Chapter Four

Still sitting in the snow, reeling from having touched the bottle, the thought that he was likely the only living thing for miles in each direction rolled into Lyle's mind like a boulder.  As cold as he was, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly, deeply, the way Rick had taught him.  “Breathe out emptiness,” Rick would say.  “Breathe in fullness.”  As he breathed intentionally, deliberately, Lyle could almost feel the steam rising up to his face from the bowl of beef stew in his memory.

Two months earlier, on a chilled evening, Lyle sat on a seat covered in cracked and sun-faded green vinyl in a booth across from Rick. Beneath the sterile fluorescent lights, the air in the diner was still heavy with a mixture of that morning’s bacon and sausage orders and the chicken and noodle supper special. The waitresses and cook called out to each other over the sound of a radio behind the counter that was playing a country version of a Christmas song. Their waitress had a ponytail that stretched down to the middle of her back. There was a sweetness to her face when she smiled that cheered up the weathered creases beneath her eyes.

Lyle's gray felt Stetson, a hat that had been nice enough at one time that he'd worn it to a few graveside funerals, sat beside him in the booth. He'd started growing his winter beard earlier that week so he could not keep from scratching his face.  Rick, who taught English at the community college, wore a lapel pin on his corduroy jacket that displayed the last year he'd taken a drink. Lyle read the date to himself over and over again. 1979. Lyle knew very well what it meant to be drunk for a decade, but he could not imagine what it would be like to be sober for that same amount of time. Rick blew on a fork full of the special, while Lyle, usually as talkative as a fencepost, confided in him that the urge for just a sip was as strong each morning as it had been the night before and stronger as the day went on.  Rick gently scolded Lyle for never calling him during his times of temptation.  After Lyle finished making excuses, there was a brief pause for them to take of couple of bites.

When he’d swallowed, Rick asked, “Lyle, have you ever heard of Sisyphus?”

Lyle laughed. “Thought I had it once.”

Rick smiled. “It’s a Greek myth.”

“Then, no,” Lyle shook his head. “Never heard of her.”

“Him,” Rick corrected. “Sisyphus was a man, but I think you might like the story anyway.” The waitress stopped by to freshen their lukewarm coffee.  "According to the myth, Sisyphus tried to cheat death.”

“I like this guy already,” Lyle interrupted.

Rick continued, "This really pissed off the gods. So when it came time for Sisyphus to actually die, the gods punished him by forcing him to push a giant boulder up a mountain. Whenever he would finally get to the top, the boulder would roll all the way back down to the bottom. Then Sisyphus would have to hike down the mountain and do it all over again.”

“Seems pretty pointless to me,” Lyle said, before sipping his coffee.

“And he was doomed to do this for eternity."  Both men turned when they heard the bell above the door ring, and then watched as an older couple walked in and found a seat.

“Sucks to be Sisyphus."  

“Lyle, we are Sisyphus."

“What are you getting at, Rick?"

"I just want you to remember that you can't push that boulder up the mountain on your own.  There can't be any more of your desperado lone ranger BS. You'll die if you try to do this by yourself."

Lyle wished Rick was with him out in the pasture. Even though Rick was several inches shorter than Lyle and had chalk dust on his clothes instead of dirt, Rick would have walked straight up to the pickup, yanked that bottle out from under the seat, poured it out onto the snow, and then thrown the empty bottle as far as he could. He'd probably quote Charles Dickens or Mark Twain while he did it, but he would do it nonetheless. Rick could do that kind of thing, though, because his pin said 1979, while the coin in Lyle’s jeans pocket only said 90 days. Over the years Rick had built up whatever muscles it takes to push and grunt that boulder to the top of the mountain each day but Lyle could barely even gather the strength to get up off the snow. He just wanted to be warm, even if it was only on the inside.  Lyle looked around.  What did it matter? Who was he kidding? Who cares if you’re sober if you're dead? At least he could die with warmth and without pain.  He'd done his best and this is where it got him.  Lyle closed his eyes again.  Breathe out emptiness.  Breathe in fullness. 

Lyle forced himself up and trudged resolutely toward the truck, reached his hand under the seat like he was birthing a calf, and slid the bottle out from the womb. He put his hand on the cap and started to turn it, hearing the sweet old song of the seal breaking.  He stopped himself and closed his eyes.  Breathe out emptiness.  Breathe in fullness.  When he opened his eyes they yearned to read those familiar words like poetry. His trembling thumb wiped the dust and cigarette ashes away from the label. “Established 1855,” he recited to himself.  “Austin Nichols. Wild Turkey. Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey. Real Kentucky.”  He read the final words, “101 Proof.”  Breathe out emptiness.  Breathe in fullness.  

He started to open it again, tilting it toward the ground at the same time.  A new thought came to his mind.  This whiskey could be useful out there.  He might regret pouring it out.  He might need it later.  He could always pour it out somewhere else along the way, right?  He could almost hear the laughter in his mind, all those years filled with laughter and dancing.  But what would Rick say?  What would Maricruz think if they found his body with an open bottle beside it?  If it was a full bottle it would prove that he’d done it.  It would be a gift to her.  But what if the bottle wasn’t full when they found him?  Breathe out emptiness.  Breathe in fullness.

Lyle set the bottle on the floorboard and reached under the seat again and found the flashlight that must have been set free when the bottle came out.  The batteries worked for now.  He pulled his coat on top of his coveralls, tied the red bandanna around his face, and pulled the picture of Maricruz down from his visor and unzipped his layers enough to tuck it behind his half empty pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt.  He stuffed the bottle of Wild Turkey into the torn lining inside his coveralls, and put his glove back on.  The wind was picking up, the snow was growing deeper, and the temperature was dropping.  He left his keys in the ignition with the dome light on for the slim chance that someone might see a dim light out in the middle of a field and come to investigate.  He grabbed the flashlight and slammed the truck door behind him.  He looked around for a second, wiping his eyes, and then started walking.  “First thing's first.  Where’s that damn road?”