The Lookout

by Jackson Myhaver

Kevin Cress

Georgie down the hill’s been bumming gas money so he can do volunteer fire watching on his weekend. Georgie’s weekend is Wednesday and Thursday and from my apartment balcony I’ve seen him climbing the hill before the sun sinks past the telephone wire across the street on each of the last five Tuesdays. Tonight he’s a little later but he brings me two Italian sandwiches from the shop. This is because last Tuesday I asked him what he thought I got out of giving him my spare cash every week so he could drive into the mountains and live the good life. He told me I got the knowledge that if a fire broke out in those mountains it would be properly managed, for one thing. If there was another thing, he never told me.

​And if Georgie ever had anything to tell, it was a pretty safe bet he did tell me. He’s twenty-four. He tells me he’s never been in love but he got laid once, and he regrets it. Or maybe it’s more fair to say he wishes it had gone differently. That’s closer to what he told me, except he took all night to tell it.

​Hey, Georgie, I say as I take the sandwiches, you’re never going to meet the love of your life if you spend all your days off up in that fire tower.

​You never know, he says. Sometimes some hikers come by. They always want to know what I’m doing.

​That will be some hell of a woman, I say.

​It sure will, he says, and I can see he’s thought about it far too often.

​I finished one and a half sandwiches and Georgie is eyeballing what’s left. I get up and put it in the fridge and before I turn around, I say, Let’s go out and have a little night.

​Where? he says, and I know if I tell him he won’t come, so I just go.

​Farther up the hill at The Twisted Knot Georgie is welcomed like royalty. That’s a surprise because Georgie don’t go to bars. But everybody in there knows him, and only the assholes in the back know me. Just as I realize it’s because of the sandwich shop, this guy with massive arms grabs him into a bear hug and shouts out, Eighty-six George! The two of them laugh like fools and while Georgie is trying to introduce me three or four other fools join in. They’re all a little older than him, and they all look just like the guy with big arms. They don’t have big arms, and they don’t actually look like him, but they might as well. They all start crying out, Eighty-six George! and he starts blushing. One of them is a woman, with a short haircut and a cute round rear end, and she slaps Georgie five.

​What’s all this? I say. What’s Eighty-six George?

​Eighty-six George! the hyenas bellow.

​Okay, alright, already, I say. Let him tell me what it means.

​Well, in a restaurant or in the shop, Georgie says, eighty-six means cross off, like we’re out of it.

​I know that, I say. You think I never had to work in a restaurant in my life?

​This one morning, the guy with the arms says, I’m waiting in line at Delfino’s and it’s packed.

​Slammed, Georgie says, we were slammed.

​They start running out of everything, Mr. Big Arms says. Chris at the grill is yelling, eighty-six pumpernickel, eighty-six cinnamon-raisin, and George has to yell it back to him to signal that he heard.

​Eighty-six cinnamon-raisin! Georgie cries out.

​So after a couple minutes, Mr. Big Arms says, it’s, Eighty-six everything! George goes, Eighty-six everything? Eighty-six the universe? Eighty-six George?

​Eighty-six George! they holler again, raising their glasses. I had to admit it was kind of clever. I never took Georgie for the existential type.

​Beers all around? the kid with the big arms says, and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s not just barely in his twenties after all.

​Georgie don’t drink, I say.

​But I sure do love root beer, Georgie says, and they cheer for him like he just won the forty-meter dash.

​I find myself standing next to the young lady with the round rear. She puts out her hand and says, I’m Lissa.

​Melissa? I say.

​Lissa, she says, and it’s all clear to everybody that I’m not going to understand or be understood by any of them no matter how friendly we try to be. But anyway she says, And how do you know George?

​I’ve known Georgie for years, I say. And you? Do you know him from the sandwich shop?

​Ah, sure, she says, Everybody knows George.

​Do you know what he’s doing tomorrow? I say. Hey, Georgie, tell them what you’re doing tomorrow.

​He can’t hear me or acts like he can’t, cupping his hand around his ear. Before I can repeat myself he spots Mr. Big Arms trying to pick up too many drinks from the bar. Of course Georgie rushes over to help him. He returns with my beer, and as I take it I sidestep him to put a twenty into the hands attached to the big arms. Only the guy doesn’t accept it. That pisses me off, but it’s also a good thing, because I have a grand total of thirty dollars at the moment, and ten of them are going straight into Georgie’s gas tank.

​Do you all know what he’s doing tomorrow? I say. Hey, Georgie, tell them what you’re doing tomorrow.

​He leans real close to me and says, Mr. Robin, please quit embarrassing me.

​Embarrassing you? I say. You ought to be proud. Georgie, on his day off, mind you, wakes up four hours before sunrise, drives two hours into the mountains, hikes another six or eight hours into the —

​Mr. Robin, Georgie says.

​ — Into the forest and up above it, until he reaches a watchtower. He climbs up into the tower and he uses binoculars and he uses the table map thing —

​The Osborne fire finder, Georgie says.

​ — The Osborne fire finder, I say, and all afternoon and evening he watches for signs of fire, and he wakes up at sunrise and watches all day again until sunset on Thursday, and then he drives home to be ready to open the sandwich shop on Friday.

​For real, George? Mr. Big Arms says. That’s dope as fuck.

​So cool, Melissa says. I bet it’s gorgeous up there.

​Am I embarrassing you now, Georgie? I say. Huh? You feeling real embarrassed?

Three hours later I am just sober enough to guide his head to the toilet in my apartment. When he’s through vomiting he begins to cry.

​What’s the matter? I say.

​I think I’m in love with Lissa, he says.

​No, you’re not, I say. You’re just drunk.

​Eighty-six beer, he says.

​Eighty-six nothing, I say.

​Eighty-six nothing? he says.

​I get him a glass of water, and I step out onto the balcony. I look down the hill, toward the sandwich shop, toward where Georgie lives, where most everybody lives. Streetlights like fire break through the dark.

​It’s okay, I tell him. I’m watching out.

*

Jackson Myhaver was born and raised in the Eastern U.S. and lives in the West.