Walk in the Woods

Nik Curfman 4/29/24 Nik Curfman 4/29/24

Vol IV: #60 Proverbs Slaps

When I read Proverbs, I can’t help but feel like a fool. That whole book is full of “do’s and don’ts” and I feel like I tick the boxes on the “don’ts” more often than not.

Proverbs 17:12 says: Better to meet a grizzly robbed of her cubs than a fool hellbent on folly. (The Message)

Those vivid words caught my attention last week and I’ve thought about them since. In my mind I see an angry and desperate momma bear, growling and stood straight up. She’s sniffing the air and wailing. It’s a sight I prefer to imagine but never experience. And yet, the author of Proverb 17 says it’s better to stumble into such a moment than into the company of a fool.

When I read Proverbs, I can’t help but feel like a fool. That whole book is full of “do’s and don’ts” and I feel like I tick the boxes on the “don’ts” more often than not. And it’s good for me to see myself as such. Can’t improve or repent without first admitting the need for improvement and repentance. And fortunately, there’s no verse in Proverb about “once a fool always a fool.” People can change. I’m in some sort of process as we speak, have been for a while.

About damn time.

Nik Curfman 4/19/24 Nik Curfman 4/19/24

Vol IV: #59 The Road

A book review? Sure. This is a review of The Road by Cormac McCarthy.

I finished reading The Road today. And it sucked. I hated the repetitive prose and predictable action. Additionally, we learn very little of our main characters, which was intentional. But mostly I hated the mind-numbing, often rambling, descriptions of the landscape and weather. Honestly, it felt like the author decided to play a trick on his readers- to write as annoyingly as possible while still being hailed as “genius.” And hailed it was, y’all.

“McCarthy's purest fable yet”
Entertainment Weekly in June 2008 named The Road the best book, fiction or non-fiction, of the past 25 years.
It[The Road] is remarkable for its acuity, empathy and insight.

What makes my verdict more enjoyable is knowing how well loved the novel was and is. Aside from the above, Oprah loved it and the damn thing won a Pulitzer Prize. How? I couldn’t fathom. During the entire read, one thought circled through my mind. If I wrote this for a college professor, they’d hate it. It’s not as though The Road was an artistic attempt, though the critics will say otherwise. I agree, the novel is an exercise by the author, though I object to what kind of exercise. I maintain, The Road is an attempt to strip a story down to its bones, and then describe those bones to you over and over and over, for 240 (weirdly oblong) pages.

Nik, we get you didn’t like it, but was it a good novel? Um, no. The Road is boring and long and makes me wish I didn’t read it. So, unless you like post-apocalyptic novels of an annoying persuasion…

Nik Curfman 4/18/24 Nik Curfman 4/18/24

Vol IV: #58 Better Life, Not Together

I was confronted by two thoughts. The first was we don’t have much to complain about? And the second stood opposed to the first: do you really believe black people have nothing to complain about? The truth is both thoughts are true. Right? None of us gotta hunt and gather for our meals or sleep in caves. We use toilets and have clean drinking water. And, at the same time, I believe African American’s have a tougher row to hoe in 2024. Blacks suffer more violence, poverty, and own less wealth.

As I wrote the last few lines of my most recent poem (Remember What Was), I was confronted by two thoughts. The first was we don’t have much to complain about? And the second stood opposed to the first: do you really believe black people have nothing to complain about? The truth is both thoughts are true. Right? None of us gotta hunt and gather for our meals or sleep in caves. We use toilets and have clean drinking water. And, at the same time, I believe African American’s have a tougher row to hoe in 2024. Blacks suffer more violence, poverty, and own less wealth. Both are true. It’s a good time to be alive, just better for some than others.

But, you wanna hear a fun stat? The total wealth owned by blacks in America is worth $4.6 trillion. Which amounts a 4% of the overall wealth of the US. (That’s not a good number when you account for the fact blacks make up 13% of the country.) Now…the fun stat is this. If blacks in America were a separate country called Blackmerica, it would be the 17th wealthiest country in the world. Richer that Brazil, Russia, Poland, Portugal, Saudi Arabia, Hong Kong and lots more. Totally nuts when you think about it. And yet, they struggle to overcome the last lingering bits of racism, still present in the police stations and court rooms and schools.

