Jim over at SnoozeButton started Protomonkey a long long time ago in a land far far away, and it has had a few revitalizations since then. I added my latest contribution here. Check it out along with the other short fictions stories posted there.
All the talk about this boy who got lost in Utah had me thinking the other day. Mostly about what kind of idiot child gets lost on a gravel road; but also about the time I got lost in the woods.
I guess it was early to mid fall; and my buddy and I, who incidentally share the same name; had headed out to Linville Gorge for a day hike. Linville, located in a stretch of empty temperate rainforest called the Pisgah National Forest, is a pretty exciting place. Take the photo tour here. Lots of climbing and whitewater, without the milling masses of the x-games crew. We left early in the afternoon and drove out to the Pisgah. The park service layed a gravel road along the topmost ridgeline, and the trailheads all start there. You pick a parking area, pull off, and follow the trail to the bottom. Along the basin there's a few camping spots, and a trail that runs the length of the gorge. We chose a 'primitive' trail to the bottom of the gorge.
What the map means by primitive, we found out, was that it's a trail hardly used at all, so it can be easy to lose. The direction was blazed by a peice of that orange plastic tape knotted around a tree trunk every fifty or so feet. I guess a ranger or frequent visitor had come through at some point.
It's a pretty steep drop into our section of the gorge, the trail threads it's way down a mile long section of cliffs along the ridgeline. We half scrambled, half slid down this section through various crevices and fingers in the cliff face, then the trail calmed down quite a bit.
Below the cliff face, you could hear the river roaring in the gorge. It was a favorite recreation spot given the waterfalls and rapids, so we weren't surprised to hear it from so far away. We meandered through the forest, across a pretty impressive landslide as I recall, and finally reached the bottom. We spent most of the time free-climbing a few spots along the river, scrambling on the rocks in the water, taking photos, etc.
It got to be around three thirty or so before we started thinking maybe we should be heading back up the ridge where the car was parked. We gathered what little gear we had with us and started following the trail back up the ridge. The first leg was easy going, the markers were easy to see and the hiking wasn't strenuous. About the time we got to the steeper sections though, light was fading. I guess it was only about 4:30pm or so, but in a gorge, the sun sets behind the ridgeline early. It was this shadowless dusk that began to give us trouble. We started losing markers, sometime forging on and hoping to see one; only to stand there scanning the forest for another with absolutley no luck. We each had small daypacks on, so we pulled out a flashlight - this sad little MiniMag. We kept on pushing ahead, trying to follow landmarks and the increasingly rare orange blaze. We figured all we had to do was make it to the ridgeline where the gravel road was, and find our way home from there. So we just kept aiming at the hillside.
Darkfell somewhere after five. I knew we were lost then, because we should've been out of there by then. The flashlight was too dim to see anything by now, a condition worsened by the thick brush we were moving through. We kept on plodding though, knowing all we had to do was make the ridgeline. That was when it started drizzling. So there we are, lost without any warm dry clothes about to face a wet autumn night in the mountains. When we arrived at the base of the cliff faces we both looked at eachother and knew we were screwed. There was no way we were going to be able to pick our way through this mess in the slippery darkness. We poked around for an overhang in the rock to make our home for the night, but found nothing. My friend insisted we push forward, I thought we might as well just stick it out at one of the campsites on the valley floor. We would easily be able to find the blazes in the
morning, and the more time we spent up here, the wetter we got. He reluctantly sided with me, and we began to skid our way off the base of the
cliff. I slid down a short embankment and lost my favorite hat in the trees. My buddy dropped down behind me and slammed his knee on a rotting tree trunk. We clambered out of the dense forest and onto the valley trail hobbling, knotty haired, covered in mud and stinking like sweat.
We had a lighter, but there was no way we'd be able to get any fire started in this steady drizzle. Our focus was basically on trying to find a semi-dry spot to sleep under some pine branches. We wandered along the trail parallelling the river for a few minutes, when we heard a dog bark. I guess the thing could probably smell us or something, so we made our way towards the sound assuming it was accompanied by campers. That was how we met Blade and Steve. I think Steve was the other guy's name, but I know Blade for sure. You don't forget a name like Blade. As it turns out, these two guys were coworkers; architects from Greenville out on a weekend trip. The had a tarp and two tents set up, the stove was warming up some camp slop or another, and a pot of coffee was brewing. We sheepishly admitted to being lost (not that we could have hid the fact given our physical appearance) and the men offered us one of
their tents and a sleeping bag.
