At the Jim Bridger: Stories

At the Jim Bridger: Stories

Welcome to the short stories of Ron Carlson, where strange beach towels turn up in your suburban living room; where the ordinary son of a family of geniuses spins a rollicking tale of happiness and disappointment; and where a desperate ex-con with a broken heart must hide out in a desert hotel, only to make a startling discovery. Epic in scope and confessional in tone, At the Jim Bridger enfolds the reader in a world of love and mystery, and makes us feel better than just about anything written on the page. “The subtle excellence of these stories makes it easy to lose oneself in them and, more impressively, to recall them later with such clarity and emotion that they seem like one's own memories.” ― The Philadelphia Inquirer “Trying to sum up a Ron Carlson story is like trying to hold sparkling spring water in your bare hands--no matter how you cup your fingers, some of the magical stuff leaks out.... At the Jim Bridger shows us a real master at work.” ― The Seattle Times “The stories in At the Jim Bridger-- eleven exquisite tales of men and women...do the work of true art. Ordinary things, which never before seemed wonderful, suddenly, gracefully, are.” ― Esquire “Carlson [has] written an accomplished, open-hearted book, full of good, grown-up humor and fierce intelligence. Writer's writer or reader's writer, Carlson and the stories of At the Jim Bridger deserve all the attention they can get.” ― The Boston Globe Ron Carlson is the author of several books of fiction, including Five Skies. He directs the graduate program in fiction at the University of California, Irvine. At the Jim Bridger Stories By Ron Carlson Picador Copyright © 2002 Ron Carlson All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-312-30724-0 Contents I, Towel Season, At the Jim Bridger, The Clicker at Tips, Disclaimer, II, The Ordinary Son, Evil Eye Allen, At Copper View, Single Woman for Long Walks on the Beach, III, The Potato Gun, Gary Garrison's Wedding Vows, At the El Sol, CHAPTER 1 TOWEL SEASON SUDDENLY IT WAS JUNE AND there were strange towels in the house. There were stacks on the table in the entry, two or three towels that Edison knew were not their towels. In the hall, he'd step over large striped piles of strange wet towels waiting to be washed. The kids, Rebecca and Toby, pedaled home in bathing suits, alien towels hung on their necks. Twice Edison tripped as he sidled through the laundry room carrying his files, his feet tangled in a great heap of these damp things. The commotion brought Leslie from the kitchen and she looked down at him, the absentminded professor, his papers around his head. "You're kind of too young for this kind of thing," she said. He didn't look uncomfortable. She knew if she left him there and went back to her potato salad, there was a good chance he'd simply go to sleep. He was up past one almost every night working on his largest mathematical project. This was his final experimental journey for the firm; if it worked, he was going to be able to go on and on toward the edge. If not, he would join all the other middle-level engineers. "Whose towels are these?" The answer was, depending on the day, the Hanovers', the Plums', the Reeds'; close-radius towels, the Hanovers and their pool just down the street, the Plums and their pool around the corner, and the Reeds and their pool not three blocks across from the elementary school all the children (nine total) of these people attended. "These, dear, are the Plums' and we'll be returning them this evening when we go over there for a cookout, so get your work done." She picked up his files and laid them on his chest. "Okay? Swimming? Drinks on their patio? Remember? Don't worry, when the time comes, I'll drive us all over." Edison crawled to his feet. "All right." Leslie watched him go into his study, and then she stuffed the towels in the washer. He was working on the most advanced and important calculations of his life. The firm only kept one or two theoretical mathematicians, and this project would determine if Edison would make the cut. The summer developed into these dinners and all the shifting towels. That night, they loaded the car and drove five hundred yards to the Plums' and drifted with the Hanovers and the Reeds toward the gate, carrying their coolers and casseroles and Tupperware containers and the bundle of towels. They seemed like zombies in a fog to Edison, because he was in a fog most of the time himself, so many hours working at his computer screen, and inside the greetings continued even though they'd all seen one another at the Reeds' three nights ago. Edison and Allen Reed opened bottles of Corona and sat out on the picnic table in the steady heat of the season. These outings always disoriented Edison, who saw them as some kind of puzzle. Part of him was still at his green screen mulling equations while he watched the children spill into the green pool and the women set out the food. "How's the