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David Moynihan
For Gillian
"Such wind as scatters young men through the world,
to seek their fortunes farther than at home
Where small experience grows."
-- Shakespeare
(The Taming of the Shrew act 1, II)
"Fish to the Left of ME! Cans To the Right of ME! I can't STAND it... AAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!"
-- The Asthma-Hound Slime Lord
(Graffitti)
Failure is implicit. Nobody lives up to their potential. Some people don't accept this, choosing instead to fight. They work hard, study, practice all the little things to avoid defeat, or at least avoid beating themselves.
I find these individuals uninteresting.
Personality trait. Fear of success. If life is like a game of chess, I'm the kind of player who will give away a rook, a bishop, and a knight by the ninth move. Not for any devious strategems, to be honest I feel stupid immediately following, but let's face it, to me the game only becomes interesting at that point.
I lose less often than you might expect.
Two roads diverged, a wife-beater once said. Lucky he, blessed with clear options. For the rest of us it's more like seventeen vagaries, your choice between beltways, interstates, major arteries and city bypasses, any luck you get a rest area now and again.
I myself have always preferred back country lanes. Not because I love the scenery. After all, Norman Rockwell never once painted a rusting 69 Nova majestically submerged into a streambed that hasn't held fish since the new subdivision's runoff patterns permanently altered the ecosystem. I like alterative routes for two reasons; first for the twisting turning sloping pavements that provide no end of surprises, and second because speeding on mainstream routes got me nothing except membership in the fifty-point club, much to my insurance company's delight.
No matter, I still got where I was going. Wherever that was. Like everyone else, I now feel the compulsion to tell people about my experiences. If only as an example of what not to do. Since I no longer work in the service industry and am typically quiet in bars, I was obligated to find a new way to bother innocent passerby with my experiences. I considered shouting them out while I sat fidgeting and clutching myself on downtown benches, but I haven't yet been made captive to thorazine, and apparently it takes years before one can perform that role with confidence.
Strange though it may seem, I hit upon the notion of writing these things down. I felt reasonably competent in my abilities in that obsession. In college my editorials would run consistently, assuming my editor wasn't hit by a far more important treatise on snack foods. The jumble of my own thoughts, experiences, and hallucinations could be combined somehow. A number of them I've put together in this Alaska novel.
Alaska novels are all the same. Members of a genre like morality plays, romances, or tax forms. Landscape, scenery, snow and bears. Determined men and strong-willed women. Adventure, risk, litle gain. Courage lost and courage restored. Perhaps in the end some semblance of manhood. At the very least wisdom. Or experience. If nothing else an interlude that might otherwise have been spent pondering graduate schools and the appropriate major.
You'll find some of that in here. Only a fool tries to go completely outside the text. So I've followed precedent. Except for the dog part, you'll find what you expect from a book with Alaska on the cover.
Beyond that, I follow no rules.
It's no surprise I took an alternative route to our largest state. Anyone can take a plane, for the ferry you had to head through Canada anyway, so why not? Passenger coach it was.
When I took the bus out of Vancouver, I thought of little more than finally separating myself from a rut. And if my own long road to the deep North doesn't quite jibe with the heroics of so many other adventurers up past sixty, well then it doesn't exactly make me boring either.
Besides, there's no good way to head straight to Anchorage if you're looking to make money fishing. All the lucrative positions are arranged in Seattle. But who really wants to do things that way? Sure it's normal, but then again I've always held mediocrity to be an Axis 0 disorder, whose pathology is most easily recognizable by the characteristic of a suburban address.
Roy from Arkansas
"Hey Baltimore. been enjoying the ride?"
"
Yeah, I been watching you reading on this bus for the last four days. Ain't seen you doing none of that in a while. So I figured you was ready to talk to me.""
Bet you want to know the story, how it really is. Don't worry, I'm here to tell you. We got plenty of time. Heck, won't even be in Anchorage for another two days.""Yeah, I'm from out there. A real honest to goodness regular every day bushman. Got me thirty acres, bunch of rifles, shotgun or two. Grow my own vegetables out in a greenhouse."
"One time I came home with a couple of friends, real good folks. They was civilized, lived in the big city, you know Anchorage is the biggest city there is, land-wise anyway. And we got the biggest state capital. Juneau the capital of Alaska?"
"Heh heh. Yeah. Juneauit indeed. That there's my favorite joke. Anyway, these friends, we get along just great. I take them trekking out, we head down to the river runs past my place, do some fishing, hunting, what not. They get to know me, start to like me same as you do."
"Funny thing though, after we finish up, time for them to head back, one of them, he takes me aside and tells me, you know, how he didn't believe I was so civilized."
"I ask him what do you mean, civilized?"
"He tells me he's been in a lot of bathrooms. I'm glad to hear it. But then he says that never done his um, you know, business, in a place with carpeting as warm or as thick as that plush stuff I had in my outhouse. I said, 'plush stuff, what are you, what?' Then I can't believe it, grab my gun, run out, and go to see."
"There was this old brown bear on the floor of my John. Big daddy must have been nine feet tall. Biggest one I ever did see. I was all set to shoot him, Imminent danger, you understand. But I figured he was all so peaceful there, you know, and I had my meat for the winter. Besides, I figured he'd probably been eating salmon, and that makes for a bad-tasting bear. And I figured he'd probably made himself a bad decision for a sleeping place, not that there's anything wrong with my privy, carpet or no, it's one of the nicest places in the bush to do business. On top of that, way he was lying there reminded me more than a little of what my wife said I looked like in bed."
"So's I just let him be. Left the door open, went back inside my place, told the folks to wait. Then I get to the roof and fire my 30-30 a few times. He gets up, rips the wall off my shitter, and tears off towards the river like a big honey-bee reclamation force was after him seeking full account for past sins. Lucky for him I felt so nice, Lord knows those big things won't do the same favor for you no how."
"Oh. Well if you don't believe me I won't tell you about how that moose found it's way inside my cabin and what I had to go through getting the park police to come in, tranquilize the fellar, and pull him out."
"All right all right. But I heard both of those stories from extremely reliable sources. Yeah, you know how to live around here, Baltimore, just let us old guys BS you and then catch when we run out of steam."
"Before you know it, you'll be up alone in those mountains living yourself the good life and never regretting a day of it."
"My wife?"
"Well, you see that's kind of the catch around these parts. She said she couldn't handle it and moved back to Arkansas with our two daughters. Felt like she needed society. But I'm kinda a sourdough. That's what we call ourselves. It means someone who's soured on the land, but doesn't have enough dough to leave. Still, look around. God's Country.
So I'm sitting in the hotel conference room, must be fifty, sixty people there. All men. All old. 'Cept me. I'm young. I want it. Give it to me. Fish, loneliness, heartache, salty rations, socks that ain't been washed in a month, bathing where you're afraid to get too far away from the boat in that great unknown, unbreakable fogs that smother the Bering for half a year, emergency repairs completed in Russian Ports, farts that remain in the bunkroom for months.
Well, maybe not all that. You can skip the bathing if the water's never gonna hit above 35. I don't get seasick. Come on, you, pick me, pick me, I'm special, I can do this. I know to get on a boat you're supposed to head down and dock-stomp. I read the book. Honest. But I couldn't even telemarket. Head to drink my way too and from the job. Every day for two weeks 'till I quit. Okay. Next in line. Listening.
"And, you say you can't lift more than ten pounds?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Any other difficulties?"
"Yup. My back. I can't bend over to lift. My knees are shot. And I think I get seasick."
"Well, thank you, Darryl. That's good to know. We should be having openings withing the next few days. If you'll go take the drug test, ought to be calling you."
"Yes. Thank you."
"Next?"
Me. "Here's my application."
"No prior experience on a boat?"
"No. But I'm willing to learn. Fast."
"Any commitments?"
"No, I can stay out for a very long time. Nothing's keeping me."
"Well, David, that's great. Any problems we should know about?"
"No, I'm in great shape. And I don't get seasick."
"Well, that's fine. Should be some openings in a few days. If you'll go take a drug test, we'll be calling you in no time."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. Look forward to working with you."
"This guys' a slopballer in the classic Frank Tanana sense."
Can't believe I'm still here. Saw that ad two weeks ago."
"Gets by on guile and sheer courage."
Went right in the door with everyone, knew they'd single me out.
"Watch him check the runner."
Everyone else there had to be pushing fifty. Sixty. Seventy. Maybe not seventy. But could even one of them have advertised all the sensitivity that a strong women's studies curriculumn gives to a man? I'm an out and out people person.
"Waits for the sign."
Course everybody else there had unemployment coming.
"Sets."
And cheaper rent.
"Delivers."
And a clue about how things worked here. They might not want me.
"Strike."
Just leading me on.
"You know these older guys..."
In case nobody else shows, at the last minute. Feel like the fat girl on prom night.
"...Don't have the power they used to..."
But they took me in to that doctor fast enough.
"...Can't blow batters away anymore..."
And they tested me for drugs while I was there.
"...Lack that intimidation factor on the mound..."
Must have cost money.
"...But they get a batter thinking..."
Money you don't drop everyday.
"...Especially a young hitter like this one..."
Unless they get a bulk rate.
"...Keep'em confused, on the edge, on the bench and off the bases..."
Canning work in Seward.
"...Sometimes you feel sorry for the kid..."
Not what I came here for.
"...Like he's just overmatched..."
Less than two hundred left.
"...Like there's no way he'll figure it out..."
Time to go.
"...Throw a fastball right down the middle for strike three..."
Fuck'em. I'm gone.
"...Here it comes late swing, long fly, home run!"
Smart kid.
Montana Dale
"What do you mean you took the bus. Kid, all you have to do is wait out there by the road with your thumb stuck out, sooner or later somebody gonna come along pick your sorry ass up. I reckon you worry too much."
"From the east."
"New York?"
"Baltimore."
"Even worse."
"Yeah."
"Well, listen, things don't run that way here. There ain't no rules, most of the time don't nobody care. Course I'm worse then most."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah, like this one time when I was crabbing, finger got stuck in the pot as we was hauling it in. She was dead full. Anyone, the tip just got clean ripped off."
"What'd you do?"
"Told the skipper I needed a second, went to the tool box, got out the duck tape. Ain't done too bad a job, I reckon. Waiting around for someone to help you here is like figuring a lady's just gonna know you need a blow job and assist out of the goodness of her heart without you even saying a word. It might just happen, but you're more likely gonna die in a quake first."
"So that's the finger?"
"Yep, that's the one. Still use it. When we finally got into Dutch and I unwrapped her the nurse she just collapsed on the bed. She wasn't new, probably seen a few fellas missing limbs, just that my own treatment was a little out of the ordinary. That's the way it go, crab is money."
"That all?"
"Yeah, like you, they don't need you yet, right?"
"Yeah, they gave me a place to stay, showers and what not."
"Well that's good, go work in town, meet a girl. Something."
"The women here are rough."
"Listen, kid, if you can't get laid in Seward Alaska, then brother you just can't get laid. Nowhere's. Small town. Nobody's got nothing to do. Understand?"
"Yeah. Been fishing all your life here?"
"Naw. Used to work demolitions for the oil fields out in Montana. That and crabbing. Now my Harley got all rusted so I gave her up, but I figure I don't have the best rate on life insurance policies though."
"No, guess not."
"On the other hand, what you want do, die in Oklahoma City?"
The squirrels are badass.
This one I saw, walking across Spur Highway stopped for a moment. Right by the traffic light. He looked around, pondered existence and the nature of squirreldom. Perhaps some daydream or faint reminiscence wandered through his acorn-driven brain. Possibly he considered the bushy tail and quick-moving paws of his chosen mate. Maybe he thought of a dog he wanted to chase in classic reversal fashion. Whatever it was, sure must have been important. The little guy held up traffic for ten minutes. No one dared cross him; squirrel like that get you in the next life.
Moose you'd expect that from. This one buck ran hard through the fields near International Airport in Anchorage. Didn't seem to have a care in the world, till he saw some pukers video-camming him from a distance. Next thing you know that critter was strutting around, flicking his antlers and pawing the ground like the next blue jean girl. Watched him get on the highway and play with traffic, ruffling his body to draw the charging cars. One of those cars spun out and crashed into a tree. Bull moose seem to win fights like that, number-wise anyway. Long as you count passengers.
Then there was this bear I saw for a second. Don't remember seeing her twice. The lady had other priorities. Or else she rested, content to admire my beautiful body from a distance. I'm sure I charmed her with my flashing derriere. Thank God those things can't run downhill.
We can learn lessons from animals like these. I know I did. Of course lesser mammals aren't subject to the whims of those in authority. My one question is this:
How on earth can you get a ticket for jaywalking in a town with one traffic light? Maybe I need antlers. Know I got the attitude.
Any barmaid, certain nights
Monday, Day 1
"Hello."
"Hi. What can I get you?"
"I'll take an Alaskan Amber."
"Draft or bottle?"
"Draft."
Thursday, Day 2
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Well?"
"Pete's Wicked, Red."
"Here you go, that'll be three-fifty."
"Keep it."
"Thanks."
Monday, Day 3
"Awfully quiet over there."
"Thought it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for."
"I knew I shouldn't have said that. I knew it."
"It's okay."
Thursday, Day 4
"You like this song?"
"Yeah. What band is it?"
"I'm not sure. Oh, wait, here's the case."
"Thanks."
Monday, Day 5
"Well hey, see you later."
"Not likely. I'm not one of the Seward party elite."
"No. I guess you're not, are you?"
"Not everyone can be."
"Oh well, take care."
"You too."
Thursday, Day 6
"We're out of Alaskan Amber."
"Take a Pete's Wicked."
"Okay."
"We're out of Pete's Wicked too."
"Oh."
"It's okay, really, I'll get you a Pyramid. You'll like it. I promise."
"I'm sure I will. Thank you."
"No problem....Here it is."
"Thank you. It's very good."
"You're welcome. You have a strong arm there."
"Useful for working."
"Yeah. Bet it is."
Monday, Day 7
"...And then two years after my husband and I started coming here, we split up, leaving me with my two kids stranded. I tend bar in the summertimes and with my winter crafts we just about make it..."
