The Cliff in Mount Vernon

Chapter 24 - Brownies

FALL OF 1993

The sun blazed above us. Cool morning air swept through, creating a steady current of ventilation that carried the fresh scent of grass and wildflowers towards our noses. Slowly, darkness parted like the red heavy curtains of the theatre, together with the moon and its stars and the faint haze that hovered over the mountains. Revealed otherwise was the clear blue sky with its cottony clouds fluffy and white, as if molded by the hands of the gods out of their own breath. For a while, I got to stare at this picturesque view while Absalom started tidying up his space. He discarded empty tubes of paint, laid the brushes under the heat to dry and had his work bask under the sun. Never in my entire life I had witnessed a morning as wonderful and glorious as this. It felt as if my heart was swelling with a kind of joy not merely defined as an emotion. Awakenings during the last four years felt more like a chore than a privilege—that I had become a blind man. It would seem like a wind-up key was attached on my back, dictating each of my movement. In the south however, despite my early risings, moments were never spent to watch the breaking of the day. I was locked in a routine of chasing classes and classrooms. But that morning was different, a complete stranger to a creature who homed earth for twenty-three years.

When Absalom said he was starving, I went back to my tent to gather my goods. I had a few more remaining cans of mandarin oranges and corned beef still intact, and maybe by fate, two cans of beer were left untouched. I would have brought the bottle of arrack so we could drink, but because of the fact that once you crack it open, there is no turning back, and the indulging only grows overtime, I decided I would just bring it home and share it with Mo. Realizing that carrying this load could not be helped with only two hands, neither through cradling everything with the ends of my shirt, I decided to bring it with my black Nike backpack, while leaving a few things behind. Circumstances as this are often and inevitable; we have to get rid of unnecessary objects off our load in order to move forward. Otherwise, we strain our backs and break our necks, helpless of the luggage we carry from point A to point B. Nevertheless, it does not make much sense wasting space for unused scraps. It is like keeping a leaky pipe in the house. There is no real point.

I found Abe leaning against the big rock by the time I got back, staring at the beauty he had just created. His painting tools were put away, shoved in one corner of his tent like a treasure trove of jewels. The easel folded at the bottom of the box, paint tubes and brushes stacked neatly on top. In one tug of the side straps, you can lug it with just one hand. Meanwhile, the campfire had just been extinguished. The ghost of its former scarlet entity was still fizzing in the air. Now that light was completely over the earth and the woods was evident of the life that ran through its veins, I had observed how his tent appeared to be much cozier than mine, with the floor padded with a cushion material, gray in color. His face truly carried youth and radiated jovial enthusiasm, same things I could only remember from memory.

'Corned beef, oranges and beer,' I said as I sat back on the tree stump not too far away from him. Between us were the remnants of the campfire, charred and consumed. One by one, I took it out of my pack and put it on the ground. 'Do you have utensils? Unfortunately, I ran out of plastic spoons.'

His face lit up for a second and then he left to get something from inside his tent.

'No spoons. But I have two pairs of chopsticks left.' He said in brilliant discovery. 'Who would have thought that I'd have better use of it than just mixing oil paint?'

'Not bad.' I said.

We ate in silence. It must have been because of the strange acquaintance, although I doubt I made him uncomfortable, that both of us fell into muteness while feasting over chunks of shredded meat packed in a can. I, too, was lost in my own little sanctuary of circumstantial serenity for a moment, finding myself extremely focused on what I was doing, preserved in time. That was such a rarity I must say, for more often than not I would always fidget while having my breakfast, with little as a dot of attention span, glancing on the wall clock to catch the time. But by then, I had just broken my watch the previous night and there was no way I could tell time by my own. And so I just soaked myself in the silence of the moment and had my fill, pushed everything down with big gulps of beer and soon ended up with a satisfying belch. As before, we collected our garbage in plastic bags. When we finished, I took the turn of tossing Abe my pack of Stormfly. He took two. The first he placed behind his ear and the second he lit up.

'Thanks a lot.' He said.

'No problem. Anytime.'

'You know what, I suddenly realized I should have reconsidered asking food from someone I randomly encountered in the mountains.' He puffed one smoke after the other, caught up with a realization too late to be of help.

'No big deal. I am not as evil as you may think. Those stuff are still good. None of them spoiled.'

'I figure.' As he spoke he would only throw me glances, but most of the time his gazes were out there in the sight of the mountainous ridge and the golden rays of the sun.

'You said you have been here for the last two days?' I inquired. My tone, I would say, was not a curious one. Rather it was something else that I thought would initiate a sensible conversation.

He nodded, puffing smoke once more. 'I am trying to paint time.'

'Paint time?'

A short pause ensued before he brushed off ashes from his cigarette and spoke: 'I came here two days ago, asleep in the day and awake during the night, waiting for six thirty-nine in the morning.'

I gave the painting a scrutinizing look. Soon enough, I found out that it does not take a genius to figure out what he meant by painting time. For the last two days he awaited the coming of six thirty-nine, as precise as possible, and he painted on the canvas how the mountains looked. He captured the moment when light was just about to burst midway, like wisps of fireworks shooting out of a nebula. The mountains, like a sleeping man turned on his sides, was posed to hide half of his body, away from the light that could reflect the rough edges and uneven sides of his topiary. A gradient of purple and blue smeared the sky carelessly, mixing in an indigo dance of colors. There was not a single speck of human or animal on the picture. Just the mountains, the sky and the half-hidden sun.

'I've always wanted to paint the morning sky.' Abe murmured. 'But from where I live I don't get to see it as nicely as it is here.'

'Same as I. I cannot remember the last time I witnessed a sunrise as wonderful as this. All this seems alien to me.'

'Why? Where are you from?'

'I live in a small town. Nowhere really fancy.'

'I see.'

Abe lit his second cigarette. I contented myself with the first one.

'So what brought you here?' He asked me.

The question did not come as a surprise although it did strike me. It was invasive enough for it to bury beneath the lining of my gut and drill a hole in my brain. As plain and as simple the question was—for I could easily say that I came just to relax or even pass the weekend—I found myself generating the same feeling I had when the schoolmate asked me what my plans are for the next five years. I figured out that answering inquiries regarding the past is as complicated as those ones pertaining the future. These two tenses, practically speaking, are non-existent. Both are mere illusions laying deep inside the unconsciousness, trying to come up to the surface every day. A whole lot of bullshits, alibis, and irrational reasons.

'Just to try something different.' I said affirmatively. I, myself, was only half-convinced.

'And how is it so far?'

'Pretty good,' I told him with a nod. 'Perfect time to think about things.'

Once again, he left and retreated inside his tent. When he came back, he had a plastic container in his hand. He carefully opened it and an aromatic fume escaped.

'You up for brownies?'

Theidea seemed weird. No food but he had brownies.