By Eli Coyle
It was a late Saturday afternoon, the last whispers of February drifting away, and the Zoo was alive, a cacophony of youthful chaos. Not a literal zoo, but the name we bestowed upon our apartment complex, an ecosystem thriving with untamed twenty-somethings running wild, fueled by the heady mix of drugs and alcohol. Balconies overflowed with red Solo cups like ripe fruit, beer bongs dangling from the railings, drying in the sun like strange, colorful flags of revelry. Doors swung open, and there was someone stepping out, a bong in hand, exhaling plumes of smoke that curled into the air, or glancing across to the neighboring balcony where laughter, music, and the inevitable disputes of fraught relationships collided in a glorious ruckus. It was a jungle, a vibrant habitat where the young roamed free, unchained by authority.
My roommates and I drifted toward the pool, which was almost always a party unto itself—plastic tables adorned with beer pong setups and the fragrant haze of stoners swirling like incense in the air. It was there I’d sink into the hot tub, sipping wine from the box, a luxurious yet reckless indulgence, while a spliff from a scruffy acquaintance made its rounds. The hours slipped by cheap beer flowing like a river through the afternoon, until I found myself fading, the world blurring into a hazy twilight, collapsing into the embrace of sleep, only to wake in the dead of night, the vibrant pulse of the Zoo still echoing in the darkness.
I woke to a text from Lauren, the girl I had been crushing on for what felt like an eternity, six months slipping through my fingers like sand in an hourglass. She wanted to know where I was, if I could come rescue her from the downtown bar’s pulsing crowd. My heart raced, excitement bubbling up from the depths of my hazy state as I thought of the possibilities, the chance to finally connect beyond those fleeting glances exchanged from our opposing balconies in the Zoo. I could almost hear the universe whispering, “This is it.”
I lied, of course—told her I was sober, a master of deception as I climbed into my black Ford Ranger, the engine rumbling with a reckless thrill. The ten-minute drive felt electric, a pilgrimage toward destiny, but fate has a cruel sense of humor. As I approached my turn, fingers dancing nervously over the steering wheel, I dialed her number to let her know I was close when, like a scene from a bad movie, a cop glided past just as I rolled through a red light, the flashing red and blue lights igniting my anxiety like wildfire.
Panic surged through me, a tidal wave crashing against the flimsy walls of my composure. I pulled over, dread settling in my stomach like a stone. Immediate fear coiled around my heart as the officer approached, his silhouette framed against the dimming twilight. I fumbled in the glovebox, desperately searching for my registration, the very act turning into a twisted game of hide-and-seek. My hands shook, and the world around me blurred into an abstract painting of reds and blues.
“Have you had anything to drink?” he asked, and I, caught in a whirlwind of bad decisions, stammered, “Yeah.” Like a fool, I admitted to smoking a spliff earlier too, laying my cards on the table while my heart thudded like a jackhammer. He asked me to step out of the car for a field sobriety test, my mind racing as I thought, “I’ve got good balance,” a line that now felt like a cruel joke as I swayed on one foot, a drunken ballet of denial and despair.
Then came the moment I had dreaded—the cop’s voice slicing through my foggy thoughts: “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.” Cold metal cuffs closed around my wrists, biting into my flesh, and suddenly, I was a character in someone else’s story, riding in the back of a cop car, the world outside slipping away like a bad dream. The officer engaged in casual conversation, and I mentioned my dad was a cop, trying to cling to some semblance of familiarity.
“You think he’ll be mad?” he asked with a hint of amusement, and I tried to convince both him and myself that “he’d understand.”
In the sterile confines of that car, I felt a strange longing for divine intervention, a silent plea escaping my lips: “Please, God, just let me go. I’ll change; I’ll learn from this.” The irony washed over me like a cold rain, awakening a belief I had long cast aside—how funny that I’d find faith in a moment of desperation. Rage simmered beneath the surface, directed at the cop, the universe, my own reckless choices; I would find a way to get even, I thought.
