Graffiti Tree

Note. This work of fiction depicts violence any misogyny which may be disturbing

He’s bummed when the girls leave, wrapping their towels around themselves, slipping on their sneakers and running, laughing, back into the woods. For an hour he’d watched them, while working his way through a cooler of beer, but now their swim is over. Sure, they’d been a little young - how young is too young - but bikinis are bikinis, they wouldn’t wear them if they didn’t want to be seen, and there is no harm in looking, just as long as you don’t touch. There’s a code, of course. Decency.

He sits on a large flat ledge, fifteen or so feet above the water on the opposite side of the quarry. Abandoned a hundred years ago the quarry filled with water. It is now a swimming hole of sorts. Technically, it is trespassing to get here, but, hey, the cops don’t seem too concerned and don’t come up that often. From his perch he has a commanding view of the beach twenty yards away on the far side of the water. Now the only people around are a few boys who’d ridden up on their mountain bikes and are pitching rocks at a stick floating in the center of the quarry.

He hears footsteps from behind and turns. A woman, maybe twenty, twenty-five, walks up the path. Damn, she is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. They make eye contact. She’s gorgeous: brown hair, bronzed skin, brown eyes. She walks past him, saying “Hello” as she passes. Long tanned legs lead to cutoff jeans. Silky brown hair falls down her back. Things are looking up, he thinks.

She finds a spot on the far side of the ledge next to the wall where the quarry wall goes up another fifty feet or so. She takes her sweatshirt from around her shoulders and folds it. He watches as she brushes a few pieces of gravel away before putting the sweatshirt on the ground and sitting on it, facing the beach. She places her hands behind her and stretches those long, tanned legs out in front of her. Her tank top reveals athletic shoulders. Her hair falls behind her exposing a long tanned neck. Yes, he thinks, things are looking up.

He throws back the last swallow in a can and lobs the empty onto a pile he’s built over the past couple hours. He reaches for the next.

“Want a beer?” he calls. The woman looks back over her shoulder to him. He holds the can toward her.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she says “but I’m all set.”

“You sure?”

“I’m all set, but thanks.”

He opens the can and takes a long pull. What had a buddy once said? “The two best things in life: cold beer and warm bodies.” The beer he had. The body would apparently take some work.

He tries again. “This your first time here? I haven’t seen you before.”

She looks back over her shoulder again.

“First time,” she says “Just visiting. It’s a pretty place to just sit.”

She turns back to watch the boys who now try to throw rocks to the cliff face on the far side of the quarry.

Playing hard to get, he thinks. Reeling in this fish is going to take some work, but, hey, the trophy fish are always worth the fight. He stands, adjusts his jeans, wipes his hands to flatten his T-shirt, grabs the cooler in one hand and walks toward her, the ice and the dozen or so remaining cans slosh. As he approaches, she turns and watches him. She sits up, brushing dirt off her hands, and crosses her legs.

“I’m Kyle.”

He kicks a few stones away before sitting next to her. She shifts away a few inches. He reaches into the cooler.

“You sure?”

“No thanks”

“C’mon,” he says, ”Just trying to be friendly. Have a beer with me.”

“No, Really, I…”

He pushes a beer toward her.

“You’re are gonna hurt my feelings. Just one beer.”

He holds it before her.

“C’mon, I insist.”

Finally, she takes the beer and opens it. She takes a sip. “Thanks” she says.

Progress, he thinks.

He asks her where she’s from, who she knows, what she does for work. Most of her answers are one or two words that don’t’ tell him much. He tells her about growing up in town, the local hot spots, playing for the football team, the state title, his run for the winning touchdown. He hasn’t lost much since his glory days, he thinks. He finishes another beer, lobs the empty and grabs another from the cooler. He offers one to her. She holds her can up and wiggles it. From the sloshing is sounds nearly full. “I’m still working on this one” she says.

“I used to dive from up there,” he says, pointing up the steep face of the quarry wall. Well, he didn’t actually dive from up there, or even jump from up there, but he did climb up there once, that was scary enough.

He watches her as she looks up the wall.

“You dove from way up there?” she asks.

“Yup. Me and a couple buddies. ‘Course they chickened out, but not me.”

