Elkins, West Virginia

Austin Wolfe

I had my first Manhattan in a bar in Elkins, West Virginia. And trust me, the irony of the situation was not lost. The bar itself wouldn’t have been too out of place in the Big City — it was the only swanky bar in a town that advertised boxes of cheese fries at McDonalds. But nonetheless, I swirled my drink around as if I was contemplating my next high stakes investment.

“Ready to go, A?”

I had picked up the nickname “Big A” when I was younger, and my uncle still hasn’t dropped it. I guess it’s more applicable now; I gained quite a bit of weight after high school.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

I really wasn’t ready to leave. I felt distinguished in this bar, and was in no hurry to drive up the mountain to our family reunion. Blood is blood, but I felt no connection to the relatives I was set to reunite with. They reminded me of the people I made fun of on Facebook: the type that quote nonsensical arguments on the topic of Obama’s confirmed status as the antichrist.

“Y’all be safe and take care now”

“Will do”

I had no intention of doing so. If I was going to get through the next two days, I was going to have to drink irresponsibly.

As we stepped outside, I lit a cigarette and handed one to my uncle. I savored the smoke, knowing that cigarettes this cheap do not come often. If there was an upside to West Virginia, it was the cheap cigarette prices. That, and the views.

There was a mountain view just across from the bar. Bunches of trees lined the horizon, giving way to a mountain peak that lost itself in the clouds. Staring at it made me want to write. I even worked out a line or two. Better make a mental note. I’ll get to it later.

“We better hurry. The schoolhouse fills up fast.”

Suddenly, I had the urge to run. Or lie. Make up some illness. Come to think of it, a Manhattan from West Virginia would be a perfectly plausible excuse for a stomach bug. Anything to avoid the awkward eye contact and even more awkward small talk that was sure to come.

I stepped out of the car lacking any feelings of sophistication. I immediately felt out of place; we were the only car amongst a horde of oversized SUVs and rusty, yet modified trucks. It was clear the schoolhouse itself would not be hosting the reunion. Some of the SUVs had higher capacities.

It looked imagined: fading red boards, cumbersome white windowpanes, broken rows of shingles. It even had a miniature bell tower on the roof. Unfortunately it was flanked on all sides by reality.

A few pop-up canopies accompanied an old, wooden pavilion behind the schoolhouse. The space was only a half a football field, but there had to be a hundred people in it. Scanning through the God, what kind of hell have I walked into?

“Will you take the adobo to the table? I need to find a spot to plug the rice in.”

I easily watched my uncle shift through the crowd. He was the only one with any real color to his skin after all. But, that wasn’t the only reason. He stopped to talk to everyone he passed

My uncle’s girlfriend, Christina accompanied me through the crowds. Out of all the girlfriends my uncle has had, I’m glad he seemed to be settling down with Christina. They hardly fought. Certainly, never got into screaming matches. Plus, she didn’t seem to mind how quiet I was.

“Look who made it.”

A large woman approached us, and I vaguely recognized her from my Facebook feed.

“Oh you were Tuck’s grandkid.”

Howard. My grandfather’s name was Howard.

“I haven’t seen you since you were this big”

She raised her hand just above her waist. I didn’t recall meeting her before.

“Oh, good to see you again.”

She smiled and then turned to talk to Christina. I tried to look preoccupied with my phone, but there was hardly any service. I could only pretend to scroll for so long. Without any legitimate ways to look preoccupied, I stepped out of the pavilion and behind the line of gigantic vehicles. A small creek ran through the perimeter, and I suddenly recalled a memory.

An image of a crayfish dangling from my finger was accompanied with feelings of betrayal. My grandfather had told me it didn’t hurt if they pinched you.

The memory soon faded, and I sparked a cigarette. Leaves from a few seasons ago crunched beneath my feet. People passed that seemed like they belonged. Most of them had features that my grandfather used to have: light eyes and lighter skin. I looked at my reflection through my phone. It looked like one that got asked what it was.Three cigarettes allowed me to learn two things from eavesdropping the passing conversations:

Everyone had a nickname here.

They almost all wore jeans that were a dying blue: one: a blue that belonged in the eighties.Accompanied by boots and Oakleys, the jeans belonged to RJ.

“Smoking a cigarette?”

I kind of chuckled and nodded. That was all it took. It was story time.

“Guess what I told him?”

Hand shrug.

“I told that son of a bitch to send me my stuff in the mail.”

This was the fifth story he told in the past twenty minutes. And, it was the fifth story that included him getting pissed off, doing something manly, and earning respect. I had to give it to him, though. He was a great story teller. He physically acted them out. But, I needed a break.

“That’s badass, RJ. Where’s the bathroom?”

He just smiled.

The outhouse was Mountaineers themed. It even had the WV painted to style. I approached it with no real intention of going in. If anything, I wanted a closer look. All that’s left now is some moonshine. Unfortunately, a man emerged, took a few steps, and slapped me on the back.

“She’s all yours, buddy.”

Gee thanks, pal.

I felt obligated, and stepped inside. I had to close my eyes it smelled so bad. Not even a festival port-a-potty compared. I stepped outside wondering why. Outhouses should exist nowhere. Tired of all things West Virginia, I returned to the pavilion looking for Christina and my uncle. An older man ran bell before I found them.

“Prayer time.”

