Bedrock

Short Fiction - Written September 2022, January 2023, and June 2023

My van broke down - and this time, it was for good - in Bedrock, Colorado. Bedrock, you might notice, if you ever have the misfortune of finding yourself there, is no bustling metropolis. No, but I didn’t expect one, as I rolled down the mountain pass road after the abundance of clicking and humming from my engine reached a fever frequency, giving way to a menacing silence as all mechanical systems within the vehicle other than the axles and wheels seized up entirely, rendering every human-controlled mechanism besides the brakes frustratingly useless. At that point, all I hoped for, staring at the word “Bedrock” on whatever limited version of Apple maps my phone had saved before I went out of service, was at least a town, with a gas station, and maybe a friendly face to console me. But, that is not what I found.

I got the car off the road at the “Bedrock Store,” which had a sign posted on it with a link to its mySpace page, suggesting it must have been closed for something north of 15 years. I got out of the car and walked from one end of the empty town to the other in 2 minutes flat. Then I sat down at a picnic table and pounded 3 La Croixs, riding out waves of pounding-heart, full-bodied panic-tremors.

Top of mind: no chance I’m ever getting out of Bedrock. There was no cell service and no sign of anyone who might have a landline, let alone allow me to use it. Plus, I was suffering from debilitating timidity, so I wouldn’t have the courage to ask anyways.

On my walk I saw a sign that said, “Naturita 21.” If I strapped on my walkin’ boots and headed East, I would probably have been able to get there by evening. But who’s to say Naturita wasn’t another Bedrock, leaving me 21 miles up shit creek, still with no ride and no service?

Ok, let’s think this one through. Long term concern: total financial ruin. If my van is toast, which, based on the abundance of oil leaking and smoke emanating from the engine, I think we can assume is the case, then I’m out the 20k I planned to sell it for, or at least something like 10k it would take to replace the out-of-production engine. If that money’s out of the picture, money I’ve spent 2 years paying back and saving up towards, then my trip abroad is out of the question. Ok, not the end of the world. Scarier, though, is the question of what the hell else I’ll do this Winter, Spring, next year, onward. Which is, of course, something I’d have to get around to answering eventually anyways, but I’d been hoping the 20k would buy me some time before it came to that.

Hardly productive, this line of thought. I was spiraling nastily.

Short term: no Telluride. Probably. And I was 4 hours away on a Friday morning for a job that starts again on Tuesday, with no transportation options. So I might miss that. Also fine, they’ll survive without me. But not without letting me hear about it.

The only real course of action I could think of from here, much as I dreaded it, was to crack another La Croix, compose myself, pack a day pack, stick a thumb up, and ride to Naturita hoping against hope I would at least be able to make a phone call there. But first, I had to poop.

---

Which ended up being an outdoor affair considering there were no public restrooms to be found. Took a shit in a bag, walked along the road through Bedrock looking for a place to deposit it, came across a post office.

Exciting! Maybe I can send a letter to a car shop in Moab, hear back in 10-15 business days, make a life for myself in Bedrock, Colorado until then.

Turns out the post office was closed and a sign was posted warning of irregular hours due to understaffing. Understaffing? Shocking.

It was probably a good thing no one was there, though, because I was still holding my poop bag as I approached, and I’m not sure how the good people of rural far-West Colorado take to homeless, car-less people carrying shit around.

I considered dropping it off in the mail slot, sort of a bringing-others-down-with-me moment. Instead, I set it respectfully next to a locked porta-pottie. I’m sure whoever services it next, 3 years from now, will pick my doggie bag up, too.

I returned to my immobile home. I shaved my face in the rearview mirror. This seemed an important step, at the time.

A gentleman named Russel, in his 70’s (or a heavy smoker in his early 60’s) picked me up and agreed to bring me to Naturita.

He said he spent time in Austin in the 1970’s, when he was in the army. And, yeah, he forgot to put oil in his car once too, when he was probably about my age. Learned that lesson the hard way.

You and me both, buddy.

