Chapter One
Trenton McClelland's Story: Part One
Presentiment presented itself to Trenton McClelland as he woke up that morning. He had again been dreaming of Happy Valley, just a few miles in from Tumalo Falls. This was the fifth consecutive night walking over the little wooden bridge that, apparently during months of snow melt, would span over a tiny run-off stream. Now there lay only a dry creek bed. Up the trail about five hundred yards, he could see the bridge that crosses the actual Tumalo Creek.
In the dream from which he had just risen, as in the five nights prior, the meadow opened up to the left, just behind the thin tree line. This stage revealed a man standing in the middle of the clearing. He was wearing the same robe that he had worn the past five nights. It had reminded Trenton of a friar's outfit, like those he had seen in Shakespearean plays and movies. The man had his hood down, though the way the light danced through the early morning scene, along with the heavy presence of a misty fog layered upwards from the ground, there was no point in time Trenton was able to see the man's face.
As he sat up in bed and began to stretch, he couldn't help replaying the final moments that transpired this time around. He had no idea why the dream had altered so suddenly from it's previous routine. As he stood up, he instantly recognized that he had done so too quickly. He was overcome with a wave of dizziness and the room dissolved into a blinding white light. What seemed like an hour, but was truly only moments later, his bedroom came into focus. At first everything was blurry. A blast of sound crashed into the room. Trenton was having trouble figuring out what the cacophany was because, as he was trying to regain his senses, all of the noise filtering into him sounded distant and tinny. He was certain that someone had driven their car into his living room, but as the sound did not cease, he turned around to see his alarm clock come into focus. With his bearings mostly returned, Trenton stood up, slowly this time, and limped his way over to his desk. After resetting the alarm clock, he opened up his journal and wrote about the mysterious new ending.
Saturday, September 12th, 2010. I had the same dream again last night, but this time I was able to move in closer to him. Though I still have not seen his face, I am certain of what I heard him say. This is the first occasion that he has spoken to me and I am still having a time trying to figure out what it was that he meant. He clearly said, “Begin.” He then raised his right arm and pointed to the southwest. At this time, he and the fog disappeared. This is when the dream had ended each night before. For the first time, however, I was able to run to his position. When I looked to the southwest, from his vantage point I could see...something. This is when I awoke. Whatever it was I saw, I knew I had to go. I'll head out there next week, once this tournament's over with.
Placing the cap back on his pen, he closed the blue, spiral bound notebook. Trenton was now sufficiently awake, after the abrupt start to the day. He stood up from his desk and walked over to the bathroom door, where he started running the shower and brushing his teeth. After he bent down to spit out the toothpaste into the sink, he repositioned himself in front of the mirror and did not see his reflection. Instead, it was that of the old man from his dream. He was now clearly seeing the face of a bald old man with weathered features and ancient green eyes with yellowing whites. He had deeply tanned skin and his lips were badly cracked and dry.
Trenton let out a startled grunt and threw his toothbrush at the mirror as he stumbled backwards, only to trip over the rug and topple. The man just smiled. Trenton shot to his feet, prepared to run out of the bathroom. His elbows were throbbing as they were the first part of him to hit the floor. As he looked again to the mirror, all he saw were his own green eyes looking back with a most terrified expression behind them. Trenton reached over to the light switch and flipped it three times, off, then on again. After he was confident that the light in the room had indeed fluctuated with his flicking, he stepped into the shower.
The old man's face was burnt into Trenton's mind, and it was all he could think of the rest of the morning. He put no effort into breakfast, instead opting for his usual straight black coffee, and stepped out onto the front porch of his home. The paper was sitting on the bottom step leading up to the front door, but Trenton didn't feel like making the effort to climb down the four other steps to reach it. He just sat down in the lawn chair closest to the door. Trenton set his coffee on the table and reached into the cup holder. There, he found his lighter, and a half-smoked, full flavor American Spirit. He lit the cigarette, and replaced the lighter to the cup holder. As he exhaled the first drag, he picked up his coffee.
For the next ten minutes, he was able to stop thinking all together. No recurring dream. No old man in robes or reflection. Just smoke and coffee. Finally, he drained the last swig, inhaled the last of the smoke, grabbed the paper and headed inside. “I don't even know why I got this damn thing in the first place,” Trenton said to himself as he dumped it straight into the paper recycle bin.