Both are true.

Nik Curfman 4/15/24 Nik Curfman 4/15/24

Vol IV: #57 This Time, I’m Opting Out

And as I consider the what’s to come- an endless parade outrage and fear, more conspiracy theories and lies- I choose to opt out. 2016 and 2020 taught me well but also wore me out. I’m tired of the debate. I’m sick of the fighting and arguing. And this year, I refuse to give up my peace.

Trump vs Biden round two is on deck this fall. And while true, both men are idiots and represent something terrible about us, I no longer care who wins or loses. And why? Because neither man is what they say about him- for better and worse. Trump is no hero (or Christian), but neither is he Hitler. And Biden is no communist, just a powerful old fool.

By my count, they both contributed to the inflation eating our paychecks and savings accounts. Neither solved the border issue or produced a comprehensive answer to immigration. And black people are still getting shot by cops (though you don’t hear about, because…well, you know why.) Also, in my view, each man had their stances I agreed with- supporting Ukraine against the Russian invasion(Biden) and prompting Europe to pay for it’s own defense (Trump.)

Trump is and will be a lying, abusive man. That’s who he is. And he will ride the Christian right to victory if possible. (Proof that Christian leaders can be duped by flattery and lies.) Joe Biden is a corrupt robot, spreading woke ideology with every speech and signature. He’s a puppet of bigger forces and we all know it. Matter fact, we know who they are and what they’re about.

Nik Curfman 4/12/24 Nik Curfman 4/12/24

Vol IV: #56 New Favorite Season

What I observed this year is how often Spring can feel like winter one day and summer the next. It’s not a neat and tidy transition from winter to summer. No, no, no. Thank God, no. What kind of weirdo reality would that be? We already experience the consistent heat of summer and cold of winter. Why should the switch be clean and easy? Because. We are stupid and unwise. Hilariously, we crave ease and comfort despite our experience and that of everyone before us.

My whole God-loving life, I been a big fan of autumn. I love the cooler weather and shorter days, perfect for a proper barbecue. College football is on the TV. And there’s the brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows of the trees. Naturally if follows, a shit ton of my favorite memories were produced in the fall including visits to the South Carolina State Fair and tailgating with my brother under old growth hickories in Clemson. And if all that wasn’t enough, Thanksgiving was a holiday built for people like me. Gimme all the people I love, some football, and bunch of food. I’m set.

Autumn will maintain a special place in my heart, no matter where I live. The fact the air temperature drops from boiling hot to pleasantly cool is enough to warrant special consideration. Weather worthy of a hoodie is the best weather. But, I’ve begun to love a new season, wild as it is to do so.

Spring is my new favorite season. In Redding it is special and often under appreciated. Wildflowers bloom and cover the parks and hills with bright yellows, violets, oranges, and reds. The trees are alive and pushing their new light green leaves toward the sun. Flies hatching from the Sacramento River and local creeks bring flocks of migrating birds. And the clouds are fluffy and make dramatic demonstrations as they march across the valley from the Trinity Alps to the Cascades. They are at their best at sunset when the sun is low and reflecting purple and oranges off their undersides. And like autumn, Spring brings a change in temperature and weather. Gone are the frosty days, the dull overcast skies, and day after day of cold rain. All of it replaced by warm afternoons and the occasional shower.

Spring is also the most sociable season in Redding. Life has returned and we must make haste before summer arrives(like Europeans and their three weeks of summer. Suns out, guns out. Nothing but pale people laying in the grass until the sun goes down.) The city hosts a rodeo to cap off a week known as Cool April Nights. There’s a hot rod show and pancake breakfast. My neighbors plant flowers and clear their yards of junk and the smell of grilled meats fills the evening air.

We know some days are hot and heavy and boil our humanity, while some are black and frozen and miserable. And we know some days we beautiful. And my hope for me and us is we grow through all the kinds of days and that our lives are full of color and shape. Personally, I want to lean into the pain of growth rather than the subtle comfort of death. (Aimless dying is a whole easier than living with purpose.) I (we) can bloom and reproduce and be the most glorious versions of ourselves. And it will be in spite of the challenges, not for lack of them.

