing Syria in response to chemical weapons use?”

As a general rule, I remain as politically neutral as possible. I don’t like the conflict that comes with choosing a side, especially when neither side really reflects how I feel. That said, I see no best arguments for either side of this situation. It sucks, and will continue to suck, for pretty much everyone involved. While I appreciate the US trying to help out those countries who seem to desperately need it, I think the “chemical weapon” line is arbitrary, and if we really meant to help in a humanitarian way, we’d have intervened a long time ago when people were being beaten and shot to death. I’d be more inclined to support helping out the oppressed citizenry of another nation if our own country was a bliss-filled utopia, but obviously, we’ve got some serious problems of our own without sailing ships into the Mediterranean. If my vote mattered (which I’m more and more convinced it doesn’t) I’d suggest we stay home and put the money and energy towards fixing our own issues.

I’m going to lump two similar questions together here. Ryan of mouldsbeerblog, and Ginny ask: “Who is your favorite author/writer? -and- What is your favourite book/author’s work that you’ve ever read?”

This is like asking me to pick my favorite beer. There are so many options available, so many styles, so many writers who’ve written heartrendingly gorgeous prose, that it becomes nearly impossible to narrow it down to just one. So instead of picking a favorite, I’ll list some of those authors that have influenced me the most (in no particular order): Issac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, HP Lovecraft, Edgar Alan Poe, John Donne, Alexander Pope, Alice McDermott, Michael Pollan, Jennifer Egan, and, as much as I hate to admit it, Shakespeare. As far as the single piece that influenced me the most, I’ll have to go with “Walden” by Thoreau.

TheMadHopper of The Mad Hopper’s Blog asks: “When writing about beer and beer culture do you have a certain format you follow?”

Not really, but I may be a terrible person to ask, since I rarely follow any kind of format for anything. I think the most important thing, in general, is to do in-depth research on your topic (beyond a few Google searches, I mean) and make sure you’re respectful of the writers and people who came before you. Know what you’re talking about, and give credit where credit is due. Also, have fun. You’re writing about beer after all. As Scott at beerbecue said recently, “One can only read so many serious dissertations on beer.”

Penney of My Journey to Live an Authentic Life asks (slightly paraphrased): “How do you write about someone who has created conflict and drama (like a divorce or a bad breakup), without sounding whiny, when the experience made you become a better person?”

There is a fine line between bitter resentment and teary-eyed sentimentality, and it’s the writer’s job to walk it, carefully. I think it’s hard to approach something so raw and close to you directly. I almost always try to find some other vehicle to get into the story; something tangentially related or coming from a different perspective. By not having to just flat out tell the story and details of what happened, you can get the best ideas and insights into the piece without any of the personal baggage. The essay I wrote about my father’s passing is a good example of this “redirection.” I know I couldn’t have written that just about him and his death, so I used the star and his energy as the vehicle for something that would otherwise be far too emotional for me.

One half of Tammy and CJ of The Great Jollyhoombah asks: “What are the greatest craft beer US cities you’ve been to or know of?” 

I’ve really just started my Homeric journey into the travel side of craft beer, but I’ve certainly been to enough cities to answer this question. I’m going to go with Boulder, Colorado (or really, just anywhere in Colorado) because of Boulevard Brewing, Great Divide Brewing, New Belgium, Oskar Blues, and Avery Brewing. I mean, that’s an incredible line up, and you can’t go wrong when choosing from any of these guys. Colorado is a veritable Mecca for craft beer people, so make sure you all face towards the Rockies when lifting your next pint.

Phillip McCollum asks: “If fear had a flavor, what would it taste like?”

Have you ever put a 9-volt battery on your tongue? Ever tasted that mix of metal and acid and energy that can only come from completing a circuit, using your body as the ground? Fear tastes like that.

theclocktowersunset asks: “If you ruled the world, what would you change and how would that playout?”

I would refuse to let anyone take life too seriously. It would be punishable by tickles. I’d like to think that a bit of enforced, widespread levity would make the planet much easier to live with, and on.

JHMae of byjhmae asks: “Who is your favorite Game of Thrones character?”

Beric Dondarrion closely followed by Sandor Clegane.

Thanks to everyone who asked a question. I hope I answered them to your satisfaction 🙂

Maybe ask me why I used a picture of a "No Surfing" flag in this post?

Maybe ask me why I used a picture of a “No Surfing” flag in this post?

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