Character sketch
He sits under the awning of the old trading post, near the Indian Head gas and diesel pumps (PUMPS ARE OPEN NOW!), but closer to the door as to watch every coming and going. To gauge the pulse of the day by the number of people who buy beer, fishing equipment (GOT WORMS? GET YOURS TODAY! ALWAYS AT THE LOW PRICE OF $1.79) and ice cream novelties.
Curled up next to him on the park bench - the bench with its iron legs freshly spray painted black, its wooden slats recently re-varnished - is a tabby cat. Old and thin and completely, totally in love with Bill.
“How you fellas doing?” he says, stroking the cat’s head and nursing a black cup of coffee from the outpost that sits at the corner of Highway 70 and a busted-up ribbon of asphalt that leads to the lake.
“Doing good, how are you?”
“Doing just fine, thanks.”
“Looks like you have a friend, there.”
“Oh, she’s the boss.”
Bill is a refugee from the city. From Southern California – with its heat, its traffic, the crush of people. He’s been in this small Sierra Nevada county town since 1995.
He’s dressed in a striped, blue-gray short-sleeve shirt, old man jean shorts, scuffed brown lace-up shoes and short black socks. He wears a sun hat on his head – the kind that Gilligan wore on television – in gray, with a ribbon of blue and red stitched around the crown, for decoration. Bill has pinned two Veteran of Foreign War red poppies, and a white button with black lettering that extols the virtues of a life retired.
He’s easily in his 80s.
“They say in there that you’re the caretaker around here.”
“Oh, no, I just help out from time-to-time.”
And another couple come out into the sun to pet the cat.
“She looks like a mountain lion,” the guy says, smelling of beer at 9 a.m. “Uhhp, I guess you can tell I’m from the city, everything up here looks like a mountain lion.”
The cat moves from the bench to Bill’s left leg, stretches and makes herself as compact as she can on his thigh.
Her name is Hopper. Her fur is faded gray, like tarnished silver, just a hint of orange in the black tabby stripes.
Her eyes are large. And they are hazel-green.
Bill loves her and much as she loves him.
“She’s a stray. She used to run around here, run back-and-forth and no one could get close to her. I went to the deli case and got her some turkey. She let me get close, so I put her in the back, closed her up.
“Next morning, she’s still there and has been following me around ever since. Even when she doesn’t, all I have to do is ask, ‘Well, are you coming?’ and she’ll get a move on.
“I call her Hopper, on account that when I stand up, she’ll hop all over my legs to get up.”
Cars, recreational vehicles and logging trucks, filled with fresh-cut pine, rumble past the trading post. Bill leans back into the bench, further into the shrinking shade, and scans the southern horizon.
“Say, how close up can that camera of yours bring up those mountains?”
“With this lens, not very, but I have a bigger one that’ll bring them in close. Want to take a look?”
“Nawww. But you see that triangle up top, between that power line and the cottonwood? Up on the top?”
We do.
“I’m going to walk up there.”
“Now? Today?”
“No, just someday. That’s where I’m going to have my ashes scattered.”
There is a pause, an awkward silence and Bill takes a sip of coffee – it has to be cool – and takes his hand off Hopper’s head to rub the stubble on his chin.
It is the buddy who breaks the silence.
“Is she going to be scattered with you?”
“Oh, no, she’ll outlive me. For sure.”
Curled up next to him on the park bench - the bench with its iron legs freshly spray painted black, its wooden slats recently re-varnished - is a tabby cat. Old and thin and completely, totally in love with Bill.
“How you fellas doing?” he says, stroking the cat’s head and nursing a black cup of coffee from the outpost that sits at the corner of Highway 70 and a busted-up ribbon of asphalt that leads to the lake.
“Doing good, how are you?”
“Doing just fine, thanks.”
“Looks like you have a friend, there.”
“Oh, she’s the boss.”
Bill is a refugee from the city. From Southern California – with its heat, its traffic, the crush of people. He’s been in this small Sierra Nevada county town since 1995.
He’s dressed in a striped, blue-gray short-sleeve shirt, old man jean shorts, scuffed brown lace-up shoes and short black socks. He wears a sun hat on his head – the kind that Gilligan wore on television – in gray, with a ribbon of blue and red stitched around the crown, for decoration. Bill has pinned two Veteran of Foreign War red poppies, and a white button with black lettering that extols the virtues of a life retired.
He’s easily in his 80s.
“They say in there that you’re the caretaker around here.”
“Oh, no, I just help out from time-to-time.”
And another couple come out into the sun to pet the cat.
“She looks like a mountain lion,” the guy says, smelling of beer at 9 a.m. “Uhhp, I guess you can tell I’m from the city, everything up here looks like a mountain lion.”
The cat moves from the bench to Bill’s left leg, stretches and makes herself as compact as she can on his thigh.
Her name is Hopper. Her fur is faded gray, like tarnished silver, just a hint of orange in the black tabby stripes.
Her eyes are large. And they are hazel-green.
Bill loves her and much as she loves him.
“She’s a stray. She used to run around here, run back-and-forth and no one could get close to her. I went to the deli case and got her some turkey. She let me get close, so I put her in the back, closed her up.
“Next morning, she’s still there and has been following me around ever since. Even when she doesn’t, all I have to do is ask, ‘Well, are you coming?’ and she’ll get a move on.
“I call her Hopper, on account that when I stand up, she’ll hop all over my legs to get up.”
Cars, recreational vehicles and logging trucks, filled with fresh-cut pine, rumble past the trading post. Bill leans back into the bench, further into the shrinking shade, and scans the southern horizon.
“Say, how close up can that camera of yours bring up those mountains?”
“With this lens, not very, but I have a bigger one that’ll bring them in close. Want to take a look?”
“Nawww. But you see that triangle up top, between that power line and the cottonwood? Up on the top?”
We do.
“I’m going to walk up there.”
“Now? Today?”
“No, just someday. That’s where I’m going to have my ashes scattered.”
There is a pause, an awkward silence and Bill takes a sip of coffee – it has to be cool – and takes his hand off Hopper’s head to rub the stubble on his chin.
It is the buddy who breaks the silence.
“Is she going to be scattered with you?”
“Oh, no, she’ll outlive me. For sure.”
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