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"Sorry," Tucker whispered back.
"No problem."
"I did it again." He worried about himself. They said he'd fried his synapses.
Too many days sailing too far beyond charted waters. Visions, Bullseye called
them. Dead-
of-night, singsong visions of the godhead. In Technicolor. Calling him home or
into the On High. You watch, someday Tuck's going to lift right off the valley
floor and not even the
National Enquirer
's going to believe it. In the old days they used to name stars after people
like Tuck. We'll name a star after you. A whole fucking constellation. Tucker
hated that talk. It scared him, everyone waiting for him to crash and burn. It
was troublesome. Death or serious injury he could handle, but not the
loneliness and exaggerations. There was a way out of the nightmares, he knew
there was. The journey free was going to be intricate and harrowing, that was
a given, no problem. And it would be costly. It might cost him everyone and
everything, but that was better than someday mismanaging a toehold on a
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plastering of wet lichen near the wrong end of a 5.13, no pro. Or turning into
an ice cube on the Mosquito or who knew where or when it might catch up with
him. All of eighteen years old and his life was already too short. If it were
as simple as selling his ropes and gear, man they'd already belong to someone
else. He'd give them away. But true odysseys never let you loose until the
end, and he was still somewhere in the middle. Thorns and vultures all around.
Temptations and dangers. He'd find his way through, though. It was all very
physical. First the Visor had to let him pass. Then Makalu, that monster. Then
he could be done with the verticality altogether maybe. Maybe.
"Go to sleep, bud."
Next morning John woke at seven-thirty, late for him, and reached for Liz. She
was already in the shower, and Tucker was gone, his sleeping bag neatly stowed
in a clean, bright yellow stuff sack. There was a bed for Tucker, but that was
going too far, and so the boy had quartered himself on the floor. He kept all
his possessions stored in stuff sacks made of waterproof, rip-stop nylon,
which made his little world ultimately portable. Literally everything the boy
owned fit into an expedition-size backpack, with room to spare for an extra
gallon or two of water. Only in the last few years had John seen the charm in
that sort of dedicated poverty, because he'd been embedded full-time in it
himself. Now, having followed his dad's clay footsteps as a bohemian roughneck
for a few seasons, he at least had a truck and six hundred dollars in a money
market account. Another year or two, he might actually vote.
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Never far away was the memory of crossing Berkeley campus on his way to
another weekend in the Valley. He had been Tuck's age, loaded down with ropes,
and the hardware was ringing musically with each step, when suddenly a news
camera crew swooped down for a man-on-the-street interview. American troops
had just invaded
Cambodia. The news crew wanted to know what was his reaction? They'd been
filming hippies and Marxist radicals all afternoon; now here was someone out
of the ordinary. The microphone hovered in front of his nose. The newscaster,
a remarkably thin and fiery woman, hung on his silence as if his first words
might open new worlds. Cambodia? he finally asked. The sound man had looked at
the cameraman.
The truth was, he'd had no idea where Cambodia even was. The war in Vietnam
meant student strikes, and strikes meant free time for the Valley. His
geography consisted entirely of the world's Cordilleras, the mountains he'd
seen and the ranges he hoped to. "Kill the mike," she'd said. The shame of
that afternoon could still rouse a "you dumb fuck" shake of his head. Any
Jesuit worth his salt would have punched him out for the intellectual lapse.
He looked at his bare toes sticking out from the bottom of the sheets. Some
things never change. He was still in the Valley, still lost and lapsing.
Liz emerged from the bathroom stripping the water from her waist-length hair
with a red comb. "You're up. Sleep well?" Her long body was a marvel.
"Yeah, minus one of Tucker's spells." He stretched and kicked the covers
loose. Now he was naked, too. He watched Liz's eyes, then worked down her body
again. Their bodies were taking over.
"More dreams? Poor Tuck." She moved close to the bed. Her dark golden pubis
hunted nearer his face. She was talking to him from high above where she
looked down. Her nipples looked enormous atop her rib cage. With a long even
stroke she pulled more droplets from the heavy hank of hair and let them
sprinkle down.
"So did you."
"So did I what?"
"Dream." He ran his fingers down the edge of her saddle. She pushed in closer.
Her mouth came open from the sensation, but she started the comb down from her
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head again with forced deliberation.
"How do you know?"
He told her. "Sort of wondered what were you dreaming about," he said.
She stepped across his chest, spreading herself. "Breakfast?" she pondered and
brushed his lips with one fingertip. The red comb fell onto the far pillow.
"Where's Tuck?"
"He went for a run." That gave them anywhere between two and three hours. With
the lungs of a Sherpa, it took a lot to max him out. Balanced with both hands
on the wall, Liz began lowering herself.
"Tell me about that lake, Liz. The airplane." It was already a game between
them. The
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Jeff Long - Angels of Light interrogation and evasion could go on for a very
long time.
"What lake?" She was kneeling over his arms. All she could see was his
beautiful face.
"Cocaine. Diamonds. Gold." He reached up with his tongue. The first touch
arched her back like an electric shock. He did it again.
"John..."
"Gold." He found the crest and her breath emptied.
"You talk too much," she said, and that was the end of their playing.
Afterward they descended to the hotel restaurant to await Tucker. Slot
machines cranked away in the background, otherwise breakfast was as Liz wanted
it, quiet and elegant and just expensive enough. At nine-thirty, halfway
through John's second cup of Earl Grey, Liz announced, "We've got to go."
"Right."
"Where is he?"
"Don't worry. He probably turned his jog into a marathon."
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