Page 16 of One Step Too Far

“Omnivores.”

“Hedging your bets.”

“Can’t know what we haven’t met. But current cryptozoologists theorize Bigfoot shares many traits with the ape family, which would make them omnivores.” Bob speaks matter-of-factly, no doubt accustomed to skepticism. We are kindred spirits in that regard.

Daisy finishes scarfing down her food. Luciana takes her out to water the bushes, then instructs the yellow Lab to go to bed. Daisy seems less of a fan of this order, but obligingly curls up on the carpet where she can monitor the motel room door for signs of her handler’s return.

I finally get to set my rolly bag aside, then we’re off to dinner. Three new friends, I like to think.

Enjoying the calm before the storm.

—

We have to wait an hour to get a table at the steak house that is walking distance from the motel. We watch a steady stream of tourists flow into the western-themed establishment. Families, couples. Some glance up and smile; some never take their eyes off their cell phones. All sidestep noticeably upon nearing Bob. At one point I notice him noticing. He shrugs back at me as if to say, what can you do?

Once seated, Luciana and Bob order a beer each. I fixate on the food. I’m not picky. I eat anything and everything. I suppose my broad-mindedness will come in handy when subsisting on MREs for the next week. Just the idea of future deprivation, however, has me wanting everything on the menu. Nachos. Skirt steak. Fajitas. For that matter, I wouldn’t mind a beer.

You’d think eventually the cravings would go away. They don’t. I can be around others who drink. For that matter, my only employable skill is bartending, so I continue to spend my life surrounded by booze. Certain things, however, still whisper to me like words from a long-lost lover. The scent of hops. The clink of ice cubes hitting a glass. The creamy richness of perfectly poured foam.

I should go to a meeting after this. I should also sleep through the night, find joy in my heart, and relive a happy memory.

But I remain me. A woman capable of dining with two new acquaintances, and yet who still feels alone in a crowded room. I don’t remember the exact age I had my first drink. I was young, very young, but then plenty of kids steal sips of their parents’ drinks, trying to unravel the mysteries of adulthood.

Most recoil at the lighter-fluid punch. Whereas for myself...

I don’t remember my first kiss. I don’t remember my high school graduation. Even the phone call informing me of my parents’ deaths is a hazy affair, like something that was happening to someone else.

But my first stolen sip of my father’s drink... Liquid gold, burning down my throat. A seeping warmth that made my restless limbs and racing brain slow, steady, quiet.

Alcohol is my first love and most abusive relationship. All else has paled in comparison. Even my love for Paul.

The waitress arrives for our orders. The restaurant is so loud and crowded we have to semi-shout to be heard. I go with fajitas. Luciana orders grilled chicken. Bob requests nachos, rib eye, and a side of maple-fried Brussels sprouts. For the table, he says.

The waitress pauses mid scribble. She looks up for the first time. I recognize her harried attention span from my own lifetime in food service. Her gaze travels up Bob’s enormous torso to his beaming face.

“I’ll bring you extra bread,” she says.

“Excellent!”

She walks away, still appearing a bit nonplussed. I smile, already imagining the stories she’ll be telling in the kitchen.

—

The bread arrives. Bob dives in, butters up. None of us are talking, but it feels companionable. Luciana is texting someone on her phone. Bob is happy with his bread basket. I’m content to study my fellow diners and imagine how happy and perfect their lives must be, even if I, of all people, should know better.

Eventually the food arrives: a plate for myself, a plate for Luciana, half a table for Bob. Luciana puts away her phone and we all dive in.

Between bites of food, I learn that thirty-something Luciana is from Colombia, though her family moved to the States when she was eight and she doesn’t remember much before that. She always loved animals and started out volunteering at the local animal shelter, where she met a woman who specialized in animal training. Eventually, Luciana started working with Belgian Malinois, which led to SAR dogs, which led her to Daisy.

Rescue work pays as well as my job does—or Bob’s for that matter. Many people don’t realize this, but even supplying world-class SAR dogs is a volunteer gig. Luciana doesn’t frequent missing persons boards such as Bob and I do. Being part of a larger disaster response team, when her phone rings, she and Daisy are off. There is a network of volunteer pilots who ferry the teams for free. In international situations, the primary agency, say, the Red Cross, might pay for food and lodging—but that’s about it.

Professional project manager for an online insurance company by day—she smirks—training in the Batcave at night.

Bob’s turn. He grew up in Idaho, one of five kids, and swears he’s the runt of the family. We don’t believe him till he produces a family photo on his phone. Technically speaking, his mother and sister are slightly shorter, but they also appear significantly rounder. His father and brothers are truly massive, looking like the defensive line of a professional football team. The entire family gravitates to horticulture and animal husbandry, which makes Bob’s interest in cryptozoology understandable.

Bob lives in Washington now, where his daytime gig is teaching: biology at a local high school. Summers are reserved for Bigfoot hunting.

“Why Sasquatch?” I ask now, expecting some personal story of a close encounter of the ape-like kind.

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