Juice Run

Sawyer hadn't completely settled in to his cottage yet, even though he'd been living in LA for a year now. All the way back to the good ol' USA, he'd imagined getting onto the Internet, or surfing through a hundred channels of sports programs on cable. His wishes were granted in Portland, but now he sat in a sweet-smelling redwood cabin a quarter of the size of his and Juliet's old house in Dharmatown.

Dawn had just broken over the eastern mountains, shrouding the cabin in early-morning shadow. The little structure sat halfway down the thickly wooded hill from the main house. That's where Kate, Claire, Carole and Aaron lived. A narrow ravine carved its way past the front door, with a wooden bridge for access.

The minuscule Pullman kitchen occupied one corner, and an overstuffed chair filled the other. The rest of the room was lined with well-stocked bookcases, as well as an old Army Surplus metal desk. A futon opened into a bed at night, because Sawyer had never slept in the closet-sized bedroom. Instead, it was stuffed with extra books, and banker's boxes full of notes and manuscripts. A stall shower took up most of the tiny bathroom.

All the comforts of home, in other words, except for the lack of modern communications. The spread in the mountains above LA used to be a retreat center for the rich New Age woo-woo crowd, and TV and internet interfered with the trust falls or something.

Finally, in case Sawyer forgot he was in Southern Cal, the deck played host to a cedar hot tub, empty since he'd moved in. He wasn't about to climb into some damn hippie bathtub. And while the deck was supported by stout oak beams (he'd checked), he still didn't trust it to hold up under the weight of all that water.

He sure could have used a soak, though. Two days in a row, he and Kate had gone riding through Topanga State Park, and his muscles still ached.

The riding was just what he needed. He hated to admit it, but those Dharmaville years had made him a little soft around the middle. He and Juliet had learned to cook together, and they'd gotten good at it. Marijuana grew like a weed in the warm, tropical climate, and while red-eye bourbon was more to Sawyer's taste, he'd toked now and then. But damn, it brought on the munchies.

The home-exercise fad hadn't quite hit in the 1970s, either. While the Dharma folks were mostly pretty lean, they didn't exactly go on long hikes, huddling as they did behind their sonic fence.

Also, even though working security at the casino in Riverside kept Sawyer on his feet, his strained muscles still demanded workouts. Long and hard ones, like the kind they used to get from daily life on the beach.

Back on the Island.

He sighed as he poured himself the first cup of morning joe. Hikes and horseback rides were just what he needed, because if he wasn't careful, this retreat life would treat him too good, and before he knew it, he'd look like Hugo.

The bridge creaked loudly as someone crossed it. Speak of the devil, there was Hugo himself, sunlight edging his mane like a flame halo. "Knock, knock," Hugo said.

"Sir Hugo. What can I do you for, bright and early?"

Hugo brushed past Sawyer. The inside of the cabin seemed to shrink a little in his presence. "Got any juice?"

"What, you all out up at the big house?"

"Kinda."

"Well, well." Sawyer looked Hugo over carefully. "Something on your mind, I can tell."

Hugo shuffled a little back and forth. "Sorry to bug you."

"You're not buggin' me. And sit down, okay? You're making me nervous."

Old hippies knew how to make furniture, Sawyer had to give them credit for that. The futon didn't even squeak when Hugo lowered himself down.

Hugo said in a conversational tone, "Kate took Aaron and Grandma down to Aunt Margo's late yesterday, so Claire and I kinda, um, hung around here."

Margo Shephard had adopted Kate as an honorary daughter-in-law. While Sawyer had long since stopped being jealous of a dead guy, he still couldn't resist a minor fishing expedition. "They must of gotten back pretty late last night. Didn't hear them come up the driveway."

"They got back pretty late, so—"

"Alone at last, huh? That don't happen too often." Sawyer scratched his unshaven stubble. "You want juice, why don't you and Missy Claire just run down to the quickie mart?"

"She wanted to sleep in."

"Gotcha." Something was still off here, because normally Hugo loved to drive his yellow Hummer up and down the mountain roads. "So let me guess, ese. You want some company."

Hugo rocked with a nervous two-step, back and forth.

Sawyer set down his coffee cup a little too hard. "You look like the cat that tried to swallow the canary, but it got away—" He shut up at once. Of course. That's what this had to be about. With the big house vacant for the first time in who knows when, that must have left Hugo and Claire— "Okay, big kahuna, this is what we're gonna do. I'm gonna finish my coffee, then you and me are gonna drive down to civil-i-zation, and pick us up some OJ."

Hugo's face looked almost normal. "Sawyer, thanks. Really."

The Hawks Quill Mountain-way was one-lane, mostly gravel where it wasn't hard-packed earth, and the fragile guardrail had more than a few bends from collisions. If Sawyer's '03 Mustang rolled off the edge of the canyon road, Hugo would come out fine, but most likely he wouldn't. He drove as carefully as he dared without looking like a wimp.