Nik Curfman 4/8/24 Nik Curfman 4/8/24

Vol IV: #55 What Is It?

Been way too long between blogs. Sometimes it be like that. But, I’m thankful Fearless Grit exists and will continue to exist.

Been a solid three weeks since my last post. And I’m not a fan of that fact. Best part is, I don’t have an excuse though I have contemplated the future of my blog. Aside from the short stories, I wondered what’s the purpose, the thing that keeps this train chugging. And the answers were elegant and simple.

For starters, this blog is a record of me, my thoughts and feelings, and my process. No way I shut it down. Not a chance. I will happily pay $20/month to keep it alive and would even if I lived in my car. And hopefully, in the distance, a child of mine will read what I’ve written, the good and the bad. And they will know me in ways I couldn’t explain or remember. An odd but meaningful gift.

Secondly, I’m too far down the road. It’s true. This website is the longest lasting piece of me on the internet and no other account (other than email accounts) has endured as long as Fearless Grit. Not Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, not even my YouTube account- which I used to watch videos like everyone else.

Lastly, and just as vital, I’ve put too much into this space to leave or shut it down. I wrote every stinking day for a year, and nearly every other day the second year. And this little slice of mine is where I began to write. Below was the first poem I wrote. The original is rough but fun. I still like it as much today as I did then. (This version is edited.)

A: Beginning
He stared at the blank canvas while the cursor blinked, patiently awaiting orders.
The captain drew a cool breath through his teeth and studied what lie ahead.
“It is easy to begin a thing, when my heart isn’t on the line,” he conceded to the cold empty room.
“It is easier to hide in the shadow of another, a bold one, willing to smash through the wind when it blows.
What if my words are dull, my sentences complicated, my stories colorless?”
The terror exposed, he readied his troops.
Carefully he placed each finger into formation on the keys. And faithfully he typed, A: Beginning.

So, what is it, this blog? At this point, it’s an old friend, my writing buddy. And I still don’t know what to do with it, and I don’t need to know. I’m gonna keep on keeping on. You know?

Nik Curfman 3/18/24 Nik Curfman 3/18/24

Vol IV: #54 Shane Gillis

He did not submit to re-education. He simply absorbed the blow and kept on chugging. As he explained in an interview with Andrew Yang, a Chinese American, “I know I’m not a racist, but I also know how I shouldn’t say those kinds of things. I paid the price and now I’m moving on.”

Shane Gillis, a vulgar though insightful comedian, is on the rise. He jokes about politics and sex and his uncle with Downs. And honestly, the jokes about his family are hilarious and thoughtful. So, of course, some people hate him. To me, aside from the family jokes, what make Mr Gillis unique is his career arc. A failed athlete and West Point drop out, he turned to stand up and worked his way from shabby bars and clubs in Harrisburg to Philly to SNL…kinda.

In late summer of 2019, Shane was cast as member of SNL and then fired four days later. A clip from a podcast where he impersonated racists landlords from the 40’s was used to cancel him. And the amazing thing is, he apologized to anyone “actually offended” but he did not bow down to the culture. He did not submit to re-education. He simply absorbed the blow and kept on chugging. As he explained in an interview with Andrew Yang, a Chinese American, “I know I’m not a racist, but I also know how I shouldn’t say those kinds of things. I paid the price and now I’m moving on.”

I’ve thought a lot about that interview and Gillis’ perspective on what happened to him. It’s really astounding. And now I think the biggest con, the highest hurdle to overcome, are the lies that tell us we’re wrong. You’re a Christian, so you must be a bigot. Against abortion? You must hate women. Fascist. The truth I know very few actual racists and no fascists. I’m not a hater or bigot. And I’m not trying to tell other people what to do. And though the world may take opportunities from me, I will soldier on. No need to defend myself or apologize or feel bad for my mistakes.

Sorry world, you can’t tell me who I am or what I’m worth. Thanks Shane.

