Same River Twice
by A.E. Weisgerber
Author's Note: I get caught up in how Eagle conveys his love for characters when he puts them in old run-down places, then packages them like gifts in boxes of light. An apartment door opens to reveal a full-on smile. A wife, illuminated in a night window, works at her sewing. Dreamers and bums, crammed into truck cabs, cluttered kitchens, and tight trailers. In this story, a mother drifts in a world she does not control, but the light hits her, us too, when she climbs into a Pennellesque landscape. Here, she remembers being seen in a photograph, a big blown-up box of light. Maybe, were this tale to continue, one of Pennell's characters could find my gal and tug on her sleeve, tell her to stop thinking of what's past. Tell her how people have long, hard days, and what those days require are a strong back and good arms and legs. Love what you've got. - A
Everyone up with a grunt. Breakfast at Smitty's. We pushed a clipboard around and signed death waivers. Argo Expeditions—embodied by a checked-shirt and straw-hat driver with huge special-ops prismatic sunglasses—pulled up at 7.
We arrived at 7:10, forked over those waivers. The passengers mustered: a couple from Wisconsin, a girl from Nintendo, two friends (Tulsa, New York) who came via a dude ranch. Tulsa said The Marlboro man is buried there. New York said It’s a winery. Jason is in charge. He hands over the stack of waivers to the secretary, who transports them beyond the microwave. There’s a bleached blond, Ben, with Maori Disk tattoos on both upper arms, then there’s Brian, a criminal law and justice grad student from Florida, and Adam from Montana, who’s in training for river-running. My five's got the only kids.
Everyone put on a life vest and threw a leg over the gunwale.
My gang was first to take advantage of swimming alongside the raft. The current was too strong. I was pretty nervous, having signed death waivers made me feel vulnerable, but we lashed ourselves via vest buckles. We floated for a while holding hands like otters. I assured my children that nobody’s death waiver was getting punched today. We had a laugh at that, punching each other in the arm. We were getting pruny. We eventually flagged the raft down where the Dolores feeds the Colorado. They were sure glad to see us.
Rapids came next. There was Little Dee, Ladder, Funnel, Skull. Jason told us his trainee Adam was going to learn how important it was to make those must-make moves.
“Because,” Jason said making us all think of poor Adam’s waiver, “if he hits the rock of shock, or, even worse, lands himself in the room of doom, then it’s all over.” Jason sounded like a clown. I told Jason he should rename them all Death Waiver. My kids said knock it off ma, nobody gets you.
Adam did fine.
We stepped out of the river at Cicero, a place with two upturned palms, one horse, and five thousand rusted out chassis. Have to wonder if the one is here.
I never saw the forensics photos displayed in court, but I heard mine was there. The attorney called the one with me in it “the scene-setter.” The blow-up poster showed one car atop the other, a white sheet draped limp and heavy over the driver’s door. Part of a roofing ladder visible on the right. A girl in a crisp rescue squad shirt sits on the curb with her face in her hands. That’s me. My crew chief, gosh Jerry wasn’t much older than me, had his arm around my shoulder. We called the time of death to the dispatcher. The ambulance gurney, unsprung and set low, seemed embarrassed and empty.
When we stepped out of the river, which was low and cool, it was like stepping into a blast furnace. It was 115-degrees in the shade. I stepped out of the river, tired. I looked at the state of Cicero. I told Jason I heard when The Argo came home, it was gone for so long and mended so many times that it was not the same boat at all.
