Ice Fields (1st Draft)

The rain pours in swirling constellations. A man is returning from a work conference in Charlesview to his home in the neighboring suburb. The radio warned of the impending storm, so the man has opted against his usual after-work beer and burger at a nearby diner, a routine established months ago he rarely diverts from. He appreciates the clatter of silver on plates and the murmurs of couples and families. He knows when he returns home his only company will be buzzing voices over cable wire and the slow traffic of locals.

            Last week the man chatted with a traveling salesman, peddling lamps that produce a full spectrum of light waves meant to mimic the sun, for a full forty minutes. They chatted on his stoop about the limits of human ingenuity, and about the strength of human desire to alter our surroundings, to bring near us what we find dear. The salesman, before continuing his route, made one last attempt to sell his appliances. “The vitamin B your body produces when you use this lamp will surely lift your moods. You can get this top-of-the-line model 241 for only $125 if you buy today.” The man hadn’t mentioned the need for a mood-lift. He kindly declined the offer. As the salesman moved to the next house, the man lamented his decision, feeling that if he had bought a lamp, the salesman might have conversed a little longer.

            As he pulls into the driveway this Friday night, he knows it will be a long one. Shuttered in by the rain, he knows his activities will be limited to flipping through infomercials on his non-cable T.V., and watching the lights of the city from his bedroom window. The rain changes to hail, and as he rushes inside, the ice tapping on his car and driveway reminds him of an army of Fourth of July poppers kids strike on sidewalks.

            He enters the house and flips on the light. The place is ordinary, with an unspectacularly-furnished living and dining room, and the expected family photos lining the mantel place. It is the four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bathroom, two-story standard of the working class. Spacious enough to be inviting, yet not so gaudy as to speak of excessive material dreaming.

            To him, it is a prison of unexceptionalism, a place where everything is exactly as it seems. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, feeling that maybe if his lungs fill enough, the boundaries of the house will expand to engulf the neighborhood, the state, perhaps the entire earth. He imagines that then he will find breathtaking mountainscapes and immense glaciers on his nightly trips to the restroom.

            Yet when he opens his eyes, all he sees is a three-piece couch and a knock-off Peruvian rug. He sighs and moves to the fridge for a beer.

            The evening is passing typically. He works on a buzz as he contemplates the merits of spray-on waterproof rubber adhesive, and hangar systems with a down-swinging arm that allows for five times the storage space. As the T.V. switches to a Marines advertisement, (The Few, The Proud, The Lying in a Ditch Face-down, he muses), the man hears banging on his front door. Startled, he checks the clock: 12:41 AM. He pulls on a bathrobe and trots downstairs to the door. He peeks through the eyehole and sees the silhouette of a young man. He turns on the inside light and opens the door. There stands a boy in his early twenties coated in hail-slush, arms wrapped around himself.

            “I’m sorry to disturb you this late, but do you happen to have a jack and tire iron? My tire blew out a couple blocks away and I need to change it.”

            The man is struck by an instant recognition of this boy with glacial eyes in the dim light. But as he looks closer, he realizes the boy is in fact a stranger. The face is harder, the hair shaggier, the jaw line more pronounced than the young man he used to know and love.

            “No problem at all. Come inside, and let me throw on a jacket. I have one for you, too.”

            “Thank you so much. Yours is the sixth house I knocked on, but no one else answered.” The stranger shakes off slush in patches before entering.

            Regardless of the mistaken identity of the stranger, the man’s mind inevitably turns to his former loved one. He feels an acute desire to help this stranger through his unfortunate circumstance.

            “What are you doing out so late, anyway?” the man asks. “And you’re shivering. Come next to the furnace.”

            “I got a little lost in the blizzard and I ended up in this neighborhood.” The boy steps inside. “Where is this, anyway?”

            “A little south of Charlesview. Where are you headed?”

            “North, for now. I want to touch the tip of the earth, you know?”

            Confused, the man figures the boy is either teasing him or a little delirious from the cold. “Well, I have a jack and tire iron in my garage. But first let me get you a coat.”

            “Much thanks,” the boy says as he plops himself onto the couch. “Nice place, by the way. Very homey.”

