Chili Powder

A Short Story by Heather Choate
Part Two
If you haven't read part one, scroll down and read that one first.

It’s not that I even particularly like Chili Powder, or Chili, for that matter, I tell myself as I bank onto the freeway on-ramp. I just wanted to change up the menu a bit, I grumble to my dashboard, but it doesn’t seem to respond. Good thing. At least dashboards are safe confidants. For now.

I turn onto the highway and accelerate to approximately 45 mph. I can’t say I’ve gotten use to the turtle speed, but at least it doesn’t bother me quite as bad as it used to. It is for our safety, our protection, I remind myself. The better way, the better way, I repeat again and again in my mind, and soon I find myself relaxing a little more. Or maybe it’s the placid tones of Frank Sinatra coming softly over my speakers.

Two years. Two years it has been like this. Already, I can hardly remember life the way that it was… before. Explosions as bombs went off on buses and governmental building; bullet holes in the walls of my house, my car. Someone’s face covered in red oozing sores. Who was it? My sister? I think so. I think I had a sister.
I shudder and concentrate on the smooth, unbroken pavement and mellow tones from the radio, the perfectly manicured trees and polished information signs. The sky is baby blue above and flocks of geese beat their feather wings in unison. I pass a small town with its rows of neatly lined houses. There is a school and I can imagine the children sitting politely, attentively listening to their teacher. Everything in order. Everything the way it should be. The better way.

But in El Paso they have Chili Powder. Home is waiting for me: the small one car garage where I will park my Saturn, the two steps into the laundry room where I will take out last night’s load, after I put away the few groceries. The same routine. The same consistency. I will work all week trimming the heather shrubs on the south side of the gray building so that I will go to the same grocery store and trade in the credits from a select group of approved foods. I will have to check my recipes more carefully now.

My exit is coming up. Less than half a mile. I should get in the turn lane. I should do it now. My car continues to cruise forward without slowing as if it has a mind of its own. The exit is just 50 yards away. Turn now. I don’t do it. The exit passes by. The freeway is an open road before me. I realize I’m already heading south, south to El Paso.

© Heather Choate

Chili Powder

Part I
A Short Story by Heather Choate

“You can still find Chili Powder in El Paso,” a hurried voice whispered to me from the next isle. “But you didn’t hear it from me,” the mysterious informer added and disappeared behind a stack of creamed corn before I could identify them.

I glanced around nervously; sweat almost dripping from my fingertips. I scanned the isle in both directions. A young mother jostled a tiny toddler on her hip to my left, doing her best to keep the child quiet; wouldn’t want to break the noise ordinance, and an elderly man studied a tangerine far to my right. Neither appeared to have noticed, but that didn’t mean I was safe.

I couldn’t risk being caught looking for chili powder, and so I hurriedly grabbed a small container of rosemary, a very safe choice, as if that were my reason to this sketchy section of the grocery. The tiny wheels of my cart spun madly as I quickly exited it.

“Now, slow down there, dear,” a middle aged grocery worker cautioned me in a very clam tone, “Can’t be too hasty.”

“Right,” I answer, not too hastily. “Thank you for reminding me of the Correct Way.” I bowed my head in the customary fashion and he bowed his as well.

“You are quite welcome,” the man smiled and returned to his box of rice before the conversation could be seen as anything but completely platonic.

He didn’t see the scowl on my face and I did my best to hide it under a natural looking smile, the one I had practiced to perfection for the last two years, before the cameras saw it too. My emotion was heightening, which was not good. I decided to cut my shopping short and head home.

“Thank you for choosing Correct Consumer Care for your grocery needs today,” a young blonde with too fake eye lashes smiled at me from behind the cash register. “Did you find everything that you needed?”

Everything accept Chili Powder, I wanted to say, but knew what it would mean if I did. So instead, I smile back. “Of course I did.”

She smiled again, without a second thought to the slight undertone in my voice. “That’s nice.”

