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Love is all around, no need to waste it

--Sonny Curtis

KEVIN

I'd been meaning to get away for a while.

Sometimes I think I've spent too much time being stressed out between work and school, but I know it's all for the better and that some day all the work I'm doing will matter. At least, I hope so. My parents had always wanted better for me, so the fact that I ended up at community college after barely graduating high school didn't give them the highest of opinions of me. Who knows, maybe someday I'll make something of myself. As much as they want it for me, I'm not really as concerned about where my career is heading as I used to be. I guess as you grow up you start to realize there are more important things to think about than pushing harder. Things like enjoying little pretty things.

I'll admit that one of my weaknesses has always been the soothing and quiet places I know and seem to return to so frequently. If you consider all the tourist traps out there, just imagine how many quiet little hidden spaces there are that have just as much beauty that are waiting to be discovered. There's thousands of miles of beaches, deep forests, desert-borne oases... I find myself thinking about these places a lot. Maybe it's a form of escape, or maybe a wishful longing. It's the little quiet places that keep me going when I can hardly stand to put pencil to page and squeeze out one more word. Those are the places where I let go of all the stress when I need a break before I break. Those pictures I take? Those are my way of capturing the moment and taking a little of it home with me.

It was one of those days when I just had to take a break when I found myself staring out the window at my Ford Ranger. As many miles as I've put on that thing, I can't help but laugh a little each time I crank the engine and it starts up like it did the day I bought it from that old guy who'd just bought his first Mercedes. He was so proud, and so was I. I've put a lot of work into it since then with the help of a few friends, but it's still amazing how it runs so well. I guess I've taken pretty good care of it, really. That was four years ago, back in '94. I still remember that.

It was a Sunday and I'd gotten up early to finish a report on Ansel Adams, one of my easier papers, and to watch the sun rise. The sun rise was for inspiration, though I really didn't need it. The man had a way of capturing feelings in silver shades that said far more than words ever could. If a picture is worth a thousand words at least, his must be worth more than all the words in the dictionary. Sure, anyone can point a camera at something and push a button. Technology's come a long way since the forties, though. Much of the work has been taken out of making a work of art, so while you can call a picture taken with a point and shoot digital camera art, I wouldn't call it a work of art. That's why my favorite has always been my Nikkormat FTN.

The FTN was an important camera in its age. It allowed aspiring photographers to use all those great lenses that were available for more expensive cameras at a less expensive price point. It was, and still is, practical and functional and it produces pictures that are often less than perfect, even when operated by the most steady of hands. I think the little imperfections are what I like the most. While the camera was remarkably easy to use for its time, by today's standards it would be considered too much work for most hobby photographers. I could go on about it all day but I won't because I have more important things to talk about.

Orange and purple behind the truck, the sun crept up between the wheels like a drowsy toddler greeting his mother at the side of his crib, shy and reserved but ready for the world. I was ready too, excited about getting on the road and going for a relaxing drive. Time to think, then time to relax once I reached my destination. I'd never get there if I sat there staring wistfully at the sunrise, I thought, and if I wanted to get there by late morning when it was still cool I'd have to get going. It was early August and the summer had been a particularly hot and dry one. One day it was over a hundred, another of my break days. I prepared for my trip in the usual way by collecting my keys and wallet, a Coleman cooler jug full of iced water and a few tapes to listen to. Crosby Stills & Nash, Neil Young and Yes. I don't know why I always took several tapes with me, since I'd usually listen to the same tape over and over. I guess it was in case I decided I wanted to switch.

Sitting down in the cold fabric seat of the truck I was harshly reminded of what it was I'd been working so hard for. Ah yes, that little voice in the back of my head said. Heated leather seats. My mind went back to the old guy and his Mercedes. Many times I'd wondered what he'd done to earn that car. "It's my first one," he'd said as he tossed me the keys for his former truck. "Take 'er for a spin. Hell, just take off with 'er, no charge," he'd said with the smile of a juvenile. Sometimes I'm amazed at the capacity people have for generosity.

He could have charged me the two thousand dollars from the ad and I wouldn't have tried to negotiate a lower price. I had the money saved already and even if he did have a Mercedes, how was I to know that wasn't his sole possession? The cold frustration melted away and I smiled to the former baby sun, now half grown and shining down on me with a promise of unforgiving heat, shouldn't I get on the road soon. I was glad the air conditioner in the truck worked well, but I didn't want to use it if I didn't have to. I pulled in my leg and shut the door, starting "her" up and pulling out into the empty street, shifting for comfort against the vibrations of the changing gears creeping up my spine.