            The man goes to his bedroom, grabs a pair of jeans, a tee, and a sweatshirt from his dresser, then opens his closet. He selects his usual winter coat for himself, then scans for a second. He feels a flash up his spine as his eyes rest on the only other coat available, a thick Carhartt that his son had bought while working asphalt in winter. It is superficially battered, with streaks of tar and a number scuffs, but the layers remain intact. The man hesitates, sliding hangers and overturning clothes at the bottom of the closet, before returning to the Carhartt. He pulls it off the hanger and goes downstairs.

            When he enters, he sees the boy holding a picture frame.

            “Quite a big house to live in alone,” the boy says. “And who’s this pretty lady?”

            “She was my wife,” the man says as he takes the picture from the boy and places it back on the mantel.

            “Oh, sorry to hear that. And that’s your son?”

            Their eyes lock for a moment, and recognition clicks on the boy’s face. The man pushes him the coat.

            “We better get out there, or you’ll never get home,” the man says.

            The young man beams. “I’m always there.”

            What a strange fellow, the man thinks as he leads the boy to the garage. When he opens the automatic door, the storm threatens to invade the space, sweeping ice clusters feet beyond the threshold. The two stare out at the menace, with only globes of yellow light visible along the street. They look at each other, the man wide-eyed and the boy with a smile.

            “Nervous?” the boy asks.

            “Oh yeah. Haven’t done something this exciting in years.”

            The boy nods and motions to the jack. “Shall we?”

The jack is cumbersome, and it takes the two of them to lift it into his trunk.

            “Thanks again for your help tonight,” the boy says. “Not sure how else I would have spent it. What do you do for work?”

            “I write grant proposals and prioritize building projects for a construction company. Been working there thirty years now.” He shuts the trunk.

            “Sounds dull as salt. You enjoy it?”

            The man sighs and leans on the car. “Not really, but I’ve done it so long already. And I make decent money. I almost own this house, in fact.”

            “Sounds like a life well-spent, then.”

            The man shrugs. “What more is there?”

            The boy shrugs back. The man searches for the tire iron along the shelves of tools. He produces it, makes a noise signaling his success, and asks, “And what do you do?”

            “I’m a freelance surveyor. I travel the world and map the locations I find most pleasing. Usually I don’t wander into cities, but I followed the storm in.”

            “Followed the storm?” the man asks. He opens the back seat and tosses in the iron. “Doesn’t seem like you could do much surveying in this weather.”

            Excited by the direction of the conversation, the boy claps his hands together in agreement. “Correct. But remember I said ‘freelance’. I decide when to work and when not to work. I have no boss to report to, and no place I simply must be.”

            “That part sounds convenient, but how do you make money as a freelance surveyor? What, you wander around to cartography companies and sell them maps of your favorite places?”

            “More or less.” The boy is amused. “There are many types of wealth.”

            The man shakes his head. He wonders if the boy is really a vagrant living out of his car. Surely there is no way to make money by selling maps of random locations. And with all the GPS and satellites these days, manned surveying ought to be virtually unnecessary, especially in places “not in the city”. He decides to not mention it anymore, and to offer the boy a room for the night after they fix the car, just in case he is indeed living in it.

            “You drive,” says the man, handing over the keys. “I’ve had a few drinks already.”

            “Okie dokie.” The boy flashes that now familiar smile and drops into the driver seat. The man seats himself on the passenger side. The boy turns the key in the ignition, but the engine fails to turn over. They exchange glances, and the boy turns the key again, with the same result.

            “Am I doing something wrong? Am I supposed to push a button or something?” the boy asks.

            “No, no, it should just work. Try one more time.”

            The boy does, but the engine doesn’t start. “Maybe the battery’s dead?” he suggests.

            “I just drove it home tonight. It should be fine.”

            They both exit the car, and the man rounds it and pulls the hood release. He moves to the battery while the boy checks over his shoulder. Particles of slush collect on their shoulders. After ensuring all connections are secure, the man has the boy try the ignition again. The car only clicks.

            The man rubs his gray stubble. “I wish I knew more about cars. Tell you what, how about you spend the night here? I have a room for you, and we could have a meal. What do you say?”