He had a dog in the back seat of his truck cabin named Grizzly. Grizzly seemed wary of agitated me, and we barked at one another at first. But when he came to understand that I was just a sad, stranded child who fucked up majorly today, he propped his torso up on the center console and rested his head on my lap.

We made it to Naturita, which was certainly classifiable as an actual town compared to Bedrock. Just barely. Still no service, but they had a library, which meant wifi, which was absolutely huge for me.

The librarian was named Susan. She felt sorry for me and didn’t mind if I spoke loudly on the phone inside her library to all sorts of people (My parents: “What do I do!” My friends in Telluride: “Sorry boys, not this time.” My boss: “Might not make it this week… But how about that paycheck anyways?” Car shops in the surrounding area: “Never heard of a Volkswagen?” Car shops in Grand Junction: “It’ll be how much to tow it 109 miles?”)

Eventually, I got a shop, tow, and gameplan lined up. Compared to this morning, when my anxiety reached an 18 month local maximum and my prospects looked bleak, I was feeling pretty calm, hopeful, and even somewhat industrious.

Main thing now was to make it back to Bedrock before the tow truck arrived at my van sometime between 5 and 7 pm. Although I’d lived about 3 lifetimes worth of despair and repair this morning, it was still just after 1 o’clock.

First guy who stopped said he could take me to “the intersection,” which, if my memory of the drive here served me, would only get me 4 of the 21 miles back towards where I was trying to go. But he seemed to think I might have a better chance of hitching a ride up road 64 there, since most motorists leaving Naturita wouldn’t be taking the turn towards Bedrock. And it was in the right direction, after all.

In the car, the guy started pressing me about every detail of my current predicament as if it was a hilarious misadventure I’d been on years ago in my foolish youth and not the active drama of my current moment. Every compounding poor decision I’d made tickled him more than the last. You drive what sort of car? That old thing? It’s been how long since you’ve taken it to a mechanic? Why didn’t you pull over and call a tow as soon as the noises started? Why on Earth were you going to Telluride anyways?

I wasn’t looking for sympathy, just a ride. But I wouldn’t mind him laying off the knife-twisting.

We came across a few stacks of painted tires, in an otherwise ordinary forest on the side of the road. Some tires were sprayed with bright colors and aggressive, dripping patterns. Some had words: “V Ranch”, “V for Vacancy”, “Closed for Beeswax”, “V for Vagaries”, “Open for pleasure”, “V forever”. There were other painted slogans, but most were illegible or nonsensical.

Further on (not far, I suspected, from “the intersection” now), a plastic geodesic dome was visible on a hill and I spotted prayer flags hung in the trees. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice any of this on the ride in. Although, I was partially blacked out due to an abundance of toxic adrenaline flooding my system this morning, so I might not have been scanning my surroundings.

“What’s all this?” I asked.

“V Ranch. Oh! You’ve never been to V Ranch?” responded the driver, with another twinkle of amusement.

No, I’d never fucking been to V Ranch, never been anywhere near this place, I don’t know what I’m even doing here at all.

“What is it?” I said, holding myself together.

“You’ll like it. Lot of people like you. I’ll drop you off, it’s right up here.”

I had no business being dropped off anywhere that wasn’t my poor, broken down van or, at the very least “the intersection,” but I was ready to be done with this guy and his jovial attitude on my big, bad day. It must’ve been only a few minutes’ walk from his beloved intersection, anyways.

I got my bag, closed the door, and made eye contact with him in a sad attempt to convey my torment. He made a face like the cheshire cat’s grin and waved his fingers independently of one another. I felt properly mocked. He sped off, leaving me harrumphing to myself on the side of the wooded road.

30 yards ahead: the dirt clearing that must’ve been the entrance to V Ranch. For all my frustration at being dropped here against my will and pigeonholed as the type of person that could be compared to these tire-painters and prayer-flag-hangers, I still had 3 hours to get back to Bedrock. And I wasn’t unintrigued.