A. E. Weisgerber (1964 - ) was born in Orange, New Jersey to middle-class parents. She is a Frost Place Scholar and Reynolds Journalism Fellow. Her prose, poetry, and essays appear in From Fibs to Fractals: Exploring Mathematical Forms in Poetry, 3:AM Magazine, DIAGRAM, The Zoetrope Cafe Story Machine, Neutral Spaces, Many Loops, The Alaska Star, and The Deadlands. She reads for the annual Wigleaf Top 50 list. Follow @aeweisgerber or visit anneweisgerber.com
by A.E. Weisgerber
Author's Note: I get caught up in how Eagle conveys his love for characters when he puts them in old run-down places, then packages them like gifts in boxes of light. An apartment door opens to reveal a full-on smile. A wife, illuminated in a night window, works at her sewing. Dreamers and bums, crammed into truck cabs, cluttered kitchens, and tight trailers. In this story, a mother drifts in a world she does not control, but the light hits her, us too, when she climbs into a Pennellesque landscape. Here, she remembers being seen in a photograph, a big blown-up box of light. Maybe, were this tale to continue, one of Pennell's characters could find my gal and tug on her sleeve, tell her to stop thinking of what's past. Tell her how people have long, hard days, and what those days require are a strong back and good arms and legs. Love what you've got. - A
Everyone up with a grunt. Breakfast at Smitty's. We pushed a clipboard around and signed death waivers. Argo Expeditions—embodied by a checked-shirt and straw-hat driver with huge special-ops prismatic sunglasses—pulled up at 7.
We arrived at 7:10, forked over those waivers. The passengers mustered: a couple from Wisconsin, a girl from Nintendo, two friends (Tulsa, New York) who came via a dude ranch. Tulsa said The Marlboro man is buried there. New York said It’s a winery. Jason is in charge. He hands over the stack of waivers to the secretary, who transports them beyond the microwave. There’s a bleached blond, Ben, with Maori Disk tattoos on both upper arms, then there’s Brian, a criminal law and justice grad student from Florida, and Adam from Montana, who’s in training for river-running. My five's got the only kids.
Everyone put on a life vest and threw a leg over the gunwale.
My gang was first to take advantage of swimming alongside the raft. The current was too strong. I was pretty nervous, having signed death waivers made me feel vulnerable, but we lashed ourselves via vest buckles. We floated for a while holding hands like otters. I assured my children that nobody’s death waiver was getting punched today. We had a laugh at that, punching each other in the arm. We were getting pruny. We eventually flagged the raft down where the Dolores feeds the Colorado. They were sure glad to see us.
Rapids came next. There was Little Dee, Ladder, Funnel, Skull. Jason told us his trainee Adam was going to learn how important it was to make those must-make moves.
“Because,” Jason said making us all think of poor Adam’s waiver, “if he hits the rock of shock, or, even worse, lands himself in the room of doom, then it’s all over.” Jason sounded like a clown. I told Jason he should rename them all Death Waiver. My kids said knock it off ma, nobody gets you.
Adam did fine.
We stepped out of the river at Cicero, a place with two upturned palms, one horse, and five thousand rusted out chassis. Have to wonder if the one is here.
I never saw the forensics photos displayed in court, but I heard mine was there. The attorney called the one with me in it “the scene-setter.” The blow-up poster showed one car atop the other, a white sheet draped limp and heavy over the driver’s door. Part of a roofing ladder visible on the right. A girl in a crisp rescue squad shirt sits on the curb with her face in her hands. That’s me. My crew chief, gosh Jerry wasn’t much older than me, had his arm around my shoulder. We called the time of death to the dispatcher. The ambulance gurney, unsprung and set low, seemed embarrassed and empty.
When we stepped out of the river, which was low and cool, it was like stepping into a blast furnace. It was 115-degrees in the shade. I stepped out of the river, tired. I looked at the state of Cicero. I told Jason I heard when The Argo came home, it was gone for so long and mended so many times that it was not the same boat at all.
A. E. Weisgerber (1964 - ) was born in Orange, New Jersey to middle-class parents. She is a Frost Place Scholar and Reynolds Journalism Fellow. Her prose, poetry, and essays appear in From Fibs to Fractals: Exploring Mathematical Forms in Poetry, 3:AM Magazine, DIAGRAM, The Zoetrope Cafe Story Machine, Neutral Spaces, Many Loops, The Alaska Star, and The Deadlands. She reads for the annual Wigleaf Top 50 list. Follow @aeweisgerber or visit anneweisgerber.com