            “I appreciate the offer, but I’d really prefer to go tonight. It’s only a couple blocks away. Mind if we walk?”

            The man turns out to the storm. The wind is frenetic, whipping the hail into cresting waves. The landscape is covered and muted. He can’t see buildings or the freeway. He can barely see across the street. The surreal feeling creeps into him that his house has been plucked up and dropped on an unknown tundra, potentially a world away from Charlesview. Despite his anxiety, the thought pleases him, and he is overcome with the desire to wander these frozen fields, to construct an igloo and hunt seal at the edges of ice. He imagines trading furs with Eskimos, and finding himself an Eskimo wife.

            The boy notices the man’s distant mind and allows him the moment. He too looks out at the storm and dreams.

            Finally, the man faces the boy and grins. He stands straighter than before. “I’ll probably regret it once I’m soaked and freezing, but let’s do it. I’ll bring the jack.”

            “Okay! Glad you haven’t lost your adventurous spirit.”

            After the two lift the jack from the trunk, the boy grabs the iron and leads the man into the icy turbulence. They travel in file, the man dragging the jack and the boy a few feet ahead. Soon they lose sight of all structures and street lights, their only reminder of direction the wheel ruts of the jack.

            “I thought you said it was a couple of blocks,” the man calls out.

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d come if you knew how far it was,” the boy shouts over his shoulder. “We’re getting close.”

            As they continue on, and the man switches what hand he drags the jack with, warming the other in his jacket pocket. They travel for another half mile before the man calls out again. “Are we getting close?”

            “Almost there.”

            A gap emerges between the travelers, and soon the man loses sight of the boy.

“Hey! Wait up! Where did you go?”

The man stops and lets the jack go. He squints in front of him but sees nothing. He spins around, checking for some sign of direction. Even the wheel ruts are disappearing. Suddenly he feels he was tricked, that the entire night was a charade to get him to leave his house, but for what purpose? So the boy could sneak back there alone to rob him?

“Hey! Hey!” He realizes he never asked the boy his name. “Come back! You better not be messing with me!” The man continues in the same direction, lugging the jack and hoping his instinct was wrong. After five minutes, he sees an outline jogging toward him. It is the boy.

“There you are,” the boy says as he walks up to the man. “I found my car. It’s just down the street.”

“Why did you leave me?” the man demands.

“I didn’t realize it until I looked back, so I found my car then came for you. But we’re there now and we’re together, so no worries.” The boy grins weakly.

The man scowls, rubs his hands together, inhales and exhales. He looks at the boy, recognizes his sincere remorse, and decides to let it drop.

“Fine. Show me this car, already.”
            The boy nods to the man. “This way.”

Just as the boy said, the car soon comes into view. The beige sedan is mostly through with its life. The back fenders are rusted and the tires bald. The clear coat is peeled and the interior looks like it was thrashed by a badger. The back seat is filled with bags of clothes, notebooks, and archaic surveying equipment. A theodolite rests near the door.

“I have the spare in the trunk. Let me get it out.”

As the boy did this, the man felt pity over what he saw. He couldn’t resolve in his mind how the boy was so upbeat and exuberant when it was apparent how little he had. Will he actually spend the night in here? the man wonders.

            The boy sets down the tire and notices the man appraising the car. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Still runs like a dream. Haven’t had a breakdown in years.”

            The man nods and grabs the jack. “Which tire is it?”

            “The back left.”

            The man sweeps aside the hail around the wheel and positions the jack under the triple seam. He cranks the jack until the wheel lifts free.

            “Can you reach in and pull the e-brake?” the man asks. “It’ll be easier if the tire can’t spin.”

            The boy complies and rejoins the man, who is removing the lug nuts. Soon the wheel comes off and the spare goes on. The man tightens the lugs in a star pattern and lowers the jack. He steps back and glances around him. The wind has dropped, and the hail has changed to snow that pads the ground. The man cannot tell which direction home is. Again, a feeling of displacement comes over him, and he fancies they are within a snow globe universe, separate and distinct from his own. He looks to his companion, then notices the beige of his son’s coat matches that of the car.

            The boy meets the man’s gaze. He smiles, radiating ease and warmth. “Thank you so much for everything,” the boy says. “I know I asked a lot.”