Now, I don't know if I've ever told anyone this; but my buddy and I
ended up sharing a sleeping bag that night. Not only that, but we had to share it in minimal clothing, given the fact that everything we had was
soaked pretty well. We were so cold from the wetness and the fall air that we had no choice. There was weak protest from both sides, but sleeping without the bag was not an option. So there I was, stinking like 80 different kinds of ass, cold, wet, and sharing a sleeping bag with an equally unappealing man. We fell asleep pretty damn quick though.
The next morning we got up, helped the guys from Greenville pull up stakes, and hiked back up the ridge. We had a few laughs about yesterday's events, said our thankyou's, jumped in the truck and headed back home. At this time, I was still living in the dorms; so we got a pretty good razzing from our other friends. One thing I distinctly remember is how horribly we smelled. I mean, we were only out there for maybe 18 or 20 hours, and we stunk. The worst part was I didn't even know I stunk until I got out of the shower and walked into my room. My clothes from the day before made the entire place reek.
I'd do it again, minus the sleeping situation. These days, if i got lost in the woods, I'd probably see it as an opportunity for a little severly needed peace and quiet.
"You were out of the office Monday without asking for vacation time."
"Yeah, I went camping and got lost in the woods, had to spend the night in the dirt. How come you people weren't worried?"
I split town today. I was fucking sick and fucking tired of it. The job, the wife, the bills, the nagging bullshit. I woke up thismorning and I was like...Who's life is this goddamnit? I got a car that's paid for, a couple grand in the bank, and a credit limit of five g's. Fuck this shit.
I jumped int he car and fought my way through traffic to the only highway that takes a man out of this dirty burg. West. And I put the hammer down to. I was doing 120 between here and Raleigh, hit I-85 and just kept on steamin'. The Appalachians wooshed by in a flurry of banked s-curves and before I knew it. I headed south down the highway and ran into 59, where the sign said 'New Orleans'. Sounded as good as any other, so I dropped into first and left a small pile of smoldering rubber in Tennessee. It was the only thing I had left on me.
I guess we hit Nawlins toward seven am. WE meaning me and the hitchiker I picked up in Mississippi. I mean really, I couldn't have left her there right? It was fucking Mississippi. Plus she was hot. And by hot I mean young, eager, stupid, rich , and impressionable. We checked into this downtown place right up the block form the Best Western on Bourbon. It was this old french house or something. Soon as I saw it I knew I'd get laid for sure.
We hit town adn filled ourselves with Hurricanes, Hand Grenades, and Zydeco. I don't think I've ever been so hammered and disoriented in my entire life. Swear to god I got a ride back to my hotel from some dude on a Harley. Showed up at the hotel room and the bitch had split. Mostly she'd split my money between me and her, as well as grabbed a favorite t-shirt of mine. Fine, whatever girl. I'd gotten her credit card number earlier that day when she had left the car to use the bathroom. Figured I might aas well stay the night, so I called roomservice and packed up the leftovers in my bag.
Being through with women and all, on account of their mostly lecherous behavior, I made tracks for Vegas. I figured if there was any place a man could make it, it would have to be there. I spent an ungodly eternity driving across cornfeilds, plains, open mesa, mountain passes and desert before I finally entered the city. It was bittersweet because I was glad to be somewhere, but sad to be so happy to see a place like Las Vegas Nevada.
I went to the bank and acquired a small business loan. I told them I wanted to start a bar and entertainment complex. They thought sports bar, I was planning something else. I now run the only live sex show in the United States. I knew Nevada'd be the only state that would allow it, and after greasing the right wheels with that small business loan and investing a small amount of my own capital; I was on my way. We sell t-shirts, high priced drinks, exorbitant tickets; hell we got private skyboxes for the real freaks (but those come at a good price too). I guess I've made it pretty good for myself, what with all the money and sex that surrounds me. But I find myself looking for something simpler. Looking for something that I had a while back, but got sick of.
That's when I begin to wonder if humans torture themselves their whole lives with the grass on the other side of the fence. Maybe we just want what we can't have - even though we know it's what we can't have and we know we just want it because we can't have it. Then I think, we are some fucked up monkeys.
