The Hills

I'd like to walk my groceries home. I'm tired of my benz. I'm tired of my wife, my house, the god forsaken dogs. I could walk to the hills from here with my big pack of groceries. I could smell the dirt underfoot, sniff it up my nose and high into my brain evoking lost memories of childhood, the plains, and quiet iridescent forests. I'm no beaver, but God how I'd like to eat the trees.

I could walk there by night with a bit of moon light to guide me, it's light reflecting off the few remaining patches of snow. Spring has almost arrived. The darkest days have left us behind. It's perfect now, the light. It's before the days get too long and the stars remain enigmas, seen only on wild wandering nights. 

I could sit amongst it's protection in some nook and eat the Triscuits I just bought. I'd have a giant bag of food, I could stay there for weeks. I could eat snow for hydration! I could sniff the dirt way up high into my brain and dream sweet dreams before the sun began to rise.

Hello Mr. Coyote, would you like some tomato sauce? Some tortilla chips? How about some candy? Coyotes love candy. But instead of replying Mr. Coyote would stare at me with sad eyes prompting me to question my life, my values and goals. He'd remind me of my dog who died a while ago. If only I could see her now, if only she was still my pet and not an apparition in the clouds. I'd play with her more. She was a damn good dog.

I could stay there for weeks, the coyote eyeing at me.

Is that a look of wisdom, coyote? Or are you hungry and don't like chips? What's that? You like the look of my leg? Well, I've only got two and need them to hike out of this crazy town. How about the broad side of my boot? How about that?

I'd calm down by eating an apple or any assortment of things from my bag.  

I could live there for weeks. In my spare time I'd tunnel into the hills with a spife and take shelter there. Dig deeper and deeper and make a maze of caves. Make some writings on the wall. Tell my story in pictographs. The taste of the apples would remain on my lips as a reminder of the sweetness of all things.

The apples would leave, though, one by one, on their way to brown, and crazed thoughts. The tomato sauce, too, would leave without his friend spaghetti. The Triscuits would leave and so would the chips, soon I'd be all alone with nothing but the coyote to eat. I won't be eating him, though, no, not ever. His teeth and jaws are far to strong and beside he controls bandy legs. Bandy legs! He eats dead rabbits. Carrion. I won't be taking that trip, I'm not an animal. I have morals. I don't like the smell of rotting flesh.

So I'd have to go back. Make the long trip back. Back in time for work or the super bowl. Back to my wife, back to the benz, back to staring out the window looking at the hills I tunneled into one night long long ago. Back when I had balls attached to the base of a penis by a sack of skin. Not that you need balls to visit the hills. I'm sure estrogen also works. I don't care to find out. Back to the din of the city.

I'll sniff the city up high into my brain and cry, not just because the pollutants in the air trigger the reaction, but also for the screaming and terror trapped within... Drudgery and mindlessness stewing within.

At least there are the hills. I'll always have the memory of imagining the hills...