River Rat: A Vignette

The rattlin' of the heatshield on his '96 Pontiac Sunfire bounced back through the open window coming along with the sulfur smell of wet fart manufactured by our dual industries of paper and meth, temporarily overpowering the stale scent of dead cigarettes. Dale, a wirey creature with patchy beard and fraying cutoff jeans, drives us in his prized ride. His shirt was white once, no longer.

Leaving the four lanes of the main drag, Dale initiates the "system", inserting a bass laden CD through the flipped down faceplate of his after market pawnshop purchase. Autoplay triggers and all sound is devoured by the belching vibration flowing from Dale's expertly home crafted and carpet coated bass box. The subs threatened to uncork Dale's trunk or shake loose an unobserved over-rusted fastener sending some unnecessary piece of car to keep company with the rest of the trash strewn along the roadside.

As we cruise down Old Farm our pace is checked by a rusted-out Ranger going 24. Dale swerves out around the blockage, all gas. We are kings of cool, saluting that prick as he eats exhaust.

We're nearby so I want to drop in on Jessyka over at the Shady 8. Dale makes his way that direction and we put eyes on her sitting outside her apartment, light 100 lit and in hand. Dale parks, letting the system play a moment and rattle the residents for affect before shutting her down.

We approach, offering the customary salutation. "Hey, there. Ain't seen you lately."

Gesturing to her Halifax County issued ankle bracelette, "you knew where to look."

"Yeah, well, I guess. Anything going on?" We light smokes and take a seat.

"Same shit. Sitting on my ass till the 20th."

Dale grins, "if you're sick of sittin', I'll find something to do to your ass."

"Har-de-har, Dale." Flicking ash on his shoes.

And so on, killing an hour and several cigarettes.

"We're getting a couple beers with Decker then meeting up with some people at the top of the hill. Alright if we come by later?"

"Bring me back some curly fries."

The sun's setting when we shut the doors on Dale's car, nodding and raising a salute fairwell as we pull into traffic. The bass erupts, the sun sets, the night is young and we got half a tank of gas.

My Dog

Today my dog would have been 11 years old. She died on a Wednesday morning two weeks ago. I never wanted a dog. I didn't want her. My now wife tried to talk me into buying a basset hound that day we got her. Never. "We should get a dog." No. "But that basset hound is so cute." Absolutely not, the only dog I might even think about getting would be that boxer puppy... "Well let's go see if they'll let us play with her."

I didn't know how to take care of a dog. Can't be so different from a cat. Just give them food and water, right? How do you get them to let you trim their nails? Why does she eat poop? Why don't places allow dogs? Who's going to take care of her when I have to go someplace? Is that a tick on her butt?

I learned the difference between fawn and brindle. She would eat my books. I taught her how to do some cool tricks. She would shake and hide under me when it thundered outside. She had a special way of talking to us. She slept at the foot of my bed. I'd get up in the middle of the night to walk her. I'd come home at lunch to walk her. I'd walk her in the morning and at night. She'd want to go for runs. One time she tried to attack a beggar that came to the door. Good dog.

She started getting older. She couldn't climb the stairs anymore so I'd carry her up sometimes. She couldn't walk very well and would slip on the floor so I got her a rug to stand on. After she lost control of her legs I was building her a wheel chair.

She was sick, but I thought she was getting better. I came home to check on her at lunch. I found her laying under my desk, head resting on my old briefcase. I wrapped her in a blanket and put her in our car. We drove her to the family farm to bury her near the edge of the timber and drove home with an empty car.

Mountain Man Jack: A Vignette

Tumbling through the earth scented fodder common to these wood, I struck my face upon a mossy stone and then continued my escapade down the steepening slope. My descent was arrested abruptly by the gentle embrace of the trunk of a Douglas fir. Half blinded by blood and pain, I managed the effort to lay on my back while heavily breathing in the dusty air. The crashing sound of a heavy beast moving closer through the underbrush, brambles and leaves, rapidly approached and roused me to my knees.

The shadow cast across me in this darkening evening belonged to an enormous creature clad in buckskin and beaverskin and coonskin and manskin. Gutterally spitting a greeting through his three teeth, I learned they called him "Jack". He had heard a "moghty ruckis" while hunting game and observed my frolic with alarm at losing the track of the elk he was trailing.

Neighborly as his preacher taught him to be, he aided me in stumbling to the river where I cleaned the moss from my wound. We sat for a time by the water talking seldom while he smoked his hand-carved pipe. Leaving me, he retraced my route, retrieving my bundle. I managed to shoulder the burden with a bearable amount of effort feeling well enough to make it to my camp. Jack wouldn't think to let me go it alone, a waste the resources invested in aiding me should I "keel o'er" on the way.

Back at my camp I thanked Jack for the help and rewarded him with a days worth of dried elk for the effort. Jack gladly accepted, assuring me "twern't a thing" while simultaneously lamenting the effort and lost hunting time. Bidding me farewell, Jack ambled down the trail whistling "Dan Tucker" through his teeth.