Hello. I am Dan Eastman

Frank’s Cabin

It must have been around ’89, back when Ken and Frank were still young and they both thought they were invincible. Their young families would take winter trips out to the backwoods of Pamelia and stay at Frank’s cabin. We were hours from anywhere. They’d go hunting for deer until really late at night when it was impossible to see anything. If they caught anything they’d bring it back and skin it in the shed. If not it didn’t matter; they’d race four-wheelers up and down the snow covered hills and drink Old Milwaukee until the early hours.

It was the last night we’d be there that winter and Ken was making the most of it. He was speeding up and down the hill through snow two feet deep. We stood by the truck sipping cocoa watching the men show off. They’re popping wheelies with the four-wheelers, maneuvering them in ways they weren’t meant to go. He’d come plowing through the snow so fast that chunks of frozen dirt would fly up around him and then stop just short of crashing into us.

“What are you doing?” the wife implored him. “You’re going to hurt someone.”
“I’m Superman.” Ken said drinking his beer. And he raced off up the hill again.

What were we doing out there anyway? Didn’t the kids have school? Don’t the grown-ups have work?

He shouted something at the top but no one could him. The four-wheeler light like a beacon dead center of border between pitch black sky and the stark white hill. It started to drop faster than ever before. Ken was going to break his record for the night.

The memory plays out silent for what may have been the loudest night of our lives. The engine revved like a handheld chainsaw trying to take down a redwood. Ken landed on his back and the four-wheeler came down on top of him. We could see everything on the bottom of it and everything. Then there’s the screaming and parts of the snow turning black. No one is sure what to do.

The next scene has been lost.

We’re in the truck and its freezing. The headlights are bouncing around the unpaved road trying to navigate the woods back to society. The rear window is open and the screams coming through with the blistering wind feel like they’ll never end. Ken is in the bed of the pickup bleeding out next to a deer carcass. His leg is mangled. It’s impossible to see what is flesh and what is canvas snowsuit, especially as dark as it was.

“Just look forward, buddy it’s going to be okay.” Frank said, not sounding too convincing. How could he? Ken’s wife was at the wheel trying to steer. Her eyes were glazed over. She’d gone into a trance.

Ken eventually recovered, sans leg. He never claimed to be Superman again. He’d visit Frank’s cabin less and less. The two grew apart. As much as Ken wanted to he couldn’t behave like that anymore. He couldn’t admit to being scared and it hurt worse to say he physically wasn’t up to it. One winter evening, Frank sat at the foot of the hill in his truck drinking Old Milwaukee. It broke his heart to lose a friend. He made the call. Ken pulled up in his truck next to Frank’s. Late.

“You’re better, aren’t ya?” Frank asked.
“I told you already. I’m done.”
“Let’s just get the rifles and go hunt some. Have some beers and shoot the shit.”
“No, Frank. It’s fucking done.”
Frank wasn’t having it. He lifted a pistol from the seat beside him.
“Do you wanna die motherfucker?”
Ken hit the gas attempting to flee.

It was the last time he’d ever go to Frank’s cabin.