Ro Cut My Finger Off!

Though I have no picture of the damage done, I can assure that it most certainly warranted a rest day. I took a fall on Ro Sham Po, and it decided to take with it a Penney-sized chunk of skin in the center of my pinkie finger. It hurts. Though some tape should fix it just fine.

Bryan Potter just stopped in for the last few days and climbed. I couldn't go out with him the first full day he was here, because my work schedule wouldn't allow it. However the next few days I did. Monday we climbed hard, Tuesday I ripped up my finger on Ro. And now I am here.

One of the best things about Potter's visit was the conversations. When ever we get together we have the most interesting discussions, the kind that I wasn't getting before. The deep philosophical/political variety. It was refreshing.

Bryan had been hitch-hiking out west for a few weeks. He had lost 15 lbs. from a frugal diet and had some interesting stories. I can't say for sure, but if I see a hitch-hiker, I am now more likely to pick him up than ever before. It's fascinating how some time on the road having to struggle for food or a ride can change some one ever-so-slightly, and yet that change make a huge difference in other people's lives.

Anyways.

Spencer Victory made another video, which is entered in the Reel Rock Film Tour film contest. It's called Vertical World.

You can see it here: Vertical World.

Watch them all, but vote for Spencer's.

Okay, story time.

I don't like posting about deeds that I have done. It seems pretentious and frankly, less of a good deed than if I had let it pass unspoken of; it's a binding emotion and act which makes me think the world isn't as shitty as I think. That people a good natured and prefer to help out others, rather than leave people to fend for themselves.

So, as far as this story is concerned, I am telling it because I feel it to be less of a deed, and more of an event for which I see as generous and interesting, but not significant enough to call it anything more than a chance encounter.

One Saturday while working at the shell, I was ringing up customers at the register. Tourists coming to the Gorge from all over lined up to purchase small road-trip snacks, sugary sweets for their already energetic children, and bags of ice for their beer-less coolers.

"What, are we in a dry county?" is the general comment spouted by frustrated travelers after having failed to find beer at the last to exits.

Yes, Powell country is dry. You can;t get booze within 10 miles of the gas station. No, we don;t sell rolling papers. The paranoid owner  thinks that God himself is looking over his shoulder, and encouraging the smoking of weed is a bad tic-mark to have on his Heaven-bound rap-sheet. How do you get to the Gorge? You're in it. No, we don't sell Coke products.

Yes, I am asked a lot of stupid questions. But like a perfectly good automaton, I answer all of the with a polite smile, a "glad I could help" and "have a good one." The only time a real conversation occurs is when the locals come in.

But on a Saturday, there was no time for conversation. You move the customers along, ushering them aside to get the next person in line out the door just as casually and quickly.

So when a girl in sunglasses stands near the dwindling line in front of my register and exclaims "The cops just arrested my boyfriend and were going to leave me on the side of the road!" what would my reaction be, do you think?

Not as sympathetic as I had hope.

"Oh really . . . ?"

"The just were just going to fucking leave me!"

"That sucks . . . next?"

"They had dogs and they busted him at a road block and said that they could take me in to then were going to leave me  . . . "

Her voice progressively became louder. I didn't want to tell her to get out. She didn't look like most of the tourists around. More like  an average girl (and yes, she was cute) who got caught in a shitty situation. But I couldn't just drop what I was doing at the register to ask her what happened, to give her advice or just lend an ear. So, I kept of checking out customers, well aware that to her I must have seemed like a jerk who didn't care, what-so-ever, about what she had just gone through.

I wasn't going to call over the manager, either. 

The girl walked out the door.

ten minutes later I went on my thirty-minute break. I went to my car parked across the road, popped the trunk, sat on the bumper and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I look back at the Shell mart and I see the girl on the side of building standing, talking on her phone. I finished my sandwich, and instead of picking up my book and reading for the rest of my break, I go over to her. When she gets of the phone, she immediately smiles, and in a shameful way shakes her head and rubs her forehead.

"I didn't mean to sound so uncaring back in there, I just couldn't really do anything just then . . ."

"Oh, no. Sorry, I just didn't know what to do. I was talking so loud hoping that someone would know what to do."

"It's okay."

"They just pulled us over, they had dogs, and said 'tell us if you have anything and it'll go a lot easier' or some shit. So my boyfriend said he had a dime-bag of weed, and when they asked about weapons he said there was a knife in the trunk. Then they just took him and his friend out of the car and handcuffed them. I asked what was I supposed to do? I can;t drive and they were just going to leave me. They threatened to arrest me too, but then I said 'at least drop me off at the shell.'"

The cops took her boyfriend and his friend, and said they might get released in a few hours within a court date.

"Fuck," she sighed, pacing anxiously, drawing on her cigarette.

"Cops suck," was all I could say. It's one of those situations where I wanted to say "if you smoke weed, you have to be able to accept the penal consequences" and at the same time analyzing a hundred different scenarios so her friends wouldn't have been arrested. One of them, I am not ashamed to say, is legalizing Marijuana. I don't smoke pot, and probably never will. But my stance is legalization and taxation. That, I think, is for another post all together.

"My name is Jared, by the way."

"Tasha," we shook hands. I knew I'd probably never run into her again.

"Where are you from?"

"Lexington. You?"

"New York. What do you do?"

"right now I'm a waitress, but my boyfriend and I are trying to become teachers."

Just then I understood the gravity of the situation. Their entire lives were about to become fucked because of, frankly, a mistake that in five years they may recognize as being a stupid one. That hit it home. Being a teach is probably one of the most noble professions. And who knows, maybe her boyfriend could be a great one, but now the likely hood of that happening is slim.

"do you have a way to get back to Lexington?" if not, I was prepared to offer her one.

"Yeah, my boyfriend's dad is picking us up."

Just then, the only thing I could think of was how much it would suck to have to explain something like that to my own father, if I were arrested for similar charges. I;d probably do so in the most cowardice manner: via text message.

"Well . . . I have to get back," I threw my thumb over my shoulder pointing to the gas station.

"Yeah, I didn't mean to keep you."

"No, it's okay."

She thanked me for talking to her. I told her she could come inside and sit in the air-conditioning and wait for her ride there. I mopped the floors, and when I passed her with the bucket of dirty water we exchanged a few words. A few minutes later she was gone. I didn't even see her leave.