He rinsed the coffee mug and set it into the dishwasher. With just Trenton living there, the machine won't get used for three more days. He walked back to his bedroom through the kitchen, so as to avoid the hallway mirror, and threw on a t-shirt that he purchased from some weird, blonde guy under an umbrella in Drake Park. The shirt said “TRY AS YOU MIGHT, I WILL KEEP MY GROUND.” He was able to appreciate the sentiment, and so he bought it. But that was ages ago. Now, he doesn't notice that it's the shirt he had chosen. He took off his cotton pajama pants and replaced them with a pair of red and white sweat pants. Hanging from a hook on the door was his plain, gray, pull over hooded sweatshirt. He threw it on over his head. Trenton then grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the night stand and put them in his sweatshirt pocket. He knew he needed to stop at the store on the way to work, because there were only two left in the box. He turned to his dresser and collected his wallet and keys. There was one for the house, one for the bike lock, and one for his 1997 green Jeep Wrangler. Trenton headed for the front door, and in the hallway, gave one last look in the mirror, and was relieved to see only himself looking back.
He locked the door and walked over to his bike, where he unlocked the chain from the make shift bike rack that he had bolted into the side of his house, the day he turned ten. His bike was a custom fit Gary Fischer Joshua “Y” frame. Trenton had Bomber fork shocks installed on the front, and a Fox Vanilla rear coil suspension added to the back. He had a nice long ride to work and it was ice cold out, the sun only just rising. The last thing he would want is a hard, bumpy ride as well. He lived on the very south end of Bend, OR, in Deschutes River Woods, and he had to be at Shevlin Park by nine. Normally, he left his house every morning around ten after eight, so he could make it to work on time. Today he was on his bike by half past seven.
Trenton rode his bike down Baker until he reached Brookswood Blvd. He made the turn onto Brookswood, and followed it for fifteen minutes down to the Old Mill District. When he got to the round-about at Reed Market Rd, he took it all the way around, with the cars in traffic, to the final exiting point headed west. Reed Market took him past the Old Mill, over the Deschutes River, and past several more businesses and round-abouts. He went through the round-about at the beginning of the Cascade Lakes Hwy, and continued on until Reed Market became Mt. Washington Dr, where he passed his old middle school. Mt. Washington Dr wound around the west side of Bend, which then intersected with Shevlin Park Rd. He made a left hand turn and the road brought him right to the expansive stretch of grass and forest that is Shevlin Park. He worked for Briggs Archery Supply, which was a business that did exactly what you would expect. On this day, they would not be at the main store.
Trenton's boss, Clay Briggs, was a sometimes gruff, though mild mannered man. He was five feet, eight inches tall, where Trenton stood about an inch higher. Clay had a big, bushy mountain-man beard that was mostly gray. It seemed though, that the remaining black hairs were doing their best to form an alliance right down the center. He was in healthy condition, with more muscle than the average sixty-one year old. His face was round and red most of the time, and his eyes were a fierce color of gray. The man's exclusively white hair was wilder than normal, Trenton noticed as he was chaining up his bike to a nearby tree. He walked over to Clay's dilapidated Ford F150. Trenton took in the paint that was peeling from the body all around the sides. The tires and bottom third of the truck were completely caked in at least an inch of dried mud. The license plate read DRINK.
“Trenton, my boy!” shouted Clay. “Didn't think you'd get here so quick. I know you don't like drivin' 'less you gotta, but I wouldn'a thought you here so quick.” Clay took a swig out of his coffee thermos. Trenton knew there were at least two shots of Carolan's Irish Cream and another shot of Bushmill's White Bush Blended Irish Whiskey in that coffee.
“Hey boss,” was all that Trenton could muster at the moment. The dream he had been having was still weighing on him. He was attempting to get his walking legs back, when he realized he had never stopped at a store for cigarettes. “Got any smokes, boss,” he asked as he pulled out his pack. “I forgot to stop and get some on the way here.”
“'Course you did. Wouldn'a thought you'd 'member anyhow. 'S'why I picked you up a pack on my trip here s'mornin'. How many you got in what you got left?” Each word in Clay's sentences generally blended into one super word.
“Two,” said Trenton seeing where this was going.
“Well, I'll trade ya. This nice, unopened blue pack, for the two in that ol' beat up one.” Clay held the cigarettes out of the window. “Now get in here, we got work needin' done.”
Trenton took the pack and handed Clay the two cigarettes he had left, and walked around to the passenger side of the car. This wasn't the first time Clay had anticipated Trenton's random needs. In fact, Trenton got the distinct impression that Clay was able to see the future. Trenton opened the passenger side door and climbed into the cab. He opened up the new blue pack of full flavor American Spirits and pulled the front and center cigarette. He went to grab his lighter and realized it was still in the cup holder of the lawn chair on his front porch.
“Bought you a lighter too, seein' as you'll be needin' it,” said Clay as he handed Trenton a fresh, forest green Bic. “Now open that glove box.”
