One Afternoon in April

By Pete KJ

ONE AFTERNOON IN APRIL...

 

a Black Woman, Asian Man, and White Older Woman collide on a hiking trail. Battle lines get drawn, alliances form and shift, and a comedic tug-of-war ensues between conflicting cultures and cravings.

 

GENIE

searches for a deeper life experience than her CEO-track career can provide, but is hung up by her dependence on metaphysics.

 

MAX

yearns for an adventurous life in the Peace Corps, but can't see leaving his Vietnamese immigrant parents behind.

 

AMY

wants her dead husband back.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pete KJ
• Release date: Oct 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201193904

Book preview

1

Genie

SO I’M WALKING EVAN—Evan’s my pet alpaca—and I get a little thirsty so I pause for a drink from my water bottle. Then I see this WOW coming up the trail, hiking solo, and I know we are going to have some sort of interaction. Don’t ask me how I know; I just know. Over the red rim of my water bottle I watch her approach, and confirm she is indeed a WOW.

White. Older. Woman.

I slide on my facemask and get me and Evan off the trail as much as possible to give her room to pass by. I’m still hoping she won’t want to talk but pretty sure this won’t be the case. Sure enough, she calls out, Well hello there! Aren’t you pretty! and I know she isn’t talking to me, the Black woman standing next to the white alpaca, although I look good. I know I look good. I got on my purple-and-white horizontal striped sweater and my black leggings with the fluorescent orange amoeba splotches on them. But she’s not talking to me. She’s talking to Evan. What’s your name? she asks him.

I’m fine with the WOW ignoring me actually. Partly why I’m here is that I don’t feel like talking to anybody. I can create the illusion of being sociable when I need to, but the truth is I prefer hanging out by myself or with only a few select folks—Evan being one of them. And today especially I don’t want to talk to nobody. I just want to walk with my alpaca, contemplate my almost-forty-year-old life, and see what signals I can receive from the universe about what I’m supposed to be doing next. That’s why I’m up here on a Thursday afternoon in April, on this little-known trail that has snow patches on it.

Don’t worry, I’m vaccinated, the maskless WOW tells Evan like he gives a hell. From her face I estimate her to be in her sixties. She’s thin, and not in a wonderful way. Her chin juts, and her legs look so spindly in their Lycra that I’m thinking she might have an eating disorder. Like maybe she eats one blueberry for breakfast. Her wavy orange-brown hair appears dyed, and is snatched up in a headband in such a way that stray wisps fall in her eyes.

What a fluffy head you have! she says, in a voice that seems to come more through her nose than her mouth.

Evan’s a calm guy, but he doesn’t particularly like to be touched by strangers. I wish there was more room for us to get off the trail but there isn’t.

"Oh yes, you are fluffy and handsome," she says, patting his neck and shoulder with fuller force.

Then he does it. You see, Evan likes to suck on things: carrots, doorknobs, fingers. So he swings his head around and latches his lips onto one of the WOW’s fingers.

She freaks out and jumps backwards. That’s not all she does. She steps on a patch of snow, loses her footing, and tumbles downhill. I watch as she does a full backward somersault, then another, gymnastics-style, shrieking. It isn’t a pretty sight and I’m worried she might snap in two.

She comes to an abrupt halt about thirty feet below.

Ow! she yells.

Damn, I think. Is she all right?

She’s all right. By the time I get down there she’s sitting up and looking around. Her chest heaves as she rubs the side of her head.

Your llama bit me.

She holds out a finger, which I know has no teeth marks on it because Evan never bites anyone. And anyway I’d just gotten his teeth trimmed.

Evan? I chuckle, in an effort to smooth things over. He just likes to suck on stuff is all. Dang! That was quite a slip you took. Are you okay?

You need to control that animal. This is a public trail.

I’m pretty sure things are not going to get any better from here. It’s not going to help to inform her how harmless Evan is, so I don’t. When I look uphill he’s standing right where I left him, with his rope dangling, batting his long eyelashes. What can I say to this woman? Yes this is a public trail. And alpacas are part of the public that’s on this trail and she invaded his space.

