You Only Get So Much by Dan Kolbet Page B

with her.
    Man, I was a dick to
that poor kid.
    * * *
    This evening I escape when Mom is distracted and
thankfully didn't ask me where I was off to. I can't say that the truck drove
itself, but without much input from me, I arrive at a destination I haven't
seen in years—not that it's changed all that much. The Bowl and Pitcher at
Spokane's Riverside State Park. The park is a sprawling wooded landscape on
either side of the Spokane River just west of town.
      The treed
park includes access to the river, hiking and bike trails and a campground.
I've never figured out why people decide to camp at the park. It's five minutes
from civilization, sure, but wouldn't that be an incentive to make the trek out
of town farther? So it tends to be full of white-trash tent and tarp campers,
who in the summer get blasted on light beer and throw their empties into the
river.
    I pass the campgrounds and maneuver the truck into the
parking lot near the Bowl and Pitcher, a bend in the Spokane River that
includes several large basalt rock formations that resemble, at least slightly,
a bowl turned on its side and a pitcher of some kind. Most people just refer to
it as the Bowl and Pitcher, and leave it at that.  
    I walk down the steep, but paved incline and step onto
the wood and cable walking bridge that spans the river, providing me a better
view of the namesake features of the park. They just look like big brown rocks
to me. No bowl or pitcher. The bridge sways with even the lightest of steps and
I make sure to hold onto the railing to my right.
    Jane used to hate walking across this bridge, especially
when it was full of onlookers checking out the rushing water. But she liked to
hike, so we came here often. It's nearly dusk and the place is practically
deserted, but the unsettled feeling still creeps into my stomach as the wood
under me bounces as I walk. I used to torment her by rocking the bridge back
and forth. At the time it was funny—or at least I thought so. Today,
alone, it's not funny and I pick up the pace to the other side of the river.
    The shadows are deeper on the west side of the river bank
and despite being August I feel a chill and pull my jacket collar up a little
bit tighter around my neck.
    About that time, a couple walking hand-in-hand descends
the path toward me. The man, probably in his early 20s, sees me first and pulls
on the hand of his female companion to slow her pace. He motions her to the
other side of the trail, away from me.
    Isolated here, away from the safety of a crowd, this man
sees me as a danger.   My scraggly
beard and mop of disheveled hair don't help my appearance much. For all he
knows, I live here in the park. They pass me in a hurry and don't stop on the
bridge to admire the rock formations. In moments they are gone and I'm alone
once again. No more couples in sight.
    The funny thing is that I used to be that man, guarding
Jane from passing strangers or the occasional odd guy loitering nearby.
Avoiding the threat from the outside is an instinct. His instinct said I was
odd and I made him uncomfortable. I don't blame him. But I also wish I wasn't
that guy. If I had a crisp haircut and wore a clean pair of hiking boots and a
fancy wind-breaker, would I be viewed as less of a threat? Probably. That's
reality.
    It makes me wonder how other people really see me. I'm
quiet—never the first to engage in a conversation, but once up and
running I can hold my own. I don't dress like a slob. It's usually jeans and a
faded tee-shirt. But it's probably the hair. I don't know that I even like the
beard and long hair anymore. It was fine when I was alone and wouldn't see a
soul for weeks at a time. Pulling my hair back into a ponytail was a
convenience. But now I see that my look must be defining me. I'm not looking to
make friends, but I also don't want to see people running in terror away from
me. I pull at the beard, which has gotten stuck in my jacket zipper and realize
that I don't even own a razor to