Thursday, January 26, 2017


         I write this as  I'm sleeping by the Big Lake up here,Lake Nipissing… sleeping in a shack on the shore with 
   one blanket,  two dogs, and three bottles ofstrong wine (20% alcohol by volume).Have you ever given a dog some of your dinner?
And the dog wouldn`t eat it?                I have.

         In the story I`m  on the sandy shore of that 90 mile lake, and I`m tucked in…more or less with the dogs...and now  only two bottles of wine... Some prick's been drinking my booze...           That bastard!I`m trying to get an article down to the office  ( THE TALK OF THE TOWN PRESS offices) and there`s no way
I can make it that far.
               The wind`s blowing up like banshees… I hope
no Wendigo howls tonight… Although I thoroughly like the howling of most beasts. I like the howls a lot. The inspire me.  Fact is, I often join in.                                                        *
               The sun rises over the hills to the east.Mist rolls over the waters by the shore.It`s morning and no one to talk to out here
on the sandy heath,no one to send on an errand. 
            I walk a mile to call a taxi…. except it`s more than a mile… It`s way more than a mile.  I feel I`ve fallen off the map…. and now I`m into a different time zone... 
I`m in a desert that has never been recorded, on a road
that no one knows… an empty quarter...through a time warp that no one remembers, I find myself here...crawling across the sand.
          I`m exhausted.  I`m hung-over like a motherfucker.          My mouth is so dry my tongue is looking around for company.  The tip of my tongue sticks to the back of a tooth.  It`s like I`ve been stuck in
the desert for 40 days…. I fall to my knees… rest
with my face in the sand... briefly go to sleep.       I hear a car door slam. The driver is standing over me… I see… I see the glint of something
smooth and fine... It`s a woman in a short skirt
and nylons… She has fine legs but I   cannot see properly up the legs. Gasping, I manage to sit up.I  give my head a shake.           I hand her the story and  say: “Don`t worry about me!Get this story in to the Talk of the Town Press. It has to reach the press by 8:45 this morning. ” 
        "Can you get it there for me?" 
       The mystery woman nods silently… She sets off
across the desert with her precious cargo… This time
I do  notice her legs….I scratch my head with incomprehension… As so often happens with a horrid, dry hangover, I  find I'm aroused with my groin in the warm sand.
                                             *       The first words in the paper the next morning I recognize, because I had scratched them down myself the day before.The words are:
                  That was the first line of the story.               
                This whole bit about sleeping on the shores
of Lake Nipissing (as terminal drunks have been known to do ) It's part reality with a little  fantasy slipped in.                                           *
…Sleeping with  a blanket (that how you spell blank et??? surely not)
                Having my wine delivered by boat—- and
attempting to get stories off by return boat.
                It`s not so bad now I got a shack.    I stole
2 gallons of gas — so I can inhale the fumes. Ho! Ho!
            When my spirits fade — AS THEY`RE SURE TO DO
                I'd  better dig a hole and light a fire,
do it in the shack… pretty quick. Steal 
a rack from a used  stove in a dump.
 soon as that fucker comes back with the boat….I`ll borrow his  22… shoot a few birds and muskrats, make a stew. Now I`m thinking!    (Yeah, right!)
              This is the kind of story that used to get those
cards and letters rolling in  to the editors,
demanding police action. 
            Hank staggers out of the shack…
           “I got a friend who boiled a pigeon for about
2 hours – he said, “Stink!  Did it ever stink!`
                 “Ya gotta take the feathers off em first!” I tell him, "You can`t just cook them like they`re some sort
of microwave dish…. there`s stuff you gotta
take out of those birds — the bowels would be a nice
start- take those out & ya got a chance…”
               The dog`s definitely hungry. I can
tell by the way he stares at me… those mournful eyes.
Perhaps tonight he won`t turn up his nose at my dinner.
JESUS, WHERE AM I?**********************************************

No comments:

Post a Comment