For Brian Jones
"Follow The Yellow Brick Road"
Out of America
The ebony tiles shimmered in the flickering candlelight of the China Garden Restaurant. It was the summer solstice in Avon and Nottingham Lake was alive with artisans and craftspeople. Tom glanced across the table at Sara Lacey. Sara’s auburn hair glimmered against the paleness of her skin, her dark eyes flickered as she caught Tom staring at her.
“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Tom reached across the table and held her hand. “I’ve been thinking, thinking of us, how far we’ve come. Do you remember Union College and that small classroom where it all began? I brought you the rose of a color you had never seen, in a blue vase.”
“Yes, I remember. I blushed in front of the class.”
“I was destitute at the time and living above my musician friend’s studio and working with the Institute of Children’s Literature trying to save money. I was heading back to Colorado to research the history of Summit County. Your workshops were a blessing.”
“I knew you were serious. I don’t know if you realize just how intense you get when you focus your attention or should I say you obsess on something.”
“So I have been told. If you remember you were pretty adamant that you didn’t know why I became so obsessed. It is all ancient history,” Tom looked directly at Sara.
“That brings us to now doesn’t it Tom.”
“The thing is,” Tom hesitated. “My friend, Chamonix Steve, has arranged a chalet for me in the Alps in France for next season. I have always wanted to challenge the mountains there. They are everything the Rocky Mountains are and then some. There are five ski resorts in the Chamonix Valley alone. Mont Blanc at over 15,000 feet in elevation has several challenging climbs.”
“Always another mountain, I won’t go with you. I have too much to look forward to in New York, and now readings in Washington, D.C.”
“ In Cortina d'Ampezzo there is a charm to the peaks that manifest the phenomenon of enrosadira, a reddening of the rocks at dawn. The opposite of alpenglow in the Rockies if you will, But more enchanting is the pink color of a pastel that they acquire at noon in the days of May. Sara, we are at the same impasse. Poetry and prose, the same thing can be said about us both. I can’t live, actually, I can’t stay in the cities.”
“I whither away and shrink in the cold and mountains.”
“And I’ve been a blathering idiot in the flatlands. You can never go back. What we had once was more than some ever have. We are from two separate worlds and they will always remain that way.”
“At least it didn’t turn into a Romeo and Juliet syndrome and you didn’t die and I am not going to follow you into it.”
Tom smiled, “I would have expected you to wax poetic here. What do you always say? It makes for hard living, but it makes for very good writing.”
“So you do listen.”
“I have an arsenal of Sara Lacey witticisms. Some day I may just use them. Steal, Steal, Steal. Speaking of stealing Ms. Lacey did I read a line ‘Nothing in Moderation’ in your last work? You actually stole a line about the Motto of Arapahoe Basin for one of your poems.”
Sara picked up her glass and feigned tossing her water at Tom.
“What do you say? We take a leisurely drive to the house. It’s a beautiful evening and we have been down this road.”
“Let’s change, change the narrative.”
“I agree we will never see poetry and prose and mountains in the same light.
Tom shifted the Ferrari into reverse and slipped out of the parking lot. It was warm, brisk and cool, Colorado evening. He shifted quickly and slid to a stop at the exit of Avon Center.
“ Now, there’s a classic example of success for you,”
“What? What are you talking about Tom?”
“Right there that statue of Casey from Mudville- a brilliant man turned sculptor, dead asphyxiation in his garage. Alcohol – damn bloody alcohol the worst drug ever invented- pacification for everything- people and politics-.”
Tom shifted as the light changed. He slid around the corner. He accelerated quickly and braked slightly as he hit the tracks before the bridge called “Bob” and over the Eagle River.
“Please slow down.”
“Sorry, it is just so easy to go fast.”
“Why must you always push everything to the limit?”
He let the engine idle. He sat at the light of the entrance to Beaver Creek Resort. He glanced across the road and up at the World Alpine Championship Sign. The distinctive Beaver Creek logo with its large BC crossed. He turned and looked over at her hair shimmering in the moonlight, silhouetted against the interior of the car. The evening was comfortable and cool. The light changed and he started again, only to stop at the sentry post.
“Good Evening Mr. Dillon,” her light green sport shirt tucked tightly into her blue shorts.
“Good Evening to you Theresa.”
The Ferarri’s back end sat low as the tires spun out at the Sentry Gate. Tom shifted rapidly as he began the steep ascent up above the Beaver Creek Transit Center and the free day skier lot. He climbed rapidly and down shifted for the sharp hairpin curve at the 7th hole of the golf course. He slipped to the right as he began the long straight away that would bring him to the Inn at Beaver Creek, and toward the reddish stucco of Strawberry Park. He was still accelerating, when Sara slapped his arm.
Tom slowed considerably as he drove past the grey stone of the Beaver Creek Chapel. He looked cautiously at the large dark wooden door. The black hinges faintly visible. How many A.A. meetings with Betty Ford? Tom thought of the afternoons and the rushing waters of Beaver Creek and long walks with her. The sound of the rushing spring waters had comforted and soothed him. The small leaded crystal glass casting an eerie glimmer on the stone walkway. He slowed almost to a snail's crawl. The full moon flickered in the vibration of his rear view mirror. He had thought he had come home. It had been a long road. He had mistaken admiration for love in their early years together. It had been before everything happened, before his endless wanderings had brought him here.
He had stopped, confused and disillusioned with his life. He had remembered Beaver Creek. Skiing off the loss, he had spent the winter. It had meant everything to him. He had skied all the out of bounds places at Vail he could find, places like the chutes in East Vail. Purposely he had cut across in front of hanging cornices. He had slipped off into the trees without any thoughts of what lay in them, wanting it to end, silently, swiftly, in a sea of white silence.
Now he was going to leave it all again. The cars didn’t matter, the house didn’t matter, nothing on God’s green earth mattered. She mattered, but he couldn’t stay or as she would have said wouldn’t stay.
She looked at him. The man she always knew he could be or hoped he would become. They had come so far in such very different worlds and their worlds would never be one.
He turned left onto Elk Track Court. Driving slowly down the wide paved streets, he passed the recently gutted stone mansion. The mansion was gutted by an oil barren. He turned into his drive across from Gerald Ford’s. The garage door opened slowly and he pulled in and parked among his car collection. He jumped out quickly and ran to her side of the car, opening the door. She stepped out slowly and he embraced her, pinning her to the side of the car, her hands warm and burning his back.
“I’ve wanted this forever,” he said.
“A lifetime and then some," she replied in a husky voice. “Are you really going to Europe?”
“Yes, I can’t go back Sara. I can’t stay here, without you either. There is nothing here.”
“What is there? No! Don’t answer, I know what, another mountain to climb, I will meet you in Europe, at least we will aways have Chamonix.”Kyrie Eleison, Mr. Mister
I'M Your Captain/Closer To Home, Grand Funk Railroad
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