Anik hasn’t walked for a few days now.
When Rose didn’t meet him at the checkpoint and didn’t answer his calls, he backtracked ten kilometers and found her pulled over at the side of the road, thumb out, swearing at the cars that rushed by without stopping. The guy at the local garage told them it would be at least a week to get the parts, and so they had no choice but to camp out, waiting until the engine was repaired. Rose worried about the delay, told him to go on without her, but he said he could use the break and she seemed relieved. She too had come to depend on him, and this filled him with a purposeful happiness that he hadn’t expected. The next days were like that too. Not having a schedule suited Anik and as they went about their day, hiking and swimming, he found his mind making connections that he hadn’t before. It was different than what he’d experienced when he was in his room. When sequestered away he was lonely, the lack of productivity hanging over him like a ticking bomb, and here even though an hour passes in stillness there is no foreboding other, no shadow reminder of should do, just birdsong and light. Earlier that morning he and Rose attempted to fish and caught nothing but garbage — even that was fine: the simple act of standing on shore in quiet anticipation felt important to him. Just as he was about to give up he felt a tug on the line and with Rose’s help reeled in the catch. Neither of them knew what type of fish it was, and when Anik looked at it close up, hook-mouthed and struggling, he let it go, saying he preferred lentils for supper.
Rose didn’t seem to mind the break either, and each morning they walked into town to charge up her phone and laptop, posting about Anik’s Way and sharing clips of their musical collaborations. The news piece generated some traffic to the website and, as far as Anik’s concerned, Rose is taking things too far when that afternoon she talks about getting T-shirts made.
“It’ll become the Pacific Northwest’s Camino and people will follow in your footsteps. We may as well profit from it.”
“No.” Anik grabs a beer from the cooler. “This trip — it’s not about money.”
“Everything’s about money,” Rose says. “Okay, if not T-shirts, how about buttons or coffee cups, maybe water bottles — cross-promotion with local retailers.”
“No.” He stretches his torso, before settling into his lotus position.
“Says the guy in a yoga pose holding a beer.”
“I hear you, but this trip is about finding yourself, wherever you are.”
“Oh, that’s totally tweetable.” She takes a photo of him. “I’ll crop the beer out.”
“Clearly, you should be in marketing and publicity.”
“No way. I don’t want to sell crap and manage brands.”
“But you’re good at it.”
“It’s only because this is something I can get behind. It’s a good cause.”
“It’s hardly a cause.”
“Sure it is. Think about it, now that people have seen what you’re doing, they are reexamining their own lives. Where they are, where they’re going, what they’re even doing. I mean, shit, most people are walking dead, workaholics or narcissistic addicts completely absorbed by themselves, like a flesh-eating organism.”
Anik enjoys watching her talk, the mounting passion of her monologues and diatribes as if she’s delivering Hollywood lines. She’s poignant and funny and so assured in every word that when he watches her, he feels better about the world, if only momentarily. “But I’m just like all of those people you’re talking about. I’m walking because I was in my head, absorbed by myself, unsure and scared of what I was going to do with my life and now here we are contributing to the look at me and buy this culture that has us all trapped. Wordsworth was right: ‘The world is too much with us; late and soon.’”
“Whatever, Shakespeare,” she says, interrupting. “I don’t know why you can’t accept that people think what you’re doing is cool. It’s not an easy thing to do something that doesn’t have a point. That sense of being is a radical act in a society that wants you to have a plan, get a job and pay your bills.” She makes a eureka face and types something on her phone. “I’m going to save that for tomorrow’s tweet.”
“Tweet this.” Anik flips her the bird.
She takes a photo. “Perfect.”
“Maybe you should switch things up, write something about yourself. Your journey. You could call it ‘A Rose by Any Other Name,’” he says, panning the air with a picture it directorial gesture.
“Ugh, sounds like a bad way-off-Broadway show. No thank you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. I think our followers would be curious about you.” He gets up and holds out his hand like a microphone. “Have you found yourself?”
“You might want to lay off the day-drinking.”
He reasserts his pretend microphone. “Please don’t avoid the question. Have you made peace with yourself? Our audience would like to know.”
