(Not Quite) Out to Pasture: Crossing the Road

A COLUMN BY: CURTIS COMER

This past weekend, my partner, Tim, and I took the short drive out to the Shaw Nature Reserve. This mini road trip was born out of Tim’s desire to get out of the city and look at some of the fall foliage before the rains stripped the trees completely. I wanted to argue that, if he wanted to see foliage, all he needed to do was take a walk in the park or, at the very least, look out the window. But I could see that it was something he really wanted and, once I had thought about it, getting out of the city, even for a few hours, didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

The drive down was probably more impressive than the reserve, the hills on either side of the highway dotted with the colors of the sun and of fire and earth. Once in the reserve, we were almost disappointed and the old adage about not being able to see the forest for the trees quickly came to mind. Nevertheless, the air was cool without being cold and the air was scented with the smells of fallen leaves, wet earth and a myriad of smells I couldn’t identify. At one point on our walk, as we crossed an asphalt road leading to a parking area, we encountered a dozen or so woolly caterpillars crossing the road. The caterpillars, which were black at both ends with a band of coppery red in the center, were the Banded Woolly Bear Caterpillar, larvae of Isabella Tiger Moths. Present in the spring and into late summer to late fall, they are famous in local folklore, which states that the amount of black on their bodies will dictate the severity of the coming winter.

Winter or no winter, these caterpillars were doing their best to get from one side of the road to the next. A number of their fellows had been smashed by cars and, when I spotted an injured one, I carefully moved it out of the road and onto the grass.

“You never know,” I told Tim, “maybe it will heal.”

I shepherded a few more across, certain that I was doing them more of a service rather that a hindrance and we walked along, hiking up into the hills and enjoying the day, even when the occasional light drizzle fell.

“I wish we had thought to invite Kris,” Tim said at one point.

“Me, too,” I agreed, and then we both began to laugh, remembering a story she had told us the previous night.

“I did two hundred crunches, pushups and fifty jumping jacks!” she had announced.

The fitness thing, unlikely enough when it comes to Kris, had been prompted by an even more unlikely decision on her part.

For some unfathomable reason, Kris recently announced to everyone she knows that she intends to join the police academy. Yes, Kris wants to become a cop.
“Jumping jacks?” Tim and I laughed as we hiked the nature reserve. It sounded so archaic and we wondered what was next, calisthenics using a medicine ball?
I recognize the importance of being a supportive friend, but Kris is my best friend. I’m sorry if saying that I’d rather not see her get her head blown off in a botched robbery attempt is bad form as a friend. In fact, my list of reasons as to why she shouldn’t pursue her dream seemed to flow out of my mouth as if I was suddenly possessed.

“They’ll make you take out your piercings,” I suggested.
Kris has so many piercings that she resembles the forward array on an advance space probe.

“That’s fine,” she said, unfazed by what I thought would be a deal breaker.

I was stunned by this reaction. I had always assumed that Kris had been born with her septum pierced. I brought up her smoking habit, something that would surely preclude her from chasing down a crazed gunman.

“I plan to hire a personal trainer,” she parried.

Desperate, I thought I’d make her feel as if her desire to become a cop was fueled by too much television, like some little girl playing dress up.

“It’s not going to be like CSI,” I said, and then hit below the belt, “or The Wire.”

The Wire is one of Kris’ favorite shows but she ignored my bait and stood her ground.
“My parents both think it’s a good idea,” she said.

This, I thought, was the ammo I needed to defeat her. While she and her mom have a typical mother/daughter love/hate relationship, Kris has always been frustrated that her mom doesn’t take her job as bartender seriously enough.
“Since when do you care what your mom thinks?” I asked. “Is this because she doesn’t consider your bartending job to be a real job?”

“Gotcha!” I was thinking, smiling like I had won. But then she sunk my smug attitude with her honesty.

“I just want to do something that feels worthwhile,” she said.

Ouch. Kris four, Curtis zero.

It’s not that I don’t support Kris, I do. But I have always envisioned Kris as a writer or standup comedian. She’s one of the few people I know who can recount the most mundane story into something to behold, captivating her listeners until tears run down their faces from laughter. Like the stories of our trips to Nashville or Memphis. What might seem like amusing anecdotes when told by other people are transformed into the truly hilarious by Kris. Because of a slight stutter, however, one that is only discernable when she’s nervous, Kris has shied away from the comedian path and I’ve been warned by Tim to never bring it up again. Fine.

But I still say she would be a great writer.

When I was a kid, my younger brother, David, dreamed of nothing else than becoming a professional baseball player when he grew up. He wasn’t particularly good or anything; it was just a dream he had. Unfortunately, our parents did little to encourage him and even discouraged him. As a result, he never got to realize his dream. This didn’t mean much to me as a kid, I mean our parents never really encouraged me to do anything, either. All I knew was that I was supposed to graduate from high school and go to college, but the reason for college had always been hazy for me. I mean, sure, college was great, but what was I supposed to do after that? It wasn’t until ten years ago that I began to write seriously. And, like a lot of things in life, I stumbled into even that accidentally.

I wish that David had been able to follow his dream and more importantly, that I had been able to support him. As I write these words I now realize that I need to do the same thing with Kris.

I still don’t want her to be a cop but, if I can stop to help caterpillars cross a dangerous road, then I can do the same for my best friend.

You can email Curtis Comer at Greenwitchsf@aol.com