Earl Mendez, 62, spent 32 years as a U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, perched 110 feet up in steel towers across the Sierra Nevada, and the only flaw he’d ever copped to was refusing to ask for help even when his knees ached so bad he could barely climb the tower ladders. He’d moved to Reno three years prior, after his wife of 34 years passed, to be closer to his 16-year-old grandson Javi, but he still spent most of his time alone, tinkering with his beat-up 1978 Ford F-150 or hiking the trails east of the city. He’d dragged himself to the weekly flea market at the Midtown beer garden that Saturday only because a vendor had posted online he was selling vintage carburetor parts for late 70s Ford trucks, and Earl had been hunting the exact float assembly he needed for six months.
The booth was crammed between a guy selling vintage band tees and a stand selling homemade tamales, and when Earl leaned over the folding table to grab the dented cardboard box marked “FORD 73-79,” another hand reached for the same box at the exact same time. His calloused, scarred knuckles—busted open a dozen times on tower hatches and rusted truck bolts—brushed against hers, and he pulled back fast, like he’d touched a hot camp stove. He looked up, and his throat went dry. It was Ms. Hale, Javi’s high school woodshop teacher. He’d met her once, 10 months prior, at Javi’s parent-teacher conference, when Javi’s mom had to bail last minute for a work emergency, and he’d left the school red-faced, embarrassed by the stupid, unplaceable spark he’d felt when she’d leaned across her desk to show him Javi’s custom birdhouse project, the cedar dust in her hair, her laugh low and warm. He’d avoided every school event since, too proud to admit he’d gotten flustered by a woman 14 years younger than him who worked with his grandson.
He fumbled for an excuse to leave, something about needing to get home to feed his hound dog, but before he could, she picked up the float assembly out of the box, held it out to him, and said, “I’ll let you have it. Only if you buy me a beer to make up for it.” He hesitated, the voice in the back of his head yelling that this was wrong, that she was Javi’s teacher, that he was too old, too set in his ways, that he’d only end up hurting himself or her. But the other part of him, the part that hadn’t had a real conversation with anyone who wasn’t Javi or his cashier at the grocery store in months, won out. He nodded, took the part, and followed her to the beer stand.
They sat at a chipped wooden picnic table at the edge of the garden, far enough from the band that they could hear each other without yelling. She asked him about the fire towers, about the time he’d spotted a lightning strike 20 miles out and got the fire crews out fast enough to save a small mountain town, and she actually listened, leaning forward, her elbows on the table, her knee brushing his under the table every time she shifted in her seat. He didn’t pull away. He asked her about the Bronco, about Javi’s woodshop projects, and she told him Javi was one of her best students, that he was designing a custom dog bed for Earl’s hound for Christmas. He felt stupid for ever thinking this was wrong, for pushing her away before he even knew her.
When the sun started to dip below the mountains, painting the sky pink and orange, she pulled her phone out of her flannel shirt pocket, held it out to him, and asked him to put his number in. “I’ve been wanting to hike the trails you used to patrol up near Spooner Lake,” she said, “and I don’t want to go alone. I don’t know the area well enough, and I’d rather go with someone who knows every rock and tree up there.” He typed his number in slow, his fingers a little shaky, and when he handed the phone back, she smiled, that same slow smirk he’d seen at the booth.
He walked her to her beat-up old Bronco, parked a block away from the beer garden, and when she stopped at the driver’s side door, she leaned in, kissed his cheek soft, the vanilla lip balm sticking to his skin for a second. Before he could overthink it, he cupped the side of her face, kissed her slow, the faint taste of her citrus hard seltzer on her lips, and when he pulled back, he expected her to be mad, or awkward. Instead, she laughed, opened her car door, and waved as she pulled out of the spot, yelling that she’d text him tomorrow to plan the hike. He stood there on the sidewalk for five minutes after she left, the carburetor part in one hand, the faint tingle of her kiss on his lips, his old hound dog waiting at home forgotten for the first time in years.