I'd never had anyone be so nice to me before. Hell, never knew anybody kind, period. It was always so simple when people came up to me, just figure out what they wanted, give it to them. I hoped they wouldn't hurt me too badly.
Who'dve believed I'd see such a difference here? Alaska, where folks went after Jackson Hole got too civilized. Man, the stories I could tell. Then in a restaurant like this? I was only working there because I could never see myself going on food stamps. A grits and grease joint, with the two dollar biscuits and gravy special served throughout the day.
But Carol, God, she was nicer to me than my mom ever was. She didn't run the place in name, just in fact. A waitress with thirty years experience or more. My first day, before I'd even started working, she fed me. Any shift I was with her, she'd pat my arm, say nice going. Her favorite name for me was Kiddo. The one time I came in drunk, on her shift, I was off that day, with friends, she seemed really, worried, like maybe she knew something was wrong, or maybe she just wondered if I'd be okay enough to make it home.
I think what I really wanted to do with her was sit down Indian style in front of her, maybe by a fire with a blanket in my lap, plate of milk and cookies nearby, and listen intently while she read to me from the works of Shel Silverstein, because I was sure I wouldn't be jaded this time. Too bad I'm not good at expressing my needs to a woman. I guess she knew.
Or maybe she was just like that. Maybe people can be like that. Her man was. Companion. Lover. I'm not sure what to call the guy. In another few weeks he'd have taken me fishing. Real quiet guy, except to me and one other kid, there was no one in that town he talked to. But boy he was with it.
There was another waitress, this chick I had to deal with four days out of five, Carol and me, we weren't together, just overlapping. Anyway, Mikey, the other waitress, I bussed for her, filled ketchup bottles, made coffee, all the sidework. Mikey I was used to. I'd just give and she'd take, like a pro. And I could never say a word, because her response would be so obvious, and so cheap. It would feature tears; something I could never take from a fifty-year old.
One day Mikey went too far, asked me to start wiping down the tables and what not. I mean, I'm the dishwasher here, and if I have to handle your setup, when on earth will I get the chance to make your salads? Anyway, Carol's man, Scott, he sees what's up. I rush out for a smoke break, get control. Scott comes out, tells me to take it easy, then goes back inside. When I get there, he says to Mikey, real loudlike, so all the locals in this town can hear, "Woman, you're asking too much, that kid has to do his own work." I felt like cheering him on and asking him to run our scout troop on accounta the old den master quit.
It's too bad I lost that job, got drunk and went with this barmaid... Carol handled a mother's day rush of over a thousand all alone. Oh well, fish were starting soon anyway. And I just couldn't handle that much affection. I mean, it's too late now.
Denise from Duluth
Joe's a doll. I don't think he knows it. Guys like that never do. They just keep trying and trying, before long they win you. Then there's that moment, they show their feelings. Never know how to. Joe came over and grabbed me. Just for a second. At the waist. It wasn't so bad. He said "Let's you and me come back together tonight, we'll do something."
Real fast. I'm not even sure if I caught it all. The next minute he was out the door and running away. Shy. But he's got to be in his forties. Never know with men.
Of course the first time I met him, we get to talking. I mean you can tell by looking at him. Beaten. It's kind of attractive. He's still a good cook. With him you just know. Alcohol, Cocaine, or Gambling. Which was it?
I'm sure he'd tell me. There probably wasn't even a reason. Just fell into it the way they do. Girlfriend gone wrong. He wouldn't have started alone, just finished it that way. The little fragile shell breaks, and then, after the years passed and whatever he'd worked for was gone, he'd get to begin again. Here.
It's the right spot. His brother's given him a place to stay. He can hunt, fish, those man things. Quiet. He doesn't drink here. Doesn't really talk to anyone except me. There's some strong women around who'd give him a hand, pull him up by their bra straps.
Wish he knew I didn't feel like it. They never do. Not wanting to hurt him. That's love. He guesses. They never seem to know the difference. Oh well. Too bad.
Saturday my new boyfriend's gonna pick me up on his Harley. We're going to Denali. Camping. Fires. Wine. Joe can't even drive. You don't even bother telling a guy like that. They just can't understand.
"Sorry folks, the fish are running a little late this year. Why don't you all just hang out for a while, wait and see where things are heading. There's coffee available for whoever needs it. Smoke'em if you got'em."
"What are they watching?"
"When Harry Met Sally."
"Oh. Cool. Great deli scene."
"Yeah. Here it is."
"Ha ha."
"Yeah."
"What else have they got?"
"Safety in the workplace and at sea."
"Uh oh."
"Yeah."
"When will the fish be here?"
"Next week. Maybe."
"Do we get any TV stations?"
"No."
"Uh oh."
"Yeah."
"I'd like to apply for a library card."
"Okay sir. Do you live in town?"
"No, I live on the spit."
"Cannery worker?"
"Yes."
"There will be a seventy-five dollar deposit for your card."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"You know, I'm really starting to like this movie."
"Safety in the Workplace and at Sea?"
"Yeah."
"That one chick is pretty hot."
"Yeah."
"Too bad there's no boat in the world looks that clean."
"Guess not."
"Yup, it's all a big lie."
"Hmm. Maybe we should write a letter. Expose this."
"You'll get used to it, kid."
"You guys wanna go to the museum?"
"Can't afford it."
"The outside's free."
"The outside sucks."
"We might meet tourists."
"What? And mug'em?"
"Well, it's a thought."
"You'll get used to it, kid."
"You know, there are deep and sophisticated aspects of When Harry Met Sally that few people are capable of grasping...."
"The fish are here."
"Thank God."
Florida Richard
Man, when I run the range of the bullshit spectrum here I feel just like a fourth-rate asshole; be ignored even in maximum security prison. I mean Hell, I got two girls back home ready to rush over and blow me soon's I get back into town and call'em, same as every other fella in this joint, but there's a couple of gents here tell you a story about five or sixteen or a down-right plethora of vixens that have before and will again commit the sins that can cause a man to move into 667 Hades St, where he takes up his new profession as the neighbor of the beast.
The worst part is these guys lie so much better than I do. The only thing I can do is shut up and listen. They might only tell one story, but it gets so much better every time! I just want to kick back and hear it again each and every day.
Now, mind you, there's a few women around who ruin the experience for us, keep on injecting castor-oil doses of reality into what would otherwise be sweet-tasting adolescent fantasy as refined in the minds of forty-year old men. We got even with a couple of them party poopers though, we'd all been around long enough that we came to realize that those silly girls would take away our fun without providing any replacements, so we don't even let‘em in our tents anymore.
‘Lessen of course she looks real cute.
Or like she might put out quick.
Has maybe a nice personality.
Can breathe.
Okay so maybe the standards ain't quite up to it yet. I will say that I'm not gonna be one of those packed up guys who competes for a girl you wouldn't pay attention to at home if she were naked and pulling fifty dollar bills out of her twat on Main St. No sir, I won't be offering one of those lifetime caterpillars a soda, money, beer, a cigarette, furniture, highly prized personal possessions, or hours of my labor on a garden or something she might be fixing to build. Anymore.
There was this one. I was her chauffeur. Maitre goddamn d. Even did her laundry once. Probably woulda bought her tampax if she'd asked. Essentially gave up my dick entirely which was good because I hadn't been needing it anyway.
She took off for Homer with some dud who had a much nicer truck than me. I realized how stupid I'd been, and what I'd neglected in terms of the pure fun I could be having. So now I just work, fish, and drink like a man should. Got a friend's the same as me. We're having a much better time now she's gone. And we sure as Hell won't be making that mistake again.
Not that that's a big deal. Ain't no woman left who's straight or under sixty. But my newfound virtue is all the stronger for it's growth without being tested...
Kirsten from Missoula, Montana
Boats aren't so great. Trust me. Nothing to do but stand in place and eat petroleum-based sweets. And oh God, the way they treat you. If you stay on. If you choose to work, there's no end of Hell.
If you quit there's no end of violence. After a few weeks on my first ship, I got promoted, if you can believe that. I inspected the fish, and my boss, you know, I'm the only woman among eighty men, but there he was, and the way he talked to me. It's like I'd pasted a big sign on my back that said lines that don't work on a second-week Denny's server are worth trying because they just might be effective with me
I'm set below the chute, processing a three-quarters full net, when he comes along and says:
"Anything that can't be used is to be thrown away."
I was just like "Excuse me?" I'd been doing this job without help for all of twelve hours. There'd been no phenomenal changes in the nature of the work. Now I was getting managerial advice. Kinda dude who'd whip out the positions manual after we'd fucked.
"That's your job, honey. Anything that can't be used is to be thrown away. We are here to process pollock. You see? These little fish here. There are a lot of them. Pollock are useful. Pollock are valuable. Pollock are good. Got that?"
Honey. Get that. And he tries to be real fucking helpful. I have a BS in Marine Biology from a school so good I'm never gonna be able to pay for it, and this asshole wants to be my fish informer buddy. Since he wasn't gonna leave and the nets weren't working I had to listen, he went on and on about what was useful and what was not. I was about to smack him with a twenty-pound lingcod when the end of shift whistle blew and my relief arrived. Then the prick followed me all the way to breakroom and would have accompanied me into the shower if I hadn't informed him that the meal grinders could take even a three hundred pound halibut.
The next day he kept on, saying he loved feisty women.
They weren't a big company. Not worth suing. Luckily I got off that ship in Juneau, landed a spot as an observer. Huge boat, processor, old oil barge or something. Crew of like four hundred. It was cool, I was making seven hundred a week and eating with the captain, but the lack of real work on my part gave me insomnia. One morning I'm up early, down in the galley to make myself some tea. This other girl who worked peeling duty cleared it with her boss, so I could come down anytime. There was a small domestic dispute between the Phillipine and Puerto Rican segments of our crew. Even though I was an observer I had to step in when knives were flashed, indicating that the intended victims were tagged, and must therefore be kept whole.
Kicked one jerk in the kneecaps when he tried to stop me. He told me Women couldn't understand these things. That man needed to be men. I understood eight on two.
Would've reported them, fighting was not approved, weapons banned, but they were illegal anyway, not something I wanted to be involved in.
It was three years before I got on a scientific vessel. The crews still mostly hate me. Though some of them have let me in on poker games. I now know where to find the best hookers in Dutch. My science job was about to get cancelled, so I finally found my legs and took work onshore.
Coordinating stuff with Japanese egg-quality inspectors, and their own vessels that fish in US waters. Not bad, not great. Money's decent, but compared to my other employers, those guys are sexist.
The world is full of Fred Flintstones. Not nearly as stocked with Barney Rubbles. Few men are gifted with silence. It's sad, the needs they hold: Desperation yes. But quiet? Rarely. If they ever wrote a personal it might read:
SWM heterosexual adventurer seeks straight stoic to bask in the glory of my escapades while continually providing an ear to the things I can't say to any woman. Must be willing to endure extreme amounts of intoxication as I prepare myself to discuss near-death experiences and the afterlife. Former bartenders, psychologists, and non-catholic priests encouraged to apply. Candidate should complement my own level of physical attractiveness and animal magnetism without threatening it.
Alas, they're never quite so honest with themselves. So they go on searching for partners, often getting tangled up with men so lost in the various addictions they've become desperate for any direction. Not that the pride of Bedrock would ever help out, just chasten and lecture in the name of self-superiority. Hell, the odds of one of them assisting you in any problem are roughly par with the spread on OJ helping out Al Cowlings with a ride if old AC had killed his wife.
Their one real skill is that of tour guide. To a man they'll gladly lead you on a woman safari through their hometown. This is the knowledge they purchase your company with. So far my offers have included the mystical drawing powers of Wyoming beer on Utah's 3.2 drinking women. The extreme likelihood of threesomes on demand all along Florida's West Coast and Panhandle. An open invitation to the one bar in Boston where the chicks don't wear sweaters to cover up year-round flab but only because in the winter it's cold. Then there was one guy who wanted to take me to Duluth, which we all know is rocking non-stop. (Coal town.)
The only offer I ever took seriously came from Jerry. Jerry saw what he had in me after a few encounters in the local bars where I helped him to shine and look sensitive for several women from the area. Not that anyone went to bed with anyone but at least he felt like he had a chance. So Jerry courted me, and offered to help in my only wish, that of playing guitar. I'd never learned, was the only one there who hadn't. So we drove up to Anchorage, and with my money he bought me one while spewing out profanity and racial epithets during the bargaining process that would have my college professor father thinking jackboots at Auschwitz.
Course then I got fired after learning maybe eight cords. But at least the thing helped me to hitchhike. And Jerry got laid right after telling me about the time he broke his neck. So it all worked out.
"Can't live in between, kid."
"Huh."
"I said you can't live in between. Wake up. You hear me through those earplugs?"
"Yeah."
"Thought so. The water's dripping onto your hat, right?"
"Yeah."
"You're getting fish guts spilled onto yourself from this table, right?"
"Yeah."
"Your hands ain't hurting you yet. God, it's only been eight hours since you started, right?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. So why don't you get the Hell to work! Look, that fish you been working on. Any fins? No. Any guts? No. Head still on? No. Tail? No. So why's it still here?"
"Um, I don't know."
"I don't know either. Get rid of it. It's six fish a minute, not six minutes a fish."
"Hey."
"What, you were attached to that one? Or are you just stupid? What part didn't you understand? Listen, take a look at those guys, the ones just standing there. What do they do?"
"Just stand there."
"Right. Now me, I smoke pot during every break, have since my first year here. No matter how much I numb myself, I still can't bring me to the point where I can just stand around. Those guys are paid to pick up a fish whenever it hits the floor. There's three of them at the moment. Frannie can't really ever fire anybody, you know?"
"Yeah. I know."
"But would you want to be one of those guys?"
"No."
"Right. Who the Hell would? Stand around for fifteen hours, then go play Hackey. Great. What a life. So show me you're not one of them. What's that?"
"Fish."
"Right. Grab it."
"But."
"It ain't gutted; not a hole not a slit. So?"
"So?"
"So go get it."
"Got it."
"Now? Gut...Scrape...Fins...Back...Tail."
"Okay."
"Next. Gut. Scrape. Fins. Back. Tail."
"Okay."
