SOLO ALTO

                                                        "SOLO ALTO"







    An old Ford pick-up truck submerged in rust broke down on an old black top road. It was a cold, October afternoon day. The wind was scattering leaves along a narrow road. The sun was shining like a well- polished diamond in the sky. Huge white clouds were floating like war ships in an ocean. The traveler hopped out of the rundown truck and shook his head as he buttoned up his thread bare coat “The brilliant sun was useless against this cold wind”, the traveler thought.



  He could feel the cold wind breathing down the back of his neck as he popped the hood and used a broken broom handle to safety the hood up. Then he reached for the oil dip stick, after removing the dip stick he found there was not a drop showing. He left the hood open and turned around and started walking head on into the wind. Watching the breeze flip the leaves end over end, he let out a deep sigh. With his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his holey blue jeans, he shivered uncontrollably. A dingy short haired dog barked loud and viciously at the end of a partially graveled drive way on the opposite side of the black top road.  A rusty tin mail box lid made a squeaking racket as it hung loose and dangled back and forth in the wind.  Muddy beer cans, McDonald’s bags, and trash lined the ditches on both sides of the road. The traveler strolled on while steeping over pot holes in the decaying black top, deep enough to break an ankle in.  The heels on his camouflage Rocky boots were worn down to a steep angle from strenuous wear and miles of walking. His curly, sandy blonde hair hung out from underneath his brown Carhartt hat in an unruly manner. No doubt he was a good two months overdue for a haircut. His blue eyes had a sharp intelligence look and they stayed locked on every movement the dingy haired mongrel made. No way was he going to risk getting dog bit, looking  for  help, down that drive way.



  Off to his right across the garbage filled ditch was a five strand barb wire fence. The Holstein cows in the pastor were grazing on what few threads of green grass that was left. The thick aroma of dairy farm filled the air around him. Manure was not an unfamiliar smell to him. Funny, how a smell so foul brought back sort of pleasant memories. “Let’s get at it, those cows need milking boy.” His grandfather would yell busting his room at four a.m. For a moment the traveler had all but forgotten about the cold wind while he was absorbed in thoughts of his childhood. He could still hear the dingy haired dog yapping continuously as his camo boots safely navigated him through the grave size pot holes.  When he pulled his hands from his pockets in order to draw his cap tighter around his head, a black bird which was perched on the top run of kinked barb wire took flight. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of a tractor engine running. Naturally, the sound of a tractor always reminded him of the time when he first racked hay on his grandfather’s old John Deere. As he peaked the top of  a small asphalt eroded hill, overhead a battle ship size cloud passed in front  of the sun, and the wind was instantly shut off like a fan being unplugged. He looked up in response to the change in light and saw the zenith cloud stall out, causing his vision to be vitalized.



  The traveler did not expect what he saw next. Slowly, he took a deep breath and inhaled all the grandeur his entire being could possibly hold. The staggering beauty of the spectacular sight filled him with warmth as he gazed upon the radiant image. Euphoria eroded away all his current troubles and cares. Gravity seemed to him nonexistent at that moment. Even though it was unclear to him if time had stopped, he was sure that space was occupied solely by him alone. In this solitary moment of spiritual interlude he was fulfilled with a profound intensity of life and self- awareness. He smiled as he had never smiled before, because he knew he was a witness to the work of the hands of God. Everything was in perfect harmony and splendidly fussed together. The illuminated array was magnificent as the sun beams blasted down on the full autumn colors of the Appalachian Mountains.



  The magnetic attraction between man and mountain lured the traveler slow and steady without his knowledge. As he continued down the slightly, sloping black top hill, he caught sight of an old iron rail bridge up ahead. Now that the wind had ceased to blow he heard the water of a stream bubbling as it flowed under the bridge. Coming up to the bridge he inspected the wooden timbers and boards for soundness of structure. Once he was satisfied he started across. When he got to the middle he decided to stop and watch the water flow over the moss covered rocks.  While listening to the water and watching the tiny rapids backsplash against the rocks, the traveler without regard to his surroundings allowed a farmer on a tractor to creep up onto the bridge before he realized there was someone approaching.



  The farmer had owned and operated the farm ever since his farther, which was a farmer too, had died and left him the family farm. The farmer was now in his sixties and rarely ever left the farm, except for emergencies, or trips for supplies to the local co-op in town. He was a little on the unsocial side and slightly paranoid as well. He always felt the farm required his constant supervision. After daily operations were performed he spent his time making patrols on the property. On his tractor he always carried a shotgun to handle the rattle snakes and varmints, four legs or two legs. Recently, the farmer had had troubles with a group of hunters trespassing on his land. Today, he had already fixed a cut fence and hauled off a dead steer out of his Limousine herd which had been shot.



  The traveler was unaware of the events which had transpired on the farm. The farmer came upon the bridge in a matter which startled the traveler, because he thought he was alone and did not hear the tractor engine over the fast flowing stream. When the traveler jumped in surprise, the farmer reacted suspiciously to the traveler’s disposition and automatically reached for the shotgun. The traveler seen the scornful look on the farmer’s face and saw a hostile, lacquer shine in his eyes. As the shotgun passed the horizon of the tractor hood the traveler threw his hands up in the air.