The breadcrumb trail of tires we’d seen on the road revealed their source here in the clearing: an overflowing mound of ripped up rubber. This centerpiece served as the hub of a dirt roundabout in the woods and, it seemed, the entrance to V Ranch. Two signs were posted in front of the pile. The first, hand painted on a tree-stump cross-section, said: “Welcome to V Ranch: Inspired Shelters, Radical Lifestyle, and Healing Community.” To the right of that, the other, a printed and sloppily laminated sheet of paper stapled to a piece of plywood mounted on a post said: “No Trespassing or Soliciting. Customers and Colleagues only. Violators will be persecuted.”

The second sign gave me pause. I was certainly no colleague, at least I hoped not to be. And I was in no position to become a customer. Even posing as a prospective customer seemed like it’d require significant acting from the clearly penniless and skeptical likes of me.

The first sign, actually, raised suspicions as well. The decor I’d seen so far seemed much more ramshackle and lazy than inspired, radical, or healing.

Slowly, and as openly as I could, I made my way forward, not wanting to be perceived as sneaking around.

There was no clear lobby or welcome building. To the right, off in the trees, I could make out shelters (TBD on their level of inspiration). Forward and to the left, past the mound and at the back of the roundabout, sat a metal trailer. It looked like an off-brand Airstream on cinderblocks. The space between the road and the trailer had been converted into something resembling a yard. Knick-knacks and chairs were laid out on a large, weather-tattered oriental rug to one side and a dirt garden without any organized plants took up the space on the other. I approached, hoping someone would see me and, rather than shooting me for trespassing, initiate a conversation, giving me a chance to reveal myself as well-intentioned and non-threatening.

I knocked at the trailer door. No answer. I knocked again and said “Helloooo?”

I tried the door handle. It was unlocked. Hoping to find a nice, very public reception area, I swung the creaky door open and peeked my head in.

It was definitely a private residence, and a messy one, at that. On countertops were all manner of food wrappings and wine bottles, on the floor, all sorts of clothes. It looked (and smelled) as if at least three people had been living in there or one person died.

I had my hands behind my back, I guess to indicate that I didn’t intend to take anything. But I couldn’t help keeping my head there, nose forward, poking into their lives. Like I was playing “I spy” with myself in their cluttered trailer. Here, an old printer that must’ve produced the no trespassing sign; there, a set of knives that would work just as well on perpetrators like me as the gun they may or may not keep hidden in the back. On the bed, a guitar with 3 strings missing, strings that could easily be used to choke someone out; on the ground, a dark red-splotched cotton shirt that was either tie-dyed or used to clean up the mess from the last time someone curious like me came around. Behind me, a voice saying, “Hey?”

I almost bit my tongue off, shutting my jaw in fear. For some reason, the only part of my body that startles easily is the muscles in my face.

I turned around and started apologizing.

“I didn’t know this was anyone’s house, I’ve never been here before, I was hoping someone would be here, actually, I’m really quite lost, I’m having a horrible day, I’m sorry,” I mumble-blurted.

“It’s ok,” he said. He seemed much calmer than I was; thoughtful and aloof, even. “What are your pronouns?” he asked.

I was in no position to doubt him, but that hardly seemed like the most relevant first piece of information to gather, in this context.

“He/him,” I said and, after thinking about it for a moment, added, “What about you?”

“He/him as well,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well… you asked me.”

“Hm. That’s what I thought.” He seemed disappointed in me.

“Do you… work here?” I asked, unsure if “live” was the better thing to be wondering about.

“What are you doing?” he said, with a quick shake of his head. I couldn’t tell if he hadn’t heard me, had a reason not to answer, or just thought his question was more important than mine.

“Oh,” I said, “I’m just looking around.”

I was no longer afraid of getting attacked or arrested. But he was not doing much to make me feel at ease. He was staring at my elbow or diaphragm, which were positioned on the same horizontal plane because, unsure if I was at liberty to move, my torso and head were turned towards him while my arms and legs still faced the open trailer.

“Here, come with me.”

He led me around the back of the trailer, on a path, through the woods. I can’t say for sure why I followed. In the trees, there were stations of scrap metal, tools, wood, paint, more tires. We carried on.

His name, he said, was Michael. Michael was a thin man with thin hair (though he didn’t seem a day over 31) and a goatee. He carried a plastic grocery bag full of what looked like provisions, which, I assumed, could only be acquired in Naturita. He must have caught the next ride out of town after mine.

