The hills are steep

In Ketchikan, the hills are steep. On very cold days, you ran the risk of slipping. But that first week was a learning experience I never forgot. After my first school day at Ketchikan High School, I made my way toward the parking lot. I watched as kids in their pick-up trucks pulled out in reverse and peeled out of the lot. Some stuck around to catch up, playing hackey sack, or daydreaming the next hideaway to light up their bowls. Most zoomed down the hill toward the roads, the parts of the town that sat leveled with the ocean. I cut through the lane and stuck to the sidewalk, advancing toward the direction of the hills. They went further up along Jackson Street. I walked along 4th Avenue until I got sight of where Jackson Street started. Once I got closer, the sidewalk dipped. The ground beneath me felt slick, as I wore hand-me down checkered Vans slip-ons. I had inherited them after visiting the Philippines, a secondhand set of shoes that belonged to an older sibling.

A car turned left at the corner where 4th and Jackson met. Suddenly, I felt the cold grass on my fingertips. The sky is in my sight, a big gray sky with splashes of afternoon orange from a sneaking setting sun. I clutched into the ground, desperate to get back onto my feet. Once I did, I slipped on the ice once more time. I fell forward. I caught myself, but not without injuring my wrists. Several cars zoomed by, honking their horns at the spectacle that was my embarrassing and disastrous tumble. Alaska had finally gotten to me.

At the bottom of Jackson Street, I focused on the sidewalk that disappeared into the mountains ahead. I sat still on the sidewalk, and I felt a shooting pain travel up my legs. My jeans were now soaked. My shoes were slick. Before I picked myself up, I looked around to see if anyone else had caught me falling. I stood up and carefully stepped onto the next sidewalk panel, thinking about the days when I didn’t have to deal with the winter.

*

When I got home, I closed the door. I took my shoes off. My mother sat on the couch. She watched ABS-CBN, a gameshow called “Wowowee,” where contestants competed for money cash prizes. “Anak, how was your first day?” I blessed her, holding her chilly hands up to my forehead. “It was fine,” I said. I went to my room up the stairs. As I passed her, I saw the television screen. A child on their knees attempted to collect as much pesos while in a box with wind machine. Think fishing for fish, but your fingers were the hook, and the peso dollars were fish as thin as flounder. I thought about getting a job to finally start saving for college, if I were to ever get accepted. I shook my head at the sight. I was disgusted by this child’s attempts to secure their inheritance, but more disgusted that they were doing it in a room full of a crowd that would willingly toss him to side if they had the chance. Before I walked up the stairs, I turned to her and asked:

“Why are you watching this mom?”

“It’s entertaining,” she said.

“Entertaining?”

“Just remember, anak, at least this isn’t you.”

When I got to my room, I looked out of the window at the neighborhood we lived in. The lot was mostly empty, with the exception of a few cars buried underneath the snow. One of our first nights at the Carlanna Lake Condos, my dad and I shoveled his Mercedes Benz out of the white fluff. I has wondered how he had gotten that car, which was a white car that drove badly up the hill. It didn’t have four wheel drive. But it damn sure had two televisions for long and boring rides. The empty lot in front of our door indicated that it had been dug out. Soon the evening would arrive and more snow would dump into the entire court. As the snow melted, it formed pools that were ankle high. I hated stepping into them, and I wanted to not have to dig out snow the next morning.

I closed the curtains then got ready to shower. In the bathroom, I turned the dial all the way to the right. I sat down in the tub, letting the hot water beat down onto my scalp. I felt the scrapes on my palms and knees thump. I kept my head down, focusing on the sound of the dripping water drown out what feelings I had with moving to Ketchikan. The water drowned out the constant moving. For the last three years, I had been on planes headed toward the next destination. I never wanted to move to begin with. I knew that this time around, I would escape this town. I would leave without having to worry about not having a choice in the decision. The drops patted on my eyelids. I kept them closed. In the blueprint of my mind, I drew up plans for the next day. I was curious if there was a different street I could walk up.