up his hippie flower-child bride and baby, and went back to college. In time, he had his law school degree. But he never forgot the mountains. No matter what case he was working on, no matter what the trouble, he could move his thoughts to the sound of the old wood stove and the breathtaking sight of the stars at night, and relax. The mountains were always close to Ronnie. There were many times when he felt like leaving his home, his Jaguar, his Mercedes, his kids with their motorbikes and surfboards, and returning to the mountains. But he never did. He settled for this week, his week with the old guys, converted like him.
Ronnie walked into the bar and saw the back of Bill’s head. He sat down without speaking and looked at his old friend. Bill smiled and the two men looked at each other. After a few moments, they shook hands. Bill waved for another beer.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Bill toasted. Their glasses clanked and they chugged the beer. Both laughed, stood, and hugged each other.
“How are the kids?” Bill asked.
Ronnie chuckled, “One smokes pot, but not like us. He just does it … you know. When we started, it was a cause, something, remember?”
Bill agreed silently.
“One kid likes pills and the other is going to grow up and make a bundle selling coke.”
Bill laughed, “Sounds like my crew. I tell the oldest, if he thinks he can get ahead selling drugs, he better think about it.” Bill leaned closer to Ronnie, “But if he does, I’ll let him build up, then I’ll rip him off myself, and retire up here.” Both men laughed.
“No, seriously,” Ronnie continued, “kids are fine, good kids. They would never guess that we used to live up here, smoke grass and live off the land.”
Both men kept their thoughts hidden. Life had been so easy back then, so simple. It was only a matter of where your head was that made the world. The lesson had been well-learned, though, never to be forgotten. The world was bigger than they were. Their peckers had, indeed, gotten them in trouble.
“How is the fire business?” Ronnie asked.
“Jesus,” Bill spoke, “let me tell you about the blonde I pulled out of an apartment with the crotchless panties. Finger lickin’ good.”
Ronnie moved his hand for two more beers. “I see Saavedra still owns the bar. I wonder where he finds these girls.” Ronnie watched the tits of the barmaid as they bounced toward them. “What they need is a wet T-shirt night.”
“What they really need is herpes, like California,” Bill laughed.
For a few moments they said nothing. Both were content as they realized how fast the year had passed. Another year, a year that seemed like nothing. It was funny, everything except the mountains, the fishing, and the trip seemed to be the dream of their lives. It made no sense.
Bill poked Ronnie with his elbow, “I have some Afghani that will do the trick this year.”
Ronnie rolled his eyes back, “Good, I have some coke that is at least sixty percent mannitol.” Both men laughed and took another slug of beer.
“God, it’s good to see you,” Ronnie spoke.
At that moment, Riley Page entered the bar, all five feet eight inches of him. Dressed in Levis and a western shirt, he looked like a short version of the Marlboro Man. When they had first met, Riley was fresh out of Vietnam. The first year he lived in the mountains, he couldn’t get it up unless the girl put on a camouflage T-shirt. He was plagued with recurring dreams that it was all built on the side, and a constant fear that he would develop syphilis when he was old.
Both Ronnie and Bill jumped up, and the three men danced in a small circle. They began to chant — big tits — big tits — big tits. The bar girls smiled and brought them a round of beer. During the greeting, two cowboys came into the bar and sat at the far end. Both looked tired, smelled of cow shit, and looked like yesterday’s windstorm. Ronnie, Bill, and Riley paid them no mind. There was nobody in their world, only them, the beer, and the big tits on the bar girls.
“Fuckin’ Saavedra still finds ’em,” Riley spoke, spilling beer down his chin. After the hippie phase of his life, Riley had gone back to school and received a degree in photography. He got a job teaching at the University in Denver and spent his time fucking young college girls. He still was not married.
“Listen,” he would say, “you can have your kids, your wives, your responsibility. No steady squeeze for this kid. I’ll take my chances getting herpes.”
There was nothing finer to Riley than the beginning of the new school year, and the anticipation of which young coed would be sitting in the front row. He counted beavers like some people counted the fish they caught. But the highlight of each year was this week in the mountains. Whatever else Riley was, he loved the mountains. The dreamer, the veteran, the photographer. He was constantly on the search to make life more than it was.
The three men sat at the bar. By nine there were over half-a-dozen other customers staring at the girls through the cloud of cigarette smoke.
Riley looked out the window into the darkness. “Frank is usually here by now,” he spoke to himself more than to the others.
Everyone looked nervously at each other until Bill told a joke, “You heard about the new DeLorean car? You drive around the street until the white lines disappear.”
“That reminds me, anybody want a toot?” Ronnie asked, not laughing. Riley nooded his head and took the folded paper as Ronnie handed it to him under the bar.
As Riley walked off, Ronnie looked at Bill, “You know, the bathroom has become, in modern times, the most active area of any party or restaurant. Have you noticed how many people go to the bathroom with somebody else?”
Bill scratched his head, “I wonder what will be next on the list of recreational drugs that blow your mind.”
Ronnie sipped his beer, “I don’t know, but whatever it is, I hope a lot of it grows in my back yard.”
Riley walked by the assorted cowboys and Mexicans along the bar. Inside the bathroom, he locked the door and opened the folded wrapper. Taking his knife from his belt, he dipped the point in the white powder and placed it under his nose. He inhaled, made a face, and repeated the process. He folded the paper carefully and went back to the bar. Sitting back down by Ronnie, he slipped the paper back to him.
“Jesus, you buy the worst shit I have ever snorted. That must be at least sixty percent mannitol.”
Ronnie shook his head, “That’s what I figured.”
Bill put his hand under the bar, “Let me have some of that shit.”
Bill made his way past the line of onlooking Mexicans and cowboys. One nodded, one smirked, and one drank his beer. Inside the bathroom, Bill opened the paper carefully, poked his finger in the pile, and then rubbed his gums. He had heard that this was better, no chance of burning holes in your nose. Walking back past the line of beer drinkers, nobody looked.
After he sat down, he handed the paper back to Ronnie, “Riley is right,” he spoke, “that stuff is terrible.”
“Sugar rush better than no rush,” Ronnie chirped.
By ten in the evening,
