Connors - All the Wrong Places: A Life Lost and Found

Authors Note

Some names and identifying details have been changed in an effort to protect the innocent and the guilty.

Portions of this book first appeared, in different form, in n+1, Ninth Letter, the Dublin Review , and Laphams Quarterly , the editors of which are gratefully acknowledged; special thanks are due Keith Gessen, Brendan Barrington, and Elias Altman.

For M.J.

PART ONE

Up in the Air

A sense of obligation drew me to the Southwest that first time. My brother had recently proposed to his girlfriend, and although we werent closeId seen him just once in the two years since hed moved to New Mexicomeeting his fiance before the week of their wedding seemed like the brotherly thing to do. With the celebration just a few months away, my January break at college offered the last best chance to get an introduction.

I reached Albuquerque in two long days of driving, only to find we were the same oddball brothers wed always been, perhaps more so. He shook my hand in our aunt and uncles driveway, pointy-toed boots on his feet, a ten-gallon hat on his head: playing cowboy, I thought, a little derisively. Id arrived in my own borrowed costume, the garb of the campus outlaw, black combat boots and surplus East German Army pants, aggressive sideburns sculpted on my cheeks. If we hadnt been brothers and wed passed in the street, one look would have soured me on him, and no doubt him on me.

My soon-to-be sister-in-law was a pale kid with hair dyed black and nails painted purple, a look that spoke of rebellious instincts not at all in keeping with the vision Id had of my brothers future wife. She was seventeen years old, the daughter of Dans boss, an electrician who would soon make Dan foreman of his own crew. Emily would graduate from high school just weeks before the wedding. She showed an adoring deference toward Dana kind of puppyish infatuation in her eyes and in the tilt of her headthat I knew would one day fade, and I hoped it wouldnt curdle when it did, not least because she was the bosss daughter. She appeared inordinately curious about me, as if every word out of my mouth might contain a clue to parts of Dans past and personality about which she knew too little.

Food offered the organizing principle of our time together, as was customary in our family. Over the course of several days I received a tutorial in the versatility of New Mexicos famous chile peppers. The state question, Dan told me, was three words long Red or green? and was usually asked in reference to that staple of New Mexican cuisine, enchiladas. Red sauce, smooth as velvet, was made of dried ripe chiles run through a blender and a sieve; green sauce took the form of a chunky broth built around fresh diced chiles. Either could run the gamut from mild to apocalyptic, and the hottest iterations, to which Dan was partial, had the potential to tear the roof off your mouth. We added raw chiles to our eggs at breakfast, and our aunt used them in an apple pie. My tolerance for spicy food, always high, helped me pass what I came to understand was a kind of test administered to the first-time visitor. We ate out most evenings, washed down our food with ice-cold Mexican beer and reposado tequila, and when the mood loosened Dan spoke of flying. That was to be the prize of the trip.

He told me about the annual balloon fiesta, the main event in the public life of Albuquerque and the largest gathering of its kind in the world, a tradition dating back more than twenty years. Each October several hundred balloonists ascended over the city while tens of thousands of spectators gathered to look skyward. Dan had been taken with the romance of flight from the moment hed arrived in the city. Hed logged trainee hours for months to earn his pilots license, flying almost every weekend with his boss. The Albuquerque weather was ideal for ballooning much of the year, with prevailing winds creating a phenomenon known as the box. Surface breezes typically blew one direction, upper elevation winds blew the other, a crosscurrent caused by temperature inversion and the geographic features of the valley, with mountains on the east, the big mesa on the west. A skilled balloonist could make use of the conflicting winds to take off and land in the same general area, avoiding an embarrassing trespass of private property or a nightmare descent in harsh terrain.

Dan liked to be in the air as early as possible, before the warmth of the sun stirred the wind, so we rose on a Saturday morning before dawn and dressed in haste. A pot of coffee, made on a timer, awaited pouring into a thermos. All other preparations had occurred the night before.

The air outside was brisk, scented with the unmistakable tang of the desert in winter. The horizon above the mountains had begun to glow like a coal. Four of us got in the truck and set off. We each took a turn at the thermos. I looked out the window at the pale, naked earth. My stomach felt sick from strong coffee and lack of sleep. Id never been much of a morning person, another way in which Dan and I differed.

Dan turned the truck off pavement and followed a two-track road, a rooster tail of dust rising behind us. In the middle of a mesa he found an opening in which to park, and everyone set to work as if theyd done this a hundred times, which in fact they had, a mechanical ballet involving earth, wind, and sky, though I did not fully grasp it yet.

I helped my aunt Ruth lift the wicker basket out of the truck bed. My uncle Robert readied the gasoline-powered fan. Dan unrolled the envelope of the balloon on the face of the mesa, securing it to the basket with a series of cables. Once Robert had the fan running, Dan pointed it at the mouth of the balloon. The envelope began to fill with cold air, and he tugged on the cloth here and there to keep it from snagging as the panels of yellow, red, and blue fabric rippled like a flag in a big wind. I stood back, watching silently, feeling useless and a little bit awed. I wanted to offer help but I didnt know how, and Dan gave no sign that he needed any, so I stood with my hands in my pockets, trying to stay warm, trying to look ready but not too eager.

Dan lit the propane burner mounted above the basket. He fired off a horizontal sword of flame, slowly warming the air inside the balloon. The burner roared and went silent, roared and went silent. No one said a word. The balloon slowly stretched taut. Everyone looked up, at the balloon and the sky beyond it, the sword of flame now and then appearing in the balloons mouth, until the silken bubble swung into place overhead.

Get in! my aunt Ruth yelled, as a gust of wind came up, the first of the morning. The urgency in her voice jarred me from my reverie. No time to grab the two-way radio for contact with the chase truck. No time to grab my camera to document the moment. No time to waste if I didnt want to miss the ride.

I got one leg over the edge as the basket made a lateral hop. It came to ground with a thud and hopped again, and I feared Id lose my balance and tip over the side. Dan was working the burner, trying to achieve the requisite heat for lift-off, and I had one hand on the baskets edge and one hand raised behind my head like a bull rider for balance, waving a frantic goodbye to the ground, or what I hoped was goodbye and not hello, for in that moment it could have gone either way.