On official paper above the register I read the following notice:

Official Statement of the Elect Board
The use of the substance known as “Chili Powder” is herefore BANNED from all use, both public and private. Chili Powder has been associated with loud laughter, alcohol, and monotonous music and therefore CONDEMENED by the dually appointed leaders of the Correct Way.

Any persons found using this substance will immediately be detained and tried for public disturbance.

“That will be 16 Service Credits.” The cashier rang up the total. That’s a whole week’s worth of lawn care at the community learning center, and I didn’t even get everything that I needed. What am I going to make now with canned tomatoes, a box of dry cereal, and a few red apples?

She scanned my retina and the monitor registered that payment had been made. “Have a great day.” She beamed as I left.

I turned the key in the ignition and my car rumbled to life. There is a tap on my window. It is a man dressed from head to toe in pale gray. I recognized him as a serviceman at once and my heart started thudding madly. They’ve caught me. They overhead me in the spice isle and now I’m going to be taken in. I wrapped my fingers tightly around the steering wheel. I hope they give me a fair trial, if they do at all.

There is a second tap on the window and I know I can’t put it off any longer. I lowered the window. The serviceman misread the anxious look on my face.

“Concerned about your car?” he asked.

“What? My car?” Why is he talking about this? Why not just get it over with and lock me in the back of his deployment vehicle. I almost said this to him when he tapped on the hood.

“You really should have this looked at by the Vehicular Safety Inspections Department. The noise it made starting up doesn’t sound good.”

I can’t believe he is talking about my car. “Uh, yeah,” I pretended concern too.

“If you want I can tow you there right now,” he offered. “It isn’t far.”

“Um, no, thank you,” I declined as politely as I could. I couldn’t risk being more than a few more seconds in his presence. “I have an appointment there already.”

He continued to look at me and I hoped he didn’t catch my lie. “Tomorrow,” I added, to further assuage him.

He seemed to accept this. “Tomorrow then,” he said and gave the hood another clonk. “Consider investing in a better vehicle in the future.”

“I will,” I did my best to smile. “Thank you for your help.”

The serviceman nodded and walked away. I raised the window. In the confides of my own car, I took a deep breath to steady myself. I knew he would still be watching me. He was. Feeling shaky, I put the car in reverse and hoped he wouldn’t follow me.

I glanced out the rearview mirror as I turned right, away from the store. He didn’t follow me. I took another deep breath. My name should be disaster obverted, not Sandy.

© Heather Choate

Biting Horizon
Short Story by Heather Choate

“We become sad in the first place when we have nothing stirring to do.”
-Herman Melville

I refuse to be sad, so I leave my brown living room and head down I-44 in my silver Toyota, such an un-descript car, to the canyons. I pull into an aspen-shaded parking space under the looming height of limestone cliffs. The sunlight is peaking over the upper ridge; bright tangerine orange and blush pink clouds whip at the alpine sky.

I grab an Arrowhead water bottle, and shove it into my pant pocket, along with my car keys. I don’t bother to lock the doors, no need to. I barely feel the backpack on my shoulders. The gravel under my feet moans in protest to the weight; that, and the distant chirp of small birds, is the only sound heard. Golden aspen leaves twinkle like Christmas lights in the early morning light. Christmas in early fall, that’s different.

The gravel lot gives way to a thin earthen path. I follow it into the trees. The crisp air bites at my nostrils and throat, but soon my body is warm, blood pumping rhythmically in my veins, muscles. I don’t think about anything but moving up the mountain. No more sadness.

The path dips into a ravine and twists in steep switch backs. I’m panting hard, my lungs expanding for more oxygen. A tingly burn moves through my calves as they carry me up the mountainside. I dab at cool tiny drops of sweat on my forehead with my sleeve. The top isn’t far; streams of sunshine light my head every now and then through the tree limbs, like I’m bobbing in a sea of leaves and branches.