She turns to him, looking into his eyes.

“Seriously!” He says. “You don’t believe me?”

She turns back to the boys throwing rocks.

Keep up the charm, he thinks, she’ll come around. A few more beers and she’ll loosen up.

“Hey,” he says “have you seen the Graffiti Tree?”

“The what?”

“The Graffiti Tree. C’mon. It’s right over there” he says, pointing to a large tree at the margins of the woods.

He pushes himself off the ground and starts toward the tree.

“I’m ok” she says.

“C’mon,” He says. “It’s right there. It’s totally cool. Come check it out.”

She stands, brushes her hands on her shorts and follows.

At the edge of the woods is a large beech tree, its trunk, four feet across, scarred where people have carved names, initials, hearts into the bark.

“Cool, huh?” he says, looking admiringly at the scars in the trunk.

He turns to her.

“Hey, I could carve your name into it. You’d like that, right? I mean, here forever and all that.”

“Oh, no. No. No thanks.”

“Really, I don’t mind at all.”

“But, the tree.”

The sensitive type, he thinks, I like that.

“It’s a big ol’ tree. It can handle it. C’mon”

He bends down onto one knee, lifts up the cuff of his pants and pulls his Gerber from its ankle strap, unfolding the knife to reveal the five-inch blade. He holds it before her. Women like a man who can take care of himself, he thinks. Sun glints off the grey steel. She’s taken a step back.

“Nice huh” he says.

“What’s your name again?” he asks.

He nods toward the tree.

She looks at the tree where others have carved.

“No thanks.” She says “Really.”

“C’mon, sweetheart. What’s your name again? Christine?”

She says nothing. Must be playing coy.

“Christine,” he says. “I knew that”.

He turns to the tree and starts in, the blade digging through the bark exposing moist white pulp beneath. It takes several minutes but when he’s finished he leans back on his heels to admire his work. His brow is sweaty and his shoulders and forearms tired. He lifts his T-shirt to wipe his face and wonders if she likes what he sees. He smiles.

“Nice, huh?”

“Impressive.” She says, flatly.

Huh, he thinks, was expecting a little more than that.

She walks back to the edge of the quarry and he follows.

“I think I’ll just sit by myself” she says, “I kinda want to chill, you know.”

He reaches into his cooler for another beer.

“That’s cool” he says, “I don’t need to talk.”

“No, I mean I kinda want to sit by myself.”

The rock throwers have moved on and he watches them ride their bikes into the woods. He moves closer to her, placing an arm behind her to lean on the rock wall blocking her retreat. She’s got nowhere to go.

“Looks like you’re between a rock,” he nods toward the wall behind her “and a hard-on.” Kyle smiles at his own wit.

He pulls off his T-shirt, dropping it beside him and in one motion grab her wrist and sits down on the ledge forcing her to sit as well. Cold beer and warm bodies he thinks. Let’s get this party started.

“Looks like we got the place to ourselves.” He says with a wink.

She looks across the quarry to the beach and back to Kyle, eyes wide.

She pulls away but he closes his grip.

“C’mon Baby. You know you want to.”

She turns to him. She opens her mouth as if to say something and stops.

“C’mon. Think of me. I mean I worked so hard carving your name into the tree. That will be there forever, you know. I gave you a beer. We’re all alone...”

She’ll cave soon, he thinks. Get this big beautiful fish in the boat.

Her big, brown eyes.

He smiles. “C’mon” he says soothingly.

“I’m hot” she says.

“You are hot. So am I. Don’t you think?” he says.

“I mean, let’s cool off first,” She nods to his hand on her wrist. He smiles and loosens his grip.

“That’s my girl.” It’s working.

She gets up and stands before him, her back to water. She looks over her shoulder and toward the beach. Seeing no one she unbuttons her shorts, kicking off her sneakers. She wriggles out of the shorts and pulls off her tank top. She stands before him. Tight maroon underwear rise to accentuate the length of her long legs. A matching bra. She fluffs her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders. She steps toward him as he lies on his back, her hands on her hips.

Wonder Woman, he thinks.

Wonder Woman, she thinks.

“Well?” she says, “You coming?”

