Numerology, Part I

I was coming home from work on a cold Tuesday for the last time. I followed through on my normal plans for cold Tuesday evenings: eating leftovers (in this case, from Thanksgiving) and watching Seinfeld reruns on TBS. The food was oddly subpar, and the I didn't laugh once at the episode. Maybe it wasn't the food, but me: the leftovers from the same Thanksgiving dinner were just fine for the past couple of days, and it was a classic episode of Seinfeld. Maybe it was the fact that I didn't turn on the heat in my house, so I was miserable for the sake of saving money. I had just swallowed a lukewarm bite of mashed potatoes when I got the call from David.

David and I met a few years earlier when we worked at Alpine Sporting Goods, where I still worked at the time. He was from Boulder, but he went to the University of San Francisco. He had a tattoo of a phoenix on his left arm, which he said had been a symbol of the city since it survived a series of fires after the 1906 earthquake. I remember this only because he told that story to any customer that noticed his tattoo. He didn't tell them the story out of pride, but out of genuine fascination for what the symbol represented. David was not a boisterous person, and he was consistent in nearly every area of his life. That's why I was so surprised when he stopped coming into work.

He called, firstly, to say hello. I would have expected something like that a year earlier, but I was taken aback this time by how casually he spoke. It seemed as though he wasn't aware that it had been a year since we'd last spoken on the phone, or since I'd last seen or heard from him. When I asked him where he'd been for that year, he said that he had to take me out to lunch on Friday. He insisted, in fact, and he also insisted that he would pay. I glanced at my living room and kitchen and realized that I had no reason to reject the offer.

I didn't recognize David when I first got in his car. He was wearing a white shirt without any stains or wrinkles and pressed black pants without any lint, where before he wore t-shirts and khakis that he had probably kept in his hiking backpack. He was clean-shaven, when before he had persistent stubble. He had his sleeves rolled up, and I saw his tattoo was gone. The only reason I knew it was him was his characteristic remark when he first saw me.
"You're late, as per usual."
"Nice to see you too, David."

We passed up the Burger King where we would always stop for lunch or dinner on Fridays before David disappeared. I was surprised, but perhaps this cleaner, tattooless David had improved his diet and his planning skills since I last saw him. Then we passed the intersection of Main and 14th, where I'd normally turn left walking home from work. The only restaurant I knew past this point was the Cheesecake Factory, which I would never imagine to be David's choice for lunch. Then again, that was because I never imagined him spending more than five dollars for a single meal, but David was now a man who was willing to pay for much nicer clothes and a tattoo removal. We passed the Cheesecake Factory, and I was tempted to tell him that he had missed the turn. He seemed determined, though, that he was on his way to a back road in the Rocky Mountains that I had only heard of before.

David sped down this road smoothly, in spite of "FALLING ROCKS" signs and a couple of hiking trails that he crossed without even looking for anyone that might be walking the trails. I asked him why he didn't watch for hikers, especially since he was an experienced hiker himself. "The trails are closed," he said. "It's a shame, too. I liked the eastern one." He drove on, but I noticed he was now drifting below the speed limit. With scientific precision, he slowed at a dirt road on our right and turned in, exactly in the middle of what would be the right lane.

Something was odd about the rock walls on either side of the road. There were no weeds growing from them or dead plants left behind in the wall's cracks. The walls were instead covered with beautiful flowers that I couldn't believe were native to this part of Colorado. The flowers were arranged on lattices that were perfectly lined up on the rock walls, which I noticed became flatter as we drove further into the mountains. David had to stop quickly when he nearly hit someone who was pruning a rose on the wall. The man he nearly hit was wearing the same white shirt and black pants as David, only he had a deep green shawl draped over his shoulders. He smiled at us as we passed him.