Camp Damascus(47)
The closer I get, the more my surroundings reveal themselves. While the aural cacophony is difficult to understand, it gradually dawns on me that this is music—barely—a screeching, grinding clutter of thrashing guitars and guttural vocal howls. It’s just about the most unpleasant sound I could imagine, but I’m relieved to know I’m not privy to the actual death squeals of terrified swine.
I also understand the landscape much better, a clearer perspective as I approach the colossal hangar. There are even more cars parked directly in front of the building, but these vehicles are distinct from the rest. Here, sit beautiful automobiles in pristine condition, protected from the sun by a large sheet-metal overhang.
I’m not one to know much about makes or models, a blind spot in my trivia-hungry brain, but the vehicles appear quite luxurious. These are classic cars, either unused for decades or restored with breathtaking care.
A realization dawns on me. This dilapidated farmhouse isn’t the sign of a resident who doesn’t give a darn about anything, it’s the sign of a worker so deep in their craft they can’t find time for much else.
The massive hangar doors are cracked open, so I carefully limp around the edge and peer inside.
More cars are waiting to greet me, stuffed into every corner of this already crowded structure. It’s an engineer’s dream, chains dangling from the ceiling and vehicle parts stacked high on enormous cargo shelves.
A cascade of dancing orange sparks immediately catches my attention from across the garage, beckoning me onward.
I slink closer and closer, approaching a tall, mysterious figure in a metal welding mask. He’s hunched over an engine block, diligently working away as sparks continue to spew from the vehicle’s open hood and embers dance wildly across the ground.
Meanwhile, thunderous music churns from a nearby stereo, its volume cranked up so loud I can actually feel the vibration in my chest.
I stand watching for a moment, not entirely sure how to interrupt this engineer so deeply consumed by his work.
Eventually, however, I catch his line of sight, offering up a cautious wave.
The figure turns off his welder and stands upright, walking over to the audio system and killing the sound. He removes his enormous metal mask.
The face underneath is handsome, dark-skinned, and midtwenties, featuring a faint cascade of stubble along his broad jaw. His hair is messy and his eyes are strikingly light, but the most notable thing about this man’s face is its expression.
He’s overwhelmed with emotion, a nostalgic sadness welling behind his eyes while a smile of recognition creeps its way across his mouth. He knows me, and while this was a terrifying prospect in Ally’s case, there’s something deeply assuring about this man’s demeanor.
“Rose Darling,” the man sighs, my own name falling from his lips in a moment so unexpected it almost bowls me over.
Other than Ally, not a single person from the assignments list has recognized who I was, and none have reacted with this much genuine tenderness.
There’s also a sliver of apprehension.
An image flashes through my mind, some tiny fragment of memory breaking loose from the greater blockage. I see this man with a sunburst acoustic guitar on his lap, his mouth open wide as he belts out a song to captivated campers. I’m watching from across the fire pit, equally swept away by his triumphant music.
The vision disappears just as swiftly as it arrives, but the feeling remains: Friendship.
“You remember camp?” the man asks.
“A little.”
“How was it?” he continues, welling up a bit.
I’ve been plodding through this journey like a disembodied spirit: no family, friends or community left to remind me that I actually exist. I was starting to think I might’ve just disappeared completely, a phantom in some endless loop of unfinished business.
But I’m not a ghost, and someone who knows that has finally caught sight of me. Whether or not I fully recognize him in return is inconsequential.
“Not great,” comes my understated reply, our conversation now a macabre inside joke.
Suddenly, my conscious mind takes the back seat as my emotions propel me forward, marching through the space between us and wrapping my arms around this unknown man in a powerful embrace. I can’t help it as I begin to cry, letting it all out in a flood of blubbering tears. He holds me in return, pulling me close and enveloping me with his presence.
We stay like this for what seems like forever.
* * *
Saul places a glass on the large wooden table, then begins to unscrew the cap of a dark brown bottle. The sour scent of alcohol wafts across me when the top pops off, offering notes of the cleaning solutions I might find under a sink.
“What is that?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
“Whiskey,” he replies.
I have little experience with hard alcohol, but if it’s all this pungent then I’m truly shocked by the worldwide popularity. The scent is only slightly less atrocious than that of coffee.
Saul turns to place the bottle back in his liquor cabinet, but stops abruptly. He swivels back to face me.
“You want some?” he asks. “Kingdom Kids are always two years older than their grade, right?”
“I’m twenty,” I state, “and no thanks.”
Saul nods and smiles as though touched by my response. He places the bottle back where it belongs, then stands for a moment. “So what do you drink these days?” he continues. “Still having root beer keggers?”