Free Fix You by Beck Anderson

love of Mike. You’re a babe in the woods.” I’m a little nauseated.
    “It’s not young.”
    “I was a total dumbass until my thirties. Twenty-nine is young.”
    He narrows his eyes. “Are you calling me a dumbass?” I’m about to protest/apologize when he laughs, hard. “Listen, it all depends on the amount of living you’ve done with your years. Now, you might have been a choir girl, but I got an early start on everything, trust me.”
    “You weren’t a choir girl?”
    “Not even close. Don’t dig too deep on the interwebz. I’ve done some dumb, dumb stuff.”
    “So you were a dumbass, then.”
    “Touché. I like to think I’m a work in progress. I’ve learned a tremendous amount from my mistakes. I’d venture to say I’m quite wise, even.”
    I like the verbal repartee. “Am I blessed by the presence of an old soul, then?”
    “Ancient. Like Yoda, I am.”
    “Were you alive when they made that movie?”
    He punches me in the shoulder.
    And no, he wasn’t alive when they made that movie.
    We’re way out of town now. It doesn’t take long. I pull off the highway and drive toward the fringe of hills in the distance. There’s nothing but sagebrush. I know what I’m looking for…When I see the turnout, I guide the car off the road and stop. Dust swirls up around us. Andrew swings his door open, gets out.
    “It’s so quiet.” He stands still, breathes in. “I’d give my firstborn for this kind of peace on a regular basis. In LA, sometimes I can’t even think straight.”
    But he doesn’t fully get it yet.
    “Walk with me a little. I’ll show you why we’re out here.” I find the narrow path between the sagebrush.
    He comes up behind me. We walk silently for a bit. The highway whispers in the distance. The wind blows over the desert scrub, and we are utterly alone.
    “Out here reminds me of the earth and how big it is and how tiny I am. Everyday life is too noisy for me to remember that.” I wonder if he understands me. He nods.
    I go on. “But here’s the really awesome part.” The path has just widened. We stand in front of two ruts in the desert floor. Running parallel with the highway, they stretch in both directions as far as I can see. To the east, the land slopes up gently and the ruts meet with the horizon. To the west, the trail seems to curve to the left and thins into a point in the distance.
    He’s perplexed. “What’s this? A jeep trail?”
    Here’s the part where I feel cool. “These aren’t tire tracks. They’re ruts from wagon wheels. It’s the Oregon Trail.”
    “Really?” He looks at me.
    “Really.”
    He stands for a minute, then walks forward, faces west, and puts one foot in each wheel rut. He is still for a minute. Then he steps forward a few feet, bends down, and picks up a little of the dust, smoothing it between his fingers.
    He stays crouched. He’s looking for something. Then he stands up.
    “What’d you find?” I come over to look.
    He opens his palm—it’s a smooth black rock. “I want to take this back.”
    I smile. I think I did good.
    After a bit more exploring, we head back into town. I’m still nervous about public outings with him, but I’ve figured out lunch. We hit the Basque Block, walk around and look at the old sheepherder’s boarding house, the wagon parked out front, the handball court.
    We sit on the patio at a Basque grill for lunch. His sunglasses never even have to come off. The waitress is so distracted, she never looks either of us in the eye, anyway. No one else is outside, even though the day is what I expected it to be: unseasonably warm and bright.
    I’m almost through my lamb sandwich when he pushes back from his burger and sighs, contented. “That was good.”
    “I still say you should’ve had the beef tongue. If you were a risk taker, you would have.” I smile at him and take another bite.
    He steals a French fry out of my basket. “I’m not good at risk taking.”
    “Really? I would’ve taken you