Brothers/Sisters

Jo Anne Bernard—a tiny old hippie with waist-length gray braid and a tie-dye fringe jacket—has to tug at the door to her equally tiny office before it finally shuts. “Well?” she asks.

I’m wedged between a pile of motheaten faux down winter coats and a rusty metal desk that’s topped with what’s probably a Windows 98 desktop computer. I try to hold back a sneeze as the suddenly dusty air swirls around me. Bernard clears her throat.

“Uh...”

“You know we don’t tolerate rudeness here.”

That so? “You should be talking to him, then.” I mentally kick myself as soon as the words leave my mouth.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“I—you should talk to him, ma’am, not me.”

“Why?”

I lean against the desk, hoping it doesn’t break. I’m not a small person, and the chipped-up desk probably predates both me and Bernard. Dark brown rings dot its surface like craters on some low-budget sci-fi movie. The dust catches the rays of light that filter through the blinds on the office door like something out of a film noir; Bernard’s intense gaze certainly makes me feel like I’m in one.

I take a breath, ready for the interrogation to be over. “Okay. The guy sets the granola bar on the counter and hands me a ten. I take it and put it in the register. No big deal. A couple of seconds later, he looks down at his wallet, finds it’s gone, and starts yelling at me for snatching his money.”

“That all?”

“Well, yeah. That’s when you came in. But that’s pretty much what you heard, isn’t it? Before he complained to you?”

A sigh. “Jackass.” Of course the word’s not directed at me, but it feels like it is.

“I really don’t—”

She holds up a hand. “I believe you.”

Oh, sweet relief. I wipe my hands on my pants, realizing that my heart had been beating faster than a vegan who finds out his blind date is Hannibal Lecter. The guy was pissed, fussing like I’d punched him in the face. Bernard ended up giving him the granola bar for free just to get him out of her store, but that didn’t stop him from glowering at me from the bench across the street.

I sidestep around the desk, nudging aside a can of Pepsi that rolled in front of me. Bernard sees it and picks it up as I make for the door.

“Oh!” She says, still trying to get the Pepsi; it’s rolled under the desk now and is therefore irretrievable (that’s how it usually works). “And can you tell Carina—”

Something buzzes. And buzzes. And—

It’s me. I reach to silence my phone and begin an apology, but Bernard just waves her hand. “That’s all right. Take the call. I’ll tell her.”

“And can I—”

She checks her watch. “Yeah, yeah. Go.”

I nod my thanks, not realizing she can’t see me until I’m well outside her office. My phone stops ringing by the time I’m done messing with the old time card machine, but it takes about three seconds for it to start buzzing again.

I step out, squinting at the sun. It’s about noon, and noon on a Saturday during tourist season—even waning tourist season—means that Broadway Avenue is packed. I have to step aside to avoid being run over by a couple and their SUV stroller; the kid, who’s almost too big for that massive chaos contraption, screams something about wanting orange juice. Rolling my eyes, I pull out my phone; Carina’s just started her shift, so there’s only one person it could be.

I swipe up on answer. “Yeah?”

“Hey, Garrett.” His voice is jumbled, probably because he’s in the middle of knitting something and the phone’s wedged between his shoulder and ear. Not my fault he doesn’t know how to turn the speaker on.

“Yeah,” I say again, twirling my lanyard.

“Did you just get off work?”

“Uh-huh—ah!”

“What happened?” He must’ve set down the knitting needles, because his voice is clearer. I start walking toward my car.

“Oh. Nothing. I just smacked a someone with my lanyard. What’s up?”

Poor phone service makes his sigh dissolve into static. “I need you to pick up a friend for me.”

“Hold on.” I shift hands to flip off a lady who almost hit me with her white BMW. She furiously honks back.

“Garrett? What are you doing?”

“Jaywalking. Sorry. Let me—” After waiting for another car to pass, I slide into my old Jeep and shut the door. “All right. A friend?”

“Yes.” He’s knitting again.

“What about it?”

“Oh. You remember that hat I was working on for you?”

“The rainbow one?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“What about it?”

“It’s done. Looks nice. I might knit more to sell.” In my mind’s eye, I see my uncle, with his potbelly and gray beard, sitting on his couch with Spartacus curled up nearby, holding up a little rainbow beanie to check for holes.

“Well, why not? The shark ones were pretty popular.”

“Those are really hard to make.”

“They look nice, though…” I stare out the Jeep’s windshield at the mountains that rise over the near horizon. Snapping out of my daydreams, I start the car and ask, “Your friend?”

“Almost forgot. You know that rest stop just outside town?”

“What rest stop?”

“Yeah. Go there. It’s urgent”

“What rest stop?”

“By Graycliff.”

Oh, God. I’m not sure what Graycliff is, but there’s only one rest stop he can be talking about. I thought he was talking about that one, but was hopeful that there was another rest stop I didn’t know about.

