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Travels with Georgie, 2.4
Reflections in the mind of George Crocker…
November 23, 2033
‘They want you to kill me’, that was what Michael Topham, Jr said to George Crocker as they prepared to hit the Watauga Lake trailhead and begin the next leg of Crocker’s Appalachian Trail sojourn. If there were words to come out of Junior’s mouth that were less likely to be expected by George, he would never know them.
‘They want me to kill him? Why in the whole-wide-world – why in the entire-greater-PEBAverse of existence, would I – George Crocker, do something such as that?’ George thought to himself – and would continue to think to himself – followed by the obligatory ‘and who are they?’ though he felt pretty sure who they were ‘Mordred… Dandelo’ though he couldn’t imagine why they might want the ‘Bastard’ Borealis ‘owner’ dead – and why they wanted ‘George Crocker – good Ol’ George Crocker – what did I ever do to them, huh?’ to do the dirty deed.
It had been a couple of days – roughly 20-miles, when George and Michael arrived at the Double Springs Shelter, before the conversation became more than just grunts. That first day was a steady climb, from the lake, up along the Iron Mountain ridgeline – passing the Vandeventer Shelter, and opting to camp out in their bivvies further along the trail at Turkey Pen Gap ‘Turkey Pen – DUDE… that’s a perfect name for that young, hot shot catcher at Bakersfield’. It was a long slog – the 10-miles from the lake was a challenge for the heavy-breathing ‘owner’ of the Borealis. Between grunts, Michael Topham, Jr, would eat little and finally go to bed.
‘That’s no way to make it along the trail – nourishment, I say! He’s going to kill himself if he keeps this up!’
The next day, after they crested the Iron Mountain ridge, it was a steady decent to a pair of streams, where Michael Topham stopped, took off his shoes and stuck his tired dogs into the clear water. “Brrrrrrr…” he exclaimed as he pulled his feet out in shock of the cold, and then gingerly tried again, looking to get used to the temperature. It had been an overcast, foggy morning when they began, but it cleared up on the northern side of the pass and despite the chill in the air, it was a nice day – crisp, cool in the shade, but still, a nice day.
George had tried to address the ‘kill me’ comment a couple of times and the best he got was a snort. While Michael Topham, Jr was bootless, he tried again “MTJ… about what you sai…”
“I know, I know, I know – I owe you an explanation.” He quickly cut George Crocker off – no mean fit as the shoe – or boot as it may be, is often on the other foot. “It’s… It’s just…” he struggled for the words.
“Yes…” George walked over and sat down next to Topham – a rare show of compassion from the usually socially-unaware Crocker - but he refused to stick his feet in frozen water ‘he’s going to regret that… numb tootsies on the trail? All no bueno…’
“It’s just… I did something bad. Real Bad. And now it’s coming back to roost.”
George thought roost was something chickens did ‘or is it roosters? Roosters roost and Chickens chick? Is that it?’ “It can’t have been that bad.” George laughed as he often does at uncomfortable things “It’s not like you killed someone...” Then he thought ‘or is it?’
A pregnant pause… then… “I really don’t want to talk about it now – tomorrow. Let us take a rest day tomorrow and I’ll lay it all on the line – but you are not going to like what you hear – I warn you. You just might want to kill me”
The last sentence was lost to George Crocker as he was busy doing the simple mathematics of trail chow in his head – and having determined they had enough to endure a zero, said “OK”.
The remaining four miles of the day – a three-hour climb as they came across a solid, frozen patch in some deep shade that required some deep concentration – always an ‘Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy’ challenge for George, but they eventually reached the shelter at Double Springs – with a very short jaunt to Rich Knob. It was here that George Crocker’s life would change forever.
___________________________
They awoke the next morning to snow on the ground and an angry sky that forebode more to come ‘So much for a peaceful zero’ George thought ‘But hopefully he’ll clue me in to all this kill me stuff’. Although it would not snow on this day – or for the remainder of George Crocker’s trip – be it actual or metaphysical – the wind would make up for it, keeping the ground a pristine white. It was a strong wind. A cold wind. ‘Colder than a witch’s tit’ George thought, though he could never remember holding a ‘witch’s tit’, thus he knew not what temperature they might… hang? His thoughts drifted to Georgiana ‘No… she wasn’t a witch, despite…’ and he let the thought trail off.
What didn’t trail off was a strange sense of familiarity that the day held – perhaps a little de ja vu for George Crocker – despite never having set foot in these mountains. The feeling stayed with him all day – until ‘The Bastard’ Michael Topham, Jr sat next to him with his pack. “We’ll need our trail cups and the pot to boil some water.” He said matter-of-factly. “And we’ll need to pick up some twigs and such to build ourselves a fire.” He stood and headed off along the spur trail that marked the way to the Knob, without looking back.