Are you okay? I say again, instead.

She’s okay. She’s standing up, brushing wet pine needles and dirt off her butt, and getting ready to go back up to the trail. I hit my head on something. A rock, I think. She rubs her head some more.

Just then an Asian dude on a mountain bike arrives above and skids to a stop. Are you okay? he calls to the WOW as she makes her way towards him.

Did you see that? she says, her voice lifting in volume.

The guy gets off his bike and comes a little way downhill. He waves at her to stop. I saw it from above. I watched you tumble and I got scared. Are you okay? His eyes appear bright, his chin undercut by the black strap of his bike helmet.

That animal is dangerous! she says, pointing to Evan, who stays planted, looking around between the three of us.

How about you sit down? the guy says, motioning with his arms. He looks young and energetic, and tall for an Asian—about six feet tall, same as me.

The woman stops and wavers. For a moment I think she’s going to run to him and throw her arms around him and start crying. Then she regains her composure. No, she says, darting to the left and continuing uphill. I’m going back to my car. My hike is ruined.

Sorry, I call after her.

At this point she remembers my existence and comes down to exchange contact information in case she needs to get in touch with me later. I’m not thrilled about this development but what can I do? I give her my business card and she gives me hers, not that I want it. Then she stomps back uphill, steering well clear of Evan, and walks down the trail with her thin arms and legs swinging, leaving me to stand there with the young Asian dude.

Cute young Asian dude.

He’s thin too, but in a healthy-looking way. Lean and sinewy are better words. I can see his arm muscles ripple beneath his sheer green pullover, and his legs flex beneath gray pants made of some ecofriendly fabric. He stares at me from an unlined face, his eyes clear and penetrating beneath a black helmet crowned by a GoPro camera. One eye is slightly wider than the other, and it feels like he’s looking straight into me.

I look away. As I mentioned I’m not much of a social animal. In fact the only people I think I feel truly comfortable around are my grandma, my dad, and my ex-boyfriends.

Is this your alpaca? he asks, placing emphasis on the word ‘your.’

Does a bat piss in a cave? What, he doesn’t think Black people own alpacas?

He looks at me, sort of confused-like.

You want to meet him? I ask.

He says yes and I call Evan down to be properly introduced, with a cordial and friendly sucking of fingers.

2

Max

I NEVER GOT MY FINGERS SUCKED ON by an alpaca before. It feels kind of cool. Does Evan have a big yard to play in at home? I ask her.

I knew she was different from the moment I saw her from the switchback above, where I’d paused before riding down. There she stood in her color-clashing clothes, talking to the white lady. It was her unusual clothes that gave her away as different at first, along with the fact that she’s a Black woman walking with an alpaca, something I’d never seen before.

Nah, I don’t keep him at home, she says, while staring at the ground. It feels a little weird how she doesn’t look at me. I board him at a farm in Hygiene where he gets to hang out with his alpaca buddies. As she says this, she places a hand on her hip in an exaggerated fashion, and stretches her other palm out to the sky. It’s a strange body movement and a complement to her appearance. She looks odd and great.

Do you think he minds that I keep patting him? I ask.

Nah. He’s cool with it, now that you two are introduced. He’s a friendly guy, although Ms. Bright Sack of Sunshine didn’t seem to think so.

I haven’t heard this term before. Along with her clothes and body movements, her word choices are interesting.

That wow was pissed, she says.

I don’t understand what she means.

I hope she’s okay, she adds, and now I know she’s talking about the white lady.

She seemed okay. I bury my fingers into Evan’s warm white neck fur. He looks around and blinks, and suddenly I feel transported from the Colorado foothills to somewhere high in the Andes. Oh my. I feel like I’m in Peru now.