"Great. Gutscrapefinsbacktail.gutscrapefinsbacktailgutscrape-finsbacktailgutscrapefinsbacktail. Ye-esss. Now, guess what?"
"What?"
"Break time. See you in fifteen."
"Oh."
"Wanted more fish, didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"You'll learn."
Iowa John
Well no, she hasn't had an actual oil change; not as such. But ever since something started leaking out of the engine along the Cassiar Highway, I've been adding two quarts every fill up. So I figure it's completely new oil about once every six hundred miles. Five times what the owners manual recommends. Don't tell me I ain't cautious.
I told the guys at school that I wanted to hang out on the Pacific this Summer. LA's for pussies. And I bet you can't hear good country in Seattle. Besides, I'd just gotten a real good deal on a case of Fix-a-Flat, so here I am.
Maybe not everyone has that kind of courage. I've got a brother who won't even drive to Des Moines. He's happy, got a fat wife, sex whenever he wants it, you know. They give me sandwiches whenever I stop in. A few beers for football. Tells me about the wonders of insurance.
Not me dude. I can take life. I smoked crack once. It's all about experience. There's some men gonna hunt in the mountains, some boys gonna garden in the burbs. No in between.
Way I see it, you can spend your whole life looking for safety, trying to keep yourself from danger. But it's like fighting, you worry about the punch, what it's gonna feel like. So you spend your whole time being nice to everybody, hoping they won't want to punch you. Praying even, late at night.
Then one day you're in a bar and Wham! Somebodies' Irish gets up. Before you know it you're on the floor. You can run away or you can realize it just ain't so goddamn bad. Then you get up and start to give what you been getting. Or you crawl away. Either way's fine, long as you understand who's crawling, and who's standing. Only a fool tries to crouch all his life.
Besides, you get knocked down you can always find some woman to take care of you, lick the salt from your wounds. This one girl here, she's helping me out already, spotted me the money for some much-needed repairs. And my brother's sending me cash for food and a new tent.
It's real easy going it alone.
They say guys learn their behavior from peer examples at a young age. I had a lonely childhood. The only role models I had came from flashing images of tough guys; smart, unbeatable, and completely suited to life. Like the Rockford Files. Sadly, James Garner was rather difficult to imitate, particularly for one too young to drive a Camaro. So for real world situations, I learned to copy the behavior of my closest friend, a little gray tabby with a mind of his own.
Cats are good at life. They mostly sit and mellow, doing cat things, thinking cat thoughts. So many of them are strays largely because people tend to think felines always have it together. No self-respecting mouser would disagree. Still there is a difficulty in mimicking the behavior of a lower mammal, one never gets a satisfactory reason for doing inexplicable things.
No, I don't eat from a bowl, unless it's soup or the milk from cereal. I don't scream and yowl when making love, unless she lets me. I've only learned to borrow cat motion. It's good for balance, cured my fear of heights, and apparently looks rather cool from a distance. The only difficulty arises from the peculiar compulsion that comes when one is sitting comfortable and at peace in safe and pleasant surroundings. Suddenly you have to move, at all possible speed, overcoming any obstacle, to a new place; where once again you sit comfortably and at peace. This unthinking behavior I've picked up, obstacles beware. It explains why I was such a truant in high school. It might also explain why I tried mountain climbing. There's certainly no human reason for it.
It began simply, a day like any other. Sunny, warm, no fish to cut. I sat sprawled upon the rocks that guard Resurrection Bays' beaches, when I looked along the skyline and saw Mt. Marathon. Instantly it pulled me, tugging me by the ear as though I were a lower-middle class woman's delinquent six-year old. Don't remember walking to it, just there I was, at the base of a 4000 thousand foot mountain.
Might not seem like much, but Hell, I'm from Maryland, the Nebraska of the East. Our definition of elevation is the vista awarded to anyway brave enough to stand on a particularly vicious speed bump. The tallest building in Baltimore has a top of the world Observatory. On the twenty-ninth floor. Tourists actually pay a dollar to look out from it. Some of them get nosebleeds.
The only serious climbing I'd done came when I was drunk and trying to relearn the concept of stairs. And often the stairs held me back, causing embarassing moments when random kin found me sleeping on the floor, curled up in the fetal position, my bodys' unconscious tribute to the saving grace of low-altitude living. Which is all part of my roundabout way of saying that I had absolutely no idea that there were trails for these things. All I saw were trees, trees that seemed rather too close together given my median-strip concept of nature. So I avoided them, hoping in so doing to avert any unnecessary violation of my rather natty mall-bought outdoor wear by such foreign objects as dirt and animal droppings. I saw one way up that seemed free of such things. And my way was clean. Erosion and landslides would continually sweep any foreign matter away. Of course, stability went by the wayside, but you wouldn't know that until you get at least forty feet up. Prior to that the rocks seemed firmly embedded in the mountain.
My general cynicism was finally rewarded. I'm not so good at trusting people or things, so when every handhold, root, out-jutting branch or seemingly stable rock came off in my hands or shifted beneath my feet, my fatalism was affirmed. Not giving up, I repeated to myself that, after all, God favored drunks and fools. And of course I was doubly qualified, but then I remembered I didn't believe in God. The only option left to me was to hear the sound of one hand clapping while ascending the six light-seconds or so that separated me from the stable looking trail that wove it's way gently up and down a slender 10 degree grade. My way's grade was ninety, the only A I've ever gotten.
I don't know how it is that I made it up. Perhaps the strength and luck came from my conviction that stupid is as stupid does; and alpha stupid must certainly be eternal. Maybe I learned to levitate. Maybe God's feelings weren't hurt. In any event, I pulled myself over onto my first steady ground in twelve or thirteen years, only to look into the eyes of three local youth who were much impressed by a puker doing what no Seward native would ever attempt without rope and other supports. (Not that they would need to, being able to read signs and follow directions to actual trails, as opposed to virtual ones.)
I could perhaps have awed them with my power, like Livingstone and so many other great bush pioneers who brought miracles to the unenlightened, if only I hadn't vomited and collapsed, shaking, into the tender embace of old pine needles and antiquated moose-dung.
Still and all, if you read my upchuck as a hairball, could mean I've got eight more credits in the pinball game of life.
Ray from Wasilla
We all kind of figured ole Dirty Don'd get his sooner or later. Took a poll wouldn't find one man say he'd prefer it to be later. That boy'd just piss you off six ways to Sunday. Didn't help he was the only guy 'round with a spare girl.
He'd leave the steady behind, go off drinking. That boy was always drinking. Women he was with, they'd get tired of it. But there was always another. And every one of'em said he was really a nice guy. Once you got to know him.
Reckon the gents coulda told you quite different. And most of us did. Any time the subject arose, that boy was rejected verbally more often then a Republican governor who just passed a new beer tax.
We would list his faults. Myself, and I'm a talker, not even first and foremost. One fellow'd lead off by saying how Don liked to push in on you, physical. Silly stuff, just punching at you, let you know who the boss was. He'd keep it up, pinching, Hell, biting as the stories improved with repetition. Then another spouted on the booze. How Donny'd been so drunk he'd near about fallen off the inspection table like a two-hundred pound salmon, only not a king. And a few long-termers like myself would kick in about all the women he'd hurt, and how a man like that could never be faithful. And missy wouldn't you rather one who was and could be.
Of course the girls, they understood. They saw Don just as we saw him. Every one of his flaws they knew going in. We all made quite certain of that. So it was with absolutely decision that they'd leave our bull sessions, pause for a moment in feminine comtemplation, and then promptly head off, seeking out Donnie for the challenge we'd proclaimed him to be.
Every one of 'em. For three years I watched. Him always on top. And always having to prove it to you. Little ways, pushing you around. Him in charge. We just hung back, got to muttering. Loads of muttering.
But never any action. Old Donnie, he wasn't big, no. But for a short fellar, sure was thick. Broad arms, no way of telling how much was booze. Wasn't a one of us willing to find out. Besides, once he got his hooks into you, was like he pulled you into your place. Never anywhere you could go from there.
Finally asked Donnie about it, why he thought he was so tough. In front of a group. We all listened, hoping for a weakness.
"What do you have when you have two little green balls in your hand?" He replied with a question.
"I don't know." I said. But I think I did.
"Kermit's undivided attention." And of course he's right. And he was just hoping for me to ask. And now ain't nobody gonna do anything to him this year.
Turns out that was wrong. There was this kid. Tall. Sorta big. Kind of quiet though. Folks got to wondering about him, always on his own, reading books. Rumors abounded, always him and some other him. But nobody messed with him. Leaving the taunting to potential boyfriends. Those quiet guys. Sometimes...
Anyway, that kid and some other folks are getting stoned in Jerry's tent. There'd been music for a while, but the pot deprived everyone except Jerry of ambition. The kid's sitting on a bed, zoned out, not bugging no one, when Don walks in. Even to Jerry's room, Don would walk in.
He sits down, next to the kid. Kid says hi. Donnie tries to take charge, like he always does. Looking at'em, we're all thinking, here we go again. Donnie ain't got his hooks into'em yet, like I said, kid kept to himself. Old Donnie, he's drunk, starts punching at the guy, little knocks, on the shoulder. As usual.
Kid don't even look at him, just reaches out and grabs Donnie's hand with his fist. Donnie's perturbed, but he figures he's got a strong grip, so he tries to squeeze the kid's fingers. Kid smiles, this wierd, happy, I'm stoned out of my mind and you wouldn't matter if I was sober and you were on my wife smile. Then he spreads his fingers between Donnie's, turns towards him, holds his other hand up. Donnie tries to smile too, but he looks maybe a little nervous. Still, figuring he's got thirty/forty pounds on the kid, he reaches out his other hand, grabs the kid's.
For a second they sit there, palm to palm, fingers clasped like wrestlers locked in an exciting near death-struggle. Then the kid smiles even bigger, eyes showing no strain as he slides both of Donnie's hands down and twists his arms till the elbow knuckles crack.
The kid lets go. Donnie's stunned. Ain't a man there that doesn't nod when he gives us a 'did you hear that? look.' Then old Dirty Don is out the door. We all start liking the kid. Even more so when we hear about how, a coupl'a nights later, he's sitting in this girl's tent, one of Donboys' targets, when who should enter, without knocking, but Don himself.
Now Don is shocked. But the kid just smiles, says "hi." Halfway to welcomes Donnie in. They was just talking. But Don closes that flap and is out the door. Kid doesn't get in your face. Just mellow. It's cool.
Course we all turn on him after he gets fired. Not at first, but after he's gone, some new guy comes in to take over, well I can't remember who said it exactly, but before you know it everybody's telling the tale. Not about anything good he'd done... just one story about the kid who got fired, and how he must have been the one to take a dump in the washing machine.
Chris, not a puker
They said they were afraid of losing me. I told them they could always find me with a chopper; tall guy, lots of plaid. But they were serious. It's not my fault. If you don't want to find out things about me, don't hand me any stupid question forms when I wanna go huntin'.
It all started right after they told me I couldn't bring my rifle into town anymore. They changed the zoning. Then me and my mom have to move because there's a two dog limit they post inside the town. She's a breeder. Sells 'em and pays the tax.
So there I am, having to walk five miles into this town to get to school, and nobody's picking up any hitchhikers. Forgive me if I got a little fucking perturbed. It's my inability to handle conflicts in a constructive manner.
Or a least that's what my guidance counselor told me. That was right after she asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I told her I wanted to be the first kid on my block with a confirmed kill. She got all freaked out. Didn't even understand I don't live on a block. Fuck you and I learned to read by watching the credits at the end of movies.
Can't believe how many assholes there are in this town. When I had that mow hawk...the shit I had to take. Every day, some cop or other would start hassling me. Thought I was in some gang. Motherfucker, the Crips are a little bit too far South for a man to go, and anyway I don't like rap. Hell, you get eight guys together in a gang here, all the sudden you've run out. Got to go two hundred miles find someone to rumble with. Besides, only time all us guys get along's when there's a black bear in town big enough for everyone to throw rocks at. Chill, okay? But they can't. Not just with me.
I remember when they got it on with Jimmy. Think I'm difficult? Should have seen him. One time we're out by the playground, walking off a high. Peaceful, dig? Jimmy pulls out this knife. No big deal. A knife in Alaska. Next Constitution probably make it an offense to carry less than a tactical nuke on you at all times. We'll buy'em from the Russkies with our permanent fund.
Anyway, Jimmy starts hacking into a picnic table. Yeah, vandalism. He writes something interesting, might give the whole town shit to talk about besides who's fucking who this week. Besides it's November, not exactly bbq season. And if we have to replace the tables we just wait till summer and charge the pukers an extra buck to put up their tents. Where's the problem?
But oh no, the city cops, all eight of them, they gotta come over and start fucking with us. And I'm mellow. No thing. No problem. No way. But Jimmy, he sees them, and he starts getting more and more wired. Then he's looking at me, and all the sudden he starts screaming and real quick he writes something with his knife. Couple a cops pull a gun, but Jimmy's too busy to notice. I'm too freaked to care. Jimmy works that knife like in crabber on meth in the third day of a sixty-hour opener.
Finally he stops, stands up, happy like, look on his face made me think he'd got some for the first time. One of them jumps on him. Real hero type. Knocks the knife away before Jimmy can drop it. He's finished, you know? Proud. They want to bust me too, but I'm unarmed. And unguilty. And real fucking unhappy. Then they take Jimmy away.
All he said was; "Punk Rock still Lives." Jimmy didn't like Seattle.
He didn't like the state hospital either. He got three months in there. But it's a point thing. You work off your bad points and then split. Get rid of six-hundred or so in a month. Eight-hundred if you clean bathrooms.
Old Jimmy, last I heard, had like ten-thousand points. Fifteen-hundred to start with, like Monopoly. Won't even pick up a jacket, not even if they offer half. They're desperate, he's been there two years. Turns eighteen soon. Discipline problem. Gotta respect that.
Me, they're afraid. Didn't want to have two like that, bad for the town. Let me do my own school now, hour a day in the library. Turn in my notebook when I feel like it. They figure I'm incorporated into the town proper. Dorks.
Next year I join the marines. Like Jimmy knew, can't live by that Nirvana shit. Ever.