Nik Curfman 3/18/24 Nik Curfman 3/18/24

Short: DB’s Exclusive, West Virginia

DB’s Exclusive, West Virginia. Part 9 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)

The four of us piled into Jonathan’s white Dodge Ram and wound our way from Tom’s house to downtown Welch. The sun quickly set over the ridge and left clear black sky in its wake. Brad and David continued their pop culture discussion and I gazed out the window. Windows and the creek alike glittered in the moon light, and for a brief moment I forgot where I was.

“Where are we going?” asked David.

“DBs,” said Jonathan.

“Dude. Why?” David shot back.

“Cause it’s West Virginia classy. Everyone needs to experience it.”

And for the first time I relaxed as I saw my chance. “So, you’d bring your mother?”

“Oh yeah mate, she’d have a blast.”

And then we entered downtown Welch which was nothing more than empty three avenues and a series of alley ways, laid out to form a triangle. No traffic lights or fancy patterns, only seven blocks- a point and then two by three- with a row of old brick buildings beyond them. Jonathan gave a us a quick tour of the area, which consisted of three left turns. Each building was two or three stories, industrial and past their prime. Most were abandoned and sad. And the creek we’d followed emptied into the Tug River on the west side of town, with a rail line running parallel to the river. And beyond the river and rail, piles of slag still visible in the darkness. From there and on all sides of the town, were rows of houses built right into the side of the surrounding mountains, their dim porch lights twinkling like lights on a Christmas tree.

After the tour, we parked in an alley way next to a bank and walked to boring block building with a purple awning and new sign that read WELCOME TO DB’s EXCLUSIVE. Clip art martinis decorated either side of the sign. And just before passing through the entrance a glint caught my eye and I noticed something very strange. Once inside, I felt as though I’d stepped back in time by two decades. To the left of the empty dinning room was a rather well-stocked and long bar spanning the length of the room. The large oak bar was bedazzled with a mirrored back wall, brass fixtures and glaring vanity lights like something from a Hollywood movie set. And across the dining room, opposite the bar, stood an equally large stage with lime green curtains and worn red carpet. The lights were off and made the stage feel more like a cave than platform. A skinny teenage girl with a red sequin vest led us to our wood panel table and handed each of us a laminated menu. The table was topped with folded pink napkins, faux crystal water glasses and paper placemats. And Jonathan grinned as a gawked about the room like a tourist in Time Square trying to drink it all in. And before he could speak, a young man in an ill-fitting tuxedo shirt, tie, and pleated cummerbund appeared.

“Hi,” he said meekly.

“I’m Jacob and I’ll be your server today. Would you like to hear about the specials?”

“Yes,” I said with too much excitement.

“Today we have fish and chips with tartar sauce and chicken marsala with mushrooms and baked Alaska for dessert.”

“Sounds good. What do you think Zach?” Jonathan asked gleefully.

I nodded and pulled my upper lip down into my mouth to keep from giggling.

Brad and David now in on the gag remained quiet as Jacob towered over us with his pad and pen. Finally, Jonathan relented, “We’ll need a minute. Let’s get drinks first. I’ll have a Guinness.”

As soon as Jacob left with our drink order, I let out a forceful breath and pulled my sweatshirt over my head to hide my laughter.

“You ok, mate?”

“Yeah dude. What is this place? Is that front door a time machine? The carpet is brown and the bar has more liquor than a liquor store and we are the only people here.”

Brad and David chuckled and Jonathan shook me by the shoulder.

“This! Is Welch’s finest dining establishment.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Indeed. And that’s the joke. Because it is and it isn’t. You’ll see.”

A moment later, Jacob returned with our drinks and gingerly handed them out, though in no particular order. For dinner, Brad ordered the chicken parmesan and David the pasta primavera. After asking way too many questions regarding the origin of the fish, Jonathan got the fish and chips and I settled on chicken Alfredo. The meal had a certain microwave quality but slurped down every bite and stayed for dessert all the same. Baked Alaska was an old classic and I had to have it. And before dessert arrived I leaned over to Jonathan to inquire about the odd item I’d seen outside.

“What’s up with the cameras outside the building? There’s nothing here,” I said as I panned the dimly lit room. “Does it pop off on the weekend or something?”