Trenton popped open the panel in the dashboard and the smell of marijuana began to linger. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out Clay's clay pipe. Clay's wife, Sonya, had made the pipe for him. She was a very gifted sculptor and it had been a gift she made for his birthday the week before. It was shaped like an arrow where the arrowhead was the mouthpiece and the fletching was the bowl. A bud had been freshly loaded and, with his new green lighter, Trenton took a pull of the soothing sweet smoke and held it in for a long moment. He handed his employer the pipe and let out a cloud that filled the cab of the pickup. “Thanks Clay, I needed that. I've been having the most odd dream and it has fucked my ability to concentrate.” After a minute had passed he added, “Now that I think of it, the weed probably won't help.” Trenton refused when Clay went to pass back the pipe.
“Good 'nough for me,” grumbled Clay as he took one more hit and drained his “coffee.” “Let's get set up.” With that, Clay and Trenton got out of the truck and slammed their doors shut. The doors had to be slammed, otherwise they would not completely close. Clay rounded the truck and popped the tailgate. In the bed of the truck were six hay bale targets on top of three folding tables and a large, dirty brown canvas bag, set off to the side.
Trenton jumped up into the bed and started removing the targets. Clay grabbed the first one and began moving it into the park. Trenton finished unloading the targets from the truck as Clay was returning from placing the second one. They both got the last four placed in two trips, and made their way back to the truck.
“Let's grab the tables in one go,” Clay said, sounding slightly taxed. “We'll take 'em to the trailer. “S'already set up o're there, opposite where them targets are.” Trenton hadn't even seen the storage trailer across the field. He didn't even think to wonder where it was. The day wasn't going so well, and he needed to find a way to snap out of it. The last thing he could afford at that moment was to be absent of focus. In less than two hours, hundreds of people from all over the northwest were going to be swarming in on Shevlin Park.
Trenton unfolded the three tables. Together, they placed two of the tables lengthwise out. One from the back corner near the tire well of the trailer, and one at the front corner behind the hitch. The final table was placed parallel and opposite the trailer. That table connected the two others and made a nice square area, encompassing the door.
It was a black Haulmark trailer with a diamond plated aluminum roof and identical trimming. In white lettering across the side was written Briggs Archery Supply. Clay grabbed a steel dowel that he then connected into a notch located at the center top side of the wall, just inside the square outdoor workspace that had been created. This was Trenton's favorite feature of the mobile store. He had helped Clay tear the original roof off the trailer and, together, they made their own custom roof. Clay pulled outward on the dowel and the roof panel slid out with the applied leverage. At a certain distance from the trailer, long legs connected to the corners of the roof, fell out from their compartments in the trailer's frame. They rested on the ground almost where they should, and Trenton helped get them settled just right. The roof was now an awning over all three tables, and would eventually provide shade, once the matutinal sun had risen higher in the sky.
Inside the trailer were varying levels of shelves on all three walls, all stocked with different parts and products for, and including, bows and arrows. There was also a floating wall with products for display mounted everywhere there was available space. The counters lining the far wall and the opposite end, contained numerous amounts of drawers filled with tools needed for repair work. With the roof of the trailer now over the tables, everything inside was lit up by the sun. Trenton had so much respect for Clay, and this was just one reason why. His mobile store used no electricity. For all of the fancy mobile shops that were going to be popping up in Shevlin Park today, this was his favorite.
This day saw the first ever Archer's Federation of America, or AFA, tournament in Bend, OR. When Trenton was in eighth grade, Briggs Archery Supply played host to a city-wide middle and high school archery tournament. For two months prior to the tournament, Trenton's phys. ed. classes revolved around learning how to shoot bow and arrow. Archery came so easily to him. He was immediately hooked into the world. Growing up, his favorite story was that of Robin Hood, so his fascination and passion for archery was a simple transition. When P.E. finally became the city-wide tournament, it was held at Skyliner Field on the grounds of Cascade Middle School, which is where Trenton was going at the time. Students from Pilot Butte and High Desert Middle Schools came for the tournament. Bend Senior and Mountain View High Schools were also represented. Trenton did more than prove himself that day, eight years ago. With winning the Middle School category, he earned an apprenticeship with Clay that had turned into a full time job and a friendship unmatched.
Today, however, there was much more on the line. The AFA tournaments were prestigious events with sponsors lining up to have their equipment used by the top archers. To top it off, there was a cash prize pool of $250,000 to the top three shooters. First place took the bulk of the money and would leave $150,000 richer. To the runner-up, $75,000 would be their take home. Trenton would be grateful if he was able to sneak into the money at third. Even the $25,000 at stake for that finish would change everything for Trenton. He had spent about as much as he had won throughout the last few years since high school. Junior events never paid cash and, by the time he was out of high school, the competition in archery had become ferocious at it's nicest. Traveling to competitions around the country was expensive and wasn't always worth going.
The one thing Trenton was sure of, was that he was a shoe-in for the $7500 Longshot Competition. He had already checked the online register the night before, and out of the talent signed up, no one was more accurate at long distance targets than himself. Trenton always took pride in his ability to shoot farther than anyone. But for now, he would have to continue setting up for the days events.