Robyn Battles
Folks in this world use you up ‘till there ain't nothing left. Goddamn, my family would squeeze me like an old cow's teat, just hoping there was some old spurt left for them to suck on. I got out finally; figured they was fixin' to slaughter me for the meat.
Yep, told my sister and her thieving brood that it was over. Told my dad that he was gonna have to find a new handyman, and pay the man a decent wage for a change. Told the bank they could keep my car, told my ex...well, I can't say what I told her, just believe you me, I told her.
Don't miss a one of'em neither. It's my turn now, and it's just right about time I figure. Don't mind the work up here. It's work, got food and a dry place to sleep. Winter can't be no worse than North Dakota. And I know the moose'll be bigger.
Besides, this place is good to me, they saw my hands was hurting, took me off the slime lines, and let me work over there on the gut belt. Just me and a whole bunch of eggs. And that fella Riley, he done told me that there was all kinds of jobs out here in the winter.
Just wandered over, right out of the blue, said I could check with some local man, catch all kinds of cash chopping firewood, moving trees, and of course some snow shoveling. Lot a snow shoveling. Go figure.
Yeah, for once folks is going to take care of me. And that's about all I'm gonna do too. So right now I'm leaving this here town to go see if there's more fish southeast. They'll fly me down for free, even give me a few days to rest my hands.
Yeah, putting me just a ferry boat away from Canada. Highway that could run me right on back home. But I ain't never gonna go back there, no sir, I'm never gonna head to the old place. I'm making a new life, my own life, for the very first time. And brother I like it.
So don't go looking for Robyn at the old Roost. He won't never be heading back. No sir. Not me.
Lessen they ask real nice and say they appreciate me for once. I'm already sick of the rain.
"Women like us because we're passive."
"Interesting theory."
"No, I mean it, like Rick there; he's got lots of women wanting to talk to him."
"So, what does he do about it?"
"Nothing, he's too shy."
"Oh. And you think women like him?"
"Well, yeah. They're never mean."
"Oh. Okay. Um, dude, let me get this straight: You stay here on the beach in a little campsite away from everyone. Yes?"
"Yeah."
"Three of you live in that little tent?"
"Yeah."
"You don't change your clothes very often?"
"Well...yeah."
"Why are you out here? Don't you want to come and join the group? We don't bite much, just drink a lot and then get stoned."
"We drink."
"Yeah, but you're not old enough to, and out here no one is willing to buy for you."
"We get by. Besides, Rick's afraid."
"Of what, clean water?"
"No. Well, maybe. He hasn't changed his socks since April."
"You know, revenge of the nerds went out a long time ago. Nowadays frat types are in the computer classes."
"Yeah. But we're art students, and we're really smart."
"Um hmm. Listen, dude, lots of folks are smart."
"Yeah, but we like it out here, and where everyone lives, we might get hurt."
"Babe, high school is over. Adults derive less pleasure from beating up on the weak, there just aren't as many hormones involved. Peak time for that is sixteen."
"Oh. Well, look, it sounds good, but Rick wouldn't go for it. He likes to feel pure, away from it all."
"Pure, huh."
"Yeah, pure. It's not so bad, you know, all he cares about is what's beyond this world, the big thing, philosophy."
"Philosophy. Rick was asking me about philosophy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, wanted to know the greatest book I'd ever read, the one that answered it all."
"So what'd you tell him."
"There wasn't one."
"What'd he do?"
"Just about cried. Listen, babe, I had a friend once, lot like your friend Rick there. Same attitudes, same ideas, same need to control. Same right down to the bathing habits. Dude I knew was a little scrawnier-if that's possible."
"So?"
"So, women did like him, some women anyway. I guess they thought he was attractive. Maybe he was. But he kept himself, you know, clean, innocent, pure, dedicated to the higher stuff. Wouldn't give them much to go on, not that the ladies minded, some of them did keep up with him for a while, till they got bored. All that stopped though, least in high school."
"Why?"
"All those little urges he'd been suppressing came up one day, while he was at home with this girl he'd just met."
"And."
"And he raped her. Unlike the rest of us who've lived, he didn't know how to deal with it. Saint to Satan. I heard he did the same thing to some other chick in college."
"And? What happened to him?"
"Well, it wasn't Antioch. He got away with it. Both times. Probably won't get tenure. Cops couldn't buy it. Straight A student since third grade. Just looked so harmless.
Barchi
You can do anything up here. I found that out even before I clocked in for the nineteen hours herring overfishing left us.
Man, you should have seen me in a bar that first night. I was crazier than an Indian on Peyote, drunker than a Catholic Priest. I wanted to grab the moose horns off the wall and run down the streets naked except for the antlers and my boots. The bartender wouldn't let me have'em, so I took a cab to the Pit at two and then jumped into the bay at five.
That became a ritual for me, me and my buddy Bart. I tell you we had us some good times. The funniest one was our last night. We hit the Pit once more, old times' sake, before getting shipped up to Bethel 'cause the company needed forklift drivers. It's three-thirty, bus is leaving in twenty minutes, and we just had to hit that bay one more time. Shit, it ain't so cold, never saw a chunk of ice in that water wasn't tossed off a tender. Sure we're in Alaska, but it's rainy Alaska.
Anyway, we're stripped to our shorts and stretching out when Bart smacks my head and screams out "Shit, there's a sea-lion in there." Well I'm thinking we gotta jump in there and teach that puppy a thing or two about swimming. But old Bart, he's pulling back, afraid."
Well I'm like hey, let's go for it! I'll be the oil spill, you can be the otter. I want to skin that seal and make me some soft boots. I run inside the cannery and sprint up the stairs to my locker. Grab my knife and stick it between my teeth. Then bamn, I'm back down the stairs and raring to go when I smack into Franny. Now Franny, well, we ain't on good terms to begin with, but she's the boss and I want to fly somewhere for free, so I get dressed, pick up Bart, and then we get our packs and get on the bus.
That Franny bitch is one buzz-killer. Just ain't no way to get along with her. Last time she was pissed at me I had to take off for a few days. It was right at the end of halibut, we're sitting in my tent getting hammered, and singing and shouting and doing these Fu-manchu karate moves on a bunch of pallets we was breaking up to start a fire with later. Anyway, guess we're making too much noise 'cause Security Bob comes strutting in. Bart offers him a beer first thing and the man just turns him down and looks glaring at him and says "Who are you?" real stern-like.
Well Bart squares his shoulders, sticks out his chest, looks the man in the eye and says "Bart." The Bob-dude looks fierce at him and pulls out a pad, waiting. Then he finally asks "Bart who?" And Bart says "Simpson." Well I just lose it right there. I'm on the ground rolling, crying like I ain't done since my daddy beat me, laughing harder when cop-guy splits.
I recover myself until he comes back and says he talked to Franny, and she said we had twenty-nine minutes to clear out. But we're waiting, there has to be more, then he hits us. "And I know you're not Bart Simpson!"
Let me tell you, I may be an Asshole, but it's like my daddy told me, gonna be something gotta be the best. So I'm the biggest fucking Asshole in the biggest fucking state in America. And that's saying something for sure.
So anyway, me and Bart, we take off in Tom's car. Tom's sober, so we let him drive us like the gentlemen we are. Let the man party with the big dogs and piss in the tall grass for once. But would you believe the fella never thanked us or even appeared to appreciate the honor?
Well, we're driving along, it's that time of year when the sun splits out for a cigarette break at two a.m. and checks back in at three forty-five to cast it's nicotine-stained rays on the shrubs that are brown even in June and won't be ripe 'till August. So we decide what we need to do is get kicked out of every single place we can along the highway. Being three o'clock in the morning that ain't real hard because most of the places are locked up anyway.
But we stick with it, and at eight we finally hit an open K-mart. Now back where I come from I've done the worst. Heck, I've been removed forcibly from K-marts, Wal-marts, Food-karts and Kwik-starts, not to mention a Piggly-Wiggly or two, but we couldn't do nothing to phase these guys.
They had produce, so we pulled some apples, took bites, then dropped them back in the bin. Bart went to a freezer and grabbed an ice-cream bar, chomped on it for a little while before dropping it on the floor right in front of the manager. We didn't hear a peep. Back home they'd a shot us, which is why I suggested we hit the gun counter.
But wasn't nobody there. Man, we were feeling lonelier than a fat girl on prom night. I suggested a game of tackle football so we'd know we were still alive.
We really played smear the queer, Tom was honorary queer on account of his still being sober yet dumb enough to hang out with us. But I recall scoring three touchdowns, spiking the ball in full view of ladies' lingerie, and still not one squeak.
Then I saw him, this old guy got them peppy prudish eyes. He walked past us, gave a glare, headed to the end of the aisle, then turned for a second. I was ready. He was gonna say something, we'd piss him off, then security'd finally come and we'd get down to it. Big'uns come in pairs, little'uns get here as quick as you can! I'm kicking everybody's ass today! Just hoped I had the money for bail.
Then he smiled, turned his body away from the big window's Arctic glare, and screamed out "Hit me boys, I'm open!"
That Fica-lifer dove for the pass!"
You know, I'm gonna go back home, probably get married, be boring. Ain't never gonna have another summer like this one. But up here man, I don't know. Folks are crazier than we are.
"You guys don't know a damned thing about fish."
"Thanks for sharing. Don't suppose you'd like to quit talking and maybe help us fill up this bucket? After all, we've only got five or six more boats to do today. Not that we don't all love your banter."
"You shut up. I'm sick of you. I shouldn't even be down here. I've been working out of Dutch Harbor, making twenty-five dollars an hour, and I know everything. You should all listen to me."
"Normally I would shove this black cod into your mouth to quiet you. Unfortunately, as we all know, you have yet to touch a fish today, so for all we know you might have a reaction when you accidentally come into contact with one of them. And nobody wants that. Why don't you do us all a favor and leave with the next bucket?"
"You don't tell me what to do, I've got seniority. I know things."
"Yes but like Christ your wisdom should be spread far and wide. Preach on, like St. Francis. But please, do the world a favor, preach elsewhere."
"Why won't you listen to me, why doesn't anybody listen to me."
"Two answers: On the one hand, there is Emerson's observation that no genius was ever completely understood in his or her lifetime, so perhaps we ignore you out of awe."
"Really? You mean that?"
"Perhaps. The other possibility is that we're just throwing fish into a bucket that is raised and lowered by crane. This process is continually repeated until all the fish are removed from the boat. Then we go to another boat. What motivation is there to seek counseling and advisement?"
"You don't know, don't understand. I'm smart, I tell you, I got experience."
"The most dreadful possibility of all is that you might be right on that score. In such case we will improve at this job. Anyone want that?"
"."
"Thought so, so now why don't you"
"Hey, you two! Quit your yapping and start slapping those fish into the bucket before they rot and become number two's."
"Well, hell, where else will cafeteria's across the land go in order to maintain the proper quality in their fish sticks?"
"You need to show us a better attitude, Mister."
"Attitude. Okay. Here it goes. You guys see that fish there? Sure, he doesn't look like much now, but someday part of him could be dinner for someone you know. Maybe your girlfriend, wife, some super model, who knows? You can tell this one's great eating. Sure, he's a scum-sucking bottom-dweller, but his hearts on bigger things. Just look. He's got eyes on top of his head. This fella really aims for the sky. Mind always on a bigger and brighter tomorrow!"
"And it's our job, we the unloaders nee slimers, to make sure that he gets there! So lets make these things fly! It's time for a little spontaneous evolution here! We all knew Darwin was wrong!"
"Hey! You there! Yes, my Fillipino friend. See that black cod in the corner? I think he's sprouting wings! Lend him a hand, he's gotta bypass the Pleistocene to reach the stars! That's it! Go for it! He shoots he scores! Three-pointer! I love fish! Whoo-oo!"
"Attitude better now, boss?"
"Yeah, it is. Be careful though, don't break the backs off the cod. They're delicate."
"Some people you can't please. All right guys, it's okay. We're not Gods, can't select and reform the manner of creation, we're stuck with what we have. So let's follow the New Testament! Love the fish as you send them off to their deaths! The most Christian way is to do it quick and gentle. Sure, the church frowns on the Coup de Grace, but I don't see no Popes around, do you? No? Then let's do it! Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah!"
"Yeah-eah!!!
Derrick, Illinois
Guess I should've known something up when nobody was laughing. Hell, though, I mean seemed like one man at least ought to've made a stand. Not a fellow there didn't joke about it. There we was, each to a man, second she'd start coming over, asking for change, a cigarette, coke, weed. Her interest in you equals your fifteen minutes, Alaska style.
Race was on, see which got spent first, your stash or your patience. Either way she'd be on to the next, Hell, she'd probably worked two or three different locations like that. All season long. Taking in, never putting out.
I got sick of it. We all did. But there wasn't a way to get rid of her. Last place on the Kenai still had salmon, more work here for black cod then anywhere's else. Believe it mister, she'd still be here no matter how many guys caught on.
The idea hit me, when I watched her at the party. All alone with bonus called. Just drinking, silent like. None of the women would talk to her. Vice versa, I suppose. But none of the men, not one, considered for a moment inviting her over.
I watched her, and I remembered an old girlfriend. One who'd dumped me. And I remembered some other chick who refused me. Or maybe I remembered none of them and I'm just trying to explain the feeling I got. The meanness.
I wasn't gonna do nothing. Wasn't that kind of meanness. I just got to remembering how women could get to controlling you in this town. Women that wasn't even pretty. And I started thinking to myself how wrong that was.
Next thing you know I'm right by her. Sweet talking her. I can be nice. When I want to. She's buying right into it. Never did dig her claws into me, but then she never really pissed me off neither. Or at least she didn't know she did. Advantage me.
Well I'm listening real polite to her blather, and every now again she's kind enough to listen to what Augusta, the real world, is like. Though I don't tell her that women there, like them other folks, know their place. I figure she'll just have to learn it later. I've got me an overt example.
Couple of the fellows is laughing at me when I walk her outside. She's staggered a bit off the beer. Whiskey give me a throbbing in my head. Slight though. I'm still under control. Where she's a gonna be.
