Page 1 of Missile Tow
CHAPTER ONE: Chip
Ifelt like shit. Another fitful night in a never-ending cycle of bad sleep. My eyes swept the forest behind my cabin through the kitchen window, while my hands hugged a steamy mug of coffee. The morning sun bounced off the recent snow, ricocheting shards of brightness into my blue eyes. Squinting so I could focus through my snow blindness, I noted three deer down by the river, recognizing Momma and her twins. The babies had been growing fast since their spring births.
The Clark Fork River meandered by as it bisected my inherited cabin from the government-managed forest on the other side. I thought of Grampa and his take on the native trees in these parts. He’d been correct. The cedar, hemlock, and pine seemed to touch the sky from my vantage point. I’d always loved early mornings with him in the cabin. Even without an alarm clock, he was up before five, letting me sleep. There would be a fire started, warming our space. Breakfast smells would’ve swirled about, making their way up to the loft where they’d wake me.
After my folks were killed in a traffic accident when I was thirteen, I came to live here permanently. After two decades as a widower, I’m certain a teenager moving in was quite a life change for Grampa, but you’d never know it. I never felt likean obligation he was stuck with. Rather, like the most welcome person on earth.
My grandfather was named Calvin. So was my father. Can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty sure Grampa’s old man was named Calvin, too. Maybe the name went back forever. Folks call me Chip, though. Apparently, us Winlock boys all look the same. My mom started calling me Chip very early on. She said I was a chip off the old block and looked exactly like my father. The name stuck. Unfortunately, Grampa passed away four years back, and now I’m on my own.
The digital clock on the microwave read half-past six in the morning. Pooch and I were going through our morning routine. Me, attempting to wipe the fog from a sleep-deprived mind. Pooch, racing around the backyard, looking for a place to take his morning dump. Pooch is an Australian Shepherd I inherited from my ex. Not sure why John named him Pooch, but for some reason, the name suited him.
* * *
After college, John and I moved back to Missile from Missoula. We lived in the cabin my grandfather left me, his only grandchild and living relative. John made it quite homey with stylish updates and a small expansion of the one bedroom. He transformed the loft I’d slept in into a quasi rec-room. He was handy that way. He had a decorator’s touch for a guy who was quite masculine. He knew colors, fabric, staging of furniture, and how to make a smallish space look larger. He was the king of swap meets and salvaging old pieces to repurpose. He’d suddenly left me and Pooch twelve months ago for big city life.
I’m sure Pooch missed him, but unlike Pooch, I couldn’t get over the loss and betrayal. John and I had been a team. Both born and raised in Missile. We had all the same schooling.Chose the same college. We’d both helped out at Missile Mercantile since we could speak, and planned on eventually taking over the family business in our dot-on-the-map small town. Unfortunately, my inheritance came quicker than John had bargained for. I believe he got scared at the proposition of being stuck in Missile forever when the reality hit so soon.
My parents ran our town’s only grocery store/gas station until their sudden deaths. They’d taken over for Grampa after he retired the first time. He, with the help of Bertie Baxley, a lifelong employee, unretired and kept the place running until I completed college. The nearest box store was a Walmart more than seventy miles away, so the mercantile was everything to a small town like ours. I couldn’t sell the family business without guilt, so here I was.
Missile, Montana, is located off I-90 between Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, and Missoula. We offered groceries and the only full-service gas station for fifty miles in either direction. At seventy-five years of age, Bertie ran the inside, and I was the mechanic and jack-of-all-trades with the rest of the business. Being as isolated as we were, and being the only source for groceries and fuel, the business thrived. Offering a towing service for highway breakdowns and frequent snowstorm wrecks paid nicely as well.
By the time John and I were sixteen years old, we knew every aspect of the business. To add to our expertise and the reality that I would one day inherit my folks’ store after college, I went to trade school for auto mechanics, while John studied business in Missoula at the University of Montana. Trade school for me was only a two-year endeavor, but I worked and remained in Missoula with him until he finished. We lived in a tiny off-campus apartment during the school year and headed home to Missile to work summers at the mercantile to restock the money coffers.
John and I came to realize we longed to be more than best buds while in the eighth grade. By that time, we had hair on our private areas, and our testosterone was simmering like a boiling pot. I surprised him one day and kissed him on the lips while we wrestled around, rubbing our Levi’s-encased boners against one another. The move was a risk, but I knew how I felt about John Thomas.
“Why’d you do that?” he asked, resting the back of his head on the floor, eyes wide open from the surprise.
“Because I love you,” I replied, looking away and at my bedroom wall.
He swatted toward me, barely missing my chin. “Well, duh,” he joked. “I know that.”
Climbing off him, I sat cross-legged, returning my eyes to his while I struggled to find a more serious look. I had a message I needed him to understand. “Like if you were a girl,” I whispered.
“But I’m not a girl, dude.”
“I fuckin’ know that,” I defended. “I don’t want you to be one either.”
His eyes narrowed as he returned my gaze, almost daring me to admit something earth-shattering. I hesitated, and he sat up, came to stand, and then leaned over the loft railing to make sure Grampa wasn’t home. We’d been attached at the hip for years, so I figured Grampa knew we were in love. John’s back remained to me as he stood silently staring at nothing in particular below.
“You don’t like girls?” he asked, still facing away from me. “But I thought…”
I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me. “Heather is just a friend, dude. She knows what I am,” I shared.
He spun around, disbelief on his face. He looked stunned at my admission. “But… but… what the fuck did you tell her?” he asked, moving toward me until he stood over me.
“Chill, dude,” I stated, raising a hand toward him while I got my feet under me. I moved inches from his face. “I told her I like guys. I didn’t say shit about you, or our friendship.”
“We’re fucking fifteen, dude,” he reminded me. “How the hell do you know you even like dudes that way?”
“That’s easy!” I insisted, grabbing his hand. “Because I want you like that. And if you don’t feel the same, no biggie. I’ll eventually find a guy who likes me the same, and me and you can still be best buds and shit.”
John’s head tilted down, and he stared at our joined hands, squeezing gently. His eyes welled up as he bit his lower lip. “But I don’t want you to like other guys,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry, buddy. I’m not gonna dump our friendship when I find a guy to date,” I insisted. “Besides, that’s like years away from now.”
He looked up and directly into my eyes. I’d never seen him look more beautiful. Jet-black hair that hung over his left eye, the other side tucked behind an ear. John had weird eyes that seemed to change color with the weather. Today was brilliant green with very dark lashes and thick brows that added to his brooding look.
“I liked what you just did,” he admitted, motioning to the floor beneath us. “I thought I’d hate it when I imagined us doing that.”
