Bonnie and Clyde Files 6

Sunshine spooked the gray skies. It could rain or could not. Bonnie and Clyde sniffed around the high grass and chomped sedge. Alder leaves floated down the river. No birds anywhere.

I fished my phone from my shirt pocket and placed a call to a dear old friend who had called me the previous evening and left a brief message of concern and encouragement that warmed my heart.

My call wouldn’t go through. I tried again and still, no luck. I wanted to call my friend from the river of the dog sanctuary because she is very much a person of the river, which only makes sense to people of the river. She has known Oregon rivers her whole life and takes her students to rivers, like I once did.

I wanted to tell her that I am surviving, imagining, searching, trying to manifest transitions and transcendence. I wanted to tell her that Bonnie and Clyde are assisting me and that one day I hope to have the wherewithal to adopt an old dog and reinvent Travels with Charley for myself, although my rig might be a 40-year old RV up on blocks and not going anywhere except a state of anonymity and rebirth. But at least the 8-track player works.

There was so much to tell my friend but a third call wouldn’t go through either. Had she answered, I would have told her of my new better life and all the new habits and philosophies I’ve embraced. I would have also told her of my new voice and obligation as a writer and American citizen. I would not have told her of the incalculable human suffering I’ve witnessed. I might have mentioned the official ventriloquism I’ve observed.

I gave up trying to call her from the river. I wasn’t angry or frustrated by the terrible reception. Terrible reception is sometimes the most beautiful problem in the world, especially when you are standing next to a river on the Oregon Coast.

Bonnie came over, then Clyde. I gave them some pets and rubs, set up the camp stool and TV tray and went to work. They flopped down beside me and we all looked at the river together.

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