Chris Offutt - The Same River Twice - A Memoir

Women are stronger, more ruthless in battle. Ancient Greeks feared even the ghosts of Amazon warriors, and built shrines to them for future control. Women invented language through application of sound to meaning. The earliest writings are by women, receipts for the sale of land in what is now Iraq, If childbearing were left to men, our species would have moldered because males could never accommodate the pain. We can barely get through hangovers and football games.

A kingfisher rattles its cry in midflight above the river. I watch it dive for a blue gill that is evading a larger fish by staying motionless just below the surface. The bird and the big fish attack the blue gill at the same moment. The big fish opens its mouth and the kingfisher stabs it through the palate. The bird is flipped into water and after a quick thrash, the big fish hauls it deep. A minute later the bird floats to the surface, still alive but so bewildered it is drowning. I know that scavengers will take the eyes first.

Humans have risen so fast that no one knows what’s natural anymore. Rita works. I stay at home. She shops and cooks, I chop wood and take care of the car. She is a professional and I’m what’s known as handy. We’re not husband and wife, we’re not our parents, and we’re not some new breed of postmodern couple. We are a pair of mammals with a wide range of tolerance for each other.

The river flows at half-mast to mark the end of autumn. Dislodged leaves cover the seam of earth and water, blending the edges together. Paleolithic men considered women divine due to their inexplicable ability to create life. I know now that I’ve had a hand in it, but it doesn’t make me feel much better. Routine activity betrayed the kingfisher, just as pregnancy is a breach of sex. I understand the bird’s disbelief. I would trade my imagination for its wings.

The stillness of the desert at night pressed against every pore. In the inexplicable silence, I could hear blood coursing my veins, the steady rhythm of my heart like an oil derrick working without pause. I had no idea how hot it would be, how foolish my undertaking. After two days, my hair had paled and my skin was red. I’d bought a belt canteen but it was too small, only a quart. I decided to travel at night and sleep during the day, embedded in my sleeping bag, which turned wet and heavy from perspiration. At a diner I stole packets of salt and began eating it raw to replace my sweat.

Rides were few but they were usually very long. People drove at incredible speeds. Many carried water, a rifle, shovel, and CB radio. Two drivers referred to me as vulture bait. One told me the best place to sleep was on the sunset side of the huge red stones that poked from the land like petrified monsters. Afternoon heat, he said, was ten degrees warmer than the morning, a difference that could kill you sooner.

After three days of moving past dry lake beds, I traversed the Tehachapi Pass and began a descent, finally meandering north through the San Joaquin Valley. I woke from a nap in a ditch. With no clouds or pollution, the sun seemed to glow from the earth. Birdsong flowed through the air like a waterfall. I lay on my back and chewed a weed, watching bees tip blurred wings to my friendly flag. We were allies against the heat just beginning its afternoon grind. A ride was not important.

I dozed until a car rattled onto the shoulder, a dirty white coupe, scuffed at the corners. My mind groped the curious state between sleep and vigilance that stained reality like a minor hallucination. The driver’s gray face was puffy as old dough. He hid a bald pate with long strands combed across his head in thin black lines. Heavy spectacles magnified his eyes, I got into the car and asked why he’d stopped.

“God’s will!” he said. “You look harmless, that’s all.”

Road saviors were a common ride, the pious doing their duty to the downtrodden. The driver gave me long looks of appraisal before getting down to business: Was I a spiritually enlightened young man, or what? I mentioned a fault or two, admitted to confusion and the need for improvement. This standard patter encouraged a driver to discuss his faith. The devout were good for meals, but first the claptrap, as predictable as diarrhea. Occasionally they gave me money.

Al was a missionary who’d been questing after the ideal outpost for years, discarding each for various reasons. Some communities were so downright evil he’d be over his head. Others were too clean, better suited to a novice, Al was most frustrated by the places that contained a rival mission.

“It’s there waiting for me. Maybe today. You will be with me, Chris. Think of that! It’s God’s will that we are brought together this day.”

I asked what had started his expedition.

“Why, Armageddon of course! The prophecies are being fulfilled, my friend. Men and women live unmarried and sex is on TV. Grocery stores have electric machines that read invisible numbers. The Antichrist lives in Nevada.”

“Are you scared, Al?”

“Of course not!” he shouted. “I am saved. I just want to live long enough to see the Lord burn the sinners where they stand. Then he will take the rest of us to heaven. I pray it happens before I die so my neighbors will know I’m not a sinner. People who are already dead get taken straight from the grave and nobody knows if they’re sinners. But when Armageddon comes and you’re alive, everybody can see!”

He pounded the road atlas between us, then brandished it like a warrior’s shield. We were moving north through dense groves of citrus. The air held a sweet tang.

“Adam and Eve were the downfall and it was Eve’s fault. She was weak and that’s why all women are weak. They can’t help it. You should learn from Adam’s lesson not to pay attention to women. See what happened with Eve!”

“Uh, what, Al?”

“Sex, sickness, and insects.”

“Insects?”

Solemn now, he licked saliva from his lips. Wind snapped his hair like a metronome.

“Heaven has no insects! All flowers and no smog. Fresh fruits and vegetables. A paradise! Everything so pure that our body can digest seeds, stem, and core. That way there’s no urination or defecation. No need for toilets at all. Think of that!”

I asked about the devil, and Al babbled for miles about his habits. Once a man knew God, old Lucifer worked on him extra, singling him out for special attention. A simple bedtime prayer drew the devil quick as a gnat. He’d make paint fall off your house and send you drunken workmen. You’d cut yourself shaving every morning if you didn’t pray first. He showed me proof — a network of tiny white scars the size of ringworms on his neck.

According to Al, insects were Satan’s private little terrorist force. The Garden was bugless until Eve screwed up, but now the devil dispensed bee stings and mosquito bites. Flies fornicated on the formica. The day Al converted, a band of termites chewed his attic rafters in half and dropped the roof around the chimney. As a countermove, he began raising spiders.

“They eat insects like candy. I got some pedigreed for six generations. The good ones are in the back seat.”

I peeked in the back. Nestled among frayed religious tracts were several jars. I stared out the window at the fruit trees, smelling lemon scent mingled with manure. Streaks of sky peeked through the gray haze. I studied the map and asked him to drop me off at the San Joaquin River a few miles away.

“After Armageddon,” he said, “the earth will be smoky and black! Great chunks of landscape burnt to cinders. Every insect killed. God, my friend, is like a giant exterminator sparing only spiders and Christians. Think of that!”

“What about survivors, Al?”

“None! I don’t mean to scare you, Chris, but God won’t give sinners a break!”