David Gates - Preston Falls

"Your wife paid," says the ranger. Little note of contempt here for a man who would allow his wife to pay? Never mind the fact that his wife got here an hour2igo and therefore had to pay. "I'm charging you the day rate for your second vehicle there," says the ranger. "Be three dollars."

Willis gets three limp singles from his wallet and holds them out just far enough so the fat son of a bitch has to reach for them. Willis flatters himself that he's done it so subtly the poor stupid bastard doesn't even understand why he's now angrier than ever. This is about class, really: Willis of Westchester gets to loll, while this sad old fuck has to spend the last glorious weekend of summer in a hot uniform. But hey, who is Willis to fly in the face of Providence?

The ranger produces a card with a hole in the top the size of a quarter and a mingy little white plastic bag with a stylized green pine tree. By this time, four cars are lined up at the booth, engines running.

"You hang this on your rearview mirror." He hands Willis the card. "This here is for your garbage." The bag. "Anything you carry into the park, you carry it out again, you understand? You're not out of the campsite by eleven a.m., you pay another day irregardless."

"Noted." Willis snottily enunciates the t and the d. Irregardless: love it.

"You're to drive directly to the campsite."

One of the lined-up cars honks.

The ranger looks over his shoulder and gives them what he must imagine is a Clint Eastwood stony stare — poor bastard has a stomach on him that comes out to here — and while his head's turned, Willis flips him the bird, pumping once, twice, three times.

"Are we finished, then?" Willis says.

The ranger turns the stare on him. "Don't forget it, your dog stays in camp at all times."

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"Yeah, I think we've covered that," says Willis. But the ranger's already motioning to the first car in line.

The campground is half a mile up a winding blacktop road; Willis spots the Cherokee parked by the last lean-to, which looks just like all the others, Birch and Cherry and Dogwood and whatever the fuck E would be. Eucalyptus? Depressing beyond belief: plywood walls painted forest green because this is a fucking forest, that whole trip. The lean-tos are strung along this ridge above the lake. You'd have a better view looking off if they'd thin out some of these pine trees or whatever they technically are — F must be Fir — but God forbid. He pulls in beside the Cherokee; Rathbone's already dancing back and forth on the seat. "Who's here, boy? Go get 'em." By loosing Rathbone first he's preparing them for who's bringing up the rear. Rathbone! What the — and then it dawns on them. And the little faces light up.

He opens the door and Rathbone scrambles over his legs and begins madly sniffing the ground. "Where's your friends?" says Willis, getting out of the truck. "Go get your friends." The lean-to is empty except for a Sportif bottle the ecopolice must have missed. Weird to see that logo. Okay, so what must've happened, they must've walked down to the lake and left their shit locked in the car. About the millionth reason not to go camping: having to worry all the time about your shit getting ripped off. As he's sure he'll find occasion to point out, since he doesn't seem able to keep his fucking mouth shut.

"Bone-face," says Willis. "Which way did they go?" Rathbone wags his tail harder. "Lassie! Go find Timmy!" Ridiculing his dog for being a dog.

Between Aspen and Beech, a rocky, dusty path leads steeply down. Canny woodsman that he is, Willis reasons that if you keep going downhill you'll eventually hit the lake, and after a couple of switchbacks he spots blue water below, sparkling through the trees. And then he remembers: no dogs. Shit. He stops, whistles again, turns around and starts back up the path. Rathbone looks at him and cocks his head. "Yeah?" says Willis. "Well, fuck you too." Then he says, "Sorry, buddy. C'm'ere." He squats, and Rathbone approaches; Willis roughs up his ears with both hands and rubs his chin across the top of the dog's head. As they near the lean-to again, Rathbone in his whatever-is-is-right mode, capering and sniffing among the pine needles, it occurs to Willis that E must be Elm. Not fucking Eucalyptus. This is why all the George Jones tapes in the world just aren't going to do it.

So he's got a problem. He can either (a) sit here with his thumb up his ass and wait God knows how long for them to come back; or {b) walk down to the beach and leave Rathbone tied up here, where he'll bark and yap and yowl the whole time and probably get them kicked out of this shithole. So he'll have to put Rathbone in the fucking truck, drive back down to the parking lot by the beach, leave the dog in the truck while he tries to find Jean, then beat it back up here before anybody can bust his chops.

He gets Rathbone's leash back on him with a low-down trick— offers a stick, then grabs his collar — drags him into the truck and sets off down the road the way he came. When he gets in sight of the booth again, he peels off into the parking lot and takes a space as close to the beach as he can find. He rolls the windows up, leaving the usual gap, and says, "Stay. I'll be right back, okay?" Rathbone yips and whines as Willis walks away.

Before he reaches the head of the path he hears someone yelling "Hey, you!" Which he ignores because it can't be happening.

"You! Hey! You get back over here!"

Now what the fuck? Willis turns and glares. Sure enough, it's that same asshole ranger, bearing down on him in this fucked-up gimpy gait that's partly a jog-trot and partly a stride, belly swaying from side to side. Willis waits for him to get closer — not deigning to raise his voice — so he can say Are you talking to me? Not De Niro style; more your frightfully-sorry-old-man-but-do-we-know-one-another tone. Except isn't that going to sound rehearsed, given that the son of a bitch is yelling right at him?

"You were told not to bring that dog to the lake area!" The ranger's sweating and panting. A mouth-breather, literally.

"The dog," says Willis, "is in the truck. The dog," he says, "cannot get out of the truck."

"Now, what did I say? I said you were to proceed with your dog to the campsite. Isn't that what I told you? You read that sign there?" The ranger jabs a finger at a NO PETS sign by the head of the path. This character must have been in the military. Fucking Korean War.

"Yes, I can read, thank you. I am now going down to the beach," he says, "to let my family know that I am here. I will be back. Good? Good." He turns and starts along the path.

"You get back here, mister. You hear me talking to you?"

Willis stops, turns again and stares at this cartoon man with vast

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sweat stains darkening the underarms of his uniform. Some flunky who takes tickets. Is Willis not a patron, whose three-dollar admission pays this fellow's salary? And is not the spirit of the NO PETS rule — i.e., that grass and sand not be shat upon — being complied with? And in fact, since the dog is in the truck, is not the fucking letter of the NO PETS rule being complied with?

"You know what?" says Willis. "Why don't you go fuck yourself, okay?"

"You're out of here, my friend." The ranger's face has gone aneurysm red. "You're to leave the park immediately. And you don't come back, you understand? You don't leave the park immediately, I call the sheriff's deputy and he'll see to it you leave. You think I'm foolin' now?"

"Yeah, why don't you call him, man? I'd like to see you fucking explain to a fucking deputy sheriff why it is I can't keep a fucking dog in a fucking truck while I walk a hundred fucking yards to the fucking beachr

"You got it, mister," says the ranger. 'Tm done foolin' with you. You'll move when he says to. He don't fool around." And the son of a bitch starts gimping back to his booth. Willis turns and starts along the white-graveled path, bordered by these stupid foot-high logs painted a redundant brown, Hopes the son of a bitch does call a cop: somebody needs to set this motherfucker straight.