Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

cave in a sand dune?”
    “O ye of little faith,” said Brian.
    “Really, though.”
    “I think it’s more like a rock ledge with…you know…a space under it.”
    “What did the wise old hippie tell you?”
    Brian ignored this gentle poke and kept trudging ahead. The path began to wind upwards again until we reached a paved road running along the edge of the canyon. We took the road up the hill for a while, then Brian stopped in his tracks and peered down into the abyss with the nervous, beady-eyed gaze of a terrier spotting a rabbit.
    “That’s it,” he said.
    “What’s it?”
    “See that ledge down there? I think it’s beneath that.”
    “And how are we supposed to get there?” It wasn’t a sheer drop-off, but the slope was steep and unstable-looking and riddled with briars.
    “You don’t have to go,” Brian said. “I’ll scout it out first.”
    “Sure thing, kemo sabe .”
    So I watched from the road as Brian made his wobbly way down the slope toward his own private Holy Grail. Each time his stick struck the ground, it set off a little avalanche of pebbles and dirt. “Be careful,” I said nervously. “It looks shaky.”
    No sooner had I spoken than Brian hit a patch of loose ground and landed on his ass, luging his way downhill into a thicket so dense that I lost sight of him completely. It sounds comical—it was, in fact, for a little while—but something told me not to laugh.
    “Brian?”
    There was no reply—and no sign of movement in the undergrowth.
    I scooted down the slope with a growing sense of dread. “Jesus, Brian.”
    Nothing.
    I swatted at the briars with my walking stick until I could see him. He was still on his back, his face crisscrossed with fine red lines. He was not moving at all.
    “Oh, fuck, Brian…oh no, Jesus…”
    “Get a grip,” he said.
    I made a peculiar sound that was somewhere between laughter and groaning, then crawled through the hole I’d made with my stick. “Are you all right?”
    “Do I look all right?”
    “I mean…can you move?”
    “I think I hit a rock with my foot. It feels like I’ve been hobbled.”
    That term meant only one thing to me—Kathy Bates in Misery, looming over James Caan with her sledgehammer—so I glanced down at Brian’s sneakered feet with considerable trepidation. Neither one, however, seemed to be lying at an unusual angle.
    “It’s the right one,” said Brian.
    I squeezed through the briars on my hands and knees to get a closer look. His ankle did seem to be swelling. I tugged his socks down gently.
    “Ow! Fuck! Ow!”
    “Sorry.” It was all too clear that even with my assistance Brian would never make it up to the road, so I took off my backpack and started digging through it.
    Brian wrinkled his brow at me. “Don’t tell me you brought a first-aid kit.”
    “Even better,” I said, holding up my cell phone.
    I was about to dial 911 when I remembered that the medical center was only a few hundred yards through the woods, so I called Jake instead and explained the situation, giving him our exact location. I knew he would welcome this manly challenge, and he sprang to action like a commando. “Stay cool,” he said. “I got it covered, boss.”
    “He’s running to the emergency room,” I explained to Brian afterward.
    He was up on his elbows now, already looking embarrassed. “That’s not necessary. I’m perfectly—”
    “Lie the fuck down,” I said. “Stop being such a guy.”
    Brian obeyed with a grunt. The deep scratches on his face had started to run, forming a road map across his features. I fumbled in my backpack again.
    “What’s that?” he asked as I started to dab at the blood.
    “A Wash ’n Dri.”
    “Jesus, you’re a fag.”
    “I brought it for lunch. Do you want an Orangina?”
    “I can’t drink it lying down.”
    “Sit up, then. But do it slowly.”
    He sat up and took the bottle from me. “Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome. How bad does it hurt?”
    “Bad.”
    “Do you want a turkey sandwich?”
    He shrugged. “What the hell.”
    We both munched on sandwiches in silence while we waited to be rescued.
    Finally, Brian said, “The cave should be right over there.”
    “Fuck the cave,” I told him.

18
    Close Enough
    S o there we were, curtained off from the world, waiting for a doctor. Brian was flat on a gurney, growing maudlin on painkillers; I sat next to him in a white plastic chair, hypnotized by the low hum of fluorescent lights. Our wilderness epic had