Sightings by B.J. Hollars

into our past, a shadow of a memory. I’ve searched for him on every basketball court and in every Winnebago in the state. Every Dumpster. Even combed the woods behind the old high school, shaking a bag full of Big Macs.
    I’ve looked under rocks, in caves, in the streams where the fattest trout swim.
    Listened for the cracking of ice cubes.
    Sniffed for his stench.
    But the closest I’ve come are a few muddy footprints and an empty bottle of schnapps.

Westward Expansion
    BLYTHEDALE, MISSOURI, 1999
    Manifest Destiny, Dad explained, is something we should always keep in the forefront of our minds. “Because the only reason California even exists right now,” he chided, “is because our ancestors made it so.” He nodded when he said this, walking my sister and me over to the scotch-taped map on the wall to trace the route the Fowler family trod while doing their part for American expansion.
    On Dad’s orders, Samantha and I would then shut ourselves in the computer room and play
Oregon Trail
in order to develop a better sense of our family heritage. Dad was adamant about our making use of this “learning aid,” often dropping by to check on our progress, see if we had yet reached Fort Hall or the outpost. Sam – a third grader at the time – didn’t yet know much of wagon trains, though this hardly discouraged her from arguing endlessly with me about how many axles and boxes of ammunition were required to survive the trek. Dad listened quietly from behind our computer chairs, though on occasion, the temptation to correct us proved too great. Once, when Sam and I decided to ford the river rather than take the ferry, our frustrated father informed us that fording a river was a “damn good way to come down with a bout of cholera.”
    â€œHaven’t I taught you kids anything?”
    When Dad wasn’t lurking, Sam and I turned our attention to hunting buffalo, clicking the mouse as fast as we could to bring the hairy beasts down. Once, Dad walked into the room mid-bloodbath, crying out, “Jesus, guys. Never shoot more than you can carry home. We’re not barbarians!” But we were, kind of, and although there were deer and rabbits to shoot, we knew better than to waste precious ammo on species that yielded so little.
    â€œYou know, historically speaking,” Dad once explained, “the hunting aspect of the game is all wrong. Back in the good old days, pioneers were still reliant on the single shot muzzle-loaders. No way in hell a man could reload as fast as you’re shooting – not even someone as skilled as your great-great-great-uncle Floyd. Common sense tells us that, and history.”
    Yet we continued to break the rules of history – clicking fast, killing often. We figured our great-great-great-uncle Floyd would’ve been proud – no one ever went hungry in our camp. While spinning in our chairs, Sam and I munched the limbs off animal crackers and waited for the buffalo stampede. The moment their pixilated bodies invaded our screen, we’d play our white man part to drive them to near extinction.
    Click. Pow. Click. Pow. Ten thousand pounds of meat.
    Mom didn’t approve of any of this.
    â€œI don’t care who our ancestors are, that doesn’t give you the right to shut our kids in a room all afternoon!”
    â€œFirst off,” Dad countered, “it’s only for an hour or two every few days – a pretty minimal investment given the educational return. And second, once they manage to reach the ocean without wiping out half the goddamned wagon train, then they’re free to take a break.”
    Sam and I could often be found listening from the other side of the door – a fact Dad knew well when he swung it wide.
    â€œRight guys?” he asked, looking at us. “Tell your Mom. Am I right or am I right?”
    We didn’t know. All we knew was he was our father.

    There were things about