Plans & People

"Let's roast a pig for the Fourth."

Dmitri got his jollies by being the host with the most. The garage already housed two kegorators and his home brew set-up. Back yard was a man-scaped realm of a huge brick grill and shish-kebab pit built for socializing. The deck stepped down to a flagstone patio with huge glass topped picnic table under a portable gazebo a few feet away from the grill at the far end. Beyond the patio was the lawn and swimming pool with a natural-looking rock waterfall nestled into a corner. My small veggie garden was set against the back fence. Green foliage, iris, fruitless mulberry trees and tall conifers lent an out-in-the-woods-feel. Around the fence perimeter were my Damascus Roses. Old-world apothecary roses of pink and red, untouched by green-thumbed geneticists. They were prickly, heavily scented, and finicky to grow. But perfumed summer nights made them well worth the effort.

"Roast a pig?" The closest thing to roasted pig were the brats and wieners I planned on, in addition to chicken and burgers to be grilled.

"Specifically wild pig." A big grin grew on his face as he skimmed leaves out of the amoeba-shaped swimming pool. I was at the filter, checking it and the amount of salt for the saline system. Mid-afternoon sunshine beat down upon us. One-hundred three degrees in the shade kind of day, where even a swimsuit and shorts combo seemed too much. Must tend the pool first so I could cool off with a rewarding dip.

While on my hands and knees, I looked up at him and my eyebrows raised. "Where would you get a wild pig? How would you roast it? I don't want a pit dug in the backyard... unless you mean to use the shish-pit."

"Wiley got a Caja China roaster he's itching to break out for a special occasion... and has developed a pig problem out at the ranch. It meshes perfectly into the plan for a bitchin' barbecue. Ever had lechon asado? It's the diggity. The shizzle mutha-dizzle bomb diggity, babe. Alton Brown and Tony Bourdain would get into a fight for the crispy skin, guaranteed. I'm talking pay-per-view good. Bomb. Diggity. Think of it as Iron Chef Kaylis." His jazz hands made a great gesture of parting palm-out before his upturned face, as if he imagined neon lights emblazoned with his vision.

Caleb "Wiley" Boldton was to Dmitri as Jet is to me. He and Dmitri met in the Marine Corps and served two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan together. Nine months ago, Wiley moved up to our neck of the woods when he relocated for his Game Warden gig. He bought a ranch out of Stonyford where wildlife ran rampant. Elk, deer, wild pigs, bears, foxes, coyotes and other fauna existed under his benevolent thumb. The man truly loved the outdoors and all the creatures it contained. In general, Dmitri wasn't game when it came to hunting., but if Wiley was involved, any idea automatically became an awesome one.

"So let me get this right... you guys are gonna go hunting out at his ranch and do what now with it?"

"He's got a pig roasting box., so we add the required swine, a couple bags of briquettes and a few magic hours then crackling good roasted piggy, beer, friends and fireworks. How is that not a great equation?" His enthusiasm was contagious.

Dmitri had a point. A roasted pig with a red apple in its mouth would make an awesome presentation. I warmed to the idea. Medieval style gluttony topped with a pyrotechnic display, a long table with chairs around so everyone could dig into the beast. Greasy hands, happy smiles and an everflowing font of beer... It could work. "You know, if Wiley's going to be here, you can't light off the bottle rockets you got stashed."

"I know, we'll save those for the Halloween party. I bet he'll be working that night."

"Does he have any idea how much shit you do that he'd frown upon?" I sat up and dusted tiny bits of gravel from my knees and palms. Wiley's proclivity toward upholding the law was somewhat diametrically opposed to Dmitri's liking of breaking the lesser of said laws.

"Nope. Let's keep it that way."

"He still dating the school marm? Is she gonna be here to throw a wet blanket on the festivities again?" Wiley's woman wasn't the most sociable creature this side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. She came to last year's Christmas party and condemned everyone for the sinful enjoyment of a gift exchange, alcohol and the sexes mingling together. She's entitled to her beliefs, but telling Jet she was doomed to roast on Beelzebub's pitchfork was a touch too much. Jet ended up saying something pithy to the school marm resulting in a brief exchange of conversation. The marm turned beet red and stalked out of the party to sit in Wiley's truck. After five minutes of waiting, she pounded the horn every thirty seconds until Wiley bid his goodbyes to everyone and left. He hadn't socialized en mass with us since.

"No... they split a few months ago. She's in Colusa with her fling. The shitty part is that Wiley planned on proposing to her on Valentine's Day. He had already ordered her ring when she fucked around behind his back. He's still pissed about it all."