We get back to the camp. It's raining, of course. Pouring. My tent ain't too dry, never was, but I ain't gonna live with nobody else. No matter how cozy them big free canvas things is. I tell her I gotta get something, I reach in and get it, then I ask her if she'd like to smoke.
She's hot to the idea. Surprise. Her turning down a freebie, that'd be a surprise. But I tell her we gotta go someplace less damp. She don't want me in her abode. Naturally, might be something I could eat there. Maybe even a leftover beer she'd snatched in her brief heyday. So, I suggest the bathroom. No one'd come in on the men's side, they're all probably still at the party for a while yet.
She likes the notion, holds my hand as we walk down. Inside, I ask her to wait a moment, and visit my favorite stall. My hands are shaking inside. I got to cover myself, so I start rolling. Must have dropped a third of the bag. Worth it. Worth it for sure. She hollers out, asks me if anything's wrong. I tell her I'm just getting it ready, packing a fat one. She laughs, says great!
Great. I've got it lit when I open the door. Toilet flushing. She comes forward as I hold it out to her. Smiling, she reaches to take it out of my fingers. I smile back as I use my free hand to grab her wrist, drag her inside and push her down. I stuff the joint back in my mouth so that I can, mellowing, use the other hand to turn her head in the right direction.
"Read!" I scream. But she don't say a word. "Read!" I scream again, tightening my fingers a bit around her neck. Saw marks a little later when I let her go.
"S-S-Soon," she squeaks out.
"LOUDER! Look at the WRITING and READ! That's what everyone here THINKS of YOU!"
"Soon all the girls," she chokes a little, so I loosen up. No need to be mean.
"AGAIN!"
"Soon all the girls will go home and be ugly again."
Of course my original intention was to further her education, but I'm laughing so hard at the sight of her in that position that I can't continue. So I head out, joint still in my mouth as I wave in the direction of approaching footsteps.
The guys told me she cried for hours.
Don't feel much pity for her. I've got my own problems. Even though my arm'll set in a few months, six front teeth are kinda irreplaceable.
And to think I was Captain of the Safety Patrol back in fifth grade. Yep, if anyone out there had a problem, didn't how to cross the street, wondered whether or not the ice was safe, I was the one to help them. And if you did a bad thing.... Bamn, I reported your ass. Right to the principal. And you probably had to write something down or something.
I don't know what happened. I never actually reported anyone. In fact I was replaced mid-year for dereliction of duty. The cartoons beckoned. But still, I was the one that the teachers thought of as good when they appointed me to the post. And I played it like a king.
It's a quiet demeanor thing. I don't usually talk much. Easier that way. People think you agree with them, they stop bothering you.
Every now and then it comes out. Those times when I just feel that every one around me is a moron. Like during the party at the end of black cod season. One minute I was a happy camper. Then, Zowie, three or four emptied kegs later, and I just wasn't the sort of person you'd want to play disco around. So when the Safety Director tried to get the party swinging with the Badass BeeGees, well, I kinda threatened to kill him in some fairly intriguing ways. Loudly.
Which wouldn't have been a particularly good idea to begin with, but was particularly unwise in view of the fact that our Plant Director was speaking and giving awards. Oh well, what were they gonna do, fire me? There's other canneries.
Besides, I did bust my ass for them. And it was okay, they still liked me enough to be nervous when I asked for my check early. Was I heading somewhere? They still needed plenty of people. Not like there was anything else going on in my life. So I stayed. Make pot smoke not war. Kept me very peaceful even with the lack of fish.
Also made me rather oblivious to things. So it wasn't unexpected that when we strummed the musical bowl in tent city, I'd be the one holding the pipe at the precise moment our beloved personal director walked by.
At least she was nice enough to let me finish the hit.
Still she grabbed me, tugged me out by the ear as it were, and demanded I see her in her office the following day. She also took away my pipe.
So there it was. Would I beg? Plead? Ask her forgiveness? Would I be angry? Quit in disgust? Defame her sexuality in a classic parting shot? It was all about who I am.
And I am calm.
I sat there.
She looked at me.
I sat there.
One brief lecture on pot and where it should be smoked.
I sat there.
Then she fired me.
I sat there.
Now she grew curious, one of those, "did I expect it?"
I have no expectations.
It's more honest, though. Usually when I try to leave a job it takes effort. People seem to want to keep me around. So I have to not show up, repeatedly, for weeks. Then if I move they'll let me quit.
From now on when I hate a job I'm walking in with a blunt.
You just stick your thumb out, and entertain.
Sticking the thumb out, thinking of entertainment.
Here's my thumb, here's my racountours' expression. Yes. Me. I can entertain you.
Ah, young woman, old car....
She even gave me a beer. Next
Older gent. Let's talk. "I'm coming from Seward."
"Seward, hows that place?"
"Pretty cool. Tropics for these parts. Lots of dykes." Nudge nudge.
"My wife's from Seward."
Never let them see you sweat.
I know it seems improbable. But I haven't lied. Yet. A real-live one. Picking me up. Helping me stow away the guitar in the back right up next to the chemical toilet. Inviting me into the major tourist sights. Or at least that one bar I heard about.
Telling me how they're die hard cornhusker fans. Of course I used to play tight end. In high school. I was bigger then.
Then that final moment. The great surprise. It seemed so natural. Snacks are common on highways. But the presentation. On a plate. Generic oreos? No, home-made. With milk.
Then the next guy tried to hit on me, when I refused he got even by passing me a huge bowl. Thunderfuck. I'm surprised I ever came down. Of course when the lodge I was stuck at refused me a room I faltered quickly.
Finally bought transport from a tourbus, but I was so paranoid then I came to feel I'd inexplicably become surrounded by mormons. In my mind at that point identical with a cell of the Priors de Zion. Evily intent on seizing my happiness. I resisted, the next morning found myself in Valdez.
I'm not sleeping in a cave.
Hotel rooms go for eighty-five a night here.
I have twenty-three dollars.
Never was any good at bargaining. The cave looks warm, flowing, inviting.
To me and the bears.
Too shallow, no bears.
It's on the water.
Tide won't rush in, the rocks are free of seaweed for a good six feet.
Wish I had my tent.
Fortune passes everywhere. Next time don't be so trusting.
Thanks mom.
Other people have slept in caves.
Yes, but then they discovered fire. And now their children eat Mcpukes and watch professional wrestling.
Well, then you'd be seeking out your roots. C'mon, it's raining.
I want to watch the tides first and make sure.
Won't stay dry making sure.
Oh, yeah. It's dry in the cave. Ever heard of dank? Invented to describe caves. I believe this cave in particular.
Be warm, cover your head in the sleeping bag.
Great, hidden in the caverns with my head in the bag. I didn't come up here to do this.
Didn't you?
Shut up. I'm going into the cave. Where's my walkman?
Okay. Good night. I made it. Got my rod. I'll be okay now. I'm sure. I can fish. Build a fire. Stay here. Last stand. Great stand. Wait. Who?
"Excuse me there, son, I'm afraid where you're camping is private property. You'll have to leave."
"Oh. I see."
"Yeah, can't stay here."
"I understand."
"Good. The owner'll be real happy. Luck to ya."
"Wait."
"Yes?"
"Could you tell me where the public caves are?"
"Like I said, ain't no shame in being hungry, shame is in staying that way."
"Great."
"Yeah."
"How come we can't take off and hit the food bank?"
"What's that? I hear you grumbling. Don't you worry, folks. I'll take care of you. Good care. Real good. Mean it."
"Sure you do. Hey Skip, I worked here before, how's about if they re-open the kitchen?"
"Can't do that yet. You'll all have to watch out for each other. Mean that. See someone hungry, you got a little extra, give it to him. Won't regret it, none of you."
"Yeah, it's a bitch, sweeping bodies up off the floor with fish guts. Wrecks the machinery. Not that they mind at the meal plant."
"All right. All right. Enough about that. You folks are cranky. Everybody get some coffee, then get down there on the floor. Got some money to be made today!"
"Might even live to spend it."
"Eagle here we come. Thursday a week."
"How you guys getting by?"
"Corn nuts."
"Corn nuts? Those things break your teeth."
"Maybe. But a little bag like this one cuts fifty cents."
"Yeah, cheaper than ramen. But so what? It's junk."
"It's seventeen hundred calories of junk. And fuck the dentist."
"Beats peanut butter."
"Price-wise. Beats anything price-wise. Even day old donuts."
"Yeah, food banks about tapped out too. "
"Course it is, ‘cept for the oats."
"Supposed to turn those little bags into meal. Add hot water."
"Could do that. But..."
"But what?"
"Eat'em like this, takes hours to chew'em down."
"Passes the time."
"Specially when you can't afford cigarettes."
"You too huh?"
"All of us friend. All of us."
Sammy from Cortland, NY
"Hey, listen here, check it out! I've been watching you."
"You have."
"Yeah. Let me tell you, I got it all figured out."
"Really? How?"
"Easy, you just stick with me."
"Okay."
"Yeah, work here for a little bit, get up some cash money, then, brother, we got it made."
"I'm listening."
"Yeah, all you got to do is get in there, start working. Me, I know how to work. Most people, they don't understand, don't have it all together. I got it all together, and you know what?"
"What?
"Usually I don't do this. I mean, I just ran into a little jam, I was doing masonry work, broke my fingers, they're all okay now."
"Are they?"
"Yeah. And I got it. There's money here. After this, snow starts, you get out there, chop firewood. I got the truck. All's I need is a log splitter. And a partner."
"A partner?"
"Yeah. Someone to help split the logs. But that ain't all. You get out there, shovel people's walks, snow comes around here."
"Does it?"
"And folks in Willow, they need you to shovel it for'em. They don't want to do it. They ain't willing to work. So they'll pay you."
"I see."
"Yeah, but that ain't all. You build cabins."
"Build cabins?"
"Yeah, build cabins. When you're done with those cabins, you put in a drive, rent them out. Cash money. And you own'em. Own'em free and clear."
"Good idea."
"Yeah, no tax. And the drive, just pull rocks out of the ground, Number one crop in these, parts, gravel. Harvest it off the roadways, boom, free and clear."
"Come on out to my truck, party with me. I got a great big loud stereo. Got Heart. Got Winger. Wish I had my drums with me. Then everybody could hear it."
"Maybe later okay."
"Okay, I'll see you around. Don't worry, don't have to make up your mind just yet. I'll keep after you."
"Great."
"Boy, let me tell you, I got the way. You want girls, all you gotta do, walk into Anchorage, big old pile of cash money. Long hair, the way chicks like it, just so. Then there's dancing. You want to learn to dance, I'll show you, watch, check me out. C'mon."
"Okay. Thanks. See you in the morning."
"Oh, yeah. See you. Work on time. Gotta get to work on time."
"Yeah."
"You fellas in on time today?"
"No. Slept late."
"Can't be doing that. No sir. Not me. I was in today. In on time. Gotta get to work on time. Punch in early. Make cash money."
"I see. You'd know, wouldn't you?"
"What happened to that guy?"
"They fired him."
"Fired him? Today?"
"Yeah. Got sick of him hanging around, talking, then throwing twenty or thirty fish on the floor."
"Wow. Today."
"And he was on time."
"Ironic, that."
"Man, I can't believe this place. These guys, you know they won't do a Goddamn thing for you. No food, no bonus, always cutting into your breaks to get you back on line."
"Yeah, and it's fifteen hours one day, like eight the next. Then a day off while they wait and see if it's okay to order more fish or not."
"Heard they were broke last year."
"Umm hmm. Didn't even open."
"Some new guy must have bought it cheap."
"That's the story. Listen, like a bunch of us are gonna take off in two weeks, head up to Talkeetna for the Bluegrass festival. Wanna come?"
"Maybe."
"So you're going? Man, wow, like I figured you, your brother, Hell, you were the ones running the place."
"So? They just gave us the job because we were the first ones here. I mean, we worked, but it's time to go, nothing left in these parts. Besides, I want to get back home, we'll be there in two days."
"Flying out?"
"Got it."
"Whoa. I'll be hating you."
"That you will."
"Why'd management order fish day after payday? Don't they know this crew ain't happy? Or loyal?"
"Big catch. Stuff probably came in real cheap. And management's just one green real estate guy. Looking for a shelter."
"Ain't no one gonna be around to process it."
"Yeah. I'll go check tent city, might be some new folks coming in looking. Know how it is."
"Sure do. Been there."
"Yeah, and we've always made it out."
"Got that right."
"What's the crew count?"
"Twenty-nine."
"Place used to hold 200. Each shift."
"Yeah. Least there's no line for the coffee."
"That's a plus."
"Would you believe they fired somebody?"
"Dude was an asshole, made more work for everybody."
"Yeah. But who's in the slime tank now?"
"That one guy, hung out with the asshole."
"Great. Got one line operating. Be here all night. How often you think we'll have to stop and empty that tank?"
"Oh, not more than every fifteen minutes or so."
"Great."
"Yeah."
"Fish are clean."
"Yeah."
"Look at him."
"Yeah."
"He's fast."
"Yeah."
"Why's he so fast?"
"Fast hands."
"Yeah."
"One guy."
"Yeah."
"Inspectors at the end can't even keep up."
"Yeah."
"Four guys used to work that tank."
"Yeah."
"Why's he so fast? I heard him one day, bitching. They put him on the truck, he stacks all them boxes ten high. Gets more tired than any of the rest of us."
"Yeah."
"And then they only give him three hours, maybe four. No OT."
"Yeah."
"Why's he do it?"
"Said it needs to be done."
"Yeah. Hey, hurry up! His tanks empty. That dude's starting to look bored. C'mon you guys!"
"How long?"
"Fourteen hours."
"We did three hundred thousand pounds."
"Yeah."
"Crew of twenty-nine."
"Yeah."
"Before it took us two days. With a crew of seventy."
"Yeah."
"Whoa."
"Yeah."
Late in the season a mean streak emerges. The salmon guts dropped on unsuspecting passerby by bored overhead inspectors have long since lost their amusement value. Twilight guitar playing is no longer tolerated, and rare indeed is the veteran mess-hall worker who would dream of serving even the flakiest of whitefish.
Teamwork falls by the wayside. Cannery workers become drones in the fifth week of OT. Everyone withdraws into themselves, losing interest in those around. No one has energy to brighten the day. People don't care about your problems, they've got too many of their own.