Trenton followed Clay into the store they had just built. Clay was already busying himself with checking the inventory one last time. “How'sa 'bout go'n grabbin' that bag from the back o' the truck, won'tcha. An' see if Mark's got his lazy ass here yet. He's got the other targets, you know.” Clay trailed off into some inaudible mumbling that Trenton was certain was a curse on the life of Mark Dagget.
As he reached Clay's F150, he removed the canvas bag from the back of the truck and set it alongside, in the parking lot. He jumped back into the bed, and made his way to the front of the truck. Using the cab as a bench, he flipped open his pack of cigarettes and pulled the one in the front, left-center. Returning the pack to his pocket, he pulled out his new green lighter, and struck the flint. Inhaling the first drag, Trenton closed his eyes for a moment of silence. He blindly, but accurately put the cigarette back to his mouth and took another drag. He saw the old man's face in the mirror again, though this time, clearly in his mind.
The escaping smoke billowed from his mouth as Trenton, coughing, opened his eyes. Driving his way into the parking lot in a very new, very shiny, deep metallic blue, 2009 Dodge Ram, was Mark Dagget. Everything you could say about Clay's truck, was the adverse way to describe Mark's monstrous vehicle. Aside from being only a couple of years old, every inch of that truck, minus some hay on the bed rails, was spotless. He had built on a huge halogen light rack to the back of the cab. The tires on Mark's truck were at least three times the size of Clay's, and the whole of the truck was neatly two and a half feet taller than Trenton. Proudly displayed over the top of the windshield was a vinyl sticker with the words Hard Country Lifts. Inside the bed, however, looked nearly identical to the way Clay's did that morning when Trenton had first arrived.
There was one small difference. Clay's truck carried six targets. There were six in the bed of the Dodge as well, but, as Mark pulled around the corner, Trenton was able to see a little flat bed towing trailer. Secured by some ropes, were four more targets, with just enough room for all of them to fit. Trenton took one last drag off his now half-smoked cigarette, and rolled the cherry onto the ground.
“I've got a halfie to finish when we finish,” Trenton yelled toward Mark. “Shut off you're shit and let's go!”
Mark turned off the ignition and opened his door. “Good to see you too, buddy,” he said as he jumped down onto the pavement. “It's only just now nine anyway, what the hell is wrong with you.”
“Daylight savings dick,” said Trenton. “It's ten, and you're an hour late. There's already three other shops getting situated and these targets are all we've got left to do for a couple of hours. I wanted some time to shoot before too many people arrived. We were the first one's here, Mark. Let's just get moving. Clay's checking inventory but he'll probably be done soon. He'll help you finish, but he's not happy.” Trenton paused. “Well, not happy, for Clay.”
“Did that old coot tell you to set your clocks back last night?” asked Mark. “Calm down, Trent. Today is Saturday. Daylight savings is on Sundays. Always on Sundays. He wanted you here early and you fell for it, SUCKAH!” Trenton thought about it for a moment, then he and Mark both began laughing.
They had lined up the targets from their second trip to the shooting field and were heading back to the truck, when Clay stepped out of the store and made his way to the parking lot. The three of them made only two more trips and all sixteen targets were aligned and spaced into eight groups of two. Each pair was separated by five yards from any other pair, and one yard apart from it's partner.
Mark pulled out his pack of Marlboro Reds and began smoking. Trenton had that halfie still in his pocket. He lit his up, and the three of them went back to the F150. Clay opened the passenger door and then popped the panel to the glove box. He pulled out his pipe and gave flame to its contents. He handed it to Trenton, who took the final hit from the pipe. “You can load it, Mark,” Clay said in a flat tone. “You gotta redeem your actions, boy. Sixty minutes late and no phone call. I ought'a fire you. God dammit, I ought'a setcha free.”
“Hush your tone, old man,” Mark said reaching into his pocket. “I told Trent you've been messing with his sleeping pattern. No more charades, he knows what time it is.” He pulled out a little clay bottle that had a cork stopper in the top. This was another one of Sonya's gifts, and all three of them had one. “Besides, I don't work for you.” Mark pulled out the cork and removed a large marijuana bud from inside as Trenton cashed what was left in the pipe. Mark placed the pot in the fletching and handed Clay the honorary first hit. “Greens for my tardiness,” declared Mark, with a big grin.
Silent, the three men passed around a pipe that looked like a miniature, clay arrow. They watched eight different vehicles appear around them over the next fifteen minutes, and four of the sixteen shooting lanes were now in use. Trenton picked up the canvas bag and made his way towards the new, temporary, Briggs Archery Supply store. Clay put the pipe back into the glove box and slammed the passenger door to his truck. He began following his two employees to work. In single file, they walked to the trailer.