Hugo didn't say anything until they got to the first intersection. "There's, um, something else."

There always was. Sooner or later, Hugo would spit it out, and it didn't take long.

"You know how I told you before, that things with Claire and me were going pretty good?"

"Um hmm," Sawyer said, noncommittal, as he pulled onto the larger canyon road. This one was still one-lane, but at least it was paved.

"Well, last night was kind of going to be my— I mean, our moment. But then—"

Suddenly all concern, Sawyer side-eyed Hugo as much as he dared. "Hugo, it's okay. Sometimes the first time don't always work out as planned. Especially if you're kind of late to the game, if you know what I mean."

"Late to the—?" When Hugo got Sawyer's meaning, he flushed beet red. "Dude, I'm not a virgin."

Sawyer clapped Hugo on his meaty shoulder, and fought to remove the slightest trace of sarcasm from his voice. "Course you ain't, hoss. Don't know where I got that notion."

"It's just that we, you know, didn't have anything. And Claire's just getting things back on track with Aaron—"

"So 'another one on the way' ain't what she needs just now."

Hugo sighed, relieved at not having to explain any more. "That's right."

"We're not only going out for orange juice, are we?"

Hugo shook his head. "Nope."

The Pharm-Rite sat on the Ventura Freeway, with a gas station on one side and a natural-foods store on the other. At first Hugo wanted to buy juice at the grocery, but it didn't open till 10.

Sawyer steered Hugo into the drugstore. "Come on, ese, you're stalling. No time like the present."

When did they start using those little tiny carts? Must have been when he'd been stuck on the Island. Hugo grabbed one and filled it with four half-gallons of four different OJ combinations, picking over each one carefully, reading to make sure there was no added sugar, beaming with happiness because they had organic juice after all.

That task done, Hugo once more seemed at a total loss.

"This way, hoss," Sawyer said. "Aisle 8."

Their destination was filled with a bewildering array of baby supplies: bottles, nipples, diapers and bibs. A small notice told customers to please see a store associate for infant formula.

Hugo gulped. "Sawyer, I think you got the wrong one."

"Keep goin'. I think they put what we're looking for in the baby aisle, just to motivate you to use it."

They passed shelf after shelf laden with feminine products, until there it was, at the very end. Just what they were looking for. And more.

Sawyer was starting to feel like Rip Van Winkle, that old guy in the story who took a nap and woke up twenty years later. Old Rip got in trouble for things like saying "God save good King George" when it was President Washington, and Sawyer could relate. For him, it might as well have been twenty years instead of three, or maybe Southern California was just ahead of everybody else.

Sawyer had never seen so many different kinds of condoms in his life.

Neither, by the look of him, had Hugo. Maybe not a virgin, but whatever Hugo's level of experience, buying prophylactics clearly wasn't part of it. Hugo stared at the boxes, hesitant, as if afraid to touch them.

Sawyer found the selection maddening. Back in Jasper, the guys would drive down to the truck stop on I-22. In the men's room, the vending machine took two quarters and spit out a foil-wrapped packet that got hastily slipped into the wallet. Nobody was too particular about what kind.

Well, if he didn't break the ice for Hugo, they were going to be standing here all damn day. "Here we go," Sawyer said, reading aloud. "Ribbed for extra enjoyment—" He shut up quickly when Hugo shot him an embarrassed look.

Hugo picked one up at random, squinting to read the tiny print. "'Sperm-a-kide? What's that?"

"'Spermicide, Hugo. It kills the wigglers, gives you a little extra protection."

"You mean, gives her protection."

"I mean 'you' as in both of you, hoss. People make a baby together."

Sawyer stopped, suddenly sad. Before everything went to hell in Dharmaville, Amy Goodspeed and Juliet had spend a lot of time together as Amy's pregnancy progressed. Jules had gotten baby fever, too, but he put the kibosh on that with his reflexive, "What would we do with a kid?" speech.

Her blue eyes had grown so dark with hurt, they looked bruised. She didn't bring it up again. Then it was too late.

He was still thinking about what an idiot he'd been, when Hugo broke his concentration. "They come in... sizes?"

Holy crap, they did. Now it was Sawyer's turn to be embarrassed. "Uh, just make a good guess-timate."

"How would I know? I didn't exactly stare at other guys in the locker room."

Sawyer hadn't hung around high school long enough to take too many showers there. Then, when he was in the joint, checking out the junk of the guy next to you was an invitation to some unwelcome, unpleasant getting-acquainted rituals.

He picked up a box like the one Hugo was examining. "Looky here in the fine print. 'The vast majority of men are average.'"

"Yeah, I guess. But—"

This was getting ridiculous. "Okay," Sawyer growled. "So let me guess. You're a grow-er, not a show-er."

"That's right."