If there is one person whose memory dominates the summer and fall of '02, it's Jim Bob. I don't really know where to start, so excuse me if I ramble or begin to take rabbit trails, but there's just so much to tell.
Jim Bob was born and raised up in the mountains, went to college nearby, and ran his own small business. He's part dirty old man, part southern belle. His tantilizing cooking is almost as amazing as his ability to paint a graphic verbal picture that can make the pottiest of potty mouths gawk. He is definitely a talented individual and a jack of all trades. Jim Bob stands about 6'3, and his frame is equally ample, but he's one of those people that you don't need to see to know that they are present. His laugh is loud, unbridled and unashamed; he tells stories with more vigor than a pianist plays Rachmaninoff.
Most of the boys and myself all worked for his business that summer, working in just about every aspect of it. If there was no 'work' work to be done, there was always home improvements and errands for us to run for him. Jim Bob had his shit together too, and he loved having us work for him. Mostly because (as gay as he was) having a bunch of young guys running around his house sweating was all it took to set him free. That's another thing about Jim Bob, he wasn't one of these wimpy, caricatures of homosexuality. He was a full-blooded gay man. He drove a bigass truck, but also had a closet of stylish evening gowns. He was just a real person. Aside from the periodic ass-slap or X-rated verbal advance, he wasn't too disimilar from us. He enjoyed a lot of the same stuff we did; partying, traveling, doing wild shit just to see if you could get a rise out of people. Jim Bob successfully slalomed two miles of construction barrels at highway speed one night...well, almost. He knocked a few of 'em, but he was pretty drunk by that point, so we'll consider those dead soldiers as his handicap.
Most times, the boys and I would show up for work in the morning and get any prep work done. Jim Bob would stumble in bleary-eyed and groggy, mumble something about how much cocaine and construction workers he'd done the night before, and we'd just kind of blink at eachother for a second, and return to whatever task was at hand. Usually we'd have a big project in the evening, and we’d work late into the night. We’d work our asses off all day long, and through the evening to the wee hours of the morning; all the while soaking up the free alcohol (Jim Bob was a great boss) like street drunks. When we'd finished, we just kept on drinking until it ran out or we were pooped.
One of the first nights I was over at Jim Bob's house Carl, Monkey Boy, Josh, and Joe were all in attendance. I believe we were drinking Grand Marnier, listening to Astrid, and sitting on the back deck enjoying the view. Well, I go upstairs to use the bathroom and as I pass Jim Bob's master suite, Monkey Boy pokes his head out the door with this 'Oh crap' look on his face and pulls me inside. 'Dude, I clogged up the toilet.'
I walk into the bathroom with him and sure enough, the bowl is filled almost to the lip. 'All I did was pee, dude, and it just clogged up. I didn't even put anything in there bro!' I give Monkey Boy a glance that expresses how retarded I think he is, and then turn back to the ornery commode. We were both pretty blizzled at this point, so the sheer panic that is about to transpire is elevated that much more. I poke the flush handle and let 'er rip. Like I said, your boy wasn't exactly thinking clearly at the time.
The toilet promptly began to overflow onto the black tile floor. Water, Monkey Boy's piss, and God knows what else begin to spread steadily across the grid. Monkey Boy and I spring into what can only be described as clumsy, disjointed action. As 'The Girl from Ipanema" began to waft through the upstairs windows from the porch below, Monkey Boy and I were stumbling about the bathroom ankle deep in filth grabbing towels, trying to stem the seemingly unending flow from the toilet. I think by now we were also swearing and giving each other directions in hushed whispers.
Then Monkey Boy stops and, holding out some plastic object says 'What'n the hells this thing bro?' I examine it and it looks like a clear applicator tip from the end of some kind of tube. We hear an odd tapping sound, and look to the toilet in time to hear another tap, and see two more of these applicator tips come skittering out of the toilet bowl. Well, at least now we know what was clogging up the toilet. Monkey Boy reexamines the object in his hand for a second, and promptly flips the fuck out. "Jesus man!" He throws the tip across the room like it had bitten him, I look up from my ineffective attempts at flood control and then he says "Those are KY applicators dude, they're fucking coming OUT of the TOILET, and were standing in a puddle of what I can only assume is MY urine and the horrible detritus that is associated with K-Y applicators used for buttsex!" The terror alert level in the bathroom is now a menacing red and the pace of our efforts has reached fever pitch. So there we are, Pandora's toilet is fucking spewing like Vesuvius, and instead of being blessed with a quick death by lava, we're bathing in gay.