George quickly gathered his things and followed, picking up dead wood along the way. When he reached the end of the trail – actually it was just a short bushwhack up a gradual climb of about 160-vertical feet, he could see Topham, Jr walking about looking for a spot. Crocker reached the clearing at the top of the knob, where Michael Topham, Jr dropped his gear and head back towards George Crocker and the bare forest behind. As he passed George, he mumbled “More wood…” and continued into the forest. George Crocker followed suit, dropping his gear and load of fire wood and then went back for more.
By the time the sun began its quick decent into darkness – on this day it was just a matter of a dark sky getting darker, they had constructed a crude fire ring underneath a large tree and had a roaring fire going – making the sky darker, but warming their bodies. Michael, Jr dug out of the heat of the fire some coals, piled up some snow in the pot and placed it on the coals. Instantly there was a sizzle and the snow melted, warmed and soon began to boil. Then he pulled his pack towards the fire, fumbling through it until he found what he was looking for “Ah ha!” he exclaimed in hushed tones “This,” he held up a bag of something nondescript “this is what will make tonight easy for both of us; Easy for me to tell a tale and easy – painless, for you to hear it.”
Staring at the bag, George froze – literally, with an inquisitive look. ‘That looks just like… nah… it can’t be…’ he thought ‘It’s just the shadows and the darkness… right…?’ “Whatcha… got there… Topham Hatt?”
“Well, if you must know, it’s leaves and stems of Psychotria viridis and Banisteriopsis caapi.”
“Ps… Ps... Psycho Whatsit and… Bonnie Whosit?” George asked
“You might know it better as Ayahuasca,” Topham replied “it’s an indigenous tea from Peru. It’s harmless, and very good for your consciousness.” He handed the bag to George for inspection.
George Crocker hesitantly took the bag, and shifting his body to get more of the light casted from the fire on the subject, opened the bag and looked in.
His body stiffened.
‘This is the same stuff that was in the back of Hott’s car’ he thought to himself. ‘This is that drug those guys had…right?’
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
Shrugging, Michael Topham, Jr replied “I know people who know people.”
“It was Steve Hott, wasn’t it?” George shook his head in affirmation of his own question “I knew he was a drug-pushing no good… To think I am supposed to meet him up ahead on the trail…”
“That won’t be happening… I guess you didn’t hear?”
George looked up from the bag of ‘drugs’ tea. “What? Did something happen to Hott?”
“The guy nearly froze to death. They had to medi-vac him off Mt. Washington right at the start of the trail.”
Crocker looked at Topham with stern eyes filled with more conviction “These are drugs.” It was not a statement. “I, George Crocker, do not take drugs!” He continued, defensively “George Crocker told those cops back in Mexico I never took a drug in my life and I still don’t!”
“George…” Michael started, “George…” more softly “this isn’t drugs – it’s tea. You’ll see. Give it a chance.” He reached and took the bag from George, poured the contents into the boiling water. After a few minutes he bent over and with his hands drew the steam into his face and breathed heavily of it. “Earthy. Hints of mushroom and grass. If you let it linger, there are tones of Guatemalan coffee.”
All George Crocker could do was stare at the younger man – his boss. ‘He may be my boss, but he’s lost his marbles.’ He thought, followed by ‘has he had a stroke or something? Maybe from climbing these hills?’ followed by ‘what does he think he’s doing? Having a little wine tasting out here in the middle of nowhere…’ It was that last thought that put George off – the thought that he was in the middle of nowhere. He never really had a concern over the isolation these cold mountains provided – not since that first night in the trailer. ‘I’ve hiked 450 miles and not once was I worried – not really’ he continued to think as he watched Topham stir the ‘tea’ and caught whiffs of the liquid evaporating away ‘There are tones of coffee there…’
‘No’ George thought to himself ‘I didn’t experience fear except when those two cops showed up… and when they showed me the drugs – THIS drug, in the back of the car’. “Mikey, are you sure this isn’t…”
He was cut off. “Almost ready. Almost.” Getting up, he went over to his pack and pulled out his sleeping bag and matt. He laid the matt down next to the fire and unzipped the sleeping bag, wrapping it around his shoulders. “You might want to do the same – it’s going to be a long night.”
And so, George followed suit. Once he had settled, Michael took his cup and scooped out some of the ‘tea’, then reached out for George’s cup. Crocker grabbed it – and hesitated, before handing it over. Topham scooped some ‘tea’ into it, and handed it back. George looked in the cup warily, before lifting it to his lips. “Wait!” Topham’s exclamation startled George – almost spilling his ‘tea’. “Wait…” softer this time, as Michael lifted his cup before him, and tilting his head back, he began to chant.