"'Course, when you got more cushion for the pushin', that's gonna make a difference too—"

A burst of girlish laughter made Sawyer shut his trap. From behind him came the half-giggles women make when they don't want to be heard, yet still want to let you know that they're there.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught two women in their forties, botoxed and perfectly done-up in that glossy LA way. They were taking their sweet time poking through the feminine hygiene products, and had obviously been scoping out him and Hugo for most of their conversation.

One was a blonde with a tight blue yoga tank over her perfect tan. She whispered to her friend, "I think it's sweet."

The friend looked almost identical, except that her tan could have used some work, and her yoga outfit was black. "Everybody should shop for condoms together."

"It's a relationship-building experience, isn't it?"

The woman in the black tank top laughed, then gave Sawyer a smile.

"What a cute couple," said the tanned woman.

Sawyer had had enough. "We're getting this one, Hugo." He grabbed a small box of spermicide-lubed condoms, average size, no ribs, ultra-thin.

"Just one box?" said Hugo.

"Jesus, there's four in there. How many do you need?"

"Maybe I might want to, kinda practice with them?"

The two women were openly staring now, all discretion vanished.

"Don't those two got a jazzercise class to get to?" Sawyer grumbled as he rummaged around the shelf. He finally found a bigger box and handed it to Hugo. "Here's a dozen. Don't go through 'em all in one night." He turned as if to flee.

"Hey, wait a minute," Hugo said. "Don't forget the juice."

On the drive back, they had already gotten to the mountain-way before Hugo opened up again. "Sawyer, I just want you to know. This isn't, um, just for fun."

"Fun? What the hell you talking about?"

"With Claire. I really like her. And it was kind of her idea. I was okay with, you know, waiting."

"Waiting for what, exactly?"

"Now, though, I dunno." Hugo shifted in the front seat, clutching the plastic bags full of juice cartons as if they were the only point of stability in a rapidly twisting world. He'd already shoved the condoms deep into his side cargo pocket. "I'm kind of having second thoughts."

"You mean this jaunt was all for nothing?" Sawyer extended his hand out the window to catch some breeze. It was a brutally clear blue day, the peak of a Los Angeles spring, and the air was already starting to bake.

"Not totally for nothing," Hugo said with a faint indignant tone. "I told Claire I'd get her juice. But the other. Sawyer, when I'm back on the Island, I miss her so much. What if we were together this way, and... What if it makes missing her worse?"

At first Sawyer didn't trust himself to answer. It had been forever ago since the sight of Hugo's fat, open face had filled him with rage. Then at once he knew that his anger wasn't directed at Hugo, but himself.

Sawyer stopped the Mustang in the long driveway, and into his words put all the bitter experience he could muster. "Cut that shit out. Right now."

When Hugo flinched, Sawyer knew he'd gotten his attention. Good. "You know what's way, way worse than you being on the Island and her here? I'll tell you what's worse. You find somebody, she's really good for you, you think you're gonna spend the rest of your life together, and guess what. Boom. Something hits you from left field, just like that. Before you know it, you're digging her grave."

Hugo went so pale that his freckles stood out like tiny brown stars against a milky sky.

Sawyer kicked himself inside. "Oh, crap, Hugo. I'm sorry. I forgot that you had to do that, too."

"It wasn't like you and Juliet. But it still hurt."

"All I'm trying to say, hoss, is don't wait for your moment. Your moment is now. And it's not just you who's missing her. I see her every day, and I'm here to tell you, she misses you too."

"But she's taking care of Aaron, hanging out with Carole and Mom and Margo, and then there's her painting, the garden... She misses me?"

"Yeah, Hugo. She really does."

Just as they pulled into the gravel circle driveway, the front door opened. Claire stood there in a pair of cotton pajama bottoms, covered by a t-shirt of Hugo's which hung down to her knees. In her hand she carried a coffee mug, and on her face she wore a radiant smile.

"You brought juice!" She set her coffee down on the front porch rail, then opened wide for a hug.

Hugo took her in his arms as if they were the only two people in the world. Sawyer slid past, saying, "I'll just stash these in the ice box."

She murmured something that got lost in the flesh of Hugo's neck.

Everybody must be sleeping in, Sawyer thought as he surveyed the empty kitchen and living room. Trying to be quiet as possible, he put three of the juice cartons into the fridge and kept one for himself.

Claire and Sir Hugo were going to come up for air sometime, so he'd best make himself scarce. The path from the back door led to his cabin, but it made a little side-wind past the front, first. Hugo and Claire still stood on the porch, wrapped in each other's arms.

A little bit of Sawyer collapsed inside. Work didn't start until three o'clock that afternoon, and while it took over an hour to drive to the casino, the day loomed pretty empty.

He sat down at his desk, rolled a piece of white twenty-weight bond paper into the IBM Selectric typewriter, and began to tap away.

(the end)