I need to get as high as I can. 10,000 ft should do. I check the altimeter on my wrist watch. 9,894. Just a little more. Tiny streamlets of pure Rocky Mountain water gurgle across my path and down to the serpentine river below. Tiny birds twitter out their last songs of the season above me. Soon it will be too cold to hear their jovial little spirits. I see the white tail of a deer flit into the denser forest. The deer won’t be seen much either, once these amber aspen leaves have fallen, and frost submerges every rock and blade and limb with its frosty fingers. Only the mountain goats will prod on through the deep drifts of snow like it were powdered sugar.

I reach a massive outcropping of granite boulders that are relatively smooth on top. I scamper up the stone. The boulders stand as a precipice overlooking a large swooping bowl-shaped valley. Through two goliath pines I make out the river cutting its way sharply into the valley until it rests in a pristine lake nestled deep into the wilderness.

My numb fingertips unscrew the plastic water bottle cap. I chug the contents in less than twenty seconds and discard the empty bottle by putting it back in my pocket. Though the exertion of the vertical climb is over, my heart rate picks up for a different reason: a tiny rush of anticipation; a stirring.

I traverse the wide gray rock until my feet are inches from the edge. The cliff descends vertically down over three thousand feet. Tiny pebbles fall over the rim down, down into space. The trees and rocks are minuscule so far below.

The biting horizon goes on forever. Distant white capped mountain peaks signal to me like flashing lighthouses in the breaking sun. Sweeping Cyrus clouds brush across the atmosphere like paint strokes from a master artist. The world is so calm here, just a round planet of earth and trees spinning in a serene universe.

But the sheer drop off before me, takes my mind off all of that now as I look back down. A second surge of adrenaline creeps its way into my cooling body; another emotive moment. I need to do this while I’m still warm, while I can still move at all. I take a deep breath, the air bitter and clean; an interesting combination. My lungs protest each inhale but I keep breathing. Just keep breathing. The vapors from my mouth crystallize in the air before me.

I rub my hands against my jacket. It’s now. I slide my right foot further a few more inches, until the tip is over the cliff lip, hanging suspended into space. That’s all the taste I need now. I step back with my right foot first, then my left.

I swing both arms back behind me, using the momentum to propel my body forward. In two leaps, I am off the mountain and falling through the air. I keep my arms out wide and close my eyes, feeling the violent rush of iced wind slam into my skin.
Having cleared the cliff side by more than a yard, my body drops freely without slamming into the jagged rocks. This is what I wanted: a clean fall, smooth. My body is perpendicular to the ground now, I can almost feel the trees and rocks beneath rushing up to great me, to take me into their arms and hold me there.

One second. Two. Five. Gravity has complete hold of me. I stretch my fingers out wide into the open air. The solid valley floor is coming up faster. This is it.
Instinctively, I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. I quickly stretch my left arm back and pull hard. The cord responds and within seconds, I am shot back upwards into the sky with a heaving blast.
The jolt shakes every limb and joint, but it passes quickly. Like a ship tossed hazardly by the sea and now cradled in calm waters, I am shocked by how slow and gentle my body moves through the air now. Like a lost feather, I drift calmly over the ripping landscape. I inhale deeply, some of the shock fizzing out of my nerve endings.

A minute passes. I feel like an eagle, an angel, escaping both gravity and death by sweeping high ‘ore the earth. Incredible. Seconds feel like years, years that passed me to quickly in unhappiness. Finally getting my time back. I laugh. Laugh! The sound is strange and distorted in my dry, hoarse throat and that makes me laugh harder.

I laugh as my tiny body defeats the laws of gravity and human destiny by flying over the tree tops and rivers. I watch my thin shadow reflected in the lake below. I wonder if the fish can see me. What a story they would have to tell their neighbors!
Soaring on, I see the wide green space beyond the trees. In the distance, tiny moving brown figures. Cows. The frost has melted in the warming sunrays and the field is lush and green. Perfect.

My body drifts over the meadow and slows, graciously returning me back to earth. My time in the heavens has ended. I put my feet out and run as they hit the ground. I could stop now, but with my shoot depleted and dragging behind me, I keep running. I run and run across my planet of earth and trees. The blood, the life pumping within me. I have found it, my stirring.

© Heather Choate 2008