think I'll stick to easier stuff unless I've got a top rope. You really got to be honed to lead up cracks like that.”
Again, Billy doesn't reply. He just keeps his eyes on me, the challenge and the warning obvious. I read the message and look blankly back. Fuck him. I'm done with speaking the necessary platitudes to establish his dominance and reassure his ego.
Heller gives off a palpable sense of violence like an odor as we stare at one another. Unconsciously, I tense my legs on the rungs of the stool. Heller's bitterness seems so great that I wouldn't be surprised if he were to hit me without warning. For the second time in just a few hours, a juvenile urge warms my blood. I'm tempted to find out if I can take him. Machismo—my father says I inherited
that
from my mother's mestizo ancestors, even though it could just as easily be the result of the military upbringing he subjected our family to. I try to douse the fire with a long draw from my beer.
Lynn squeezes both our arms. “C'mon, guys. Cut the testosterone bullshit. Anton, you should come climbing with us sometime this week. We're out at the 'Voo pretty much every morning.”
“I'd like that,” I say, as much wanting to annoy Heller as wanting to spend time with her. “I don't know where anything is. I don't even have a guidebook.”
“How about coming with us to smoke some blunts? We're going back to Billy's place.”
Billy's eyes cut at her.
I shake my head and almost laugh. “No, I've got to sleep. I have to work tomorrow.”
“What do you do?” Heller asks, finally speaking again.
“Pest control,” I say quickly. “But I'll look for you guys up at Vedauwoo this week.” In order to pay for my beer I have to open my wallet carefully so that my badge doesn't show.
FOUR
I WAKE UP EARLY and drive to a local park. There I find a set of monkey bars from which I can do my usual training: sets of pull-ups, push-ups, and leaps while wearing a pack weighted with climbing gear. It's a routine I have maintained even over the eighteen months of self-imposed exile from the rocks. Oso sniffs about the sand that surrounds the playground's equipment with his gray muzzle and shambling gait. For just a moment it makes me melancholy to see him looking so tired and old; when I'd first taken possession of him, he moved with the quick, explosive grace of a true carnivore.
The first time I saw him he was chained to the back porch of a house operating as a methamphetamine lab up in Rawlins. When I executed a no-knock warrant there with the local police, we found him half-starved and ferocious as a wounded bear. Patches of hair were missing from his pelt and raw sores blew with flies. Rather than just shoot him, we called in Animal Control officers. Only with great difficulty were they able to wrestle him into a cage using long poles with wire nooses looped at one end. There he tore at the bars until blood dripped from his teeth.
Animal Control said they would have to put him down. They laughed at the thought of anyone adopting him. I walked away to write my reports feeling sadder for this dog that had never had a chance than I did for the pathetic and violent young drug addicts I dealt with every day. After an hour I returned to the meth lab to find an officer poking him with a sharp-bladed shovel, seeing just how crazy he could make him before the Animal Control officers standing by put a bullet through his heavy, flat skull.
The charges against me for assaulting a fellow peace officer were deferred and later dropped. But on the spot I accepted a sentence that has now run five years by deciding to adopt the snarling creature as my own. I took him home.
Twenty-four stitches later and after two visits to the emergency room, I finally had him installed in my backyard, chained to an elm. It took six weeks of determined care and attention before he would even let me stroke him. After six months he was accompanying me nearly everywhere I went. In the places where
Again, Billy doesn't reply. He just keeps his eyes on me, the challenge and the warning obvious. I read the message and look blankly back. Fuck him. I'm done with speaking the necessary platitudes to establish his dominance and reassure his ego.
Heller gives off a palpable sense of violence like an odor as we stare at one another. Unconsciously, I tense my legs on the rungs of the stool. Heller's bitterness seems so great that I wouldn't be surprised if he were to hit me without warning. For the second time in just a few hours, a juvenile urge warms my blood. I'm tempted to find out if I can take him. Machismo—my father says I inherited
that
from my mother's mestizo ancestors, even though it could just as easily be the result of the military upbringing he subjected our family to. I try to douse the fire with a long draw from my beer.
Lynn squeezes both our arms. “C'mon, guys. Cut the testosterone bullshit. Anton, you should come climbing with us sometime this week. We're out at the 'Voo pretty much every morning.”
“I'd like that,” I say, as much wanting to annoy Heller as wanting to spend time with her. “I don't know where anything is. I don't even have a guidebook.”
“How about coming with us to smoke some blunts? We're going back to Billy's place.”
Billy's eyes cut at her.
I shake my head and almost laugh. “No, I've got to sleep. I have to work tomorrow.”
“What do you do?” Heller asks, finally speaking again.
“Pest control,” I say quickly. “But I'll look for you guys up at Vedauwoo this week.” In order to pay for my beer I have to open my wallet carefully so that my badge doesn't show.
FOUR
I WAKE UP EARLY and drive to a local park. There I find a set of monkey bars from which I can do my usual training: sets of pull-ups, push-ups, and leaps while wearing a pack weighted with climbing gear. It's a routine I have maintained even over the eighteen months of self-imposed exile from the rocks. Oso sniffs about the sand that surrounds the playground's equipment with his gray muzzle and shambling gait. For just a moment it makes me melancholy to see him looking so tired and old; when I'd first taken possession of him, he moved with the quick, explosive grace of a true carnivore.
The first time I saw him he was chained to the back porch of a house operating as a methamphetamine lab up in Rawlins. When I executed a no-knock warrant there with the local police, we found him half-starved and ferocious as a wounded bear. Patches of hair were missing from his pelt and raw sores blew with flies. Rather than just shoot him, we called in Animal Control officers. Only with great difficulty were they able to wrestle him into a cage using long poles with wire nooses looped at one end. There he tore at the bars until blood dripped from his teeth.
Animal Control said they would have to put him down. They laughed at the thought of anyone adopting him. I walked away to write my reports feeling sadder for this dog that had never had a chance than I did for the pathetic and violent young drug addicts I dealt with every day. After an hour I returned to the meth lab to find an officer poking him with a sharp-bladed shovel, seeing just how crazy he could make him before the Animal Control officers standing by put a bullet through his heavy, flat skull.
The charges against me for assaulting a fellow peace officer were deferred and later dropped. But on the spot I accepted a sentence that has now run five years by deciding to adopt the snarling creature as my own. I took him home.
Twenty-four stitches later and after two visits to the emergency room, I finally had him installed in my backyard, chained to an elm. It took six weeks of determined care and attention before he would even let me stroke him. After six months he was accompanying me nearly everywhere I went. In the places where
Similar Books