“Mark,” called Clay as they reached their destination. “Set up the three'v our chairs out here. Trenton's off to go shoot. Seven lanes are full, so he's go'n now. We need the blue cooler out and under the trailer, keep the red one inside 'til later. AFA's go'n be here soon, and we still don't have out the wall.” Mark ran inside the trailer to get started. Trenton had set the canvas bag on the table furthest from the trailer.
He was opening the bag when Clay spoke. “The Diamond Ice-Man. It's a Bowtech. Aluminum. Th're's a carbon shaft string suppressor, and it's set in-line with the stabilizer, so your hand shouldn't feel much'a the vibration. This is one of the best compound bows on the market. You have two hours to get used to it, then your lane time is up. You're in 13, I reserved it for you. Happy early birthday, kid,” said Clay.
Trenton pulled out his new bow. There were wheels on both the upper and lower limbs. These were home to the tension cables and nocking string. Just above the grip was a resting ledge for an arrow to set. Only then did Trenton recognize the Hollow Pino sight by Vital Gear, mounted to the grip. He was stunned. “I, I, uh thanks, Clay. Wow.”
“You earned it kid, now get.”
Trenton noticed inside the canvas bag was a red leather quiver that was hand-stitched. This was one from Jack's Traditional Archery. The model was called “The Chief.” Trenton had sold about ten of them. They were hand made, in Alaska, and had to be shipped to Bend. After the store added it's cost for commission and profit, he was selling them at almost two hundred seventy-five dollars. Now, one was his. With a brand new compound bow, hand-stitched leather quiver, and twenty-one new Carbon Express arrows with Medallion XR Target points, Trenton made his way to lane 13.
Trenton walked down the line of shooters, watching intently each person that he passed. He was sizing up the competition, who was using which bows, and who was hitting the center of their targets. As he got to lane 11, he stopped short of breath. He had not seen this shooter's name on the online register the night before. Trenton's hopes for winning any money today had, in one swift instant, absconded into infinity. There, placing an almost perfect bull's eye, was Everette Hayes. Trenton watched as Everette nocked another arrow and landed it in almost the same spot as the last. Having lost any confidence he had gained when seeing his new bow, Trenton slumped his way down two more lanes and dropped his quiver to the ground.
He was shaking as he nocked his first arrow to the bow. Standing at the fifty foot hash mark, that a team from the AFA had recently measured and marked, Trenton gave the first pull on his brand new compound bow. He was able to, so easily, bring the string back to full draw, that it caught him a little off guard and he missed the target completely. He nocked a second arrow and steadied his aim. Looking through the Hollow Pino sight, he aligned the needles for fifty feet and focused to the dead center of the target. The snap of the string brought very little shock into his wrist and the arrow was just left of the bull's eye. “Whoa,” Trenton said under his breath.
On top of the targets now lay digital screens that displayed the speed of the arrow. Trenton's screen was flashing 309 fps. He pulled a third arrow from his new quiver, and drew back. The display was flashing again, only this time it read 312 fps. Astonished, Trenton continued firing arrows at his target. The dream he'd been having, the world around him, the sights and sounds of over a hundred people in the park, time itself, all melted into the repetition of snapping arrow after arrow.
Trenton didn't know how long he had been shooting, until a representative of the AFA seemed to materialize along side him. The man from the AFA was about a half foot shorter than Trenton. This made it very easy for Trenton to see the top of his poorly disguised bald head. It had to have been the absolute worst comb over Trenton had ever seen before. He had a thick black mustache and his little beady eyes made him very reminiscent of the Monopoly character, Rich Uncle Pennybags. He was only missing the top hat, cane, and tuxedo. The man had a clipboard and was wearing an official AFA staffer badge. The name on the badge was Dir. Charles Fulman. Charles was, however, wearing glasses with a thin wire frame that kept sliding down his diminutive nose.
“Ten minutes, Mr. McClelland,” was all he said, adjusting his glasses. He then moved on to the next lane. Trenton rocketed three more arrows toward his target in lane 13. The digital radar reader was flashing 319 fps, his highest speed yet, as he collected his arrows, and walked back to the trailer.
Mark was talking with a man and his son about the different bows available for a young archer. The boy had to be around eight years old, but as Clay always liked to point out, the earlier you start, the more time you have to get better. Trenton came around the side of the tables, and hopped over the wheel well into the little square merchandise area. He set his bow and quiver both back into the dirty canvas bag it had originally been in earlier that morning. He opened the small side compartment built into the trailer and, placing the bag inside, looked back at Mark's customers. The boy had a stunned look of awe as he stared directly at Trenton. The man noticed what was going on, and asked his son if there was something wrong.