I was never one to name things like cars or boats, but I figured since the old guy had spoken of the truck as "her," it would be proper to give "her" a name, and so during the thinking stage of my first driving trip to the Falls, I chose "Donna," after Richy Valens' woefully lost love. At times I wondered if the former owner of the truck ever thought about Donna while his hands were caressing the new, full-grain leather steering wheel of his Mercedes and it made me grin. I was sure he'd owned many vehicles before this poor old truck, and certainly the Mercedes wouldn't be his last, but they say you never forget your first car and since the truck was my first, I wanted something to remember "her" by when she was gone. Oh, Donna.

I took the ramp onto I-84 as the electric intro to Just A Song Before I Go came around, whistling along to the familiar tune playing on one speaker (the other had given out shortly after I'd taken possession of Donna) and I breathed a sigh of relief as the city grew smaller and, after some time, began to fade behind me. It was times like those that my mind shifted much more than the gears of the truck while I sorted out my thoughts to the sounds of my favorite tunes and the hypnotic hum of the tires trading harmonic control. A half hour of tension and rapid flashing of thoughts would be followed by a day of relaxation and photography at the Falls.

SHELLY

I don't remember how I got there. I think someone dropped me off there after they'd gotten tired of my riding along. Wait, no, that's not it. I was riding with this nice guy in a sweet Mercedes, said he was on his way to The Dalles, something about tracking down an old girlfriend. I saw the signs for the old historic Columbia River Highway and remembered seeing something about Multnomah Falls in the Oregon travel brochures. It must be something worth checking out if they'd dedicate a whole two pages to it, right? Besides that, I thought I might meet someone nice there to have lunch with or whatever. The mind wanders, you know. When I got there I found a lot more people than I expected to see.

Before we get into that, though, I'd like to tell you a bit about myself. Things will make more sense once you know a few things about me, in particular that I am a skiltaire. Zap rat, love weezil, we get a lot of funny names from the pinkies but I'm sure you've seen us around. We've been around for a long time but no one really seemed to notice us until the sixties; you know, the Summer of Love. Imagine that? Most people who know about skiltaire know about the usual stereotypes. But the reason no one really noticed us until the sixties is a hot topic among some group that I don't really pay attention to. Something about resource consumption and laws applying only to humans, but that's another topic altogether. I was going to talk about me.

My name is Shelly, I'm aquatic and like most skiltaire I drift between family groups and solitary lifestyle. I love visual stimulation and I travel a lot to see new things. Many of the things I travel to see are related to water in some way, though I'm not sure if it's because I'm aquatic or because it's expected that I should like water monuments because of my type.

Throughout this story Kevin and I will trade off telling parts. He's a bit more wordy than I am and tends to use a lot of metaphors and phrases about infinite trees and burning colours and such. That's probably a big part of why he's such a swell guy. He appeals to my visual lust with words. It was a big deal when we met and I've gone on a bit of a tangent, so lets get back to the story now.

I'm not a picky woozle when it comes to travel. I've ridden in boxcars and cargo holds in pet carriers; slept for days in bus and train seats and I've even been carried in a back pack. It was a large back pack, believe me! You couldn't fit this much skiltaire into a normal-sized backpack. Though, that's not to say I don't enjoy traveling in style.

This guy, the one I rode with from California, had a large silver car with air conditioning and a decent stereo. It's too bad he listened to the sports channels all the way up from California, though I did learn an awful lot about baseball, basketball and hockey. For example, did you know that in baseball it's traditional for the fans to get up and stretch before the seventh inning? Pretty weird if you consider the sedentary nature of humans watching things, in general. The guy I was riding with was no exception to this rule. He focused on "the game" for most of the trip and almost never talked to me. When he did, it was like he was talking to a dog, or someone who couldn't talk back. No big deal, I just gave him what he wanted. I smiled and wagged my little tail and pretended to be oblivious.