We manage to pull it together and just do what we have to do. We sop up the...ughh....and throw the towels in a nearby hamper. Both of us slouch against the bathroom wall, heave two twin sighs of relief and swear each other to secrecy. Well, not iron-clad secrecy, because we acted the whole thing out for our friends later. It was one of those moments that's like something out of a sitcom. Only way too gross for network TV.
I don't recall whether or not we ever told Jim Bob what went down in his bathroom that night. I think Monkey Boy and I just walked back downstairs and put a few extra slugs of bourbon in our gullets to help soothe the trauma. One things for sure though, neither one of us ever used that damn toilet again.
Throughout the summer of '02, I spent most of my days with a group of close friends that have become known as The Boys. I'm not sure if that's supposed to be capitalized or not, but that's what the girlfriend and I called them when we argued about how much of our time I spent hanging out with them.
The boys consisted of a motley gaggle of somewhat shaggy, gruff mountain types; but we were pretty good natured. There was Monkey Boy, who was the core of enthusiasm. If Monkey Boy got excited about it, it would happen. Monkey Boy lived at the Branch, along with Joe, Carl, Jeremy, and sometimes Tatum. Then there were the peripherals: Vern, myself, Gary, Jim Bob (sort of); hell, there were like fifty other people around. Joe, who took care of most of our collective shaggines; was very boyish, almost naive; willing to try anything and everything. Sometimes he said the stupidest things, probably because he smoked the most pot. Carl was (and still is) the Zen Master. We were the wildest people we knew; and yet Carl is one of the most cautious, serene individuals. Jeremy was a bearded, beer drinking paddler from bumfuck Tennessee. For a guy with an imposing and intimidating presence, he could really make you laugh. Tatum, the photographer, was the 2nd shaggiest of us, with this mop of dark brown hair that he was always trying to keep out of his face. Good kid though, a fugging riot to be exact. Vern was in ROTC, and it made him insane. Well, maybe he was insane to begin with, but I guess the whole lot of us had accumulated a preponderance of evidence that there was at least something very wrong with each of us. Not scary in a militant way, just scary enough to remind you that he knew how to kill you with a flick of the wrist. Last but certainly not least was Gary. This kid could tell some whoppers. Like the one he told about the fairies who controlled the tide, or that cows have shorter legs on one side of their body than they do on the other. I have a sinking suspicion that he smoked more than Joe.
The funniest times we ever had were when we got bored. We'd all be sitting under the chillport, drinking ice cold beers, trying to figure out whose turn it was to go get the second round out of the fridge. It was inevitable one of us would come up with a great idea. There was 'pockets camping'; which (as you can imagine) meant taking whatever you thought you might need to spend the night in the woods, stuffing it in your pockets, and hitting the road. The only rule was you had to be able to fit it in your pockets or carry it in your hands. Except for beer. If you needed a backpack to carry a case of beer, that was allowed. It sounds like a great idea until you wake up in the dirt at six in the morning, and it's beginning to drizzle.
Another time, we came into about three gallons of mildly used peanut oil. We had a slip 'n' slide at the Branch that used periodically to break the monotony. Well, on this particular evening, someone (I won't say who) decided it would be a great idea to combine the two into one of the most disgusting spectacles I have witnessed in my whole entire cursed existence. I was burning with a blue flame, so I don't remember exactly how it all got started, but there were naked people covered in peanut oil and stinking of friend chicken running around the yard. Did I mention that our neighbors really loved us?
However, the mother of all the great (and by great I mean utterly stupid) ideas we ever had, was running Monkey Boy over with a car. Joe's Kia to be exact. It really makes sense if you let me tell the story. We were hanging out at this lame party in downtown. It was such a lame party, as a matter of fact, that we figured we'd spice it up a little. Mind you, this was initally Monkey Boy's idea. 'Let's get this party goin guys. We need some kind of catalyst, something crazy.'
'Well, we could pull some kind of stunt.'
'Oh! I got it. Run me over, I won't get hurt. I know how to fall.'