“Did you see his bow, daddy?” shouted the little boy excitedly. Trenton smiled.
“I sure did, Jonathan. Very nice looking, huh?” The man then turned to Trenton and asked, “Are you any good with it, McClelland?”
Somewhat shocked that the man knew his name, Trenton just nodded slightly. He told himself that the man must obviously be with the AFA, though he wasn't truly certain that was the case. “Come and check out the Longshot Competition tonight,” was the only thing he could think to say, and with that, he turned his back to the three others and stepped into the sunlit trailer.
Clay was inside, restringing what was becoming increasingly obvious to Trenton, was that little boy's bow. He realized that the young boy must be competing in the Junior event that would start in only a couple of hours. Juniors were on the schedule to start at 2:30 that day. The clock on the wall showed the time to be 12:37 in the afternoon. This was the actual time, not the premature daylight savings time Clay had convinced Trenton of.
Clay finished setting the string and gave several quick, half draws and let them back in slowly, so as not to actually fire the string. “Good as new, kinda” he said, standing from the one work stool. “Tell his dad th're ain't no charge for Juniors today.” Clay handed Trenton the bow, and Trenton walked outside.
“Free for Junior competitors today, sir.” Trenton handed Jonathan back his bow, and he and his father headed off into the bustling center that had been erected around the shooting field. The smell of barbeque cooking had begun to fill the air. Several local restaurants had begun to set up their vendor stands. Mark and Clay grabbed the wall of merchandise that had been set up outside, and lifted it into the trailer. Trenton grabbed a can of orange soda from the blue cooler, cracked it open, and took a large swig that drained nearly half the can. Almost gasping for air, he saw Clay and Mark emerging from the trailer once again. Clay had a large sign that read “CLOSED FOR OUR OWN REASONS,” and he locked the door.
“Le's go'n get us a real food lunch, boys,” said Clay heartily, and with that, Trenton, Mark, and Clay of Briggs Archery Supply left behind their trailer as they departed for the parking lot. “Yer truck'r mine, Mark?”
“MINE!” Mark shouted instantly. “Oh God please, anything but that death trap you still drive.” Mark pulled out his pack of Marb Reds and removed a cigarette. Trenton followed suit and removed the front right-center cigarette. Trenton lit his Spirit and was about to return his lighter to his pocket, when Mark said, “Fire.”
“Here,” said Trenton as he handed Mark the new forest green Bic he had been given that morning. Mark lit his cigarette and returned the lighter to Trenton. Trenton placed it back in his pocket as they reached the two trucks. Trenton noticed there was an extra wide birth in the traffic around the back of Mark's Dodge. He rounded to the backside of the truck. There, still connected to the hitch, and blocking an entire lane, was the little flatbed trailer hitch. “Did you forget to do something,” asked Trenton.
“What,” was Mark's response. “It isn't that bad.”
“God dammit boy,” came Clay's burly voice. “You best remedy this 'fore I get to tannin' your worthless ass. Loads'a people are jus' tryin' to find their way by, an' you got the whole damn place blocked, worse'n my colon.”
“Oh, shove it.”
“Boy, don't give me no shit. Unhitch it, then back out.” When Mark had unhitched the trailer, Clay lifted the front end to maneuver the flatbed on its two wheels. As Mark backed his truck out, Clay set the trailer back down in the same spot Mark had been parked in. “No reason we should lose'r place,” chuckled Clay, almost to himself.
Trenton climbed his way up into the back seat of Mark's truck, but found the height to be difficult to overcome. Clay struggled his way into the passenger seat of the cab as well. They each belted themselves in, and Mark said, “Where to, boss?”
“New York.” Clay didn't have to say anymore, because Mark and Trenton both smiled. They knew where they were going.
They made their way out of the parking lot and onto Shevlin Park Rd. Instead of turning onto Mt. Washington Dr., where Trenton had originally come from that morning, Mark kept heading straight. Eventually, the road became Newport Ave and brought the three men right into downtown Bend. They crossed the bridge over the Deschutes River and, at the traffic light, turned right onto Wall St. Mark signaled to get into the left lane. At the first light they came to, they turned left onto Oregon Ave.
“Any spot'll do, boy,” Clay said as Mark drove passed two empty parking spots. They got to the light at Bond St. and took another left. Just on the left side of the one way street, were two open spots that sat together. “Those two, boy, do it,” Clay barked, and Mark brought his truck to an abrupt stop against the curb. Just in front of them was a black canvas eave with a picture of King Kong on the Empire State Building and the words New York City Sub Shop Est. 1985 written in white.