I wish, the woman says, and walks several feet away, where she pulls off her facemask and sits down. She wraps her arms around her knees, puts her chin on her knees, and stares out across the misty snow-spotted hillside. I don’t know whether I should stay and talk more, or leave. I pat Evan a few more times and go closer to her.

I’m Maximilian.

Eugenia, she says, raising an elbow to bump me without looking at me. When she finally does look at me, I’m struck by how pretty she is. Her face looks like an upside-down teardrop, framed by high cheekbones and wrapped in caramel brown. Her eyes are the shapes of almonds, and they study me as her lips form into an almost-smile.

Eugenia, I say. I’ve never heard this name before. She looks away again. Her hair appears straightened; a little lighter on top where it flops over her brow, and darker and shorter in back where it tapers above her neck.

I want to continue talking but I can’t think of anything else to say. Nervousness rises in me and my arms start to tingle.

Then these sensations diminish and I notice I’m outside again. This is hard to explain. It’s as if some goo creeps into me sometimes, envelopes me, and pulls me away before I realize it. This time I’m floating about ten feet above. I can still see everything through my normal eyes as well, but it’s as though it’s through a movie camera. Like I said, this is hard to explain.

In my mind’s eye, I watch myself sit down a short distance from Eugenia. I watch her tense up as I do this and then relax. Then I observe her talking to me without looking at me, while stretching her arm out in that odd sort of way.

I checked the air freight prices and they’re hella, she’s saying. Not to mention I’d have to build him a crate. The main issue, though, is I’d have to quarantine him for several weeks after we get there and I can’t take that kind of time off from work right now. So, I can’t see how it’s a practical thing to do right now.

Pardon? I ask, and think: That was quick. I’m already back inside. It’s as if her voice has pulled me back. Not only that, her words sound clear, and not at all like my head is wrapped in cotton.

Not practical to take Evan hiking in Peru, she says. No matter how much I’d like to do it. It’s a silly idea but something I feel a strange urge to do, regardless.

Then go by yourself, Eugenia.

Genie, she says. Maybe I will, Maximilian.

Max, I say. That’s so crazy. I’ve been wanting to go to Peru too, to live and work there for two years. I was hoping to leave last September but then everything fell through.

Who shit in your tuba?

Madame Coronavirus. When the pandemic hit, the Peace Corps brought all its volunteers home and terminated them. I was just getting ready to apply then, and hoping to get posted to Peru. But the Peace Corps also stopped processing applications.

This isn’t the full story of why I can’t do it anymore, but it’s about half of it. As I say this I feel the deep longing throb in my chest all over again.

I was pretty bummed when I had to cancel my plans, I add. I felt like—

A boot-full of crap, hold the boot. But by now the Peace Corps is restarting, right? You could submit your application and be off to Peru when the virus cools down, right? If it cools down.

Right.

Well good luck to you. She stands and makes some clicking sounds with her mouth, and Evan comes over dragging his rope.

You dropped something, I say.

From where her feet had been I pick up an oval-shaped pellet about half the size of my thumb. It’s dirty and whitish in color, and rubbery. It looks like a little quail egg minus the speckles.

Genie looks at it and shrugs. That ain’t mine. It must belong to Ms. Sunshine.

Oh my, I say. The little rubber egg has a crack in it, and when I pick at it with my fingernail its skin peels away to reveal a glittering blue gemstone.

Genie puts on her facemask and comes closer. Why would that woman go hiking with something like that in her pocket?

You better take it with you. Then you can give it back to her if she calls you.

Genie lifts the stone in her fingers, studies it, and eyes the dirty rubber wrapping fragments in my hand. I don’t think this is hers. This has been out here a while.

It looks valuable.

She places the gem back in my hand, and a jolt of energy travels through my arm. Congrats! she says. It’s yours now. Finders keepers, losers weepers. It looks like it’s worth something, but what do I know? You should get it appraised.

Then she turns and walks uphill, with Evan.

Genie, wait! I pull out my phone. I’ll flash you my number, and you can give it to that woman if she calls you. What’s your phone number?