I had no objections to prayer. I still did it before holiday meals. But, the sight of a hundred people wearing faded jeans, and blessing their food inside a ring of gigantic vehicles had a strange effect on me. God’s country is not what I had pictured it to be.

“Amen.”

“Now, let’s eat!”

People rushed to form a line, passing Styrofoam trays to one another. I stayed out of the way, waiting for the crowd to die. I saw my uncle and Christina near the front of the line talking to an older couple. Once the line was flowing, I took my place.

Under the pavilion, rows of tables were topped with various potluck offerings. When I reached the food, the bowls of mayonnaise salads and aluminum trays of fried things were almost empty. All I wanted was adobo and rice anyway. Adobo, a Filipino chicken dish, had been my favorite since childhood. My grandmother used to make it, and it is one of the few things that reminded me of her. Unfortunately, my West Virginian relatives must have missed out: the pot was largely untouched when I reached it. After taking my fill, I found my uncle and Christina. They were talking to the couple from the line.

“Eat up on that adobo. We are going to grab some beer, and go to Perry and Jan’s when you are done.”

The driveway was all gravel. I got tripped up by the seatbelt somehow or another and almost fell. How Embarrassing. I tried to smoothly grab the case of millers to mild success. I trailed behind Christina and my uncle as Jill and Perry explained the various things in their yard: the truck was for hunting; the second garage for the motor vehicles. They went on; however, I was distracted by what seemed to be a bunch of clotheslines running down the far side of the yard. The house blocked their destination. You would think they would get a dryer.

A lazy dog bark focused me. A golden lab trotted out of the garage. Jan dismissed his barks before explaining how useless the dog was.

“Stacey moved out. Of course the dog didn’t come with her, and now we are stuck with it.”

The golden lab panted about. Jan and Perry led us through the garage to their back porch. A set of strong wooden chairs lined the porch, and I was admittedly excited to do some back porch sitting in the mountains of West Virginia.

Perry and Jan sat across from my uncle Christina, and I. Perry was tall, but slender enough to make him appear small. A white mustache dominated his features to the point that the rest were not memorable. Jan was an inch or two shorter, hair cut short, and led most of the conversations. Small talk ensued and my mind wandered. But then:

“Yeah, we have one dying in the yard somewhere.”

I think I was most shocked by her tone. So casual. So normal. Like she said it before without shocking the conversation. A few hours north, the police might have been called.

“I stopped getting attached after we put Molly down. It is just too sad”

The accents. The clothing. The political views. They didn’t even come close to this. They were alienating. This was a line. A clear division between them and me. And now, I had no doubt that the plain was sloped. They might as well be barbarians.

“I hope at least one of the new ones can hold its weight. The last one Perry got was supposed to be part coyote, but the thing is useless if you ask me. The bears always injure it.”

Well yeah, it’s a goddamned bear.

Perry and his wife continued to explain the process of hunting bear. As much as I wanted to hate these people, I couldn’t help being fascinated. Apparently, a group of hunting dogs can corner and fight with a bear long enough for a man to shoot it with a gun.

“Duke was a fighter. On a trip about ten years ago, I saw him tackle a bear. He was fearless.”

Even as unbelievable as it sounded, I believed it more than any of RJs near confrontations. RJ cussed out bosses. Perry tracked and killed bears.

After a few more stories, Perry stepped away to take a call. My uncle began a story that I had heard before. Jan sipped sweet tea, Christina a wine cooler. I gulped on a miller light until I ran out of breathe.

“So Austin, are you always this quiet?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

My uncle confirmed.

Jan laughed and asked me what I did.

“I go to school.”

“What are you going for?”

I was used to a certain response when this question came. Something slightly sympathetic. Jan’s tone had none of that. She seemed genuinely interested and joked about writing a book about her. For the first time since the bar, I felt comfortable.

Crunching gravel broke the conversation.

“Sounds like the new dogs are here.”

Jan offered to take us around to see them. We all got up to follow. I rounded the corner and found the source of the clotheslines. They crossed a creek that ran through the yard and connected to rows of shitty wooden shacks that lined the banks. As we got closer, seven or eight dogs bolted out of the shacks. I had never seen hunting dogs before. Their patchy coats and darting eyes made them look wild. None of them looked like a particular breed. None of them looked like pets either. They weren’t pets. Jan had made that clear earlier.

The sun had all but faded when I spotted Perry sitting on the bank above the dog shacks. He wasn’t looking at use. He was preoccupied with something. I stared for a second before I realized what it was. The dying dog.

He sat with the dog for at least twenty minutes. His demeanor was different when he returned; he was sad. He looked like a man who just stared into the eyes of a dying friend, not one who was waiting for a piece of property to become obsolete.

Jan held her hand to her mouth.

Christina hugged my uncle.

My uncle stared into the distance.

I started at the dying dog.

“He was crying when I tried to leave. He didn’t want me to go.”

“It was the same thing my dad did when he was dying.”

He pretended to be preoccupied with some dirt on his hands for a while. I pretended to look at my messages. I knew the moment was rare. Being so close to death stirs emotions rarely felt. Joy, despair, fury. Fear. The emotions consume and dissipate at once. Like a sealed glass in the ocean.

The rest of the night happened. We drank. We ate. We laughed. But, the experience was already consumed by the scene on the hill. Perry and his dying hunting dog. Compassion and regret lying hand in hand.