We reached a collection of about 5 or 6 “shelters,” which, if you accepted a loose definition of the word, could be considered “inspired.” Mostly, they were 2x4’s covered in transparent plastic, spruced up with a few other materials that were not easily classifiable as either decorative or structural.

Four other people were gathered in an outdoor living room in the center of the structures. None of whom had bothered to come greet me when I’d called out, “Helloooo?”

As we approached them, the largest of the 4 walked up to Michael, snatched the plastic bag, and brought it away into one of the structures.

“That’s my wife, Lena,” Michael said. Turning to the others he went on, “And this is our boyfriend, Tadé, his partner Pixie, and… Janie. I don’t know, Pixie, what’s Janie’s status?”

“It’s complicated,” said Pixie.

I’d say.

“What are y’all’s pronouns?” I asked, because it seemed like the thing to ask. I received another “he/him” from Tadé, a couple “she/they”s from the girls, and satisfied smiles all around. I guessed I’d tuck these away in my mental inventory of collected pronouns, now that I had them. Like a pack of pokemon cards. Thanks, you guys.

The age range here was notable. Lena (wherever she’d gone off to) and Tadé looked to be about 50, Michael and Pixie in their mid 30’s, and quiet Janie, sinking away into the woolen couch she sat on, must have been at least a year or two younger than me, which is to say, too young to be involved in anything “complicated” with the rest of them. Janie, for what it’s worth, looked exactly like a girl I grew up with. When she saw me, a look flashed on her face, but I couldn’t tell what it meant.

Tadé looked me over with a frighteningly warm gaze and asked me to sit down and feel comfortable in their home. Upon first impressions, he was giving huge sex-cult leader energy.

Michael sat down between Tadé and his wife and Pixie promptly draped her/their feet over his lap. On her shirt was a blown up, high definition photograph of a very large and lumpy naked body, from the neck down. Feet to the fire, I would have guessed Lena was the model. I kept this hunch to myself.

They waited for me to speak, but I had already used up the one question I knew to ask.

Standing there, gripping my backpack straps, looking prepared to bolt at any sudden movement, I realized my manners had escaped me. I took a seat on a rusted chair and unclenched my teeth. At the sound of at least 3 sighs of relief, I realized they had probably been feeling as apprehensive about me as I had about them.

“Are y’all the only people living here?”

“It’s usually a little bit busier than this,” Pixie responded.

“Nice.”

The well of conversation topics was running dry far sooner than I expected. In my mind, I flipped through plenty of questions I would be curious to know the answer to, but each seemed ruder than the last. Their painted tires, conflicting signage, web of intersecting relationships, and general appearance: a few of the threads I was afraid to start pulling on.

To them, it all must have been perfectly normal and I was the one out of place. I, an unexpected visitor, technically had an obligation to make my intentions known. Clearly, they were waiting for me to start speaking.

I had no interest in bringing up my own plight, though. Even if I decided my past few months, my car trouble, and my ill-fated trip to Telluride were worth reliving just as a way to fill the silence, I couldn’t think of any way to bring them up without coming across as blatantly self-interested or desperate for pity. 

And if talking about them and talking about myself were both out of the question and there were no known common interests, I would ordinarily deem the conversation not worth having and evacuate the premises. But fleeing couldn’t be done, either, because I had just arrived. It wasn’t an easy place to arrive at unintentionally. It would look weird to leave so soon.

The last thing I could afford to do today was look weird in front of 5 polygamous, forest dwelling strangers.

So I sat there, too rigidly, with my hands between my knees and my eyes wide open, waiting for someone else to say something.

They didn’t, for far too long.

Eventually, sweating and fidgeting, I felt my heart rate start its climb back up towards this morning’s record highs. Not wanting to put my body through any more hassle than it had already taken, I started breathing in mightily and releasing it loudly, in an attempt to slow the pounding.

Noticing that I was blatantly wigging out, most of the others began talking amongst themselves.

But the beady eyes of Janie remained fixed on me from her hovel between the couch cushions.

