Page 6 of The Mountain Man's Curvy Surprisem
We straggle back into the house.
Farzad laments, “So much stuff.”
“Yeah, the downside of American consumerism,” I remark.
Farzad served as our translator in Afghanistan many years ago. He saved our team more than once, and so Wolfe and the rest of the crew worked our asses off to eventually secure his relocation stateside.
“And you get to keep the cabin once you sort everything out?” Wolfe asks incredulously.
“Yeah,” I say, diving into one of the piles in the middle of the living room. I’m bound and determined to make a massive dent in this place today.
“I don’t know if it’s even worth it,” Alonso adds, stabbing his fingers through his dark hair as he eyes the room, overwhelm written in his features.
“I don’t know, either,” I admit, not one to tell people when I’ve messed up. But this mistake is kind of monumental. “And this isn’t even the worst part of the deal.”
Rutger and Wolfe lift their heads from a pile of car parts they sort through. Not what you’d typically find in someone’s living room.
Rutger says, “Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good. What do you mean?”
I motion towards shelf upon shelf of notebooks. “Mack wants me to transcribe his writings and try to publish them.”
Wolfe scowls, eyeing the shelves.
Rutger whistles, removing his cowboy hat and running the back of his hand over his forehead. “Damn, dude. Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Yeah, but he hasn’t given me a deadline for when everything needs to be completed. So, I’m taking my time. Working a couple of hours nightly. Attempting to make it manageable.”
Farzad grimaces, his vibrant Hazara eyes contrasting with his olive complexion and ebony-hued beard. “My friend, I think you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”
“Nice use of that idiom,” Alonso compliments our Afghan friend.
Farzad’s somber face breaks into a grin. “My wife has taught me much about English.”
I want to tease him about Shelby. Say something about how pussy-whipped the big Afghan warrior is. I can tell Rutger does, too, by the way he sets his mouth.
Joking about each other’s women is fairly standard. But not for Farzad. As he has made abundantly clear on several occasions, Afghan men don’t comment on each other’s women. While our buddy has Westernized in some pretty remarkable ways, this is one area where he remains committed to tradition.
Wolfe bends over a Rubbermaid filled with hunting magazines. “For a hoarder who threw shit everywhere, Mack did a pretty damn good job of packing these in chronological order.” He chuckles deep in his throat.
“For whatever that’s worth,” I agree. “I still can’t figure the guy out. On the one hand, this house is a hoarder’s nightmare. On the other hand, he could be so meticulous and detail-oriented with the strangest things. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.”
For example, when it came to the dozen women he corresponded with, he kept a notebook filled with each one’s photos and details. Everything from their favorite candy to their birthdays, number of siblings, and musical preferences. It’s fucking ridiculous, but it has made personalizing their breakups much easier.
All except for Callie …
“Not sure you want to figure it out,” Alonso points out. “Because that would mean getting into his mind, which might be a one-way ticket to the loony bin.”
I shake my head. “Nope, Mack’s mental health isn’t the issue. He’s as eccentric as they come. That’s all. But I do wonder if I’ll ever figure out how to make this house into a home I feel comfortable with.”
Wolfe asks over his shoulder, carrying the Rubbermaid of magazines toward the front door and the piles outside, “Why’d the old man decide to leave anyway?”
I follow him outside with a couple more boxes stacked in my arms for the trash pile. “Started hooking up with this fire-breathing performer named Trixie, and the rest is history. Apparently, they’re getting married at Burning Man in a couple of weeks.”
Wolfe freezes, scowling. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“The guy never ceases to amaze me.”
