Cindy
By Jd Black
Cindy Jet sat alone on the peak, gazing, as he had done at least once a week, weather permitting, for the last twenty-two and a half years. The barren peak itself, of loose, plated rock, officially stood only two feet higher than its twin sister one hundred fifty yards away across a shallow saddle, but in reality it was a good two feet higher than that since Jet had wrestled the sitting stone from its perch on an outcropping in that saddle nineteen years ago and placed it right on top. It was a great sitting stone, scooped so that one’s back did not tire after hours of contemplation, and that was precisely why Jet had put it there. To the southeast, the view stretched interminably, from the near red rocks, across the yellow sands to the cream and brown desert, past the ancient, slender, black volcanic spire, to the distant, purple monolith, clearly visible over 150 miles away. Not a road, nor a dust plume, nor a river broke the trackless, endless vista. Even the steel-blue sky was unmarred by a contrail, and only rarely sported a forlorn cloud.
To the northeast lay mountain after mountain, clothed in pinion at the lower levels, in ponderosa at the mid-levels, and crowned with silver and alpine fir. Jet had hiked them, once, breathing the Celestial air, thinking of joy, renewed, invigorated, redeemed. That had been before the tragedy. The mountains were full of life, and demanded thoughtful attention. They pleased, inspired, drew one in. Jet, however, generally found himself facing Southeast. Here thoughts could wander unfettered, nostalgic, melancholic, pensive, and, to be brutally honest, not infrequently self-pitying. In twenty-two and one-half years, only once had Jet encountered anyone else on the peak when he arrived, a starry-eyed couple, and they left shortly thereafter without a word being spoken. It was best that way, he reflected. It was almost as if he owned the mountain, and, he noted absently, the only thing of consequence he was ever like to own in his unrewarded life. Often the sun fell unnoticed on the broad brim of his Amish, straw hat, a gift from a passerby just about the time of his first major loss, that had so humbled him that rather than replace it, he often sat up late, laboriously repairing it. But it was perfect. It fit his personality, and more importantly, his head. It was comfortable, as was his rock, and thus he often found himself awakened to this world only when the sun descended below the brim, turning even the purple and black distance crimson, and he found himself picking his way down the worn and familiar trail in the dark. Alone.
Always alone.
Even at work, even with his brother, the only person in the world who seemed to care, or to remember, even during the many hours in service to the community, he was alone. He was well-liked, one of the hardest workers in the state, bright, open, kind, but what did that matter any more? He made a difference, but nothing made any difference to him. He worked long hours, provided for his immediate needs, spoiled his nieces and the little leaguers at the county park, laid something by for the future, in short, all the things they had taught him at that university, and gave the rest to charity, usually anonymously. He had believed in a purpose beyond life; he hoped desperately; it simply had never found him. The worst of it was the two-fold inability to share it, or indeed anything of himself, with anyone else. Barriers of language and concern blocked intimacy, cut any possible binding cord. On the one hand, there were no words to express the emptiness; on the other, no one really cared. They rushed about their insignificant affairs oblivious, and Jet couldn’t fault them. Were roles reversed he knew there would be no change.
It was fitting, this contemplation of the southeast, with all of life itself stretched out behind him, rivers where he had caught his first, and last, fish, forests where he had seen fawns, owls and so many wildflowers that he had specifically taken a wildflower identification course at that college. And the heavenly scent of ponderosa, reminiscent of vanilla, or perhaps orange, and, if all went well and nature smiled that day, the unmistakable, distant perfume of a foraging skunk. But what was life now? She was unattainable, now. Perhaps always had been. Perhaps an ethereal phantasm—given life only by his fond memories. Certainly after so many years she would be changed. Women always changed, even when they promised they wouldn’t. Some artist, he was never sure who, or even whether he had invented the quote, had declared that those who had imagination, the creators of the world, were never alone. But Jet had never derived any comfort from his daydreams, merely wisdom.
In his all-knowing, vacant-eyed, dedicated youth he had castigated Kierkegaard, debated ferociously against Existentialism, joined the Young Idealists. Now he wished he had been born in an earlier century in Denmark. Soren needed a friend. Jet needed Soren. Or perhaps he simply needed a life so hard, and therefore so busy, that there was no time for stray thoughts, no time for lofty peaks.
Once a circuit minister had spoken of mountain peaks as holy places, where God might be found. Well, either he had been misinformed, or Jet had picked the wrong mountain. God was never at home. In the early years a hawk or two, and a nightjar had made the peak home. But they no longer appeared. It had made him feel significant, being buzzed by a screaming nightjar, and he had found the camouflaged eggs after a diligent search, on a precarious ledge one-quarter way across the saddle, but nothing cared anymore. Not even a gnat or mosquito ever bothered to find Jet on the summit now. Once, long ago, after a rain, Jet had started to count all the colors to the southeast, but had tired of the game somewhere after fifteen hundred, and had never played it again. Dry days and muted color suited him best. Then, it seemed as if at least one piece of the world might possibly understand him, even, in a vaguely impersonal way, empathize with his loss. It was something.
In town Jet went through the motions, wore the mask well, deceived everyone. He had once thought of acting, and it was years later that he realized it had become a lifestyle. It was on the mountain that Jet actually existed. Only here was he human, or alive. And utterly alone. He was that untouched, unapproached, much less climbed, unnoticed, black volcanic spire, always there, casting a significant shadow in the center of the unremarkable and imminently forgettable panorama. Perhaps a wandering, and unseen coyote might find relief in that shortened, noon-time shadow, but he would not ponder its source, nor discern what life might be without that basalt pillar. Jet knew he too would be unremarked were he to fade away, and often he rather wished he might just sit forever, changed like Narcissus, though differently and for a different reason, by a capricious god. Then he could slowly mull over and sort through his dreams, his losses, where he missed the trail, and Cindy. Maybe, given twenty millennia, he might find peace, or even, purpose.
Joel D. Black
JDBlack, aka Mr. Education, tour guide, outdoorsman, educator, grandpa, gardener, and bookworm.
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