“Self, as in singular?” She pushes his hand away and he sits back down as she opens a bottle of water. “Life isn’t so this or that for me. It’s never has been — I mean look at me.”
“Meaning?”
“Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m about.”
“Everyone’s figuring it out.”
“It’s not the same. Even when I think I’ve figured out, I’ve got to deal with other people trying to figure me out. Case in point: did you see how the mechanic guy eyed me up and down when I gave him my ID? He had this little smirk on his face, like ‘I can’t wait to tell the wife about the girl named Thomas who came into the shop today.’ That look on his face reminded me that no matter what I do, people don’t see me the way I see myself.”
“Isn’t that true for everyone though? My dad says that we see the world as we are, not as it is.”
“Maybe, but it feels worse because it’s so obvious, you know? Another time, this guy came into the grocery store where I worked and when I was ringing him through he asked me if my pronoun was it. For a second I imagined taking the bottle of hot sauce in my hand and smashing it on his head, ramming the jagged end into his eye and twisting it until he was all fucked up. I’d been called that before, I’d been called worse before, but that day, I felt like shit. Some days I just wake up hating everything and everybody.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
“But you don’t. Not really. Everyone’s lives look so easy; they just get to go about being themselves. Nothing about my life is easy, or normal.”
“Fuck normal. Who wants to be normal anyways?” Anik asks and takes a long swig of beer. “Oh, that sounds like the opening number of your Broadway show.” He grabs his guitar and gives it a quick tune. He clears his throat and sings, strumming between each phrase, “Normal is herd mentality, get in line, toe the line.” Rose nods her approval and he continues. “Normal is Sunday dinner and six o’clock news. It’s a two-by-two squared scheduled list of to-dooooos.”
Rose jumps up and with a Streisand flourish belts, “Normal is gold-star special, good job, hand job, you can be anything . . . so long as it’s safe and productive.”
They walk in circles around each other alternating lines on the mundane and absurd.
“Normal is mall shopping, bar hopping, Netflix and chill.”
“Normal is politics and policies, numb your pain and take a pill.”
“It’s mainstream media, mouth breathers, mass shooters!”
Anik palms the guitar and for a moment there is nothing but the sound of birds and the sparkle of sunlight between the trees.
Rose begins again, this time whispering to crescendo: “Normal is doing what you’re told, going once, twice, three times, sold.” She holds the last note out, arms in the air.
As she bows, Anik claps and yells, “Encore!”
“Normal is brand names and brand you.”
“Mass migration and starvation.”
“Headlines and deadlines.”
“Hide and seek, don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“Normal is not me and it’s not you.”
“Normal is not me and it’s not you . . .”
They stop singing when they hear a car coming down the service road.
A black Mercedes with tinted windows comes to a stop and Ash gets out of the passenger’s side. “What the hell were you singing about? You sounded like shit.”
Anik puts down his guitar. “What are you doing here?” He hugs his brother, cuffing his back twice in that hard-hitting I got you way.
“Saw you on the news. We figure we’d see what shit you were getting up to.” He gestures to Winona. She introduces herself. Her handshake is strong, like she’s making a point.
“This is Rose,” Anik says.
“Judd or Ryder?” Rose asks Winona.
“Ryder,” she answers.
“Beetlejuice or Scissorhands?” Rose asks as if her movie preference is a clue to her psyche.
“Beetlejuice, of course.”
Rose smiles. “Cool.” They all stand there staring for a minute before Anik breaks the silence, asking if they’re hungry.
“I could eat,” Ash says.
Anik grabs the hot dogs. “We can roast them over a fire.”
“Rugged. Never pictured you as an outdoors type.”
“Well, I guess I’m full of surprises,” Anik says, gathering some wood.
“Yeah, like giving Mom and Dad a heart attack by leaving. Big fucking surprise,” he says, giving Anik a shove. “You could’ve at least told me.”
There’s an awkward silence. “Why don’t we get the fixings ready, leave you to talk.” Rose motions to Winona to follow her to the picnic table.