Genie stops, folds her arms around Evan’s rope, and stares at the ground.

Never mind. I’ll write it down for you.

I scribble my number on a scrap of paper from my wallet and give it to her.

3

Amy

AS I WALK BACK TO MY CAR my head throbs where it hit the rock, and I stumble on tree roots and slip on snow patches and nearly fall down twice. Did I just get a concussion? My mind swims in a sort of haze, but I chalk this up to the mental mushiness I’ve felt this whole past year since losing my husband. By ‘year’ I mean exactly, to the day. It’s April 22nd, 2021: the one-year anniversary of Howard’s death.

For which I will never be able to forgive myself. I shouldn’t have let Howard continue to go in to work at the labs. I should have insisted that he telecommute. No, Sunny, he told me. I have to be there in person. My people need me. And besides, it’s a government facility and we have all the proper safety protocols in place.

Yeah, right.

My husband was a senior research scientist with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in Boulder. Despite his high-level status he was friendly with everyone, including the cleaning people whose names he all knew. That’s just how Howard was. And it proved to be his downfall. I’m pretty sure he caught COVID-19 from a cleaning person.

Being the anniversary of Howard’s death, today is a solemn and emotional day for me to say the least. And instead of honoring my husband’s memory from the top of Kelsey Rock, I’m stumbling back to my car. Criminy! I had every intention of making it there, even though I knew I’d have to deal with snow patches. I was doing this for Howard. This special trail, one of the best-kept secrets in the foothills, has long been one of our favorites. We used to hike Kelsey Rock when we were just a young couple starting out in Colorado. We brought our two girls here as soon as they could handle it. I can’t tell you how many great family times we’ve had on this trail.

When I reach my car I notice I’m feeling nauseated. And I’m all over the place, emotionally. Number one is I’m angry at that woman for failing to control her llama. Number two, strangely, is that I feel a sort of gratitude to that nice young Asian man who stopped and asked me if I was okay. I wanted to shout to him, No! I’m not okay!

I don’t have to work at the arts and crafts store until four, so I have some time to lie down when I get home. I end up sleeping for two hours. Then I get up, eat a few spoonfuls of barley soup, and am about to head out when I have to run to the toilet and throw up. By now I have a splitting headache, and when I look in the bathroom mirror, I see double.

Instead of driving to work I drive to the emergency room. I know I shouldn’t be behind the wheel; I should call my daughter Olivia and have her take me. But by now she’s busy picking her boys up from school and shepherding them to their activities, and I don’t want to disturb her.

I get to the E.R. and am diagnosed with a possible mTBI, which stands for mild-traumatic brain injury i.e. a concussion. Mild-traumatic? Give me an effin’ break. What kind of a term is that? Apparently my pupils aren’t responding to light in identical ways, and I score an eleven out of fifteen on the Glasgow Coma Scale. I don’t know whether I should feel upset or relieved when they discharge me instead of keeping me there overnight. I’m told to go home, monitor my symptoms, and come back if they get worse. Meanwhile I’m supposed to get ten days of physical and cognitive rest. I don’t tell them I’m scheduled to work at Michaels tomorrow and will probably go in, since cashiering there is not physically or cognitively challenging and it beats staying home and being bored.

I’m way overqualified to work at Michaels by the way. This is just something I do to keep busy. Working keeps me centered, and I needed to do something because there was no way I could have kept the bakery going in the aftermath of my husband’s death, despite the fact that business had started picking up after the coronavirus lockdown became partially lifted. But I was such a basket case after Howard passed away, and in no shape to be owning a bakery. And who am I kidding? That place had been bleeding money even before corona. Howard would have made me shut it down had he still been around.

Olivia texts me to tell me she’s coming over

Reviews for One Afternoon in April

[Sarah Brown · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

This is a terrible book written from someone who hopefully has never actually had any real contact/association/relationship with Black or Asian people. Lord have mercy. If they do have these people in their life, my condolences to the folks who have to deal with them.