The grin on Jonathan’s face disappeared and he slid closer to me with his chair. With both of us facing the back wall, he lowered his chin and motioned to a lone metal door in middle of the wall. A menacing sign on the door read, “DO NOT ENTER.”

“Don’t you think that’s odd?” he asked.

“Well, when you lower your voice and act that way, yes. I suppose it is odd. That door and the camera. But why?”

“High stakes gambling. They say mostly on the weekends and only very late at night. There wouldn’t be anyone back there tonight.”

“Who is high stakes gambling here?”

“The miners still make a good buck. Their houses are cheap or free. And they aren’t taking trips to Italy or Bahamas, so, they gamble.”

“No shit.” I replied as I shook my head in disbelief.

After dessert, Jonathan pushed himself back from the table and smiled as he looked at his watch. Then to the table he began, “We’ve got a big day tomorrow. We’ll all go down to Bluefield for supplies then get ready for the students to arrive.” The mirth now gone, we nodded our agreement. “Alright lads, let’s go.”

Nik Curfman 3/13/24 Nik Curfman 3/13/24

Short: Back In Time, West Virginia

Back In Time, West Virginia. Part 8 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)

Deeper into the mountains, snow covered most of the surfaces, masking the broken windows and sagging roofs. The trees were naked. And the sun dipped behind the western ridge, casting a gloomy gray shadow over the river valley. Brad began to talk about the architecture of the houses and boarded up store fronts. They reminded him of his native New Jersey and I understood. The homes closest to the road were narrow, two story row houses with stubby front porches and steep roofs. Of course, the frozen puddles and pock-marked jalopies did too. While I battled the dreary landscape, Brad smiled and craned his neck to drink it all in. Then he turned to me and said, “I think I’m gonna like it here.”

Around 3 PM, we pulled off Route 52 up the hill to Tom’s massive house. I’d told Brad about Tom, but not too much. Warned him really. No alcohol at the house or in Tom’s presence, and for the love of God, don’t talk about weed. Brad nodded. Good, I thought. He understands. And everything to that point led me to believe Brad would be a solid citizen, the one I knew from years back when he was a teenager.

David met us at the car to help us unpack. And after a bro hug I introduced the two.

“So you’re going to help Wes cook?

“Yeah man, seems like it. How long you been here?”

“Since the summer, when Jonathan got here. I came up a week later from Charlotte.”

“You lived in Charlotte? Where?”

“Fort Mill, really. Off the parkway. You know it?

“Yeah dude. My parents live across the line in Pineville.”

I felt my face and legs begin to freeze, so I asked about my room and went inside. Jonathon sat at the booth in the kitchen pouring over a pile receipts. He took off his glasses and gave me a quick hug.

“You hungry? We’re going to go to DB’s Exclusive for dinner,” he said with a sly grin.

The thing about Jonathan was he was willing to color outside the lines on occasion and the name DB’s Exclusive conjured up images of stripper poles and glittery plastic chairs. I’d not known him to go to a strip club, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

“What do they serve?”

“Oh, your typical steaks and chicken. Normal stuff.”

Just then Brad and David burst through the door, toting our bags and deep into a conversation on music. Jonathan smiled at Brad but Brad kept right on chatting with David as they strolled through the kitchen and down the hallway. Jonathan and I stayed seated and strained to hear the chatter, their voices fading until silence refilled the space. Jonathan chuckled and shrugged. I nodded in agreement.

“So? DB’s?”

“Sure,” I replied, unsatisfied yet stumped.

“Good. Go put your stuff up and meet me down here. I’ll get the boys. Remember, we’re only here for the night. Then all next week we’ll be in Gary.”

A few moments later, I was on the other side of the house, climbing the front stair case to the second floor. My bedroom faced the landing and through the heavy wooden door I found a large, empty room. Jonathan told be the previous owner, a doctor, used the room as an exam room for patients which left the space feeling institutional. The white walls and ceiling had yellowed and chipped, and rather than hardwood or carpet the floor was covered in green vinyl tile. Two single pane windows faced north and east. And in the corner near the door was a lumpy single mattress with fresh white sheets, my green sleeping bag, and a pillow. I slung my duffle onto ground bedside the mattress and rifled through it for my sweats and shoes. My teeth began to chatter and scanned the room for a space heater.

