by Giano Cromley

My name is Lewis Montgomery Lapin, but most people call me Trigger. They say I'm high-strung and that Trigger somehow fits. I used to bitch and moan about it, tell people how much I hated the name. But I've learned it's a useless fight. The more you try and change these things, the harder they stick.

I'd only been living in Eureka a month before people at my new job picked up on the nickname. I was surveying for an engineering company that designs roads and sewer systems in the forests of northern California. Before this I'd been doing construction in LA, but things went bad for me down there and I had to leave. It had been the usual shit: problems with my girlfriend Sherise, some outstanding debts, and even a few legal issues that're really best not to get into. Basically the kind of stuff that'll dog a guy no matter where he finds himself. Eureka has a population of about 25,000 people, so I figured it might be a good place for me to get straight after LA. I was all about the fresh start.

My job with Imhoff Engineering was pretty sweet. Most of it involved wandering around the forests, surveying sites for construction projects. They've got computers and GPS stuff to do all the heavy brainwork now, so things were nice and simple. Probably the worst part of the job was that I was partnered up with this tight-ass named Slate. He was one of those conservative types who calls himself a libertarian. Whatever that means. He was always listening to these wind-baggy radio shows and bitching about how the government's ruining the country. We were an odd couple. But, in a way, I think Slate was a good influence on me. His tight-assedness had helped me curb some of my wilder ways, which was what I'd been planning on doing by going to Eureka in the first place. So, overall, I had few complaints about my setup.

The first week in August, Slate and I were slogging along this forest trail, trying to get some topo readings for a new logging road. It was a hot Friday afternoon and we were pretty much off the maps. Redwoods rose up like giant towers, so big around the two of us together couldn't have stretched our arms around them. When you get deep into the forest like that, things take on a different feel. The air crackles with the sounds of birds chirping and unseen animals slipping through the undergrowth. It's peaceful in a way. But occasionally it could drive me a little psycho. If I'm not careful with silences like that, I can get trapped inside my head, which is not always a pleasant place to be. Sometimes I just wished I could hear the sound of an ambulance siren or the reassuring rumble of a trash compactor to break up all that weird nature-silence and the thoughts and memories flashing through my brain.

We were walking along this trail and it was stinking hot out. I was in the lead, carrying a tripod with a scope on top. It was heavy and awkward, and it kept getting snagged on the brush. Slate was whistling some church tune with that kind of hollow sound people make when they're not a good whistler. I was fighting my way through a patch of tall ferns, trying to wrestle the branches out of my face, when the ground went kind of spongy underneath me. It must've rained earlier that day because I was on a slope of slick vegetation and every move I made caused me to slip further down the hill.

I turned to Slate and tried to reach out for his hand, but I missed, and gravity had its way with me. I started picking up speed down the hill, like some kind of skier who's in over his head and doesn't know how to stop. Eventually, I tossed the tripod to the side and tucked into a roll and everything went green until I landed on my back on a soft patch of dirt.

I was woozy for a minute or two, but then collected myself and found the tripod lying on the ground next to me. I fiddled with the dials and looked through the scope. Everything was in proper working order

"You all right down there, Trigger?" Even Slate, the conservative tight-ass, called me Trigger, which, I have to say, surprised me a little. He never struck me as the nickname type. Slate was his real, god-given name.

"Yeah," I called up to him. "I think everything's going to be all right."

It was only when Slate got down to where I was that I bothered to look around.

"Well, I'll be darned," Slate said. He was shaking his head slowly. "Son of a gun."

All around us, in neat little rows, was a field of pot plants. At least a couple hundred big ones.

I should probably mention here that Eureka is in Humboldt County. Which they say is the best place in all of America for growing marijuana. In the local bars you'd hear stories about fields like this one – how they're run by Mexican cartels and patrolled by wetbacks carrying sawed-offs. Last year a couple college boys from San Francisco came up and wandered into one of these fields and started acting like kids on Halloween. Their bodies were found a few days later in a reservoir outside town. Their tongues had been cut out. Not a pleasant scene, by all accounts.

"Looks pretty crazy here, eh, Slate?" I said, mostly because I didn't know what else to say. Even though I'd heard that story about the college boys, I started to get a little bit of an idea. I mean, here I was, standing in a field of dope. It's hard not to start mentally drooling when you find yourself in a situation like that. Even if common sense is screaming at you otherwise.

"We'll have to report this," Slate said. He walked over to one of the plants and kicked at it. He rubbed his hand over his sweaty flat top. "I suppose I should call it in."

"It sure is a shame," I said, trying to sound all disapproving.

"How's that?"

"Well, you know, we'll call it in, and the government'll just come out here and confiscate everything." I'd listened to enough of Slate's radio shows to know that this little ploy might have some traction with him. "For all we know, they'll probably turn around and re-sell it. Make themselves a nice tidy profit."

Slate had his cell phone out and he'd already punched in a few numbers and I have to admit my heart was starting to sag. But sometimes, when you think for sure a guy will do one thing, he'll turn right around and do the opposite.

He looked up from the phone and regarded me for a minute. I think he saw some kind of hunger in my eyes that tipped him off.

"You know, Trigger, if you were to take something from here and if I didn't notice it, there's probably nothing anybody could do about it." He had a smile on his craggy face. And right then, if I could have, I would've nominated him for sainthood.

I went over to the nearest plant and grabbed it by its stringy stalk and pulled it out of the ground, roots and all. I did that to two more plants. The root balls were heavy with black soil and the plants were big, so three was all I could manage. I tucked one of them under my arm and carried the other two in my hands.

I crawled up the hill and started hoofing it back down the trail to where we'd parked the company truck. As I was running, all those crazy forest sounds were amplified and pounding in my ears. I started to imagine wetbacks were training their rifles on me, picking out a bead, leading my movements, adjusting for the wind.

When people call me Trigger and point out that I'm high-strung, there's not much I can say to argue with them. See, I get this thing going inside me which I call the Skeebers. First my guts start flopping around like a net full of fish tossed onto a riverbank. Then the Skeebers work their way up through my chest till my lungs feel like inflated balloons. And then finally they get to my heart, which begins hammering away so hard I can feel it in my temples. I usually get the Skeebers when I'm doing something I know I shouldn't. It's spooky sometimes the way they work. It's like I'm watching myself doing dumb shit and there's nothing I can do to stop it.