"Aww, that sucks. Wiley's gonna have to have fun. He's such a sober guy. He needs to cut loose. What type of booze does he like? Willow already volunteered to be designated driver if she can use the Jeep."

"Would she drive all the way out to Stonyford with an officer of the law in the same vehicle?"

"As long as she wasn't in handcuffs and the backseat of said vehicle, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. She'd get her giggles up in the hills anyhow. He'd point out the wildlife, she'd yack about why she can't trust men and it'd be a rewarding experience for them both. They'd bond as only a life-long stoner and a man sworn to uphold federal and state law could. Maybe even swap grow tips."

"She's not going to be rocking the ganj at the party, is she?"

"Oh God no, she promised to be completely sober for the Fourth of July. Willow will have her own little after-party when everything is wrapped up. And it's the condition she must fulfill if she wants to use my wheels. She knows how I feel about her doing that stuff around me... had enough of it when I was a troll."

"It's called 'child', Kaylis. It's not a bad word."

"Whatever. Spawn, offspring... take your pick. I like 'trollbait' myself. My uncle used to call me Sharkbait. At least trolls aren't real." I smiled and stood up and made my way to the bench beneath the largest mulberry tree. Willow once told me I was too Irish for NorCal summers. I'm inclined to agree. Tanning is not something I can accomplish. I burn lobster-red within fifteen minutes of exposure to summer sun if I don't wear at least an SPF 45 sunblock. Hives would follow, complete with itching and blisters, hence my liking for sunscreen. Although I was slathered with the stuff, I preferred to avoid the sun when possible, especially in early afternoon.

"You're twisted. Seriously twisted, Kaylis. I gotta be twisted too, otherwise why the hell do I get off on you being demented like that?"

"It's because you're a goth at heart, hun. I accepted it long ago. Give it a try. Embrace your inner goth, Dmitri. Its not just for seventeen year olds anymore. Jet pulls off the corporate goth librarian look really well. Ooh! Did I tell you she got switched from Reference to the Children's section?"

Dmitri howled with laughter. "You are fucking with me....right?"

"Oh no. No joke. She's picked up a Willow-like habit for after work. It does enhance her calm because of how she bottles her rampant use of 'fuck' and its variations now. She used to mutter them under her breath, but now I'm just amazed her head hasn't exploded yet."

"She's banned from walking around with liquor if wearing a tiny bikini with the shot glass tucked between her tits. I realize she was trying to help people get sociable, but never again. She's to leave my rye whiskey alone, too. In fact, she can bring her own bottle. I don't know how such a slim female can consume so much alcohol but she goes for broke when it comes party time. She doesn't have to bring a salad or side dish. Supplying her own booze works for fine me."

"Bali."

"Huh?"

"She learned to pound alcohol like that because she grew up partying in Bali. Her dad was a Kuta Cowboy. A gigolo. Her mom got knocked up when she vacationed there. Ended up going ex-pat... Because her mom was Caucasian, Jet got into the bars and clubs for free. She grew up boozing. She didn't come stateside until she was sixteen... by then, she'd been living a hard-partying rock star life for at least three years. She's vague on those details and I'm pretty sure her blacking out is partially to blame."

"Her father is a prostitute?" I don't think I'd ever seen Dmitri's eyebrows hiked that high before. I'm not sure if the thought of Jet, learned yet flamboyant that she was, finally got explained that half her genetic material was provided by a sex worker.

"Was. Died when she was eight. He had no influence in her life anyhow. For all intents and purposes, she was raised American... just her suburb was Bali instead of Rocklin."

"I see... Still, no shot glass and bikini combo. There is no negotiation on this topic, should she argue."

"She won't argue. In fact, Jet's being extra nice. Her motive is that if she's nice to me, I'll take her to The French Laundry with this advance she assumes I'm going to receive."

"French Laundry? What's that, fancy dry-cleaner?"

"Food porn in wine country..." I drawled. His eyebrows shot up even higher at the mention of porn.

"Food porn? She's got a new fetish and wants to drag you along to foot the bill?"

"No. It's being pretentious and seeing if a one-thousand dollar bottle of wine tastes as good as a four hundred dollar bottle and so forth. Through nine courses."

"Oooh. I take it rotted milk will be involved?" A crease formed between his eyes as his brow wrinkled in horror.