“But that’s over an hour away! Why can’t—” Silence on the other end; he’s already hung up on me. I roll my eyes again, a habit I’ve acquired since working at Jo’s. Working with tourists—and, by extension, the general public—tends to accentuate the habit; after about three months of it, I could beat even the angstiest tween in any eye-rolling competition.

Getting out of town’s not hard, but getting out of this parallel park an art; an art that involves swearing, honking, and a near-death experience on a pedestrian’s part. Finally, I manage to get going down the main road, the traffic thinning out as I leave town.

Starting out, my route’s going to be pretty flat. Part of the town itself climbs up the side of a mountain, though it’s mostly log mansions and winter lodges at the higher elevations, with a mountain man or two scattered about. Blue rises behind green and golden trees, and although I can’t see it, the nearest mountains are striped with white highway: Beartooth Pass, one of the most scenic but butt-clenchingly difficult byways in the states of Montana and Wyoming.

I adjust the rearview mirror. I’m pretty sure I know where to go, but I’ve got a navigation app open on my phone just in case. A Montana State Department of Transportation Rest Area, it says. That’s a nice bit of useless information.

Golden hills and telephone poles rise to my right; I can only see golding trees and the occasional log cabin and Italian restaurant advertisement to my right. The sky’s blue, streaked with paintbrush clouds. It’s achingly beautiful here.

I put in a CD and crank the volume up to a responsible level. Depeche Mode seems a little incongruous compared to the day’s bright serenity, but I’ll take it. Besides, Kraftwerk is probably even less suitable and the rest of my CDs are in my room at Dave’s. Dave—my sweater-knitting uncle and godfather who sent me on this adventure—isn’t too proud of my extensive ‘80’s synthpop collection and has voiced this opinion on multiple occasions. But he has his own CDs and another car; it’s not like he has to suffer that often.

The trees swell into tall pines and shrink again, until I’m left in a shrub-leaden pasture. I can see the hills clearly now, as well as some school mascot’s name spelled in hay bales. Hicks. Smiling to myself, I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. Surprisingly, the minutes are flying by, and I’m at a bend near the town of Joliet, and then I take a sharp turn away from the town and double back for a while, because that’s just how mountain roads work. I’m not alone on the road, but something about my surroundings makes me feel like the last person on the planet.

I roll down the window for the rest of the hour-long trip, which isn’t as bad as I’d expected; I stop for gas twice and get a candy bar from the second gas station. Pretty soon, I’m passing through Columbus and Reed Point. I guess the whole little adventure would seem dull to others, but it’s exhilarating to me. A year ago, I’d never thought this fantastic amount of dullness possible. I’d never tell Dave, though, or he’d make me go on more of these ridiculous excursions and it’d get old fast.

I pull into the rest stop, steering around an oddly parked black SUV that looks like an FBI van from an alien movie (not to be confused with an Alien movie). It’s the usual: tourists and truckers. It’s a noisy smelly affair, but I really need to stretch my legs.

As I’m stretching and about to leave the Jeep, my phone buzzes and I see that my uncle’s texted me three words: The Crazy Mountains. This is an annoyingly common habit of his.

“What the hell?” I say to the phone.

The Jeep’s door slams behind me. At the rest stop, there’s a chainlink fence, two red boards, a flagpole and some picnic tables. It’s all pretty standard.

I’m stretching yet again and reading through the Rest Area Animal Restrictions to give my eyes something to do when I spot the word Crazy out of the corner of my eye. Of course. The Crazy Mountains is the title on the board. But just as I’ve reached some spiritual understanding with my uncle, I notice that there’s no one there except for a fourteen-year-old boy trying to feed a chipmunk.

I glance around, trying to find someone who looks...well, like Dave. Wide, tall, bearded. Probably in flannels—red flannels, of course. Blue is for the youth. Unsure of what to do next, I to wait by the sign for a few minutes, texting Dave to ask whether there’s some sort of pre-set time to meet and what that time could be. I wait for a response, rocking back on the balls of my feet and pretending to read the informational paragraph on the Crazy Mountains sign. Again. My uncle’s level of crypticness makes me wonder if I should’ve come with a briefcase cuffed to my wrist, like they do in those spy movies I watched religiously as a child.

I visualize myself leaning coolly against the signpost, shaking hands with a shady individual clad in an out-of-place black suit. “Double-oh-seven,” I say, in a voice that’s not crackly or nasally. Smooth and low; someone else’s voice.

Sometimes I’m incredibly grateful that telepaths don’t exist. I think the Russians were always villains, anyway. That’s fine; lasers are cool.

Gravel crunches, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that chipmunk kid is back.

“Hey,” he says, his voice still somewhat high; there’s a chance that I overestimated his age.

I ignore him, assuming that he’s not talking to me.

“What’s your name?” This time, he taps me on the shoulder.

Turning to him, I don’t say my name. Instead, in that nasally and crackly voice: “Where are your parents?”

“What’s your name?”

Fine. “Garrett.”