He sits up and unlaces his boots kicking them off as he unzips his pants.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire she thinks. She could grab her clothes and run but if he caught her, then what? A drunk asshole is one thing. A pissed-off drunk asshole is another.

He stumbles but soon enough he’s standing in his boxers.

“Let’s go!” he says, walking toward the water.

“No Baby,” she says, “Not here.”

She turns to the wall and starts climbing, hand over hand, bouldering her way up the side of the quarry, the stone rough on her bare feet, but up she goes. Ten feet above where they’d sat, and where Kyle still stands, she turns to Kyle who stares, slack-jawed.

“I thought you said there was a place to jump higher up” She says. She continues climbing.

She can hear her mother now, ‘How did you get yourself into this situation?’

‘I didn’t, mom, he put me in this situation.’

‘You could have just asked to be left alone’

‘I tried. He didn't listen.’

‘You weren’t assertive enough. You need to be assertive.’

‘You’re blaming the victim.’

‘And now you’re climbing in your underwear up a cliff?’

‘I know, mom, not ideal.’

Up she climbs.

She waits at a flat spot on the ledge, forty or fifty feet above the water. She recalls the first time she jumped off a cliff like this. She can do it again. She hears Kyle huffing his way the final few feet. When he gets there, he’s breathing hard. He leans over putting his hands on his knees. She stands at the edge looking down, the still water reflects the bedrock of the quarry wall. She can barely make out her reflection, a dot against a cloudless sky. She turns to Kyle who stands away from the edge his sweaty boxers clinging to his thighs.

“Your making me work for it, huh?” he puffs.

‘Work for it?’ she thinks. I’m a prize? We’ll see.

She runs her thumbs along the inside of her underwear over her hips.

“Last chance to back out, Baby” she says.

He looks her over, head to toe and back up again. He licks his lips.

The man is a pig, she thinks. He’s deserves what’s coming.

She turns her back to him and, taking one long stride, she jumps. The fall goes on forever, the quarry face racing past her, the water’s surface racing toward her. Outstretched arms folded in at the last possible second, elbows tight to her sides, fists clenched, legs straight, , toes pointed, every muscle taught. Bubbles. Darkness. Cold. She looks up. She kicks. Strokes toward the surface. The water lightens and warms as she rises.

“Whoa!” she yells. Her voice echoes. She looks up to see Kyle peaking over the wall high above her.

She paddles on her back toward the center of the quarry, her long arms reach over her head and then sweep down propelling her. She wonders what Kyle’s thinking. She’s so close and yet so far. If she sprinted to shore she could probably get to her clothes before Kyle climbed down the cliff and make a clean get away, but why do women always have to run? Why is it that men think they can just show up and have their way? No. Not today. She imagines sitting at a poker table pushing a mountain of chips to the center. I’m all in.

“Come and get me” she taunts.

He disappears from her view for a second, and then a few seconds more, long enough that she wonders if he’s sobered up and slinked into the woods. Part of her hopes he has. More likely he’s wishing for a shot of courage.

“C’mon Baby, I’m waiting.”

And then there he is, he’s over the edge, he thrusts his arms forward as if to dive but then starts spinning furiously. His legs pedaling to find footing in the air at that same time that his arms windmill in an effort to stop the dive. He arches his back resisting the momentum that rotates his body. She watches his wide-eyed acceleration toward the water’s surface, knowing the outcome. What results is neither a dive nor a jump. He hits the water.

Falling into the water at high speed can feel like hitting concrete.

She treads water in the center of the quarry for a full minute before swimming breast stroke to shore. She climbs out of the water and stands on a rock at the water’s edge. She gathers her hair and with both hands she wrings the water out before climbing back up the rocks to where she and Kyle had sat. She dresses and with her sweatshirt she dries her legs, arms and finally her hair, fluffing it before letting it fall on her back. She turns to the graffiti tree and looks into the deep green canopy where a gently breeze rustles the top-most leaves. She looks at its trunk. “I’m sorry” she hears herself say. She turns to the water, its mirror surface reflecting the granite walls on the far side of the quarry, a kingfisher skims the glassy interface, then she walks back down the path.