Inside the little restaurant, they stepped into the line leading up to the counter in the back of the shop. Up above the counter was the menu board, but neither of the three men needed time to consult it. Trenton ordered a whole Wall St. which was a sixteen inch long, hot roast beef sandwich. The meat was grilled along with onions and provolone cheese was melted on top of both. The bread, Italian dressing, lettuce, and tomatoes were all important to a proper New York Sub Shop sandwich, but, as far as Trenton was concerned, the banana peppers were the key ingredient that tied the whole thing together. Mark also ordered the Wall St, but without the banana peppers.
Clay, got to the counter and said to the girl running the register, “The usual, Jenna.” The girl rang up the order.
“Soda, chips, or cookies gentlemen?” Jenna asked them. When they all three asked for soda, she just said, “Grab your cups.” She finished adding the total together, and Clay payed for lunch.
Trenton and Mark got Mountain Dew, and Clay filled his cup with Diet Pepsi. They set up a table for themselves and waited for their sandwiches to cook. The woman cooking threw two bags onto the stainless steel shelf above one side of the kitchen, behind the counter. “Clay, you're up.”
In one bag were Trenton and Mark's sandwiches, four individually wrapped, eight inch subs, two of which were marked NP handwritten in black marker. The other bag had three eight inch Bronx's, extra everything. The Bronx, as all New York subs, was the same thing Trenton and Mark got, but with turkey instead of roast beef. Clay opened one of his three wrappers, and bit into his lunch. No one said anything as all of the food, save for one of Clay's eight inch sections of sandwich, were devoured.
“For Sonya?” Trenton asked after washing down his last bite with his beverage. He was pointing at Clay's uneaten portion.
“'Course. Did'n think it was for the mayor did'ya?” Clay let out a booming laugh at his own joke. “Clear the table, boys, an' le's get the hell outta here.”
They made there way out of the restaurant, and bypassed Mark's truck. They headed south on Bond until they got to the light on Oregon Ave. They made their way through the crosswalk, to the other side of the street, and turned right towards Wall St. Halfway up the block, with the door propped open, was Sonya Briggs' store, The Clay Cafe. It was an amazing little shop where people could come in and learn how to make, and paint, if they so desired, different decorative and functional items out of clay. Or they could just come in for an espresso. Sonya was a very good teacher, and her passion for pottery and sculpting fit perfectly with her love of coffee. Sonya and Clay had owned this store now for eleven years.
Inside, Sonya was with a table of customers. She looked up as her husband walked into the store. Sonya was fifty-eight years old, but was wearing thirty-five as well as anyone. She had long, silky brown hair that she tied into a large knot on the back of her head. The only thing that betrayed her age was a humble amount of gray hairs that grew from her temples. She was short, five feet tall exactly. Though petite, Trenton knew that, if push came to shove, she could still disarm twenty men without being seen. She smiled at Clay as she was crossing the store. “I think you're just the sweetest man alive.”
“An' you ain't bad y'rself, lady,” said Clay as he embraced his wife in a hug that could suffocate a grizzly. They gave each other a kiss, and Clay handed Sonya the bag from NYCSS. “Got'ya a diet cola, too.” He went to give her the cup, but she waved her hand at it. Clay took a big pull on the straw, thankful for the drink.
“So what time are you shooting tonight, Trenton?” Sonya was as supportive of Trenton as Clay. She never missed a tournament or exhibition match.
“Longshot starts after the dinner, about six thirty. The dinner starts at five. You'll be there for that, too, I assume,” Trenton asked.
“Maybe not. This sandwich'll be enough to hold me through next week. I need to get back to work now, but I'll see you tonight. Hi Mark,” she said, noticing that Mark had not actually stepped into the store.
“Hi Mrs. Briggs,” said Mark. “Bye Mrs. Briggs.” He grinned.
“If he calls me Mrs. Briggs one more time, you just go right ahead and get rid of him for me,” Sonya whispered through a clenched teeth smile. She gave Clay a meaningful look that said “Do it.” The two of them quietly laughed together as she leaned in for one last kiss from her husband. “Thanks for lunch. I'll call you when I close up.” With that, she turned back to the three other women at the table that were apparently making flower vases. Trenton, Clay, and Mark all left The Clay Cafe and walked back to Mark's truck.
Clay pulled out the pack of two cigarettes he had traded Trenton for earlier. He pulled out one of them, and stuck his hand, palm up, right in front of Trenton's face. “Lie'tr,” he said. Trenton reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. As Clay was sparking his very first smoke of the day, Trenton pulled out his fourth, not counting the halfie from “breakfast.” Mark joined them on the sidewalk after he had turned the music on in his truck. He was listening to Pantera's album Reinventing the Steel. The song that blared loudly from the truck was screaming “YESTERDAY DON'T MEAN SHIT!”
“Ya need that to be any louder?” Clay complained. “Why can't you kids listen to something more practical, like Mommas and the Papas, or Dylan, or Floyd, or somethin' audible on more than jus'a crack yer eardrums level. This shit is drivin' me to drinkin'. God dammit Mark, leas' you could do is turn it down some. Christ.”
