“It’s named after a real guy,” insisted Pat.
“How do you know?” I asked. “You don’t have the internet. Who told you this?”
“It’s just something I know, pal. You’re just going to have to trust me on it.”
I really had no reason to doubt poor Pat. I felt as though I owed him my trust – after all, it had been no fewer than five minutes prior that I had been convinced of his intent to poison me. But here I stood beneath the Goodwin Street Bridge, very much alive and surrounded by swooping bats, desperately trying to believe what this man was telling me: that Granite Creek, the two-mile stretch of green belt than runs through downtown Prescott, was named after a real person – a person named Granite Creek.
“He came into town like a hundred years ago, and set up his business. The townspeople loved him and he did good work for the community, so they named the creek after him. He even built this bridge.” He passed me the joint. Moments earlier, I had been sure it was loaded with PCP or animal tranquilizers. I was now more concerned with being infected with whatever spit-borne mental illness Pat carried with him, but I hit it anyway. Medical science is advancing quickly, I thought. I’ll be all right.
“What did he do for the community? Anything I might know about?”
“Well, come on. How am I supposed to know that? I just got into town. Probably built the courthouse or some shit.”
Pat had arrived in Prescott (possibly) only days earlier. He had (possibly) come for a final visit with a dying relative – who was, according to Pat’s explanation, some vague combination of his father, his grandfather, and nobody at all – and possibly also to find work and enjoy the mountain weather. He had (possibly) come from an undisclosed location in Florida, and had made the trip in a mere three months – possibly on foot. His shoes were immaculate. The rubber on the soles was very white – I wondered if I had indeed been tricked into smoking foul hallucinogenic chemicals.
“How long did it take you?” I asked.
“What?” Pat swatted bats away from his face. They were growing bolder.
“To get here. Did you take a bus at all? Trains?”
“Three months, about. Nobody rides trains anymore. It’s a dead technology. They’ll start tearing up the rails any day now.”
“So you walked?”
“No, I had a bike. I walked some, though, when I got tired.”
“Did the dog walk too?” A white pit bull, her feet wrapped in little bundles of canvas and leather, huddled beside me, growling at the bats.
“No, I carried her in my backpack.”
“Ah. That makes sense.”
Nothing was said for several minutes, until I finally stood up, crushed out my cigarette, and said goodbye. Pat lunged toward me and vigorously shook my hand.
“Hey, man, good settin’ with you! If you ever need to find me, just look around by the square – you can’t miss me. I’m the guy with the bike!”
“Don’t forget the dog. Not many dogs in town with shoes,” I laughed.
Pat looked at me as though I had condoned rape. He turned and left wordlessly, snapping his fingers to summon the dog, who sighed as she got to her feet and gave me a quick glance as if to say “Well, I thought that was a little funny.”
I never saw Pat again, but I did see his dog once not long after the encounter at Granite Creek. She didn’t seem to remember me.
-MJ
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