“We used to party with this guy named Doy.”
Chris popped a nicotine lozenge and shifted the brown Four Runner, accelerating down the hill. The clackacraft tracked tightly behind, playing peak-a-boo in the side view mirror around the back of the truck.
Fly rods jiggled in the magnetic holders on the hood. Streamers hooked in guides fluttered violently in the headwind and I stuck my hands into the pockets of my jacket.
“Doy was a cab driver which was great because he would give us rides in exchange for us taking him to these parties that we would go to.”
We crossed a concrete bridge and I looked at the San Juan River reflecting the warm yellow morning light on the buttery hills.The concrete wooshed under the truck and the low bridge sides echoed the pushing air. The tires made a thunk as we transitioned back to blacktop as the view of the river passed.
“I didn’t know him that well at the time,” Chris continued, “I thought he was pretty quiet, you know? Didn’t say much.”
We turned from the pavement to dirt and passed houses with dogs and chain link fences on sloping hills bracketed by fiery yellow cottonwoods. The sun warmed with nonchalance over tall shadowy sandstone canyon walls.
“So one night Doy drives us to this party, and we are hanging out drinking. Then he disappears for a while, you know like he went to the bathroom or something, but then I hear this guy in the other room say ‘oh no, Doy’s doing it again’ and I look and see that Doy has his dick coming out his fly and has it tucked into his back pocket. And that shit ain’t even stretched, you know? It’s just hanging there like a wallet chain. You know those chains that bikers wear? Yeah, it’s just like that, Just like one of those wallet chains but, you know, his dick.”
Chris laughed and spun around in the dirt lot, pointed the trailer toward the water and shut off the truck.
“Makes sense that he was quiet,” I said. Chris opened his door and looked back over his shoulder.
“Don’t need to say much when you got that going on.”
He laughed again and stepped out into the chilly morning river air to get the boat rigged.
It was a good day.
-Alex who knows the back pocket is way too far away.