Do you want to walk a step or two in Ken’s shoes? Meet him, read his books, Â and then meet Pete’s friend, John. Buy John coffee and chat with him as long as it takes for him to smile. Listen to his stories about living in Las Vegas before the corporations moved in, his part in the movie “Casino,” his classmate Danny Liston, his love for his dogs and his love for his missing friend. “They’re two guys in town who look like Pete. Same desert colored clothing. I swear I catch a glimpse and I think it’s Pete.” Listen to him talk about waiting four hours for the police to come to Pete’s house after his plaintive call. “He could have been hurt and alive in there. They didn’t know.” Â Walk in the desert where Pete walked and then have Mike usher you into Pete’s home. Â You’ll walk past a row of dusty boots waiting on the tiled floor near the front door, all unlaced, just as Pete wore them. Slip in, slip out.
Many people live as though their homes are always ready to sell. Their personality is displayed by the color of the walls, the style of the couch, the size of the TV. But their hobbies, work, daily hum drums, are all pristine and put away. You enter their house and the emotional toggle of work shoes worn thin, mantels cluttered with carvings and fossils, desktops caressed by maps and reference books, a kitchen counter holding Saran Wrap and motor oil, is absent.
Not Pete’s house. His table tops aren’t Pledged to show off a salt shaker, but are covered with maps, tools, various things he was working on. Don’t misread this. The house is not a mess, the house is a display of Pete’s life in June. His interests his hobbies. Just like my dad’s basement, disorder to some, but completely comprehensible to the only person to whom it mattered. The presence of Pete in that house makes moving past those shoes  stomach tightening. Time has stopped.  The dissembled watch will never again show the correct time, the wood carving of the Grand Canyon will always lack the south rim, the dishes in the sink will be washed and put away but not by Pete.  That home is a still life.
posted by michael at 8:57 pm
Where HAVE you been, Mr. Miller … ? You could use a sage editor, but that fine little gem of writing harks to other times and artfully captures a lot of emotion in concise text. I’m glad you chose to stay long enough for it all to sink into you, and vice versa.
Glad also for a continued absence of fang marks on your calves …
Comment by Armchair posse — October 28, 2011 @ 6:42 am
Beautiful writing and emotional! I am very teary-eyed here…..can’t tell you how good to is to hear your “voice” in your writing again.
And Ken…. Pete…. My heart just hurts….
Comment by ko — October 28, 2011 @ 7:58 am