by Eric Torgersen
I’m
out walking, three quarters of a mile from my house, breaking in the hiking
boots I’ve just bought because, at sixty-five, I’ve signed on to go
backpacking, for the first time since the early 1980’s, and almost certainly
the last time in my winding-down life, with my daughter Elizabeth, who’s forty
years younger. We’ll be doing just a couple of nights, nothing all that
strenuous, on the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, near Munising on the Lake
Superior shore of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I’m grateful for the opportunity,
but one reason I’m going is that Elizabeth says she’d otherwise go alone, and there
are sheer cliffs, black bears and unknown human beings up there. I’m in decent
shape and have only a couple of minor physical issues (right shoulder, left
foot), but the truth is that besides breaking in the boots, which are cheap but
seem to have good fit and support, I’m trying to make sure no part of this
aging body is going to give out. I haven’t started carrying a pack yet, but I’m
covering more distance each day.
As
I reach the bridge over the Chippewa River, I notice two people coming toward
me, on the same side of the road, starting down the hill I’m about to start
climbing, almost a half mile ahead. As they come closer I can tell that they’re
girls, and closer still, they’re something like fourteen and wearing only
bathing suits. I’m sure they notice soon that I’m an old guy, not the boy they
may have imagined, and I’m gray and unshaven and wearing a funny old-person hat
no boy would risk being seen by girls in. Reasonably, about then, they cross to
the other side of the road, as if they’re aware of some possibility or risk or,
against all outward signs, want their privacy. Just as the imperative to stop
looking—I don’t want to embarrass or bother them—overcomes that primary impulse
to look, I see that the suit on the
one on the left, the taller of the two, is nothing much more than three small
patches of cloth over a body lean but ripening, and that the girl’s walk is
that body-conscious adolescent walk of a girl who’s being looked at. As they
pass I shoot them, while studiously not looking, a quick, awkward smile,
intended to be grandfatherly and benign, which I’m almost sure they don’t see
because they too are carefully looking away. I keep on climbing the hill and
don’t look back.
Every
couple of minutes, on this country road, a pickup goes by, doing sixty. I
imagine some of them slowing down a little as they pass the girls.
And
I’m puzzled. They must live up there somewhere where the houses are spread out,
not concentrated in anything like a neighborhood, where taking a walk like that
wouldn’t seem quite so out of place. Some kids go tubing on the river, but no
one was there on the bridge to meet them as I crossed, and the girls aren’t
carrying anything with them. They’re just out for a walk in those new bodies,
but Jesus, dressed like that? That’s flat dangerous out here. As a parent, I
wouldn’t have allowed it, and if I found out my daughter had snuck out and done
that, she’d have been in big trouble. (I was too much of a pushover, to tell
the truth, but my wife would have
laid down the law.) We had big enough arguments over where she could go out
running—we wanted her to go back and forth on our half-mile cul-de-sac, at
least when it was either early or late, but she wanted to head out on the road
I’m walking now, and a lot of the time, I’m pretty sure, she did.
I
remember next that, when my daughter had a sleepover in junior high, five or
six friends tenting in our back yard, we learned much later that two of those
Catholic school eighth graders had snuck out in the middle of the night and
walked to the Soaring Eagle Casino, a
couple of miles away. We never did find out what they did there. But there’s
something about junior high girls I may have forgotten, if I ever knew it.
Then
I remember the two girls who used to walk by the house I grew up in, not in
bikinis—it was the fifties—but in very tight and very short shorts, with that
I-know-you’re-looking walk. We, the boys, would watch them as they passed, calling
them tramps to ourselves but getting a good look. I think I remember they came
over and talked to us once, but I at least was too young for that to go
anywhere. But those girls seemed to want to be seen, and there’s ordinarily no
one at all on this empty stretch of road for these girls to be seen by. Still, I can’t quite believe they’re
unaware of what the world makes, at a certain point which surely they know
they’ve passed, of those bodies when it sees them.
Then
I think: Poor kids. They go out for a walk where they live, where possibly in
their own minds they’re stuck living,
and in bodies they’re stuck living in too, and even a benevolent old guy like
me gets all worked up about it. That’s a load they’ll carry on their backs for
years.
So,
okay, it’s still kind of puzzling, and making only this much sense so far: the
girls in their bikinis were working on how to do fourteen-and-growing-up-fast,
making a mistake I still think, that day, as I was working on how to do
sixty-five-and-fading, climbing that hill in hiking boots, getting ready for
one last long walk in the beautiful, dangerous world.
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