At the hospital, the nurse drew my blood, her expression as cold and unyielding as the steel table I sat on. I pretended to be jovial, masking my dread beneath a thin veil of humor, while all the while, I felt like a marionette, strings pulled tight by unseen hands. After what felt like an eternity, they led me to the drunk tank, snapping my mugshot while I stood there in a white shirt with blue horizontal stripes—mocking me, like a prison uniform for a crime I could barely accept.
As I lay on the hard bench, the cold creeping into my bones, I wrestled with the weight of my decisions. I knew my mom would be furious; the thought of telling her gnawed at my insides. Just a week or two before, I’d stolen a kiss from Lauren in a crowded bar, an electric moment that felt like the dawn of something beautiful. I had convinced myself that it was the beginning of something, that she could be the one to fill the hollow spaces within me. But now, here I was, the dream slipping through my fingers like smoke.
The shadows of that cell wrapped around me, and I realized this was the beginning and end of my fleeting connection with Lauren—a cruel twist of fate that left me alone in the dark, contemplating my next move. I’d catch her eye from across the way, her smile lighting up the distance, but now it was just a ghost of a possibility, haunting me as I lay there, staring at the cold concrete above. In that moment, clarity pierced through the haze of my intoxication. This was a wake-up call I could no longer ignore. My alcoholism had led me here, a revelation wrapped in a shroud of despair. I knew it was time to confront the void within, to focus on myself and seek something deeper, something real. Maybe, just maybe, this was the moment I’d start to get right with myself.
The Tapestry of Light
It was spring semester, my freshman year, the air thick with promise and the taste of adventure ripe on my tongue. An eighth of mushrooms in hand, I dove headfirst into the unknown with my fellow seekers in the hallowed halls of University Village—a ragged off-campus enclave, a hodgepodge of souls far from home. We were restless spirits, wandering the cracked pavement, searching for connection in a place that felt both foreign and familiar. Our rooms, cramped like sardines, begged us to spill outside, where the metal gate encircling our little kingdom loomed like a guardian, separating us from the chaos beyond.
Our nights unfolded as jazz riffs, hazy conversations swirling in the air, smoke spiraling up like the ghosts of thoughts lost in the ether. We wrestled with existence, faith, and the universe, challenging the boundaries of our beliefs like waves crashing against stubborn rocks. Everyone sought solace in rebellion, trying to party hard while avoiding the watchful eyes of RA’s and authorities.
In this vibrant chaos, I found myself questioning everything I’d been raised to accept, not out of rebellion, but from an insatiable hunger for understanding. The Catholic faith felt like a shroud, heavy with myths and symbols that no longer fit my spirit. I was a child of separation, wandering through a culture that seemed utterly unequipped to deliver the good news—the sacred revelation that we are all sons and daughters of something greater.
It echoed in my mind like a mantra, that Christ and the Father were one, that we, too, were divine. But who dared to proclaim such truths openly? The risk of misunderstanding loomed like a shadow—crucifixion in the eyes of the faithful.
On a cloudy day in March, the call of Bidwell Park became irresistible, a wild expanse where cottonwoods swayed and sycamores shed their bark, revealing pale skin beneath. The stark black volcanic rocks jutted against the sun-bleached grasses, and the sky stretched wide and open, mirroring the boundless possibilities of our minds. It was here, in this tapestry of nature, that I prepared for the journey that would shatter my reality.
Eating the mushrooms was an act of sacrament, bizarre and earthbound; their taste, a visceral connection to the earth that triggered a gag reflex but then transformed into something otherworldly. Initially, it felt strange, my body dissolving into the very air around me. But then when the visuals kicked in—the world around me began to breathe, pulsating with life, each leaf and blade of grass vibrating with an energy I had yet to understand. Inside my mind, closed-eye patterns danced like mantras, flickering glimpses of a reality far beyond what I thought I knew. My consciousness was split open. I laid on the ground at the canyon’s crest, gazing up into the infinite blue, feeling the universe’s heartbeat thrum through me—a honeycomb web of existence vibrating with love, light, and awareness, binding all of us in a cosmic embrace.