“Yeah, sure boss, whatever.” Mark was clearly perturbed, but acquiesced to Clay's ranting. “Here, maybe you'll like this one,” as he started searching through his I-Pod. “Welcome to the Machine, by Pink Floyd. Well, originally anyway. This version is by Shadows Fall.”
A sludgey metal band started in with a slow, choppy yet, melodic guitar riff. “Welcome my son. Welcome to the machine. Where have you been? It's alright we've told ya where you've been,” the music played on, much quieter this time.
“The singer actually sounds like David Gilmour,” Clay said, sounding shocked. He finished smoking his cigarette, and climbed up into the truck. Trenton followed him in as Mark hopped into the drivers seat. They drove back to Shevlin Park listening to different bands cover different songs from the sixties and seventies. One of those bands was Evergreen Terrace remaking the song All I Ever Wanted by Depeche Mode. “Always did like that song,” Clay said as it came to an end. “Oh dammit. Well, we're jus' gonna hafta use the woods.”
“What's wrong, boss?” Trenton asked confused.
“Left the pipe in my truck,” Clay said matter of factly, then added, “I gotta piss.”
A few minutes later, they were back in the park's parking lot. The digital clock on the dashboard read 1:48. Trenton jumped down to the pavement and lifted the flatbed trailer that was saving their spot. He pushed it up onto the grass, and Mark was able to squeeze his truck in next to Clay's and a soft top, neon purple, Geo Tracker with bright pink writing. Mark and Clay got out of the driver's side of the cab, and Clay opened the passenger door of his own truck. He popped the glove box, and grabbed his pipe and his clay jar. Having what he was looking for, Clay slammed the door shut.
They strolled through what was now a small city in Shevlin Park. Some merchants only had tables under pitch canopies. Some, mainly the restaurant vendors, were extremely elaborate. Converted campers, large tents, yurts, a couple eighteen wheelers, and even a tepee had all surrounded the park. Close to a thousand voices created and air of excitement, as people were buying, selling, looking, or waiting. Trying not to stall for too long, Clay, Trenton, and Mark all hurried past the crowds. Trenton saw a few AFA officials informing shooters to clear the field. It was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, and the Junior events would be starting shortly.
The three men from Briggs Archery Supply reached the tree line where Shevlin Park became the Deschutes National Forest. They hiked into the woods about two hundred yards or so, until there was no one in sight. Clay, pulled his jar and pipe out of his jean's pockets, and handed the pipe to Trenton. “Finish it.”
As Clay was removing the cork from his jar, Trenton set flame to what was almost all ash inside of the pipe. A small amount of smoke escaped his lips, and the lingering after taste of stale smoke and butane perched itself on Trenton's taste buds. With a look of revulsion, he tapped out all of the ashes, and handed back the pipe. Clay over loaded a large amount of marijuana into the pipe.
“Yer the only one'f us that ain't been first yet,” said Clay, handing the pipe to Mark.
“Glad you didn't forget about me,” Mark teased. He took an extraordinarily large hit off of the pipe, and almost instantly started coughing. “Christ, Clay. Wha-hut do you fe-heed these fu-hu-ckers?”
“Tasty, ain't they?” Clay was grinning wider than humanly possible. One thing he was very proud of was his “herb” garden. To Clay, this was an enormous compliment. “Special Blend No. 13,” was the last thing he had to say. Silently, they continued smoking until the last had been burnt away.
“One more cigarette, Trent?” Mark asked, already holding his Marb's in his hand.
“Sounds good.” Trenton reached into his pocket and found his pack and lighter. He and Mark lit their cigarettes and leaned against a couple of severely large pine trees. Clay, standing from the rock he had been sitting on, checked his pockets to ensure he had everything.
“See ya down there, boys,” and Clay walked away.
“Did you know that Everette Hayes is shooting today?” Trenton asked Mark as they remained behind to smoke.
“NO! You're kidding, right?” exclaimed Mark. “You're not serious?”
“Oh, unfortunately...” Trenton trailed off, starting to feel much more concerned about the tournament ahead.
“Well, you can beat him,” Mark said, unsure of his own words. At that moment, the crowd in the distance erupted in cheers. This was the official start of the AFA's Junior Level Archery Tournament. “That's our cue, Trent.”
Together they walked back through the forest towards the park, finishing their cigarettes as they sauntered. They reached the tree line and observed as the throngs had moved together to fence in the shooting field. Trenton and Mark decided to watch for a few minutes. What they witnessed while they watched was something they had not expected to see. Trenton would have to tell Clay about it when they could. They paused for a few more moments, stunned, before heading back to the store. Another ovation rolled through the masses.
