Читать книгу Perfect Bait - Michael Douglas Fowlkes - Страница 12

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Chapter 4

The next thing I knew I was back behind the wheel of the old truck. The rain never stopped. I just kept driving—for days on end—sleeping in the cab when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, eating junk food whenever I had to stop and get gas. Everything became one giant soggy blur. I never left the 101. Catching glimpses of the rugged coastline through the rain and clouds somehow kept me from going insane. After crossing over the Columbia River and continuing south, I pulled into an old motor lodge along the outskirts of a little town called Manzanita.

I was a mess. Looking in the cracked mirror of the neat, but tiny rented room, I hardly recognized myself. I hadn’t showered or shaved for days. How the elderly couple running the place found it in their hearts to rent me a room must have come from pure pity, because I looked worse than Charles Manson. Too tired and too damned depressed to do anything about it, I stripped off all my clothes and fell into bed stark naked. Thankful sheer exhaustion dragged me into oblivion.

Early the next morning I drove to the nearest gas station, which thankfully doubled as a little twenty-four hour general store. I bought a couple of John Deer T-shirts, a new pair of jeans, socks and some toiletries. Slinking back into my motel room before anyone else was awake, I soaked in the steaming shower until there was no more hot water.

Showered, shaved and clean for the first time in days, I felt like a new man. The sun actually broke through the clouds for the first time, as well, so I decided to stay and look around. In the manager’s office, I rang the little bell sitting on the counter top. When the elderly lady appeared from around the corner, at first she didn’t even recognize me.

“Mr. Phillips,” she commented, “you’re looking quite handsome this morning.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Sorry for the way I looked last night. It’s been a rough trip.”

“Now don’t you worry about that,” she said in a kind, motherly fashion. “The important thing is you’ve got yourself all cleaned up and looking mighty spiffy.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay another night or two.”

“No problem,” she said smiling, pushing her reading glasses up off the bridge of her nose, focusing in on the ancient pages of the registration book and carefully making a notation under my room number and name. “Will you be paying in cash again?” she asked politely.

Later that morning, I found myself walking along a quiet, residential street a few blocks from the motel. The street was lined with beautiful, classic old Victorian homes, most with full wraparound porches. Huge trees hung over the cracked, concrete sidewalks. Well-manicured lawns with potted plants and ivy clinging to the well-worn brick exteriors gave the neighborhood a warm, lived-in, feeling. It reminded me a lot of my grandparents’ house … of Seattle. For the first time since the ‘incident,’ I was remembering something from there without the acute pain I’d become accustomed to choking off my breathing. It was nice to be able to breathe again, if only for the moment.

I was enjoying the quiet when out of nowhere a child’s voice called out, “Hey, Mister, you want to buy a puppy? They’re only twenty dollars.”

Before I knew it, two of the cutest little girls I’d ever seen thrust a wiggling bundle of fluff in my face. The girls, who couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, were talking a mile a minute. Looking over their blonde heads and past the puppy, I saw their mother sitting on the top step of their front porch, observing as only a mother can.

“It’s their birthday. They’re eight weeks old today. We want to keep them all, but Mom says we have to find ’em good homes. Do you have a good home, Mister?” one of the girls asked. “Do you like puppies?” the other asked. They had a cardboard box full of the most adorable golden retriever puppies.

“Well, I don’t know about a puppy,” I said, taking the wiggling bundle they’d thrust at me and giving it a kiss. “Having a puppy is a lot of work.”

“No, they’re not,” the girls instantly countered, in unison. “They’re easy. We can teach you how to take care of ’em.” Fighting to be heard over each other, the girls bombarded me on how to feed them, when to feed them, how to brush them, when to brush them. “The only bad part is having to pick up their poo. Gross!” they said, giggling.

The last thing I was thinking about was getting a dog, but there are few things in the world that can transform your emotions as fast as holding a puppy. They melt in your arms. And when they make that little whimpering, half grunt sound, they melt your heart. Inhaling the sweet smell of puppy breath put me over the edge. I couldn’t resist.

The girls’ mother came down the herringbone brick walkway leading from their tin-covered front porch. “They’re pretty cute, aren’t they?” she commented.

“Yes, ma’am. I haven’t held anything like this in a long time,” I replied, lifting up the puppy whose tail was going so fast it was shaking its entire body. “This little guy’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The girls shouted together. “She’s not a he—she’s a girl!”

Sure enough, the he was a she, and she was about to be mine. “You know, you’re right, girls,” I apologized. “My mistake. She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“She’s my favorite,” one of the girls proclaimed.