But when the holidays came around and I returned home, everything shifted. Heated debates erupted with my mother, her emotions spilling over, like high tides overfilling the tide pools of her own tumultuous life. With her parents dying, family squabbles over property, and a cancer growing, she felt trapped in a whirlwind, while I found myself wrestling with my own demons.
“Jesus wasn’t the only son of God,” I blurted out one evening, the words tumbling from my lips like a manifesto. “That’s something lost in the translations. He said we are all sons and daughters of God—meaning we’re all God.”
She looked at me with burden. “You can’t just dismiss everything because you’ve found something new. There’s love in the faith I’ve held all these years.”
“But there have been plenty of other ascended beings who have walked this Earth!” I shot back, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Buddhism and yoga—those are paths that invite exploration, not confinement!”
She brushed my words aside, clearly lost in a storm of her own. It wasn’t just our debate that weighed on her; it was the heavy weight of her life, the chaos of her world falling apart.
As Christmas approached, she asked us to go to church with her. My brother Madrone, my sister, mand I exchanged glances—grown adults now, no longer tethered by childhood expectations.
“Mom, we don’t have to,” I said, guilt hanging in the air like an unwelcome guest.
Her face fell, a storm of emotion crossing it. “Forget it!” she snapped, retreating into the sanctuary of her solitude, leaving us to grapple with our choices.
Looking back, that simple act of attending Mass—denied—felt heartbreaking. It was not just about the church; it was about the connection, the community we were severing ties with, even as I convinced myself we were breaking free. My mother, burdened by her struggles, was reaching out for unity while I was pushing away, mistaking my rebellion for enlightenment.
The truth was, I had just swapped one belief for another, tangled in the web of my own insecurities, chasing the notion that my way was the only way. It took me time to see that religion, like a meandering river, was merely a method—a meditation in motion—and all methods would become traps if you let them. Each debate, each tension with my mother, unfurled layers of my soul, revealing the dance between my past and the possibilities ahead. I realized then that the real vision was to harmonize the echoes of faith that cradled my childhood with the dizzying discoveries of my new life—a beautiful, messy tapestry woven with threads of doubt and wonder, where love lingered in the spaces between, connecting me to her, to this vast universe, and to the divine pulse that thrummed through us all, beating like the heart of the world.
Part of It All
The next morning, as the first light of alpine sun filtered through the tent, I rummaged quietly in my bag, careful not to wake Madrone, who lay beside me cocooned in his sleeping bag. I slipped into my worn moccasins, grabbed some water, and set off for a walk. The trail wound around the lake, crossing creeks and boulders, each step drawing me deeper into the quiet mystery of the wilderness.
I reached a cliff’s edge, where the granite met the endless sky. Moments like this reminded me of the quiet beneath everything, the stillness I often forgot. I pondered the way life fit together—like needles falling from pines or rivers born from melting glaciers. Could I, too, embody this quiet acceptance of change? There’s no use trying to push the world away, I realized, as I watched the morning sun climb over Mt. Shasta, its white cone like an ancient sentinel.
Eventually, I made my way back to camp, where the others were stirring, the meadow thawing under the spring sun, and robins and jays darting between the trees. The sun warmed our faces as we packed up, savoring our last bitter sips of coffee. Home waited for us, but there was a weight in the air—a finality clinging to the last morning of a trip that had changed us in ways we couldn’t yet name.
Brance and Alex talked of returning to Humboldt, to campus life and parties and homework. But Madrone and I lingered, slower to leave, feeling the bond between us deepen in the silence, in the rawness we had shared out here. Out in the wilderness, away from roads and streetlights, something in us had softened, our egos feeling lighter, smaller. I thought of Kerouac’s words: “Climb that goddamn mountain.” And I realized, ironically, that I was leaving this mountain with a clearer sense of myself and my path forward.