This is too bad, because I don't seem to be breathing right.
They call it Valdez Disease, a minor little side-effect of Benzene levels higher than LA's. There's this itty-bitty oil refinery on the edge of the pipeline, and whatever else it pumps out gets held in by the mountains. Asthmatic pack-a-day smokers beware.
Pollution does bring relief. Originally I thought perhaps my colored sexual history was in the process of catching up to me. But the strain in my back was caused by nothing more than the excess fluid built up inside me. The relief I felt in finding out the town was fucked can be matched only by those who've gone to the clinic and discovering they had syphilis.
The sky gets dark pretty early in August. I'm seeing the Northern Lights on a daily basis. I believe fairly strongly in a work-ethic, that you do what you can for your employer. I suspect I'm related to Cotton Mather. And I did want to finish the season to expand my pride. There is something masculine and glorious about this state and this work.
Maybe a break. Fish Southeast. Better jobs. Supposedly. Treat you like a five-year old. Corporate employment, your mom away from mom. Gotta love the manhood.
On the other hand it's just a fucking job, and they're hiring dishwashers in Seattle. Time will tell.
Potential Wedding Guest
Slowly they prowl, women of varied backgrounds and appearances. Some are natives, some recent arrivals, the change is instantaneous. Without any effort, they grab and hold you. Causing eye contact regrets in excess of anything felt towards panhandlers. It begins slowly, but with certainty...
"Oh, hi. How are you? New here? We haven't met before? Not even last year at? Well, how long have you been working here? Really, and do you know...? NO? We'll, you'll just have to meet him. Everybody here knows him...."
The conversation seems inane, but harmless. There is nothing to fear. Only a veteran can know the truth. For somehow, this base party chatter is threatening, intimidating. Try as you will, you just can't seem to get away...
"When I was sixteen, I went with my first boyfriend. He was sweet and very caring. Too bad he left for.... Then I wandered around, partied. It all went okay, I had no fear of anything, things were safer then. I'd never even thought about that stuff until I met him. He seemed so nice at first, such a friend, and so gosh darn lucky. I felt like nothing bad could ever happen as long as I was with him..."
There is no escape. She has you. The burdens of polite society pressed you into this, but they leave nothing for you to get out with. Sadly you realize you must follow this course until it's end...
"And then I got pregnant. I realized I could never leave. It's sad when you know you're trapped. All of my friends just seemed to vanish, to wander into other things, other lives. Of course, he makes a good life for us, but there's just nothing to help me at night when I have to face that great gray sky. I'm all alone, no hope for tomorrow..."
At least no request is made of you. She holds no hope. Nothing beyond the next ounce, next beer. If the kids seem to grow up there's only another, soon to arrive. Often the men begin to bore. She goes out in search of another, finding him quickly. Nothing changes. Nothing can change. All in all she is trapped; only one outlet exists for salvation. One slender escape. One means of self-expression like the way she dreamt of living long ago: You.
"It's so good to talk to new people. I just wish I could help out more of the folks who come into town. You know, not everyone understands the way things are done here. You'd be surprised how closed this place can be. The secrets we hide. But it's all okay. I can deal with new people..."
Yet, tragically, she can never deal with anyone else. Somehow the argument finishes. A slender excuse that fails to disguise the fact that she has nothing left to say. You've absorbed it all for her, caused her to be content for awhile. You even begin to feel secure. Until the fish head Southeast and you follow them. Foolishly thinking yourself free, only to be lured into the same trap again. And again.
Darryl Esq.
The crazy thing is, I was actually the one who suggested she pick that kid up! We're cruising towards Chicken, heading to meet some new boyfriends of Connie's, and she's wondering whether or not we can fit this friend of ours into the front of her truck. Quarters are kinda cramped, and this thing is a stick shift, but I confess I don't really mind the idea. I figure I can trust her. Now. Besides, when she told me about the guy we were gonna meet, some Kiwi from New Zealand, she couldn't get over how he kissed another Kiwi guy in public. I was sure she'd been good, like we'd worked out.
It was time for us, or getting near there anyway. She's not as young as she was six years ago when I first met her. And I'm not so trapped in my job as I was; after ten years of making it alone in the law, you can relax, let the clients come to you, even pick out the ones you want and the ones you don't. Things were starting to come together, she didn't have a boyfriend at the moment, and I, well Hell, I'd been faithful to the idea for quite some time.
Then she tells me she's gonna take off for Alaska. First thing I think is, you're not gonna get away! No excuses. I mean who'd you kill honey? I can get you off. No problems, I'm a big man in this town. Nowadays. But you can't try to talk Connie out of something, she'll just get mad, do it twice as hard, even if it does hurt her. So I was encouraging. Set them free and all of that.
Besides, I get to thinking, one last fling, let her play and then reel her in, just like good old fashioned bass fishing. So I tell her go right on ahead, I'll watch over her business for her, make sure those contracts get met. She's grateful. But then I tell her I'll join her after three weeks. Just for a little while, you know, when her trip's ending. When she's settled down. Maybe even when she's ready to hear a proposition.
It's the right idea. She's coming over to my place more often than ever. I'm helping her plan, where she'll go, gas, fuel. I help her buy the truck she's gonna take up and sell off up there. It's all going great, we kiss and a little more, but I've got it right, no pressure, just, you know, if you're gonna go a little crazy, think of me.
When I finally get up to see her, and brother you don't know what I thought during those weeks between, I mean Goddamn, my fingernail quicks got bitten to the quick. But anyway, that first night in Anchorage I didn't play it so smart. I wanted her all to myself, I'm worried about this soldier boy who gets too close to her dancing in a bar. I tell him about it. He creams me between sips. Connie comes to my rescue, but man, she's driving me to the hospital, wiping blood off my chin, and cursing me out every which way. Of course she's old enough to take care of herself, God knows I know, but sometimes she's needed to be protected, so I thought.... Anyway, who cares what I thought. It didn't work out, we need peace. And she needs to know I trust her. ‘Cause I do. Except when I think she's gonna do something stupid.
She wasn't real hot to the idea, a hitch-hiker. Until she saw him. Young, blonde, tall, sunburned, cute, and worst of all with a guitar. I'm thinking to myself that God simply does not love me. We pile into that truck; Connie driving, the kid perched over the gearshift, and myself squeezed against the passenger door. Great ride, I love his broad shoulders banging into my neck and back.
But anyway, we get to talking, and even better, it turns out this kid has traveled. All over, places I ain't never been and ain't never gonna go. He's just there getting enough money to head over to place next. Like other countries. He says he's going to Japan, I ask him if he figures they might need lawyers over there. He looks over and says "Only if they need practice at shooting on sight." Well Connie, she laughs and laughs. Thanks.
Anyway, I know not to debate when I'm gonna lose, a good lawyer knows the answers beforehand and all. So I let them talk. They talk music, about Nashville guitarists. They talk dance, Connie rolls up her shorts to show him this big bruise she got slamming. They talk about the car, Connie's reaching over every three four seconds to shift gears, finally starts resting her hand on his leg.
"It's okay, sweetie," she says. "Just that this old thing here's got a loss of power around curves. You know how it is."
"Sure," the kid answers, all calm and smiling. "Whatever." I'm ready to deck him but I feel his arms next to me and those puppies are big as life. Besides, if I piss Connie off, she'll probably kick me out of the car and leave me stuck in bull-fuck Alaska for a few days while she and Mr. Wilderness Adventure Boy go out to some secluded spot he knows where the grizzlies come up real close. So I'm cool. I'm calm. I'm collected. I know what to do:
I look at her real close with all the love I've got inside.
And of course Connie don't notice a damned thing. But that kid does, or so it seems. I swear I see him seeing me looking. So I try to look twice as hard. Just hoping he'll see me like a deer caught in his headlights. And maybe take pity and turn away.
But then when we stop for gas I hear him ask her, "Who the Hell is that guy?" And Connie just laughs and says something about an old friend. I'm thinking great, that's what I am.
I get smart, tell the kid a story I heard in England about getting picked up by a Rolls-Royce. He ain't buying. I try to be mean. He ain't listening. Then I give up and watch the two of them. The kid pulls out a tape, some new-fangled love song. Hard rock. Noise. Connie sighs and sings along.
Then Connie pulls out something that goes "I want to fuck you like an animal." We're driving down straight roads now, she don't have to shift. The power's come all the way back. Her hand's on the kids' leg still. I see it coming now, she's flooring it, ready. Must be doing eighty. She's got this look in her face, like a bob-cat, set to play. The kid yawns, stretches like a lion. Awful fierce.
I think of the kid. He ain't so bad, probably a real nice guy. I know it's been awhile. Even for someone cute like him, women, especially a woman like Connie, well it just ain't every day in Alaska. Take what you can get. Who gives a damn about the other guy. They do look pretty good together. It's nice to know your girl's still real attractive.
Then we get to Tok Junction and the kid asks to be dropped off there; best place to find a ride in the morning. I can't believe it. When he pulls his guitar out of the back, the kid smiles at me. Connie's just about to tears. She's never been turned down before. It's a new thing.
We're getting married in October.
Monday in Tok Junction. It is sunny.
The mosquitoes like that.
They also like me.
I'm starting to like them.
There are six gas stations here. Two reflect the billboard style old-fashioned pumps of the fifties. Four reflect the high-tech environmentally safe dispensers of the nineties.
None of them reflect a ride.
It is possible to rent an RV in the town of Whitehorse. That's in Canada. I wanted to go to Whitehorse. Canada wouldn't let me. No rented RV has picked me up.
I don't like Canada.
Spent two days on the road to Fairbanks. That's two-hundred miles away. Then I spent three days on the road to Anchorage. That's three-hundred miles away. I haven't gone more than three miles. My pack is heavy.
People like to drive in Tok Junction. There's only one road not on the highway. They wave to me. Then they drive around, come back, and wave again.
I've stopped waving back.
I've been here five days.
My thumb is sunburned.
Fewer than two thousand people live in Tok Junction. None of them are going to Fairbanks or Anchorage. The nearest Western Union is in Glenallen. That's a hundred and forty miles away.
The Western Union in Glenallen isn't open very much.
That's tomorrow's problem.
Today I'm thirsty. I ran out of money. I can walk to the town musuem for water. They like me there. I know all the sights. I could guide you. Stop for me. Please.
Oh. Well, that one is only thirty feet long. And from Beautiful British Columbia.
I really don't like Canada.
Andrew Jackson had the right idea. He must have been creative.
Intelligent, but unable to finish the job.
Last time we invaded, the war was already over.
We kicked their ass. There were no repercussions.
Twenty-four million of them. Two-hundred-seventy million of us.
We have nukes.
And a lot of armed pick-up trucks. Hey there! Friend! An idea for you...
Oh. Tokite.
I shouldn't panik. I haven't panicd. I don't know how to spell paniced.
The sun has turned my hair very blonde.
My mind too.
I'm beginning to like it here.
The mountains look beautiful.
Soon everyone will know my name.
I could hunt. Fish. Ski.
I would learn to love it.
That car is stopping.
It's really stopping.
Hmm.
Skagway's favorite Pastor
"You never can tell who will fall into it. I say to you, as a friend, that stuff is just insidious. One minute, you're stable. In Control. A part of things. Next thing you know you're in a cabin with forty plants that constitute your only company in the world."
"There's so much more to life here, son. Just look around; this beauty, wonder, glamour even. It's God's gift to us. Ever see a ravine like that? Take a look at that mountain, see the little black shape? Yeah, she's moving, ain't she? No, a little more to your left. All right. All right. You see it now, don't you?"
"That's what it's all about. We got some folks. Boy, have we got some folks. I hear them all the time when I work as a group counselor. Had one girl who left college because of it, another fella took off from his wife and his kids. Just started sitting with his pipe, and I guess some Jimi Hendrix."
"Don't get me wrong, I know you all think Hendrix is cool. Real cool. But there's more to it. Let me just say, man to man, one story, one girl. She was young, maybe fifteen. And she got into it."
"I know, a lot of kids do. They're bored. They're rebelling. It's understandable. I did it too. We all do."
"But this girl, she was different. She didn't just walk away and pay the price later. Oh no sir, she had to pay it out right there and then. Because when she was sixteen she got into Cocaine. And then one day, she and a friend, they hung out together. With some guy. You know there's always some guy."
"They were into a deal, and the whole thing went wrong. Gosh, wonder how that could have happened. After all, everybody's mind was so focused. But it went wrong. Next thing you know, this girl ends up in Las Vegas. And the Things they did to her. They forced her into Prostitution. They made her do Things."
"She was lucky. At least she got out. Her friend didn't. They shot her down right in front of her eyes. But even though she's out, she's lost years. Big chunks of her life, she can never get back. The kind of everyday stuff you and I can deal with, some of it she can't. She just can't. She's okay, but she's never going to really be okay, you know."
"Now I'm not saying it's because of what she used. Maybe something would have happened to her anyway. You can never tell. Satan works that way. He's the Enemy. But if she hadn't started, she could have led a normal life. She'd be on her own, in control. She's never really going to be in control."
"I say a prayer for her every night. It's all about who you relate to. Learning to accept. That's why I like you. I want you to be able to accept. Accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your own Personal Savior."
"It doesn't have to happen right away. But it ought to happen soon. You never know what you might fall into. It's just like that ditch there. You probably can't see it, they spring up real fast, ground moves around up here. Maybe you'd better take off those sunglasses. Yeah, look. The sky's cloudy. C'mon, I want to see your eyes."
"Oh. Well. Tell me, how's Baked Alaska treating you?"
Anchorage again. Lovely town. They got a hockey rivalry with Duluth. Or maybe that's just a dream.
Stuck here. My ride grew disappointed with me. He left without notice. Took my guitar. A priest, you know? What little faith I had...
Five hundred bucks. Enough to get stoned, get wasted, and get home. I'd like it at home.
I could finish college.
A girl I've known for eight years has written me twice. She really wants to talk to me.
Dad said it could be just like a vacation if that's how I wanted it.
That preacher stole my guitar.
That girl's been telling her friends she'll marry me since tenth grade.
Rents are high here.
Newspaper might be hiring.
Need more cash.