            “Don’t sweat it. Happy I could help. Now prove this thing works.”

            “Gladly.”

            The boy opens the driver door and slips inside, then leans over and unlocks the passenger side. The man takes his seat and they shut the doors. They look at each other, sharing anticipation, when the boy turns the key. The engine starts right up, humming clear and deep. The man is relieved.

            “Sounds better than it looks, too,” the man says, picking up a detailed map of the Californian redwood forest from the center console. “Mind if I ask you something?”

            “Shoot.”

            The man rests the map on his lap and fingers curvature lines. Without looking up, he asks, “Do you live in this car?”
            The boy is taken aback a moment, chuckles, then replies, “Do you live in your house?”

            Confused, the man looks at the boy. “Uh, yes?”

            “Do you stay in your house all day long?”

            “No, I go to work, and out to eat, and to buy groceries and whatnot.”

            “Do you stop living when you’re out of your house?”

            “Uh, no?”

            “Then I don’t understand your question.”

            The man lifts an eyebrow. “Let me try this again. Do you sleep in your car?”

            “Some nights I sleep in my car. Some nights I sleep on the beach. Others surrounded by pines. And rare nights a kind person invites me into their house and I sleep in a conventional room.”

            “So you don’t have a home?”

            The boy flashes that grin. “I am always home.”

The man shakes his head. “So you live in your car.”

            “Some of the time. Sometimes my life spans miles, as I search for that undiscovered crag. Sometimes my life swims the depths of seas. And sometimes, while studying the night sky, I live amidst constellations. You are the unfortunate one to only live in a house.”

            The man chews on the thought a moment, then presses on. “Okay, so you don’t only live in your car, but you have no place that you stay for long periods? No family to go back to? No people who you live with?”
            “Again, I don’t understand your question. They live, and I live. So in that sense I live with them, even if we are not always together. But no, I don’t usually stay in one place.”

            “Sounds a bit lonely.”

            The boy’s look softens. “I can always return when I want company.”

            The man nods. He sets down the map and leans back, hands on head, staring at the film of snow on the windshield. “So where are you going next?”

            “After I reach the north, I’m thinking somewhere tropical. Maybe along the equator. I haven’t stayed in a jungle for a while.”

            The man chortles. “You have no conscience when it comes to absurdities, do you?” The man slaps the boy’s leg. “So what’s your name, anyway?”

            “I haven’t decided yet.”

            The man rolls his eyes. “Here we go. I should know better than to ask simple questions by now.” He grins, content. “Ah, maybe it’s time for me to head home. If we can find it.”

            For a moment sadness steals across the boy’s face, but he quickly recomposes and offers his largest smile of the night. “Alright. You lead the way. But let’s not forget your jack and tire iron.”

            “Oh yeah.”

            They open their doors and crunch their way to the jack and iron. The boy opens the trunk, and they wrestle the jack in between camping gear. The man shuts the trunk and they re-enter the car. 

            “Uh, try turning around and going straight. I’ll try to find some landmarks,” the man says.

            The boy flips the car around and they make their slow trek back. After a number of wrong turns, the man finally spots the freeway and directs them to his house. When they pull up, they remove the jack and tire iron and stand by the car.

            “Thank you so much for your help,” the boy says. He moves to take off the coat.

            “No, no, it’s for you. But why don’t you stay here tonight? It’s already three in the morning.”

            The man cannot decipher why the boy hesitates now. Is it suspicion? Shame? Regret?
            “I’m sorry, but I should go. Maybe I’ll stop by another time, if I’m in the area. Thanks again, for everything.”

            “Of course. Most fun I’ve had in a while.” The man moves forward and hugs the boy, who reciprocates. They release, and the man walks to his door. He checks over his shoulder and sees the tail lights of the car down the street.

            The next morning the man awakes in his conventional bed. Images surface in his mind from the night before—the spread of ice sheets, the uninhibited grin of a cool-eyed boy. He stumbles from his covers and into the bathroom. When he looks in the mirror, he envisions his blue eyes are the same as the boy’s. His face does not appear to him quite so old this morning. He washes his face and dries it with a towel. In the corner of his eye, he spots the Carhartt hanging on the bathroom door.