Ash looks around the site, noticing the few empties on the ground. “I thought this was a spiritual quest?”
“It is,” shouts Rose. “Jesus turned water to wine. We do cheap beer, honey.”
“Fair.” Ash grabs one from the cooler.
Anik takes it from him. “Mom would kill me. Does she even know you’re here?”
“Yeah, unlike you, I left a note. I talked to Dad. He’s cool with it.”
Anik kneels down and starts the fire, coaxing it with kindling. “How’s Mom?” he finally asks.
“She’s okay. Just regular, I guess.”
“She mad?” he asks without looking up.
“No, just worried. She recorded the news. Watched it over and over. You know how she is.”
“Yeah, I know.” Anik gets up and skewers the hot dogs. “Dad’s okay with it though?”
“Hard to say.”
“Thought he may be upset or get some blowback on his coaching stuff on account of me being fucked up.”
“You aren’t fucked up and he’s fine. You know Peter, he’ll find a way to sell it, maybe use the material for his next book,” he says, laughing. “But you should’ve told me. I could’ve done damage control.”
“Sorry, I didn’t want you to get caught up in it.”
“How could I not? You know how Mom is; when one of us does something, we both get the lockdown.”
“True. I’m sorry.”
“I told Dad that I’d text and send pics and stuff. Maybe you should call Mom again?”
“Yeah, I just . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Start with sorry. That always works for me.”
“Facts.”
“She just wants to know you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I am. I’m figuring things out. It’s been good. So what’s the deal with Winona? Wasn’t she Jay’s girlfriend?”
“Yeah, we’ve been hanging out, like as friends.”
“Cool.” Anik knows he should have more to say on it, like any big brother should, but he doesn’t and so they just stand there in front of the fire.
“So what’s the deal with the walking? Is it like a metaphor for life? No matter what, you just gotta keep going?” Ash asks.
“Yeah, sort of. Speaking of which, how did you find us?”
“Rose,” Ash says loud enough for her to hear. “She posted the last stop online so we figured you’d be camped around here. Plus I still have you on Find My.”
“Good to know.”
“That’s quite an Instagram following you have, by the way,” Winona adds as she and Rose return to the fire.
“It’s all Rose,” Anik says.
“How did you guys meet anyways?” Ash asks as they sit down to eat.
“I caught him taking pictures of me on the ferry. Total stalker move,” Rose says, laughing.
“Originally, we were just going to meet up along the way. You know, keep each other company. But then Anik’s Way happened,” Anik says, sarcastically.
Rose pretends to take offense. “You say it like it’s a bad thing. Your brother,” she says, looking at Ash, “pretends like he doesn’t love all the attention.”
“Not surprised. He is the introvert of the family.”
“Ambivert,” Anik corrects. “I can be social when I need to be. It’s just the small talk that gets me.”
“I’m with Anik on that one. Who wants to talk about the weather anyways?” Winona says. “And you know what’s worse than the small-talkers? The so-called nice people who ask how you are, and since you know they’re only asking to be polite, all you can say is ‘fine.’ It’s, like, people are just talking to talk. No one actually listens and —” She stops and looks down at her lap. “I’m talking too much. Sorry,” she says, her face oops scrunched.
“No, it’s fine. We’re totally with you,” Rose says. “My gran used to say if you suffer fools gladly, you are a fool.”
Ash gets up and looks around the campsite. “So where’s the van?”
“At the shop,” Rose says. “Some mechanical mumbo jumbo. It won’t be fixed for a couple days so we’re just killing time.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, it put us behind but whatever, right. Shit happens,” Anik says. “We’ll get there when we get there.”
“We can use my car if you want,” Winona offers, her voice small but reaching. “I mean, if you don’t mind us tagging along.”
Anik glances up at Rose, who nods. “Yeah, sure. Why not.” He puts another log on the fire and they all settle in. As they talk about the next day’s walking route, he observes them as if he’s out of body, trying to understand how they’ve come together, all of them bonded by circumstance and chance, hanging on to each other, desperate for some thread of connection. He wonders if that’s all life is: a spinning of thin webs, a silvered way to get from here to there, from me to us.