Not a good place to be poor, missions and shelters aside.
Fishing season's got a good month left Southeast.
Need people in Petersburg.
Healthy again.
It's still sliming.
She didn't sleep with me on my last night in town. After insisting I break a date to be with her. She loves me really.
For four generations men in my family have married at twenty or twenty-two.
Grandpa died in a flop-house.
Great-grandpa was a bag boy when he was sixty.
She isn't really that attractive.
Her mom outweighs me.
Flights in-state are advertised. Dirt-cheap.
Ted from Talkeetna
Most people couldn't say what they'd do if given a five-hour layover in Juneau. Then again, most people are losers. Tourists. Slobs who kiss ass, wear loud flannel shirts, and regal their dweeb neighbors and office buds with stories of their trip to Soapy Smith's old Alehouse and how frightened they were when they almost fell through that second story door. Pukers. You get the idea.
Melville understood passengers; called them people who could afford to be seasick. Now we got airports, so those folks can fly up to Anchorage or Whitehorse, rent rv's to cruise around, and use those barges of the highways to piss off more Alaskans in an hour than they previously could in an entire week of touroning.
But technology ain't perfect. It can't keep the fog out of Juneau anymore than honor can keep a fisherman's wife out of adultery. Up here nature still reigns, Mister. A real man knows what to do. In the second case you work onshore, staying around to make sure she don't feel too lonely while keeping yourself poor enough that she sticks with the straight guy who pays her bills. In the first, well, if the Good Lord is presenting an opportunity to experience life, who am I, an old slime dog, to question His intentions?
Besides, what's the harm in showing up a little out of shape in a new place of work? If the company really feels so strongly about keeping it's worker's in the duller mental states, well, that's probably why they couldn't keep people and had to send your ass down there in the first place. They've already forked over the price of the ticket, they'll surely be nice enough to let you work the fish that sit rotting in their holds as your hung-over mind firmly ponders true repentance. And if not, fuck'em, there's other jobs.
I'm not a selfish person. I'm more than willing to share my wisdom with younger, less-worldly minds. I'd drag them around by the neck if need be, just to make sure they understand what life's really about. Though to be honest, I've never really needed to push'em hard.
Hell, they can even surprise me sometimes. Like last summer when I was dragging my crew to this new facility in Hake. They'd sent half the staff home early out of pity to the poverty-stricken, when, surprise, the pinks came running late. Hell, if a fish knew enough to be on time, why would it still be in school?
Anyhoo, we weren't working much in King Salmon, so away we went. Now maybe what happened happened ‘cause we were in a dry native town. Not that there wasn't beer, but come on, market was running forty bucks on a case of Budweiser. If it wasn't for the weed I'd stashed I'd never a made it through. But I was good and ready for the party to happen. I figure we all were. And I just kept telling'em, pray for fog, pray for fog.
Well, a few of those boys must have been right close to God, ‘cause sure enough, we get to Juneau, and bamn, ain't nothing bigger than a seven four seven gonna be leaving that town on account of difficult weather conditions. I was so apologetic when I called Hake to tell'em we'd be late. I was even more energetic when I flagged the airport limo to take us into town. After all, five hours is like a partying fifty, seems like a lot, but spends itself real quick.
So we get to the Valley and sprint from bar to bar. But for once there ain't no women in this town. Rents must have driven out every decent chick that wasn't a hooker. Then I find out there's no bud. Well I'm getting a little depressed. And the boys that are with me, they're getting angry. With half our time gone they've begun to lose faith in me. Worst of all I lose faith in myself.
So I drag us over to the Red Dog. I figure the piano player will make me feel better. Or at least we can stay put and get hammered. We grab a table right in front, ready now; some excitement, some pure fun, some relaxation. Or at least some straight whiskey. But except for the last it ain't happening. No entertainment for us, certainly no women, just graybeards and bluehairs.
I ponder the crowd: I start to feel them winning. I sense them sucking the life out of me, dragging my freedom down with their white shoes and support hose. I reviewed all the good times, saw them washed away like guts down the channel, my very existence swept towards the meal plant, there to pollute instead of please.
I'd never been that low; too sad even to be angry. Then one of the kids looked at me, got a light shining in his eyes. He comes over and whispers. A plan. A beautiful, magnificent plan. But we made it seem natural.
We order double shots, drain them. Then bamn, he's up and in my face. I'm up too and I tower. We're doing it man; arguing. The music stops. The drain stops. All the geezers are shocked. This wasn't in the script. Then I grab the kid, toss him onto the drinkless table of a group of pukers I'd found particularly annoying. He knocks it over with a crash.
Then I walk over, help him up, we shake hands. Leave. He'd given it too me. They're gonna be vampires? Let'em suck wild blood. Reality, Northern style. We scare enough of these fucks they'll head to Montana, bother the people there. Meantime that kid's gonna live with me this winter. We'll pass it on. Come out strong.
Well the gear is free. Swipe the cards to punch in or out. Food's mediocre. And the dormitory beds are poorly ventilated, a scent to put up with for a month.
I'm in heaven.
Six-fifty an hour.
They've even let me work clean-up. Fifteen-hundred cleared out of here.
Women are ugly.
Surprise.
All you need to do to succeed is lay low. Don't think. Hum country music to yourself through the earplugs. So it goes.
The woman at the desk even gives us a wake-up call. Or knock. Or pound
With the stress on short-hair it's like that military academy I kept talking my way out of. The break-room bell sounds like a bugle. I've tried to see the machines here as Tom Clancy would.
I have too much free time.
Everyone here is from college in Seattle or Oregon. They know all the cool bands and clubs.
I've started reading War and Peace.
The peace parts suck.
Ticket's back to Anchorage. Date's open.
I miss that town.
Crazy old man who runs a shop on Spenard
"Step away from them boots there!" Don't you know they're for the tourists? I got a little bit of lard rubbed into the leather for the bears to find'em easier. Just kidding. Besides, most bears don't need any help finding tourists, though that lady from Australia sure did her part. Can't believe she was from Australia, that thing sure had New York all over it."
"I woulda sworn she was the second worst kind of New Yorker; one of those New Yorkers from Connecticut. The worst kind of New Yorkers? Oh, they're easy enough to spot. Just work medivac up in Denali for a few summers. When you find some guy got a few feet less than he used to, you've got yourself your worst kind of New Yorker. I guarantee you he'll be from Jersey."
"Yessirree, they're easy to spot, those New Yorkers from Jersey. Of course, it does take a few thousand man-hours to find them, always a couple a'dozen miles off the course they found it in their hearts to chart out for ya, but what the heck, once you grab'em, that ain't no pyrite, talking about the real thing here."
"You're wintering up here, right? Think you'll make it through? Good. Good. Here, got this nice coat for you. Yeah, this baby's just perfect for Anchorage, keeps the heat in, the snow and smog out. Grab yourself a few pairs of socks over there. Those things are just great for skiing."
"Tell you, there's only one problem with winters up here; ain't got so dang many tourists to worry ya, can do sixty or seventy on the highway without a fear except for the moose, you won't be needing a bazooka to clean away the rv's, but then you get all these folks coming up here figuring they know how to ski."
"Up here, can you believe? Hell, the sites are good enough, if you stay with the groups, but oh no, they been doing it in Colorado for years, they know what tough is. Probably the same loser got stuck in Colorado doing something stupid, now they kicked him out and we gotta deal with it."
"I'll tell you what tough is: Tough is the texture of them artificial limbs when you hold a woman. Tough is signing your name without any fingers. Tough is running around playing catch with your son when you ain't got no toes. Now they can tell you what tough is. It was their tough luck. But really it's ours, ‘cause we had to cover'em. I did it thirty years, now I got this place. Tough."
"But that's all well and good. You want to know what I really can't stand? Canadians. Can't say why precisely. They know what they're doing up here and all, never really had no problems with them about anything, not in my old line of work. But there's just something wrong. Canadians. Maybe it's cause they dish out seven bucks for a pack of cigarettes."
"Or maybe it's the mall. Over in Edmonton, they got this huge mall. A mall the size of the Pentagon. Bigger even. A mall. You head to a hotel, I was just there for the drinking, all anyone can say is, you seen our mall?
"Well no, I ain't seen no damn mall! I don't care if it's got waterslides, roller coasters, floor shows, or public executions daily. It's still a mall. Look outside this store. See any other stores? I built this thing myself, most of it."
"Charge a good price too, better than them Wal-marts. On most stuff anyway. Put those batteries down. You'll get'em cheaper other places. Much cheaper, I can't buy the bulk..."
"That's it? You all through? Well, say, you got yourself outfitted here just right; jacket, boots, socks. Yeah, you'll need a better hat too. Maybe, here, this scarf. Some gloves, that thermal underwear over there and you'll be all set. Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute, you're poor, ain't you?"
"No shame son, no shame. Just stay right there."
"I'll make you a deal."
Diane from Oregon
"Where'd you come from?"
"Petersburg."
"Still raining?"
"Yeah."
"That's like Ketchikan?"
"Almost."
"Well, dryer's in that room. Dollar a shot. Try not to hog it."
"Won't."
"Do drugs?"
"No ma'am."
"Good. Yeah, you don't look it. I don't take much here. You want to do that stuff, just head to some other place, okay?"
"Yeah. Been to one. Midtown."
"Midtown? Twenty-sixth?"
"Yeah."
"They are pretty wild. All the hookers are one block over."
"Explains the laminated phallus I found in the shower. Strange place."
"Laminated?"
"Dildo."
"Oh. Yeah. Wouldn't think they'd need that, as much action as those girls must be getting."
"Wouldn't know."
"Well, let me show you to your room, you'll like it."
"Thanks."
"It's one-sixty a week, not bad for around here."
"Yeah, cleaner than the sleazy inn."
"You said you don't do drugs."
"I don't. I'm sure I wouldn't fit in there."
"You'll like it here. No bad tenants. 'Cept for Tammy. Watch out for her."
"Tammy..."
"Well, I don't like to say..."
"Okay."
"But she's pregnant. And looking. You'd be just fine for her. Closer to her age."
"How young."
"Fourteen."
"Fourteen and pregnant. I'm home already. This could be Pratt St."
"Yeah, well, you've been warned."
"Thanks much. Here you go."
Tammy from Minneapolis
You know you've got problems when guys at the place you're staying remember your father from their 2-year stint in Seward state. Especially when they take his side of things. No clue.
Dammit, he was the one who started it. And then he started it with Carrie. She was nine. But oh no, I took mom's side in the divorce preceedings. Right. Mom threw me out. Six months after I ran away for good.
LIfe on the streets wasn't so bad here. There are places you can go in the Winter. Warm places, food, clothes. Even got to liking the prayer. Too bad I've been thrown out of all of them.
Not my fault. Honest. I had to have that operation. And then things got a little crazy. People just don't understand. When I went to look for a job everybody had heard of me. Like I couldn't even work as a cashier at a mall. Like I wanted to.
Look, the gun I pulled on my principal in sixth grade wasn't even loaded. I just wanted to scare him. It was fun to watch. I hate guns. You get that way after you get shot. Right here on my arm. Twice. Nigger didn't have good aim. I wasn't even the one he wanted. Hadn't worked that job for weeks.
I'm not stupid. I can read. Even like to. I like Edgar. It wasn't like that always. Before I met my teacher, I was at the second grade level. Barely. But she taught me. She respected me. Gave me stuff to read. Like the only time I've ever gotten stuff.
So what if I can't do math like an eight-year old. When I have a kid that might change. And I haven't changed, so I might have a kid. Like in seven months. This is a problem.
Had a guy looking out for me. But he lost his job. And now we can't stay here. It's hard for me to find a place to stay. They say I'm too young. My mother told me I was acting too old. That's how it goes.
Couldn't ask for much, not like, for, rights. Or anything. The state can come in and take your kid. Preachers run the town. I know, I've been in all their homes. Wanted to steal stuff, but they were always watching me. Hated it when they watched me. It's okay for some people to watch me.
Edgar's best work is about dreams. I like my dreams. I fly. Sometimes I dream I'm gonna steal the sun. Make it dark for everybody. Then they'll know how it feels. Then they'll understand me. Then I won't get hurt.
I'm not mean. I'll only take it for a little while. When I bring it back they won't have to thank me. Just leave me alone, and give me a chance.
They're giving my father a chance. Another one. He's getting out soon. I have to hide. Of course they'll take his side of things. Everyone does. It happens. Can't be surprised by it.
There's a commercial I always see on tv. Comes on late, but it comes on in the afternoon. Right before Biker Mice from Mars. If you have abducted your child... we can help.
They'll help get him off for kidnapping. Me they'll help right into the morgue. Then use me as a number. A line. Don't be like Tammy or you'll die alone. Like I had a fan club.
The only one who understood me is Kurt Colbain. He's dead now. I have his picture. But Courtney Love is still alive. And so pretty. Look. I got thrown out of one place for cutting up every magazine that had a photo of her. No loss. It was almost Spring. I kept every photo.
When I felt so alone after him I looked to her. I got a friend. A girlfriend. I'd go to her house, make her come out the window and wander the streets with me. We did everything together. Then her grandma made her stay inside and bolted the windows out of fear she would keep going off with me and do the terrible things I do. Small town Anchorage. Everyone's your mom and the eyes reflect off the white ice, stares multiplying.
I could live with grandma too. My grandma. She'll look after me, she says. Prayer again. But the wrong prayer. Her prayer. I want to say my prayer.
So when I meet a guy who has a job I ask him if he wants to take care of me. Women do it a lot here. I guess I'm not good enough at it yet. Am I?
Anchorage. October. No car.
In Anchorage. In October. Not inside a car.
I'm in Anchorage, in October, and I don't have a car.
There have been more auspicious beginnings.
The school district may go on strike. They're paying one hundred dollars a day.
I won't be that lucky.
The snow isn't that heavy yet.
The buses won't be running by December.
There's always the trusty boots.
This is the largest city in America.
Counting mountain ranges.
Ever seen a twenty-foot snow drift? At every corner, on every intersection?
Some places to work within a mile of here.
Yes, but those were places I turned down when I was sixteen and a high school dropout. I swear I remember college.
You want to keep paying for food and telemarket?