As I slid my sweats over my shorts, I began to laugh and shiver. And then I closed me eyes and drew a frigid breath. My dad had told me about this kind of cold, having grown up in western Pennsylvania. He said he hated it, hated how the wind nipped at his skin and nothing he did was enough to satisfy the chill. I didn’t believe him. I hated the heat and humidity of the South Carolina summer, how the gnats found your eyes and once outside you never felt dry. But, sitting on the that old mattress, with all my clothes on my body, I finally understood. My dad was right.

Before meeting up with Jonathan and the others, I nosed around the other rooms on my floor and found an old space heater. I took it to my room and immediately blew out a breaker. Using the light on my phone, I found the fuse box down in the basement. Inside were three breakers and again I laughed. This is a going to be easy I thought as I held my phone up to the fuse board. The switch on the top breaker was off and I flipped it back on with a hard snap. And because I forgot to unplug the old heater, it immediately snapped right back off.

Nik Curfman 3/11/24 Nik Curfman 3/11/24

Vol IV: #53 What A Time

And yes, to the abused children and domestic violence survivors, all of it is terrible. But think on this. All of the evil in the world always existed. At no time in human past was it free of hunger, disease, war, and hate. So, I ask, would you rather suffer abuse with or without a toilet? How about economic uncertainty without air conditioning? Yeah. No, thank you.

When I head out early to work or pray, I often wonder about the other drivers I see on the road. Where did they come from and where are they headed? How did we come to share this tiny sliver of space at the same time? Similarly, I stare at the gobs of products on the grocery store shelves and ask who’s buying fat free almond butter or spicy cool ranch fried chickpea crisps? Someone is. And then I glance up at the ceiling and consider the lights and the roof and then a look down at the tile at my feet. Someone built this, and now more people work to keep the lights on and the freezers freezing.

Isn’t the world a wonder? Honestly. Even though we bitch and moan about what isn’t, or lust after the products we’d love to own, I hope I never lose the appreciation of the now. And I get it, people in some countries are starving and dodging bombs. But we aren’t. Most of the world isn’t.

And yes, right outside the grocery store sits a handful of pock-marked meth heads. Trash all around them, dogs in tow. And down the street are the isolated seniors to whom I deliver groceries. Most of which have physical disabilities and spend there days alone in their trailers and apartments. And when I think of them, I cry.

As for me, even when another major war comes a calling and the idiots go full idiot, I will always be grateful to be alive in this era and not before.

Nik Curfman 3/4/24 Nik Curfman 3/4/24

Vol IV: #52 Mario and the Truth

And so, yesterday, I prayed and wondered how to repair something so clearly broken, and not just with my roommate, but with the other as well. My aim isn’t to burn their faces off. I merely want to set our relationship on a proper foundation. And I don’t know how to do that, because…I’m scared. I know it. The one common factor with these broken relationships is the fear I have of losing the relationship by being honest. And so I perpetuate the brokenness. Didn’t I say I was 51% of the problem?

A few years ago I met a young man named Mario. He was 22 at the time, married, and searching for the truth about God and Jesus and whatever Christianity is. When I met him he told me part of his story which included betrayal and bewilderment and having his church world burned to the ground during the pandemic. He was a pastor’s sun with a heart of his city. And when he wanted to stand on integrity he was told he was idealistic and immature, that standing up for his American rights was more important than keeping promises (i.e. yes = yes, no = no.) He was broken when I met him. His wife too.

Last Sunday, Mario told me how he appreciated our friendship. He said I let him be himself, and in doing so helped heal a wound from “older men.” My gut recoiled at the phrase older men, but I know what he’s getting at. I am old enough to be his dad, and it was the old men in the church who betrayed him. They cut him down when he wanted to preserve the integrity of the church.

What drew me to Mario was his honesty and I like that our relationship is built on truth telling. And yesterday as Mario and I watched Italian soccer and discussed a variety of topics, an ache grew inside my chest. I wish all my relationships were built on trust and honesty.