We broke camp, groaning and laughing as we rolled up sleeping bags and packed our gear. It was a ritual of farewell, each movement reverent, as if paying tribute to this place. Finally, with packs slung on our backs, we set off down the trail for the last time, past wild alpine flowers, silver-white granite boulders, and towering ponderosas. The wind rustled the pines, whispering secrets as we made our way back to the world we’d left behind.
At the trail’s end, the parking lot emerged through the trees, our vehicles a reminder of what we were returning to. We smelled of smoke and sweat, but we felt alive, each carrying a piece of this place within. We stopped in Weaverville for a final meal, sharing laughter and promises to return.
As Brance and Alex headed west, Madrone and I lingered, watching the sky fade. Finally, we climbed into his truck and drove east toward Redding, back into that familiar hum of civilization. The road wound down the Trinity River, and we settled into the comfortable silence of brothers who had seen each other stripped to the core. Trees and pines passed in a slow, rhythmic blur through the window.
“Maybe we died out there, Madrone,” I murmured as we rolled through Weaverville, the streets still sleepy and quiet.
He nodded, eyes on the road. “I know a part of me did. I’ll never see things the same way.”
He looked over, a softness in his eyes. “If I die before you,” he said, “I don’t want a funeral or a casket. Just leave me out there in the forest, let my body be food for the animals, for the bugs, let it return to the earth. This life isn’t about what you take. It’s about what you give.”
“You’re right,” I replied, his words settling over me like stones sinking into water. “It’s all ‘you.’ That’s what we’re seeking, always—it’s right here.”
We shared a deep silence, an understanding between us, born from countless ego deaths shared under the open sky. We were brothers, two lives branching from the same roots, Tat Tvam Asi—“That thou art.” In each moment, we were reborn, walking this road together.
Crossing into Redding, Madrone broke the silence. “Do you need anything before I drop you off?”
I shook my head, but thanked him for everything. At the Amtrak station, he helped with my bags, his hand steady on my shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, Otis. It might suck for a while, but it’ll get better. I’m always here, you know that.”
We hugged, the weight of gratitude settling between us. “I’ll see you soon,” I said.
As he drove off, I bought my ticket southbound to Chico. The rain started to fall softly against the glass as I waited, letting my mind drift over fragments of our trip—the redwoods, the fog, the mountains, and the vast quiet that had seeped into me.
The train rumbled in the distance, pulling me from my thoughts. With my bag slung over my shoulder, I stepped onto the platform, feeling the weight of everything I’d come to understand. A road stretched wide and unknown before me.
Echoes of Euphoria
That night, we ventured to a local party about ten minutes down the 101. Without an ID on me, we couldn’t hit up any of the bars downtown, so we found ourselves at one of Madrone’s friends’ places on the edge of campus. The house had seen better days, but it was nothing we hadn’t encountered as college students. As we stepped inside, the air thick with the pungent aroma of pot enveloped us.
“Oof, that’s some primo local herb,” I chuckled, feeling the familiar rush of excitement as we wove our way to the patio. Madrone yanked three cold ones from a twelve-pack, handing one to Chloe and me with a grin that said he was ready for anything.
“Cheers, everyone!” he proclaimed, clinking our cans together, the sound echoing like a ritual greeting to the wildness of the night ahead, a promise of laughter and smoke and the uncharted paths we might wander.
I stuck close to Lila and Madrone most of the night, casually smiling and exchanging hellos with the faces that drifted by. What could I say? I was a bit shy, feeling like an outsider in a sea of familiar laughter—unlike my brother, who had an instinctual knack for roaming around, introducing himself to anyone and everyone.
But fortune smiled upon me when Alex showed up, my brother’s friend from back home, guitar in tow. Alex was like a spark, igniting Madrone’s eccentricities, and together they created a dynamic that was hard to ignore. Their chemistry was electric, each complementing the other in ways that made me feel the pull of their infectious energy.