George sat quietly. Stunned by what was coming out of the mouth of Aurora’s owner. ‘He has lost it’ George thought ‘What is this craziness?’ but all he could do was stare as Michael Topham, Jr carried on – cup out front of him, his toe tapping a rhythm – a rhythm that George soon found himself channeling with his head movements, back and forth, slightly up and down.
Then… silence.
Michael Topham lifted his cup upward to the sky, then outward towards George with a nod, then he took a long, slow sip. Then he placed his cup down.
George, unsure what to do, gave Michael a ‘now what’ look, and the response was “Drink”.
So, George Crocker drank.
“The chant,” Topham explained “or icaros, is an important part of the process. It sets the emotional tone. Timothy Leary wrote that ‘set and setting—the physical environment and psycho-emotional state of an individual during a psychedelic experience—are perhaps the most important factors in how beneficial the experience is for a given person’.”
“… Cool…” George said, ‘Timothy Leary? Is this guy looney tunes?’ George thought. George took another sip. “And what Psycho-emotional state are we trying to achieve?” George asked. He was too thrown – too overwhelmed, to ask the really important question – ‘why are we doing this?’
“Drink. Drink the rest of your tea and let me give you another cup. Do you feel the warmth?”
He did, as he downed the rest in a long, sustained swallow, handing Michael his cup with one hand, wiping his mouth with the other. “Yes…” Yes, he did. Very warm in fact. Topham handed him a second cup with a knowing nod, and scooped another for himself.
“Sip it,” he said “let the warmth flow through you. Focus on the warmth. The warmth is the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” George Crocker asked.
“Not to be cliché, but can you handle the truth, George Crocker?”
George was mid-sip and stopped – cup held at his lips. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth. The warmth in his belly and the warmth from the fire, which continued to burn, nice and slow. George lowered his cup and tilted his head back and opened his eyes to a dark sky. ‘No stars, not tonight’ he thought to himself as he turned his attention back to the fire, and then his ‘tea’, which he threw back like a shot of tequila.
“Truth…” as he handed the cup back to Michael Topham, Jr, who obliged him.
Once again George Crocker treated the ‘tea’ like a shot.
“Truth…” again handing the cup to Michael Topham, Jr.
“TRUTH!” George asked; commanded, as he guzzled one last cup of ‘tea’.
If George Crocker had been paying attention, he would have noticed that the ‘bastard’ owner had stopped drinking the tea. In fact, the truth was, he hadn’t even finished his first cup, much less six, as George had. Instead, George Crocker was consumed by the warmth. He was consumed by the darkness that surrounded them on this cold winter’s night. He tried to consume, focus on Michael’s words ‘I was ignored as a kid’ and ‘he gave me a job by guilt’ and ‘they made my sabotage the casino deal’ and ‘Chris always despised Will’ and ‘we set you up’ George looked at Michael Topham as he was handed a seventh cup of tea – but George was looking down on the Aurora owner as he found himself floating above the fire with sparks racing skyward around him sparks spiraling to an unseen player of an unheard instrument emanating from smoke random words now chasing past him gold movies badgers names passing through Unknown doors John Rodriguez Chris Will father signifying nothing he looked through a todash space through Topham and despite the darkness, he saw the soil beneath them rich Money with decayed leaves leaving veins behind Chicken John the eroded rock of edges innumerous to count or measure Ulderico the carcasses of beetles northern ants lights termites Bogota dead birds jail vultures feeding Junior growing expanding upon life from death Senior perhaps deer connect skunks four through all that which was the soil debt and to the underlying milieu of metamorphic rock murder and igneous granite death with hues of pink blue and beyond that a fire that burns for eternity life and stars light so bright they engulf all engulfed George Crocker with a warmth that was safe that was dangerous revenge that was curious restorative that was
“truth… please…”
Michael Topham, Jr looked at George Crocker, to whom he told the truth – four hours of truth telling into the wee hours of the morning, as George sat, swayed to the wind blowing through the branches of leafless trees, a moan here, an unintelligible cry there. He could see it in Crocker’s eyes that the one-time promising star of the Planetary Extreme Baseball Association was ready to handle the whole truth, not just the preamble. The Truth – given on Michael Topham, Jr’s terms – not theirs.
“Yes, George...” he whispered “Are you ready for the truth?”
In a barely audible whisper, that to George sounded like Victoria Falls cascading after a drought-busting downpour – roaring with life; churning with vitality, he replied “… please…”
With eyes closed, Topham took a deep breath - and he told the truth.
“I killed my father.”
Given the truth, George Crocker turned and vomited for the first time.