No. I couldn't afford the drugs associated with that job.
Not and six hundred a month rent.
That'll go down soon, once they take away the room tax.
Lucky you.
Why are we here?
Nothing to go back to. Nothing to go forward to. All that's left is a change in state.
Yeah. Pride is for the masses.
"I'm sorry sir, did I mishear your order?"
"Look, kid, it's like we told you; she didn't want any ice in her Dr. Pepper! Hustle up! This is Fast Food, isn't it? Make it Fast!"
He said he was French Canadian
"So, do you want to do it?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Maybe? Ain't no maybes in this business. You in, you out. That's all. Try to do a maybe you'll maybe get your head trimmed a few inches. Thought you was smart."
"I am."
"So? Money's good. He'll hire you today. Beats waiting around for another fishing vessel. They'll string you along and screw you for kicks. You know that, don't you?"
"I do. I do."
"What about the money? How much you making now?"
"Two, three hundred a week."
"Rents one seventy-five. How you eating?"
"Work in two restaurants."
"Just what you came up here to do, ain't it? Thinking of going home?"
"Yeah. But."
"You said your home was a shithole."
"Not that bad."
"Yeah, maybe not that bad. But bad enough right?"
"Yeah. Bad enough. Bad enough for sure."
"It's honest work. You know that, don't you?"
"Yeah. Real honest."
"And hey, some environmentalist gets in the way, even assuming they could find you, you just cut around them. They won't find you though."
"Great, kill as many spotted owls as we want."
"No spotted owls up here kid, just wolves and cottonwoods."
"Look what they're doing to the wolves."
"You wussing out on me? It's a job son! Not too dangerous. You won't be cutting the trees down for Christ's sake. Just sending them along on their way."
"Yeah. On to Japan where they'll sit in the ocean and be preserved for years."
"Till the price goes up. Then wages'll go back up too."
"Yeah. Wages up, honest work, no less women around anyways. Food and shelter."
"All the pancakes you can eat. I just don't want to be alone, myself. Like to have at least one friend along."
"Understand that. How's the boss."
"Real good guy. Real good. Him and his wife. Seventh-Day Adventist. You can trust him."
"Trust him. A christian huh."
"Yeah, darn good one. No work on Sundays, that's for sure."
"Thought they prayed on Saturday."
"Maybe. All I know is they pray a lot."
"Man cuts down trees for a living. Ought to pray a lot."
"Now you listen here..."
Idealized Conversant
"Hey boy, you don't look like you're enjoying yourself! Why don't you relax. Let it all happen. There ain't nothing like danger to bring us all to life. Learn that in the woods real early, or not at all."
"What's that? Oh, you a city boy? Like that even matters. Like it even comes close. Hey men, that boy there reckons he knows what tough is on accounta he walked down streets where the folks have guns. Well, listen here, City boy, we ain't gonna be too much concerned about the guns your neighbors got."
"Oh sure, I know they spend money on'em. That was a given. Them drug folks have a ton more money than we do. Heck, I only got three rifles and a twenty-two. The only one I can afford to shoot is my twenty-two. Five bucks for a hundred bullets. Difference between me and your Ruger having friends is that I know what I'm doing with my gun. Them folks learn to shoot from the movies, turning their hands upside down, or sideways at least. It's a wonder anybody ever gets killed in them big cities o'yours."
"Now where we are no, son, this is the place to get killed in. It's easier up here than you could ever know. You just sit right over there, I got me a few photos. This here's Jack, yeah, real pretty ain't he? Ol' Jack, he used to do your job. Not like now though, we worked with that boy in the rough season, no time off. We made cash, not beer money. Anyway, some of us kinda liked ol'Jack, he busted his ass real hard. 'Bout like you do, to be fair. Anyway, kid, how long you been here anyway? Three weeks? Yeah, that's about ho long Jack lasted. Three good weeks."
"Then he sat up when he shoulda laid down, the tree he was choking didn't spin right, and old Jack... well, that beast whipped into his face like a five dollar whore just got gypped. Yeah, the boy got a beating worse than ten broken hearts. Too bad too, girls used to like him, he said. Pretty boys and bodybuilders son, they ain't living it real."
"Then there was these two brother, came up from California. Where else? Yeah, real laid back types, surfers maybe. We figured they had the right attitude, so they was set to fellin' trees. First time they didn't have nobody watching over'em, well, let's just say they won't be catching anymore waves. At the beach or the ballpark."
"And these are the short trees. Nothing over a hundred years. Nothing much over a hundred feet. You want to tell me you can take this...maybe, but let's take your ass over to the Tongass. Old cutting. Knock them bitches down like Iraqi ground troops. You think you going fast? Uh uh. You gotta work four times as hard, lift eight times as much. And there ain't even no hurry, it's all going to get sunk off the Sea of Japan for a few years."
"Still in the first year, right? Yeah, that's when most of'em die. Even the ones who worked it down below. They come up here, can't handle the environment. Terrain's too difficult for'em. Most of'em take one look and then take off. Course that's why old Bob's always hiring."
"Gotta like Bob though. Keeps that chapel good and hot, right through the winter. I ain't much of a one for his religion, I mean, no cigarettes? No coffee when you sleep four hours after getting to be early? But he's got it right one way, you'd better be close to the Lord in this business. Otherwise you're gonna get real close to him, know what I'm saying?"
"Me? Oh shit yeah I go. Have every Sunday since I first knocked my jaw back about eight inches. Did it working on a Medill just like these. Tree we tied the line to was old, cranky, ready to snap. So it did. Anyway, I was running away from a new set log when the thing whipped around and started coming down. I dove out, caught a side-wise trunk in the face, rolled with it, kept rolling till I spent six weeks in the hospital, and considered myself real, real lucky. And I'm still pretty, you see."
"No, we can't keep this up forever. None of us. Ain't the cutting cycle, nor the loss of income. I used to make thirty an hour, son, not thirteen like you. But it ain't none of that. It's just that there ain't no new loggers gonna be like the same, and no old ones without a limp. Trees'll come back. Always do. Another good quake up here'll take out more forest than any hundred companies like us. Even if we had government support like the Canadians, with their mills that do a million board feet a day. So relax son, enjoy it while you can. Could be worse, you could be flipping burgers.
"What was she doing with the windows open like that, anyways? She ain't no school girl!"
"Hell, she was probably trying to let some of that goddamn heat out of the place, just like the rest of us. Goddamn Alaska, nothing up here to do except sweat or freeze."
"Your window was open too?"
"Yeah. But I wasn't around. You know, night time is bar time. If you can afford it."
"That's right, all the women love the Pizza Hut man."
"Hey you three, keep it down! I'm trying to watch this."
"I'm sorry, you sensitive to noise? So tell me something, Mr. Superman ears, how come you didn't hear nothing last night?"
"Because, there wasn't nothing to hear."
"Sure. Sure."
"I mean it. Not one word. Not one peep. I'd a done something."
"That ain't what she said. She said she screamed like life itself."
"Right. Sure. Only thing I heard last night was that goddamn moose digging in the snow with her calf. And of course our singing waiter here. Ever the cops were quiet."
"Mmm hmm. Sure. Maybe you heard and didn't do nothing. After all, he was a friend of yours."
"What the Hell are you talking about?"
"You heard me."
"Excuse me. I was the one suggested a great spot just off the highway where we could hide the body."
"Yeah, you talked real tough. Morning after the cops dragged him away."
"Listen man, I ain't heard nothing. I ain't even sure I believe it. Cause I was up late last night, down here with the TV. She'd a said something, banged real hard on something, I'd for sure have come up in a second. And you all know it."
"Right, you would've just run for your guns if a black lady was in trouble, wouldn't you?"
"Hey. She's a friend. She's my friend."
"Uh huh. So was he. Hope I ain't ever your friend. You don't seem to be real good."
"What that supposed to mean? You watch yourself there!"
"You heard me!"
"Hey guys, whoa, easy. C'mon, we can't have the cops coming in here two nights in a row. Courtesy. Somebody in this place is probably on the run from'em. Here, have a beer."
"Okay sir. Thank you. Lets keep the peace. You're right. Hey, college boy. You a smart fella. Tell me something, why you think she didn't call out? We'd a come."
"Hey, shock, trauma, something. I don't know, not my field."
"Get him, 'not my field'. Let me tell you, my field is life, boy. And I know all about here. Shit, she's sixty or thereabouts, got grandkids who can drive to see her but don't. You know why she didn't call out or say nothing?"
"No. I guess you'll tell me."
"Cause she was glad to get it. Real glad."
"You know, might be right there. You do have more experience than me. And I guess knowing that's a lotta fun when you're alone. So why don't you tell me some more about life. Tell me about your prison days. Scrawny little thing like you, knows a Hell of a lot of stuff we don't pick up on in college. Guess no one screams if they like it.
Assorted gentlemen
"I got here when I was fifteen, worked fishing and rented a cabin in the winter. Got me a Harley cause my woman said I looked good on it. She was thirty-two but looked good on anything. That moosehead in the corner ain't half as big as the bull I shot on my eighteenth birthday. There ain't no one topping me in this place."
"Yeah? Well I came up here alone when I was thirteen. Couple of old-time Russian Orthodox fishermen took me in around Nikiski. I got so good at taking a beating I went into logging over in Tongass. Seen five or six friends, good friends, go down before my own eyes. But I'm still here."
"Great, money boys. I figure you know what it's all about. If money's worth knowing. I built my own place from timber I got from the mill. Greenhouse I put together from a kit in Anchorage. I grow most of my own vegetables, teach at the school I helped put together. Raised my kids. And my wife's still here."
"Sounds like you three need too much. I came up here with my car, some nails, a stove, and a chainsaw. And my guns. Built my own place out of wood. Straight off the land. Set it together with my nails and a couple a'sledges after treating it with diesel I bought from a place forty miles South. I feed myself off of fish, and pay for stuff with the money I get from the furs I trap. So tell me again what you figure you know!"
"Well ain't that sweet. Hell son, I came up here thirty-five years ago right after I heard they was giving away land free. I'd just gotten out of the military and all I had left was what the marines hadn't gotten out of me. Didn't have no fancy tools or nothing, just a lot of artillery and a few axes. I split the wood myself with no saws, just an axe. Treated the wood with my own special mixture, and got around with a dog team I raised."
"That ain't so special. You had bullets. I always make my own bullets. I'm the one that's close to the land. Why I been..."
"I arrived on the bus. Be leaving soon by plane. Worked in the canneries. And in a couple of shitty fast food restaurants. Tried to find something as a writer. On the one hand there's a lot to be said for wilderness living. On the other there just ain't no prizes."
Binky pawed idly at his favorite tennis shoe. It and three others remained in the nest he shared with his mate. Every great predator has trophies.
All the attention had finally died down. It had been a hunting season to remember. The score board said it all: Polar Bear three, inordinately stupid Anchorage Zoo visitors zero. Though a couple of local t-shirts salesmen had it better, given the law and order climate of that election year: Binky for Governor, Take a bite of out crime.
The popularity was hardly unexpected, Polar Bears are always in fashion, or so they think. As adaptation goes, they're at the top of the food chain: Sixty-mile an hour sprints, claws that seem to stretch to Seattle, and an entirely appropriate left-handed fencing manner that is well-suited to the only animal known to stalk man. Yeti-Smeti, critter like that is hard to beat for tough.
Fools die when the land punishes. Northern climes are exceptionally Darwinian. Binky became the force of nature on two occasions. Once when an Aussie decided the 600-pounder was just about the cutest thing she'd ever seen, and ran down for a closer look. Shoe number one.
The second time he became a legend; trouncing two Anchorage teens who'd decided on a midnight dip in his pool. Shoes number two three and four. Also a lovely pair of bluejeans. The newspaper reports of unspecified groin injuries gave local DJ's ample opportunity to broadcast in falsetto. It also boosted zoo attendance to record levels.
Binky didn't seem to notice his fan club. Or care about the attention. But he never did give up his shoes. Pawed after them through winter and part of the next summer. Held onto them the day his mate died. Left them behind when he followed her shortly thereafter.
A virus, they said. Everything has some limitation. Maybe Binky found his. Or maybe he's still out there, somewhere. In a land where fish are plentiful, and hunting's good.
This was not unexpected. I dropped out of college. Also high school. Quit the wrestling team. Missed about two thirds of eighth grade. Stopped attending cub scouts after my dad ceased being den mother. In my house somewhere are a number of overdue library books. A certain credit card company would love to talk to me. I have yet to walk out on a girl during sex, but ever since I heard this one guy's story....
To be honest it was never dangerous enough. Between the mandatory breaks, strictly enforced hard hat policies and fish knives that bore too great a resemblance to the kindergarten safety scissors I was seldom allowed to use, the edge just wasn't that sharp. Everyday life becomes more like a cruise ship, Gopher's gonna take care of everything.
Most people in my situation just give up and do a whole lot of drugs. So much as gladness that some end might be. Browning died a lonely man. I could never take that way out; being a fat twelve-year old, I saw far too many of those afterschool specials. Also the during school commercials, but never mind. Before I came up here, I was never much of a user, explaining to my dealer roommates that I would only smoke pot on the front porch, and if they'd come with me I'd be. No takers. Alcohol is the loner's poison, and with this great fake I had, more than plentiful.
When your life's only element of chance is reflected solely in the glare off the black ice that might trap you in it's smoothness as the cars bear down, well then brother it's time to move on. Not home, perhaps never there again, but on.
The term slacker is wonderfully modern, though co-opted by the mass media and those so firmly entrenched in the values of their group that anything outside the norm is bad and therefore homosexual. After all, ne'er do well implies local failure, with people who've known for years that you've never amounted to anything, and never will. To slack off properly you have to take the show on the road. Anyone can pan-handle on the streets of Seattle, these days you have to step over a multitude of heroin addicts just to get your share of the dropped change.
But how many people have been poor overseas? Korea's got an embassy in Anchorage. Flights are cheap enough to leave me with two hundred bucks. My guidebooks says that's good. My guidebook predicts the Olympics will change the culture permanently. Hope not.
Some would describe Alaska as a dark and cold place, but with a phenomenal growing season. Seems appropriate. I think. Who knows? Leave it to you.