I invited the guy to stop off and visit the Falls with me. He said he'd seen them many times before and that he was anxious to continue on his quest to find his lost love. I thought it was funny at the time so I smiled and laughed, but after a few years and a few soul searching moments of my own when I think about the laughing I think maybe I should have nodded solemnly instead. He seemed surprised I was traveling without any luggage, so I explained that as a small weasel there wasn't much I could carry that would be useful and that most of it was already attached. He laughed at that as I hopped out of the car, so I think that made us even.

What was more surprising than the number of people at the park was the lack of parking spaces. I wasn't sure how that many people could cram into such a small space without a nearly equal number of cars until I looked down the highway and saw cars parked all along the sides. Some of them were parked at awkward angles and boxing in other cars; most of those had California plates. An observation I'd made while traveling from California to Oregon is that the further you move north, the more angry visiting Californians become until finally they're parking their cars in the middle of the street as you reach the Canadian border. It probably doesn't help that their vehicles are so large. Something they could stand to learn from skiltaire is that a vehicle only needs to be large enough to contain the occupants.

Though not particularly fond of being contained myself, I'd allowed it for most of my road travels, in some cases due to the kindness of my friends and in part with the kindness of generous or modestly paid strangers. Fortunately I had plenty of cash to carry with me because I was starkly lacking in grass and while I had plenty of ass for the giving I wasn't particularly interested in the giving to many of my road mates. That's not to say I'd turn all of them away, but bath time was way up there on my list of requirements. I'd traveled with a few meth tainted truckers who drove way too fast and at least one whose grabby hands were rewarded with a taste of the eel appeal. Zap. Oh by the way, you probably don't want to piss off a drugged up trucker on a long dark stretch of highway in the middle of the night.

So there I was at the base of Multnomah Falls looking up at the wispy horse tail stream cascading down and reminding me I had to piss. I scampered up to the public toilets and considered myself fortunate they'd been kind enough to redesign them for lower-slung quasi-members of society such as myself with the receptacle equipment extending down to the floor. Purge and then a nap, I thought. I had already been swaying a bit to the sound of the falls washing over the rocks and if it hadn't been for the nagging urge I probably would have found a nice place to curl up for a nap right away. I ignored the usual hoots and squeaks and hey cuties from the various other skiltaire who were there to visit, some with their human companions, others with more skiltaire. It was a beautiful post-cold day. Hold your breath, I thought, get it done and get out. Those places are always so nasty.

Sometimes I think it's funny where people put their priorities. Here you have this beautiful state monument built around a nice little waterfall, then you have the public toilets that smell like thousands of people. You'd think they'd have some sort of automated cleaning system instead of just letting it go like that, but the way they balance their resources is precarious and has been set firmly through centuries of practice. That particular problem, I think, has something to do with peoples' need to feel isolated while purging. I've been told that many people can't even get it done if they don't feel completely solitary. Anytime you have four walls, you see, there's plenty of space for nasty stuff to gather. So I got my work done and got out of there.

KEVIN

Shelly's always thought of me as the quiet and introspective type, but I see myself as more outgoing. I think it's because his species doesn't have the same preconceived notions we earthbound humans have. They have and do exist in many places humans have never heard of, some of which we're not entirely capable of perceiving yet, had we ever seen them or heard of them. I think that's a part of why skiltaire were largely ignored for a long time.

On earth, we always thought that having aliens visit would be a grand event with a lot of creepy music as prelude to a gigantic vessel landing in the middle of a major city. We practiced for it with uncounted books, movies, radio plays and other fictional material. What we didn't expect was that none of our equipment was designed to track skiltaire ships, nor did we expect a small vessel with only three skiltaire to land, as the story goes, on the corner of a Californian suburb intersection. We always assumed that the first words spoken by aliens would be something like "take me to your leader" or "we come in peace," when in fact, I've been told, the first greeting was more like "hey, how's it going?"

This woozle is a fine example of his species, I've been told, by Shelly himself many times. It's true as far as I can tell, but aren't they all? Usually it's unfair to judge an entire race based on the actions and habits of one, but it's generally agreed upon by both humans and skiltaire that the skiltaire tend to operate as a viral collective, not so much like the Borg of Star Trek lore but more like a pan-universal social network. In as much, they're not as susceptible to viral marketing, fads, trends or the notion of popularity or the lack of such since they're capable of inferring intelligence about objects and situations using the feelings of everyone else who has encountered those things or situations; there are no fads and there is no fashion, no one has any advantage over anyone else, there's no competition within the species and so there's no selective elimination. This is the specie's only problem.