Fortunately, my relationships with the majority of my close friends and family are built on truth. For that, I’m thankful. But, I still have a small but important set of friends and family that are not about truth or integrity. Those relationships are built on something else and I’m not sure what that something is. Loneliness? Common interests? Shared history? Not that common interest or history is bad, but without the truth they all suffer. We hide from each other and avoid the task of accountability. Instead of iron sharpening iron, we iron avoiding iron, contnt to hold onto our fears and misery. It’s exhausting.

And, I’m as guilty as they are. Without question. I’m 50% of the problem, maybe even 51%. Why 51%? Because I know we’re both suffering. I know that without the truth and being honest with each other, our relationship is slowly dying. For example, I know my roommate resents me for any number of my choices both recent and not so recent. But he’d rather “be nice.” Like a good southern boy, he shoves his feeling and thoughts deep in his back pocket with all the other unsaid offenses from all the other people in his life. And that back pocket is about to burst.

Thank God for Mario and my relationship with him. Thank God for my relationship with my mom and dad. And thank God for the courage and grace to come. I hope I find the will to do my part, to heal what’s busted and hurting.

Nik Curfman 2/26/24 Nik Curfman 2/26/24

Short: Unprepared, West Virginia

Unprepared, West Virginia. Part 7 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

Brad arrived on time early the next morning. His eyes were glassy and his little red volkswagen smelled like the inside of a bong. I’d told Brad the rules for the trip and he’d decided to blaze up one last time because- as he put it- it’ll be a while. I glared at him and simmered. “I’ll drive,” I said as I slung my duffle onto the back seat. Then I held out my hand for the key. Brad nearly closed his left eye and cocked his head as he looked at me. He almost began to speak but stopped placing the key into my extended hand instead. A few minutes later we were motoring up 77 and bopping along to Led Zepplin and whatever else he’d loaded onto his iPod.

In Virginia, we pulled off for gas at a truck stop in Wytheville. The Buzzing K is one of those truck stops with a restaurant, private showers, and a lot lizard or two. I’d stopped there many times before on family trips and thought of it as a sort of redneck tourist attraction. When I opened my car door a freezing gust of air smacked me in the face and I bristled.

“Ha!” Brad laughed and pointed to my flip flops and khakis cargo shorts. They were red Tommy Bowham flip flops, the kind that look cool in the store but hurt your feet after a few hours of walking. And I can’t remember why I decided to wear shorts.

“You’re a real boy scout,” he snorted before jogging inside for snacks.

As I pumped gas, I began to shiver. And then I turned away from the gas station and the lights to noticed large white dots on the Appalachian Mountains to the west. And though the day was clear and sunny, dark purple and gray clouds loomed beyond the ridge. I closed my eyes and pulled the bitter cold deep into my lungs. I hope Brad buys me a hotdog or hot slice of pizza, I thought. And just as I finished pumping gas, Brad hurried back with arm loads of snacks and drinks.

“Whadda ya get?”

“Oh man. Dude. Lemme tell ya. They have these nuts, pecans, and they have all kinds of flavors- caramel, hot and salty, and vanilla. I got all three. Here try one. Do want water water or gatorade or Red Bull?”

I took what looked to be a caramel pecan and ate it. It was delicious and warm, and soon I ate most of the bag, stopping only to be polite. Brad hardly noticed. He munched his way through several small bags of corn chips and polished off an energy drink as we crossed from Virginia into West Virginia via the East River Mountain Tunnel. We held our breath as long as possible and I won. Brad coughed and wheezed like an old man. And on the other side of the mountain, in West Virginia, the white dots I saw earlier were now at ground level and the tops of the mountains were purple and blue against the low November sun.

By the time we turned off 77 and found Route 52 from Bluefield to Welch, Brad was sober. And our discussion was now more focused and thoughtful. He asked me more questions about our project and responsibilities and I did my best to answer them. And as we passed through the small town of Bluewell, the electronic sign outside Bluewell Community Bank read 23º. Brad noticed too and began to belly laugh.

“I hope you’ve got more than short and flips flops.”

I did not. Not much more, for warmth a pair of running shoes, a pair of sweat pants and my faded red hoodie. No gloves or winter coat. No blue jeans. And the weather would not improve.