---

A little while later, I told them that I really must be getting back. 

Pixie said, “No no, you really must stay for dinner. Lena’s been preparing it this whole time.”

Now, on top of poor car maintenance, insensitivity, awkwardness, and audible breathing, add rudeness to my list of crimes. 

“No no,” I said, “I really must be getting back.”

“You just got here,” said Tadé.

“Stay a while,” said Michael.

“Take a load off,” said Pixie.

“No no,” I mumbled, backing away slowly, clutching the straps of my bag again.

They were all on the edges of their seats, looking at each other like, “Are we gonna let him get away?” The bottom half of my body was already 4 steps away from where my head was. Out of an abundance of trepidation today, I had apparently lost the ability to move my whole body at once.

Little Janie was completely inside of the couch now. But I could still see her eyes shining out from inside of there, like a leopard’s. I felt like telling her, “Sorry Janie, I know you need help but I can’t get you out of here. Not when I have myself to look out for.”

At the last moment, instead of falling flat on my stomach due to my feet backpedaling too far from the rest of me, I turned and made my great escape. Completely focused on the speed I was going to have to reach to evade all of these potential pursuers, I did not look before I ran. I spun my body around 180 degrees and took two powerful steps forward, intending to accelerate from 0 to 15 mph as quickly as possible. It was a pretty impressive burst, but it didn’t last long. Within my first strides, I was met with a Gigantic Ungendered Being holding a hot pan full of shakshuka with about a full dozen eggs cooked into it. I could do nothing but collide into this chef and her food with all the force of my blast-off. She tried to save the pan by ripping it across her body from right to left, but the vector of my departure was aimed directly in the exact direction she was swinging the pan, compounding the motion and rotating the dish up and over like a child pushed too hard on a swingset. Hot eggs and savory tomato stew came raining down upon us, primarily upon Lena (who I now processed it was). Everyone was yelling, had been yelling, I realized, since even before I turned. I just figured the yells were more “Hey get back here you can’t leave we want to keep you forever!” and less “Watch out for the woman with the hot, hot food!” I was wrong, and, yet, I felt no better. In fact, this new development and the even louder set of screams that accompanied it were all the more reason to flee the scene, so I did, bouncing off Lena, shaking off the scorching, red sauce, and eloping into the woods. 

Behind me, Michael was indignant. “That is my wife!” Everyone was jumping up and down with righteous fury. Lena was screaming bloody murder and honestly I couldn’t blame her. From the small amount of shakshuka that landed on me, I could tell that stuff was scorching. How and why did she make it so hot? Not that she expected it to come crashing down on her face. But, still, there are people’s mouths to consider. What sort of furnace was she cooking on back there?

I was focused on not running into the trees ahead of me, so I couldn’t see what was going on at the campsite. I could hear movement and ongoing exclamation. I assumed I was being chased. I have never understood the urge to chase a fleeing troublemaker and bring them back towards you. If you hate them so much, why not say “good riddance” and let them go? Vengeance? Deterrence for future acts of troublemaking? Justified punishment? Just let me get away and I promise you will never see me again.

Now, despite my 5 second head start and the extra power I got from using Lena as a human trampoline, young Janie from the couch was upon me. Boosted into motion by using the cushions as a springboard, she had picked up some serious speed all at once. She appeared by my side, matched my pace, and turned her head towards me to display a rotting rack of gnashers as we ran. I realized now that she was not a helpless victim. She was a small demon, a squirrelly pazuzu incarnate.

I could not afford to look back at her, because I had oncoming trees to dodge and bushes to hurdle. The deeper we went, the thicker the vegetation became. I listed to my right (away from Janie) whenever I saw potential openings in the brush in that direction. Although she was still keeping up with me, there was now some space and a length of thicket between us. My legs and arms were getting scratched to all hell but it was nothing compared to the wrath I’d face if caught.