And of course Joe volunteers "Let me drive! I'll only go 5mph, I swear dooood."
Then it was on. Joe jumped in the car and drove back up the street, while Monkey Boy milled around nonchalantly. A few minutes later Joe comes cruising down the main drag and Monkey Boy perfectly executes the Oblivious Jaywalker. It was beautiful. There was a dull thump as Monkey Boy bounced into the dent resistant (those Kia guys are sharp) hood, a rather real-sounding shatter as his shoulder hit the windshield, and a perfect roll off the side onto the wet pavement. This was about the time that all motion at the party ceased; except for the guy throwing up in the dumpster. All eyes on Joe, and he just drops it into first and flies around the block.
Of course Joe's exit created an uproar in the drunken mob. Girls we swooning over Monkey Boy, frat guys were making pacts with the gang-bangers to find the prick who did this and tear him limb from limb. Meanwhile, we're standing in the back stifling laughter because those two dumbasses just shattered the windshield. We grab some ketchup out of the kitchen and hobble Monkey Boy into the bathroom. We're taking it to the next level.
'Here, smear this on your arm, then wrap a t-shirt around it. You've been seriously injured.'
Monkey Boy's laughing now, this is classic. He walks back out into the party, and people mill around him, shooting questions, stirring the pot, turning the rumor mill. Then Mark comes over and acutely observes aloud, "It smells like hot dogs." Shit, busted by the only smart guy for five square miles.
We skip the party and meet Joe back at the house. The windshield is 86'ed, spider-webbed from seam to seam; there's even a dent where the brunt of Monkey Boy's weight hit the glass. Perfect. I think in the end they split the cost fifty-fifty, since neither wanted to take full responsibility but both could not deny their collective negligence.
It's all fun and games people, until the bills start stacking up.
Alright, I'm still moving in; but I wanted to post up some old stories that not too many people got a look at. I really enjoyed writing them, for what they're worth. Here's the first one, more to come as things progress.
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Like many people, I’ve had some wild times. I’m not necessarily afraid of my past or ashamed of it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m proud of it. It’s at least funny, and makes for a good story. And really, that’s worth it enough to me. It’s such a richly funny and entertaining story (mostly to me I’d assume) that if I were to publish the entire adventure, it would never be accepted as anything but fiction. It goes a little something like this:
It was May of 2002 and the weather was just warming up in the mountains. I had graduated a couple weeks ago and was looking forward to getting a real job, but not exactly looking hard for a real job. My best friend Carl had just returned from spending a year traveling 'round the globe, the last three of which was spent in Thailand or somewhere. We usually hung out at the house Carl shared with three other guys; Monkey Boy, Jeremy, and Joe.
The Poplar Branch, as we called it, was an old 1 story brick home on a cracked asphalt line of the same name that weaved its way down into a low gulley, and back up onto the state. The yard stayed unmowed and overgrown, mostly because we couldn't give half a shit between us, but also because it felt better on bare feet and made a nice comfy pad under the Slip-n-Slide. There was an open carport attached to one end of the house that we had converted to an aptly named chillport. We bought two second hand couches, a glass porch coffee table and a few tiki torches. This was the place where we grilled the chicken, iced the kegs, and spent countless days and nights discussing the most inconsequential but equally entertaining of topics. Around the corner from the carport, in the side yard, stood Carl's one frivolous purchase: a several hundred gallon hot tub. Directly behind the hot tub was the waist-deep above ground pool (Wal-Mart, $88.43), which made for excellent contrast when jumping straight from the steaming hot tub. The backyard was pretty nondescript. A couple square yards of shin deep grass, a handful of scraggly pines, and an old newspaper dispenser. The opposite sideyard was where Monkey Boy built the horseshoe ring; home to the Pabst Blue Ribbon Weekly Amateur Horseshoe Championships. I usually lost in the first round, but that was fine by me; I was more excited about curling beers than slinging pieces of metal all over the place.
The basement was the indoor arena in case of inclement weather. Scraps of carpet had been laid over the smooth cement floor, and a decent enough stereo was put in. There was a ping-pong table and an excellent drumset that all of us, at one point or another, attempted to play. With horrible results. However, the crowning glory of the basement was this hand made pool table that someone’s old man had managed to construct. As someone who has played lots of pool, I gotta say that was one of the nicest playing, flattest lying billiard tables I’ve ever had the priviledge to shoot on.