Jet and I have a thing for stinky cheese. As we went over my manuscript to tighten it up, we'd snack on the most atrocious smelling fromage we could find. To go along with the wine, of course. Dmitri would leave because he couldn't handle watching us eat mold and gooey good stuff reminiscent of gym socks and rotten potatoes. Our preferred method of imbibing was with the cheese slathered on a baguette, wheat crackers or slices of apple. His reaction to blackberry honey drizzled on Valdeon atop a whole wheat cracker was fabulous. Utter repulsion at the looks of bliss Jet and I exhibited. We sighed and gasped like groupies getting a whiff of sweat off a gladiator. Good times.

"Hopefully. I would love to see what he does with cheese. It'd be like a wet-dream type of good..." I moaned in delight at the thought of stinky cheese marvelously wrought by magic to tickle my senses.

"That's disgusting, Kaylis. Knock it off." Dmitri's expression of abhorrence almost made me feel ashamed.

"Don't be jealous, Dmitri. You rock my socks like that too. And you're free to me, which is a bonus."

"Is that a nice way of saying I'm cheap?"

I scoffed. "You, cheap? I don't think you know the meaning of the word, Mr. Silver Spoon up the Arse."

He laughed. "Okay, not cheap. Just a bonus to you. Got it."

"You're awesome. It makes up for your few deficiencies... let's leave it at that."

"Who are you kidding? I'm perfect."

"Perfectly arrogant on occasion, yes, I agree."

"You get lippy when you have something on your mind." Dmitri's blue eyes pierced me. "You haven't talked about your visit to the shrink. I haven't even seen you do the Cabbage Patch as your celebratory happy dance that you secured a non-alien-lovechild-inspired wedding."

He's right. It'd been two days since I saw Dr. Neilsinhaur. For the past two nights, I'd did my homework assignment without telling him. The idea of knowing and possibly loving Dmitri in a past life intrigued me. If there were any basis of Neilsinhaur's beliefs, then the sensation of kindred I have with Jet and Dmitri makes sense. I found the thought oddly comforting.

"No, I haven't talked about it. All he and I discussed were Mike and you, how I met you both and stuff like that."

"I see. Did you tell him that when you puked on me, that the feeling was the same as when you saw Mike?"

"Yes. According to him, we'll start getting into the past life regression stuff at my next session."

"So you're going to go again?" He looked surprised

"I already told you that I wanted to get to the bottom of why I did what I did. I meant it. If possible, I'd rather not heave chunks on you, unless you deserved it. And it'll finally give me and Willow something to bond about. Perhaps I was Jane Grey too." I gave a nervous chuckle. "Or Cleopatra and you, some strapping Roman conqueror in their equivalent of short-shorts."

He gave a bark of laughter and a smirk of appreciation. "Then you'll kick ass, Kaylis. That's just what you do. You say Roman conqueror.... what you mean is Roman soldier doing the quick-time march like in History of the World. Madeline Kahn has nothing on you."

I smiled. Very few things made me feel all warm and fuzzy as when Dmitri reaffirmed my ass-kicking abilities. Still disturbed from thinking about all that I told Neilsinhaur about Mike and his deeds, the affirmation helped to soothe the haunting memories. "The good doctor suggested that people I know and am close to in this life were likely people I knew in a past life."

"Wonder how close we were back then." He stated it as if a question based on solid fact.

"You believe in past lives?" This wasn't something he and I ever discussed before. With him being the incredibly logical type, I assumed he wasn't a follower of that particular camp.

"I don't discount the possibility."

It's easy to get caught up in fanciful notions, I admit. The lurid bodice-ripped covers of romance novels belonging to Willow numbering into the hundreds flashed before my eyes. Dmitri and I caught in a torrid, yet forbidden embrace... he in a poofy poet's shirt and tight breeches and I, in the required bodice and chemise combo barely covering my bosom, legs bared to the thigh... nice mind-candy, but whether it actually happened once upon a time was up for debate.

I prefer fact and substantiated answers. Past life regression could be one of two things from my point of view. It could be a delusion, induced by either the person undergoing the mental trip who then creates things based off various media viewed previously … or by the person guiding the trip, by using a method that subtly influences the client into following a path laid by the guide. The second thing it could be is real, although this seemed less likely. Neilsinhaur's method of going down stairs intrigued me. Last night the third stair down shimmered like water when I mentally stepped on it during homework. The fourth step did not ripple, but when I mentally turned around to walk back up, number three waved and undulated again. Trippy.

Sleep couldn't happen soon enough for me. I looked forward to traversing mental stairs with both a sense of exhilaration and trepidation. I just wanted it over and done with.

I needed this chapter in my life, closed.