At a certain point, we were no longer running through the plants but on top of them, squashing them and sinking slowly into prickly bramble with each step. It was the biological equivalent of quicksand or a chinese finger trap. The only way I could see to free a caught foot was to slow it down and remove it gently. This strategy led to delays, though, and caused the other foot to sink while the first was being liberated. Janie, seemingly less concerned with preservation of self than I was, saw me getting bogged down and took it as her opportunity to close the lateral gap between us. She turned 90 degrees to face me, launched herself over the perilous plants, and extended her claws towards my neck. I saw it coming, though, and batted her down and away. She saw that coming, though, and grabbed hold of my hands. Her nails pierced my skin and she had me locked by the arms as she fell, bringing me with her, top half first. I allowed her to maintain her grasp on my hands because I didn’t want large chunks of skin ripped from my palms and tucked my head to avoid damage to the face. Thus, the only thing to do was let my legs flail overhead, sumersault forward, and land on my back in a bed of branches and spikeys. Entangled in the epic struggle of liberty vs justice, we grappled atop and among the weeds and sticks. We sank.

Down inside the undergrowth, I spun around and tried to army crawl through the tiny forest. It put up more resistance as a whole than the sum of its shoots and stems. My adversary grabbed hold of my neck and climbed aboard my back. This slowed me down even more. Janie wasn’t really trying to choke me out, or, if she was, she wasn’t succeeding. She was keeping me from making any progress, though, and causing me pain whenever she tried to yank up on my face.

I checked my watch. 4:45. Fuck. We were getting dangerously close to the pickup window for my tow. I had to make it back to my van by the time it was taken away or I could be trapped forever. Lord knows whether the driver would wait for me or just take the van no questions asked. It was at least 16 miles on the road to Bedrock. And I wasn’t even at the road yet. If I shed Janie, I could try to plow forward through the thick undergrowth and get back there.

I realized the bush we had landed in was crawling with poison oak.

“Get off me, please,” I said.

---

They finally finished my van in mid December. If they had said up front, “Hey man, it’ll be about 3 and a half months,” I would have said, “Ok, fine, I’ll figure something out until then.” Instead, though, they kept giving me false hope, drawing me out to Grand Junction from whichever US city I was in that happened to have a friend who had a couch I could sleep on. I worked whenever I could during that time, but it wasn’t easy without a stable place to live or mode of transportation. All told, the repair was something like $9,000. I’m not sure exactly how much because I paid for it in chunks over the course of those 3 months. What was I supposed to do? There was only one shop in Western Colorado that would replace the engine on a 1989 Volkswagen Vanagon. Supply and demand. If they wanted to take their sweet time and charge me every last penny I had, that was their prerogative. And that’s what they did.

When I got back behind the wheel, I thought I’d feel relieved. I didn’t, though. They whole time I was driving, I felt unduly paranoid every time I heard the slightest little bump or click from any part of the vehicle, worried they’d screwed something in wrong and the whole new engine would come clunking out on the road behind me and I’d be back to square one.

I made it to Austin, though, and ended up selling that van for $17k. It wasn’t as much as I hoped, especially when you consider the $9k I spent to repair it, but it wasn’t nothing. It turns out, it’s a lot nicer to have seventeen thousand in your bank account and no car than zero dollars to your name and a van that makes you feel like you’re reliving a nightmare every time you drive it.

There are trains and air travel, if you need to get from one city to another. There are buses and friends’ cars if you need to go somewhere close. Waiting for my car to be fixed, I became comfortable moving around by whatever means I could find. Now that I’ve spent some time like that, I don’t really need a car. I’m adaptable, mobile, and I don’t worry about where I’m going to sleep on any given night, as long as I have a sleeping bag with me. Although, it’s nice to have a shower. And it’s pretty inconvenient to bring all your belongings with you everywhere you go if you don’t have a home base. I’ve sometimes thought of parsing it down, just carrying one backpack at all times.

Maybe that was my problem, back in bedrock. I was hauling too much stuff around in the back of my van. I definitely had a lot, most of it heavy and useless. Maybe the poor old engine couldn’t handle all that junk. Or maybe it was just my time to take amtrak trains back and forth between Salt Lake City and Grand Junction, show up at old friends’ houses smelling like a wet raccoon, itchy all over from a poison ivy rash that seemed resistant to calamine lotion.