“Okay. What about—”

At this point, an older man with a blond ponytail stalks up to us. Turning away, I go back to pretending to read the sign.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car,” he says to the kid.

“Yeah but then you said—”

“No. No. No, you were supposed to say in the car and—” He stops. I don’t realize why until i turn to see him eyeing me.

I don’t like that.

“Can I help you?” I ask, putting my hands in my pockets just in case they start shaking. It sounds a little meaner than I intended. The guy is wearing a red flannel shirt, after all. He looks about moosey enough to be Dave’s friend.

“Sorry. I’m Cameron Boyd. I’m from the University of Montana.” If he’s from UM, that makes a little more sense. I don’t have any more time to think about it, because the man holds out his hand. I can’t help but to be reminded of my earlier fantasy. Did I forget a briefcase?

I take his hand, though my shake’s a bit wimpy and still kind of sweaty. “Garrett.”

“Garr...ett…” He draws the name out, looking for something else. I know what that something is.

“Sokoloff.”

“So you’re here for David? Are you...” He looks me up and down. “...related?”

“Yeah. He’s my uncle. So you came all the way from Missoula? Long drive.”

“You’re telling me.” This must be dave’s friend, then. And...his son? Grandson? They don’t resemble one another in the slightest, but I shrug it off. The kid could be adopted or something. “Did David tell you who you’d be picking up?”

“A friend. I wasn’t told there would be two, though.”

Boyd lets out a bark of laughter. “No. Just one. Did he tell you anything about the friend, then? I’m assuming that’s a no?”

“No,” I agree.

“Then you’re in for a treat.” The kid’s started to wander off again, so Boyd grabs him by his shirt collar. “This is who you’re here for. I’m going back to Missoula.”

“And this is…?”

“Ask,” the kid says.

I look at him, confused. Did he think he was being ignored? “What’s your name?”

“Ask,” he repeats.

I turn the confused look to Boyd, who laughs again. “Ask is his name.”

Somehow I knew there was going to be embarrassment to be had on my part. “Sorry. It’s just...unusual, is all.” Still looking at Boyd. “No offense, but you’ve driven, what? Four, five hours? Why not just stop by Red Lodge and drop him off there?”

“I was...on my way to Billings. That would’ve taken me out of the way and added an hour. Besides, David and I haven’t…gotten along well in the past. Or maybe we got along too well.” Boyd leans forward and gruffly pats me on the back, a grandfatherly gesture that I neither expect nor particularly care for. He steps back, giving Ask a light shove towards me. “Well, I should be going.”

“Uh. All right.” I’m still confused.

When Boyd’s out of sight, Ask and I spend an entire minute staring at one another in silence. I don’t actually count, but that’s what it feels like. Finally, I turn toward my Jeep, gesturing for him to follow. I walk slowly at first, but soon enough I hear him behind me and speed up my pace.

The air is filled with that dusty scent of upturned gravel. The land around the rest stop looks flat, but we’re about four thousand feet above sea level (Red Lodge is at least five thousand, I think; I know it’s higher than Denver).

Ask gestures to the Jeep. “Is this yours?”

“Yeah. Well, kind of. I didn’t pay for most of it.” I walk around to the other side. “Help me get the top off.”

He doesn’t move. “You’re lucky you didn’t pay for it.”
“Why?”

“It’s ugly.”

“Thanks. Now come here and take this velcro.”

I go around to the other side to unhook the velcro and undo a zipper. I try to ignore the distorted face in the window, with its scab-covered cheeks and crooked nose. After a few minutes (I do this a lot), the top’s folded into the back and Ask is sitting shotgun, kicking the dash like a toddler.

“So,” I say as I start the Jeep and pull out of the parking spot. “Not a yellow fan?”

“It’d be just as ugly in any other color.”

I know he’s talking about the mismatched driver’s door (burnt orange with a black stripe), the BB dents and the long key mark, but I can’t help feeling mildly offended.

I shift forward and the wind whips our hair back. Ask sticks his arm out into the wind and wiggles his fingers. I try again: “Are you from Missoula, then?”

“Yes.”

“And what about your parents? Do they know David, or…?”

“I don’t really have parents,” he says nonchalantly.

Good job, Garrett, you’ve already said something stupid. “Woah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Ask sighs, pulls his hand back and stares at me. When I finally can’t stand it anymore and turn to him, I see that he’s got a wry little half-smile, like he’s about to set something on fire for the fifth time in an hour.

“What?”

“They really didn’t tell you about me?”

I have to snap my eyes back to the road to stay in my lane. “Why?”

“Gar-rett.” The new name is new to him, so he fumbles with it.

“Garrett,” he says again, better this time. “There was a lab tech with that name.”

“What, don’t like it?”

“It’s okay.”

“Thanks, I picked it myself,” I mutter.

Ask either ignores me or doesn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, he just says my name again.

“What?”

“I’m not your uncle’s friend. I’m not even a person.”

“Wh—”

“I’m a lab experiment.”