There's no selective elimination -- the two factors that make skiltaire able to thrive as a race are their ability to find new societies to play host and provide resources and the complexity of their reproductive rituals. That's not to say that the act itself, for them, is in some way complicated. In fact it works almost exactly the same for skiltaire as it does for humans, but reproduction is voluntary and requires a very strong emotional and psycho-kinetic bond between the male and female. Although any male and female can reproduce physically, as Shelly has explained to me the combination of genetic components is done manually through a psy link like an incredibly complicated jigsaw puzzle; it can require hundreds of attempts, and it has to be completed perfectly or it doesn't work at all. Since reproduction can't be completed unless it is done perfectly, every skiltaire is genetically perfect, eliminating the possibility of one being born at a disadvantage. Some skiltaire may try to reproduce with many companions over their life span but never "get it together," as they put it. That doesn't mean skiltaire are super beings, however.

If you don't believe me you should hear Shelly's "if you cut me do I not bleed" speech sometime. I think that's the gist of the joke when Shelly says he's a "fine example of his species." It's his quirky sense of humor that has always kept my patience stable with him, but it wasn't that aspect of his personality that got us together. I was completely straight before we met, but I wouldn't say he changed my orientation. It could be said that people make exceptions to the most steadfast rules if the situation is right, so you could say that I'm "straight but not narrow." Though, even that wasn't true before I met that weasel.

It was one of those spring mornings when everyone in Oregon was out doing something if they weren't trapped inside working. Those who were chained to a desk were likely daydreaming about mountain climbing, hiking or smoking something; perhaps a combination of those activities. On days like those it's hard to find a spot to park at any outdoor recreation area. As Shelly is fond of pointing out, Oregonians are keenly interested in participating in outdoor activities together, particularly for a race that has such a hard time communicating. It's not too tough to find a spot at the falls though you may have to walk back half a mile or so. Fine for the folks who are there for a hike up the falls, bad for the people who are just there to gaze up at the falls listlessly before retiring to the nearby lodge for lunch. I was there to take pictures.

That was my mission, but it wasn't my only reason for being there. The views are great, all the people having a good time is great, it's all... Great. Okay, to put it into detail, the hubbub of the crowd around the base of the falls was offset by the sound of salmon sizzling on the grill. Smoked northwest salmon is a staple treat at the Falls, wafting through the air, drawing in hungry humans and skiltaire. It has always been a constant feature of warm spring days, but seems to draw far more skiltaire than humans. It's a blinding mass of happy and anxious colour around the comparatively tiny grills that one must wade through to get to the head of the trail going up the falls. It's interesting to observe that moving through a crowd of skiltaire is different than moving through people, as they can feel your presence and move out of the way without having to turn to see you. It's like Moses parting the waters in the great biblical myth and reminds us how humble we must be as humans; how we must not abuse our practiced destructive force by using it on other species sharing our space.

Backs turned to me shifted awash to let me pass and I approached the falls with my shoulders heavy, my creative toys carefully packaged and waiting to make memories from simple chemical reactions. The hike would be a long one and I considered going back for my Coleman, but I was too anxious with the sun smiling down as if it were just waiting for me to reach the summit so it could release its best light for me. I felt solid and confident, watching elements line up before me while I climbed the zig-zag path, the crashing water taunting me. Maybe I was a little out of shape from the winter, or maybe I just hadn't been using my body responsibly. After a few zig-zags, I was getting a little tired, but as I was about to stop for a rest I had a fleeting feeling that I should zig one more zag. It was that zag that put me on the landing where a maroon and gray striped rug spread over the bench, one of the few benches dispersed along the steep trail as observation points for those willing to compromise with "okay the view is good enough from here." Odd place to put a rug, I thought, blinking my dry eyes hard. The image cleared and I nodded with a grin. It wasn't a rug, it was a sleeping skiltaire.