“No, she’s not. She’s my favorite,” said the other.

“All right, girls,” the mom said. “Why don’t you ask the gentleman if he has a good home, and if he’ll promise to take good care of your puppy. Just like we talked about.”

The realization hit me that I’d been living out of my truck the past few days, if you can call what I’d been doing ‘living.’

“Yes,” I said, looking over at the mother, but avoiding her eyes. “I have a really nice little house, with a huge backyard. I work out of my house, so I won’t ever have to leave her alone—how does that sound?” I added, asking the girls. Okay, I was lying through my teeth. But I knew that I’d cherish this little animal, and it didn’t matter that I no longer had a home.

“Perfect,” one of the little girls answered immediately.

“Do you want her?” the other chimed in.

“Absolutely,” I said with a big smile. “How could I not want her?”

About this time, the puppies’ mother came bounding from around the corner. She stuck her nose in the box for a quick inspection and then came right over to me. She looked up at the one I was holding and went to work sniffing my pant leg. I squatted down so we were face to face, as I lowered my eyes. She gave me the once-over and moved closer to sniff my face. I bowed my head down for her. After a few moments, she gave my face her resounding vote of approval with a big, wet lick, her tail wagging. The deal was sealed. I handed each of the little girls a ten-dollar bill and promised to be the best dad any puppy ever had. I thanked them and their mom and gave her my name, the phone number of the cannery and its address in Seattle. The girls wanted to keep track of their babies.

The girls’ mom looked at the address and said, “You’re not from around here.”

“No, just visiting. But I love your town. It reminds me of home.”

She smiled. “Yeah. We’re lucky to live here. Oh, by the way, she’s only had one shot, so be sure and get her to a vet in the next couple of weeks.”

“No problem,” I assured her. The girls gave me a few last minute instructions on feeding and handed me a small brown bag containing some of her food. I thanked the girls, and we were on our way.

For the first time since leaving home, I had a reason for living. Thank God for little girls and puppy dogs. While I was walking back to the motel, the clouds started to roll back in. I tucked the puppy safely inside my jacket, and she soon fell asleep. The sun had poked its head through the clouds for only a few hours, but it had been long enough to convince me to stay, take a little walk, and as it turned out, long enough for me to find a friend.

Winters in the Northwest are cold and wet—period. There’s no getting around it. But I was sick of it. So with my new-found companion, I decided to leave. I figured the old couple running the motel deserved to keep the money I’d given them earlier for the additional couple of nights because they had let me in when few proprietors would have, looking the way I did. We got into the truck and headed south, towards Mexico, as far away from the memories as I could get on what little money I had left.

Motion changes emotion, so we kept moving, stopping now every couple of hours, pulling well away from any traffic so she could do her business, which afterwards, turned into unbridled playtime.

“We’re going to have to come up with some sort of a name for you,” I said, tossing a pine cone she’d found and brought over to me. The thing was half again as big as her head. I was amazed she was even able to get it into her mouth. Tail wagging full speed, she was on it almost before it hit the ground. “Can’t just keep calling you pup, can we?” She didn’t seem to mind or care what I called her. We’d instantly become best friends, and I figured a name would come soon enough.

We slowly wound our way along the rest of the beautiful, rugged Oregon coast through Crescent City, down Northern California into the Redwoods, and over the Golden Gate Bridge. We hugged the coast as we made our way through Monterey and Big Sur. As we entered Morro Bay, an old road sign read:

HIGHWAY 41— EAST SIERRA NEVADA HIGHWAY “GATEWAY TO YOSEMITE”

“What d’ya think?” I asked her, saying the word Sierra out loud. I loved the way it effortlessly rolled over my lips, while offering up such a warm resonant sound, like a D-28 six-string Martin. I repeated it several more times, but I knew after hearing it the first time that my girl’s name was now Sierra.

We continued down the coast past Santa Barbara, Malibu and Hermosa into Laguna, where we spent an afternoon playing on the beach and checking out some of the old shops along the boardwalk. We bought a really cool hand-woven collar from a local artist and had a name tag stamped right on the spot that simply said Sierra on one side, and Corey Phillips on the other. The minute I put it on her, she proudly held her little head up like she’d just been crowned the Queen of England.

Laguna was a hard place to leave, but something was pulling at my soul, drawing me south, so with the sun kissing the top of Catalina Island on its way into the Pacific, we got back on the road, and by midnight we were pulling into another quiet little town, called Ocean Beach.