“WO  Wo  wo!” said the traveler in a shaky voice.



  With one hand on the steering wheel and the other wrapped tightly around the shotgun the farmer brought the tractor to a stop half way on the a narrow framed bridge. The farmer killed the engine and when the tractor gave up its last combustion he spit a cigarette out his mouth and said,



“Who the hell are ya and wha’cha doin on my land?”



“My pick-up broke down a few miles back up the road”, said the traveler still very nervous. “And this is a public road it’n it.”



“Don’t cha go n get technical wit me now boy. You n no kinda position to tell me whats what around here. I own this here land n all directions as far as you can see. Now speak ua business and tell me why you trespassing on my land.” Said the farmer from the seat of his tractor with the shotgun pointed at the traveler.



“I told ya my pick-up broke down.”



“Ya, I heard that, but cha headed in the wrong direction. Town’sa back tha utter way boy.”



“Well I’m only passing through this area and I thought this road would take me over to the freeway.” said the traveler with a tremor as he cleared his throat.



    Carefully the farmer hauled his large frame down from the old tractor. When his left foot hit the bridge he slipped and lost his grip on the steering wheel with his right hand and hit hard on the wooden boards of the bridge. The shotgun jarred loose from the impact and clattered across the wide boards. The traveler hesitated momentarily as he watched the gun come to a stop a few feet away. The farmer was large, but he recovered quickly from his crashing dismount off the tractor. The gun stock was pointed in the direction of the traveler.  So he had control of the gun by the time the farmer landed a hand on the barrel. The farmer would not relent. The traveler knew for sure he could not let the farmer succeed, in the struggle under way. They fought for the gun like crazed, wild men. The traveler started swaying the shotgun while pulling back with all his weight and might. During the intense fight for the gun, the farmer regained his footing and simultaneously the traveler stepped backward over the edge of the bridge. Consequently, the bolts holding the iron railing to the wood were barley holding in the rotted wood. Therefore the railing gave loose and the traveler started flailing and his finger yanked the trigger as he fell over the side of the bridge. A loud bang and a splash of water soon faded into affinity.

 

  Hours passed by while the traveler laid in the freezing cold stream unconscious from hitting his head against a mossy rock. Back on top of the bridge laid a large lifeless body. Bone fragments, blood, and bits of fleshy tissue covered the top of the wooden bridge and clung to the side the tractor. The farmer took the blast from the shotgun directly in the face. Meanwhile down in the stream, a white tail deer stood with its head down having its daily water not more than thirty yards from where the traveler laid still unconscious. His face was a shade of purple that only a hypothermic human body is capable of generating.



  Deep inside the corridors of the traveler’s subconscious was a memory being played over and over. He could see himself standing outside a white clapboard siding church in a black tuxedo. Inside the church, from above he could see a beautiful woman in a glamorous white dress making final preparations for the biggest and greatest moment of her life. Suddenly the traveler jolted awake and kicked madly around in the water. Disoriented and shivering, he fought to regain his bearings. A he stood up too quick and he fell, landing face first onto another round moss-covered rock. He let out a shrieking sound when his teeth pierced through his lips and met solid rock.  The taste of blood was in his mouth and spilling out into the tiny white rapids. Getting back to his feet, somewhat steadier now, he made his way to the bank taking quick steps splashing all the way to dry ground, and he fell yet again. He landed hard on the left side of his face, tearing a gash in his check from the rocks protruding out the little embankment. Jumping back to his feet he started choking and felt hard objects inside his mouth. Spitting out several teeth in his hand, covered in blood was of little concern to him at this moment.



“I have never been this cold in my entire life”, he thought to himself.



“I have to get warm or I will die.”



  He clawed his way up the small bank through the underbrush and back onto the black top road. When he turned to the bridge and saw the large body, laid out on the wooden boards his memory sparked back to the wild struggle over the gun. He walked toward the body slowly and cautiously, quickly taken in every detail. Then he saw the damage caused by the shotgun. He remembered hearing the loud blast before everything went black.



  The traveler was in a state of panic and severe shock from the aftermath of this disruptive encounter.  He had never been through anything as disturbing as this malicious onslaught.



“What in hell was wrong with him?”



“Why was he trying to kill me?”



  Looking for anything that could be of use to him in this difficulty he found himself in, he hopped onto the tractor and opened a toolbox mounted to the inside of the finder. He grabbed at the first item in his sight. He held up a knife and rubbed the sharp edged side with his thumb. After he saw nothing else of significance, he hopped down from the tractor and landed on the same slick board as the farmer did. Both feet flew out from under his body and he was not quick enough to recover. His head whipped backward and smashed hard, with a loud clunk, into the heavy gauged still on the tractor frame.



  With one eye slowly starting to open, he glimpsed an exemplary silhouette of a perfectly sized woman backlit by a crackling fire and heard the most amazingly pleasant voice he had ever heard in his life. The singing was in a low volume, somewhere between the range soprano and tenor.  He watched silently as she bustled about singing. The fire was the only light illuminating the room. In the low light of the room, he clearly watched her every- graceful move. The woman continued with her song and the traveler closed his eyes.





“Vance Fauscetto"