On any given day I would have walked right past a sleeping skiltaire, but this one was alone on a bench, seemingly oblivious to the noise of passing people and skiltaire; to the huffs and puffs of exhausted, out of shape would be hikers seeking a sit down. There was something a little bit odd about it, though I wasn't sure what, and when his eyes opened they were fixed directly on mine. Gray like slate. There was a moment that seemed like a montage like you'd see in many television shows in the eighties where memories I didn't recall having before flashed by set to the music of little fingers all over what I would call my soul, if such a thing existed. It was a feeling like being an item of curiosity, being picked up and examined. Without much thought I stepped toward the now awake rug rat and shook off the shivers, then realizing that I'd been staring at him for what must have been half an hour. Perhaps it wasn't that long. He's since told me it was about ten seconds, but it felt like I'd been with him on a walk around the lake. I wanted more of it, but I wasn't sure why.

I started to offer a hand, then I didn't. Then I turned to sit down and he sat up as if to offer a space, but left his tail draped across the bench. I wasn't sure if he meant I should sit, but I took it as such. I was tired and intrigued, he was well rested and intrigued so it seemed like a logical progression.

"Hey, how's it going?" I asked.

"Take me to your leader," he replied in a TV alien voice. I didn't say anything for a moment, my eyebrow cocked at a "what the fuck" angle.

"You look thirsty," he said and proffered a bottle of water, seal intact. I nodded and accepted the bottle gratefully, cracking the seal and taking a long, revitalizing drink. The cool water tickled down my throat and settled in a satisfying pool in my stomach, followed by a warm pressure. "Not the water," my brain said, eyes opening to find maroon paws wrapped around my middle. The tail was missing, replaced by an arm, around my back, matching the one in front around my belly. "This should make me tense," I thought, but I didn't feel tense. "It should be awkward," I thought, but I didn't feel awkward. I felt relieved.

"I'm not sure what to say," I said, elbows hovering above fuzzy arms around me belly.

"You look alone," the woozle said and I had to admit that I was, in fact, alone -- with a nod.

It was at that moment that several things became apparent that I hadn't considered before. Of them, I'd been spending a lot of time by myself between work and school, and that in that time I'd neglected a few things. You know, things. Okay, maybe you don't get what I'm saying. What I mean is that I hadn't been dating at all and so I hadn't been getting the emotional and physical fulfillment that human interaction is supposed to provide. I didn't know at that time why I was reminded of this so suddenly and it didn't become apparent to me until later that it was a feeling that is common among skiltaire, but somewhat more unusual between a skiltaire and a human. As my mind answered its own questions the skiltaire oozed over my lap. His knowing expression wasn't helping my what-the-fuck eyebrow any.

When I returned from my brief revolutionary trance the woozle was lying half on my lap peering up at me.

"Hi, welcome back" he said. "Where'd you go just then?"

"I was just thinking," I said.

"I do that all the time," he quipped and I chuckled, shaking my head.

"Have you had a bath recently?" I asked, nodding toward his shaggy fur.

"I've been in a car for sixteen hours," he informed me. "The guy I was riding with stopped at a hotel but he didn't invite me in, so I slept in the car."

"Wow, you don't look like you'd take up much space," I retorted.

"He wasn't big on communication," the woozle said. "I considered myself lucky to be riding in such a nice car and it was nice to sleep in too."

I stroked his ears. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I had never before touched a skiltaire but I assumed their fur was something like a cat's. It was more like long chinchilla fur, though Shelly's was a bit matted from being slept on at the time.

"I don't normally make a habit of going days without bathing," he asserted. "The opportunity hasn't presented itself and this isn't an ideal place to bathe."

"Too many people?" I asked.

"Water's too cold," he said, head tilting toward the falls.

There was a long pause, the sort of pause that always precedes a question. My hand was on the woozle's chest. His hand was on top of mine. I'd been claimed.

"You could shower at my place," I ventured. "It's a bit of a drive though, if you've got somewhere to be I could give you a ride instead." I was unsure which offer made the most sense and I had no idea where the skiltaire lived, but I was sure in that moment I'd have driven to Hongcouver to drop him off if he'd asked.

"I don't really have a place," the woozle said, turning up his palms. "I'm a ramblin' ramblin' weasel. Can I crash at your place?"

"We'll see," I said, and I slid my hands under his arms to pick him up as I rose to my feet but he slid from my hands and stepped off ahead. It was like holding a handful of fine maroon sand.

"Come on!" he barked brightly as I stretched my popping muscles and tendons, his voice fading down the trail as he began listing off the things he had planned at my place, some of which I was sure I'd question at some uncertain time in the near future. I snapped a quick picture of the bottle of water and left it there on the bench.