With Alex’s guitar in tow, it was clear they were gearing up for a performance. What began as a casual acoustic jam in the corner soon swelled into a gathering of about ten people, drawn in by the magnetic energy of their go-to set—a mix of Tenacious D classics. I could see my brother was a bit tipsy, feeling the moment as he took a long drag from a joint. His flair for the dramatic was undeniable; he had a way of commanding the audience that felt almost instinctual.
As Alex tapped out fast licks, Madrone shed his shirt, swinging it around like the frontman he never was. The room pulsed with a hazy glow, the walls draped in flickering shadows, laughter swirling in the air like the sweet smoke from the joints passed hand to hand. Faces lit up, eyes sparkling with the thrill of the night, each person caught in the spell of the music, a raucous congregation gathered in a living room that felt more like a temple of freedom. The rhythm thrummed in our chests, and for those moments, we were all united in a glorious symphony of youth, recklessness, and joy—a fleeting glimpse of something transcendent, as if the world outside had melted away, leaving only the magic of the now.
As the last notes of the song lingered in the air like the fading echo of a distant dream, Alex and Madrone began to wind down, calling for a beer break as the crowd slowly unraveled. Laughter and chatter floated around us, but I felt a shift in the atmosphere—an invitation to explore beyond the music, to step into the warmth of connection outside. I wandered out into the backyard, the cool night air washing over me, awakening a newfound social spirit.
I grabbed another beer from the chest and approached an eclectic group of strangers. It was curious, the college students here weren’t that different from my own. Everyone drank or smoked and were mainly focused on the great outdoors. One guy in particular stood out to me as he told story after story. From the outside looking in, he was a sort of a frail and youthful-looking guy who had been a former Marine Biology student having just graduated a year or two prior. He was impressively personable, funny, and down-to-earth—he joked about how he only made twenty to thirty thousand dollars a year and how he lived in a tiny rundown apartment, but that he didn’t care; he was happy. As I drank more and more, I began losing myself in thought.
Was this it then? Was this the heart of the liberal dream? To venture off to college, snag a degree in something you love, then wrestle with the stark reality of making a living? Was this what it meant to be a millennial? Not the brightest bulbs in the box, but surely the most educated? Who was I to judge? For some unfathomable reason, I found myself in the liberal arts, a realm teeming with dreamers eager to scribble their truths and carve their paths through the chaos of existence. The truth was, I drifted through half my undergrad without even declaring a major, a leaf caught in the wind.
I had brushed aside philosophy and theater—arguably even dimmer avenues for job prospects—and somehow landed on the notion that reading, writing, and pondering the cosmos could be enough. It simply had to be enough.
Everything unfolded as it should, didn’t it? That’s just how the universe worked, and what good was it to look back and wonder about alternate paths? The truth was, if you poured enough time into something—especially something that stirred that deep inner truth—you’d eventually carve out a way to make it work. Or at least, that’s the mantra I clung to.
Life was too fleeting to waste in some soul-sucking job just to fill the coffers. Better to blaze through a brief life doing what you loved than to drag out a long one in the grip of misery. I let the warm conversation and laughter swirl around me as I finished my beer, but a restless energy tugged at me, urging me to seek out my brother. As I wandered back inside, I found Madrone with his shirt still off, captivating a group of girls with his effortless charm. He had always possessed that rare gift—drawing people in, finding common ground, digging deep into their essence.
“Alright, ready to go?” he said, his eyes glinting with that mischievous spark, as if he were secretly relishing the idea of staying up all night, drinking and flirting until dawn.
“Uh, yeah, whenever you’re ready,” I replied, feeling the pull of the night beckoning at us both. We made our rounds, exchanging goodbyes and well-wishes, before piling into Lila’s car, the evening air folding inward like a blanket, wrapping us in its soft embrace.
Eli Coyle holds a MA in English from California State University-Chico and an MFA in creative writing from the University of Nevada-Reno. His poetry and prose have recently been published or are forthcoming in: Harpur Palate, The Normal School, Permafrost Magazine, Sierra Nevada Review, and The South Carolina Review among others. He currently teaches at the University of Nevada, Reno and spends his summers bartending in North Lake Tahoe.