Down in the lowest part of our geographical nook, but still within sight of the chillport, was an old unused prison. It was roughly a potato-gun shot away from our front yard, on the opposite side of Poplar Branch, right where it made its sharp bend back towards the south end of the highway. It was wrapped in the requisite twelve foot fence, with a nice barbed wire garnish on the top edge. There was a high watchtower in the corner closest to our yard that looked out over the small compound. To the south of the tower, in the shade of some trees just beyond the perimeter fence, stood the eeriest of tiny chapels, bell tower and all. Laying out to the east and south of the tower was the prison yard, and the facility itself, which was comprised of three or four one-story stone buildings. Each of these was approximately 50 yards long and maybe 40-50 feet wide. On the north side of the prison between the buildings and the tower stood, of all things, a small playground. It was this that led us to believe that it must have been an old detention home or delinquent center.
I guess it wasn’t too long before someone said what we had all had been thinking. To tell the truth, I don’t remember whose idea it was, but we all agreed: It was time for a self-guided tour of the prison grounds. This discussion took place on the late end of an evening spent sitting in the chillport sipping drinks and discussing which animal characteristic we would prefer to have. I can’t remember exactly who went. I know Joe and myself joined the contingency, but there were at least two others. Maybe Sharp and ‘Sexy’ Ralph, but I can’t remember. At any rate, we go to the end of the prison where the tower is located, closest to the chapel, and begin to sniff about for a way past the fence. We eventually found a section of where the barbed wire rim was bent and twisted so that it was pulled down and out of the way. I don’t know how many men out there have straddled a twelve foot fence topped with razor sharp barbs, but I’ll admit I was wishing I had opted to don something more protective than an old pair of jeans.
Once over the fence, we walked into the chapel. It smelled musty and undisturbed. The stillness of the place was amazing. It had been all shut up for god knows how long and you could hear and feel the stillness of the place. Like an old person’s house where the air hangs for days and nothing ever moves fast enough to cause a draft. The one room chapel was completely void of anything . . . except an old piano and the altar. I’ll admit to being scared of the dark; couple that with an eerie old abandoned prison church and you get one nervous cracker. Then Baden decided to start plucking the damn piano. The wavering notes were deafening in all that silence and stillness, bitterly out of tune and yet so fitting for such a place. I’m not sure if I stood there and wet my pants, or if I wet them as I turned for the door and got the hell out of there.
From the chapel we walked into the main yard and over to the buildings. They were all parallel to each other, long rectangular solid looking barracks. We went into the only unlocked door and were greeted by one of the more ominous rooms I’d ever been in. The darkness here was almost impenetrable. The walls and floor echoed like concrete, and the floor looked like it had been painted green, or maybe red or black, but it looked green in the dimness. The floor was littered with what looked like surgical implements; scissors, razors, glinting in the beam of moonlight coming through the door. In the center of the room we had entered stood what looked like a dentist’s chair. I remember we all stood in the doorway, the lot of us not wanting to go inside, but maybe afraid to turn our backs on the scene, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the yawning blackness.
Joe shoved his way in and walked directly past the chair and over to the wall. He was like that sometimes. He bent down and picked up something that looked like a camera, black and square, and brought it back towards the door. I guess he had spotted it from the doorway. Outside in the moonlight he opened it up and we were surprised to find a pair of binoculars. Score, can we please get the fuck out of here? After a few more minutes of looking around, we discovered that the room we were in was actually the prison barbershop, there was even a sign hanging outside the door we entered. Since this was the only unlocked door on the premises, we decided we might as well head back home.
Once back under the soft yellow glow of the chillport candles, we pulled the binoculars back out of the case and were all floored to see that they were actually night vision goggles. We found the small switch on them that turned the set on, and were excited to see that they worked amazingly well. What a find! I bet NO ONE has a pair of these! We were big into the outdoors, which included going out to the state line and exploring the caves in the area, and these babies were going to prove invaluable.
That was really the only time anyone went over there. After we told our story to a few friends, they expressed interest in going to the prison, but it always seemed none of the original group really wanted to go. I don’t think we were scared or anything, I guess the place just lost its mystery. Maybe deep down we were all hoping that there were going to be bats in the belfry, and that the barbershop was actually a torture chamber.