Let's keep going with the short story, gang.
Ongoing Index:
Part 1
(I was re-reading this for typos/errors today and I should note before you read it, that similar to the Swamp short story from last year, where elements of camp spookiness are introduced with little warning to the reader ... that there are some "camp-fire ghost story" moments in this ... so if you're not a fan of like spooky stuff ... you might not like this. The Swamp was more B-movie monster stuff while this one is more ghostella camp-fire stuff).
The Journey
-a short story by D.
Part 2
......there better not be more than twelve hobos underneath that bridge.
I really hoped there wasn't more than twelve of 'em under there. If there was, then the laws of Even Steven would have to apply. I'd have to make some kind of hobo garbage fire and cook all the turkeys and carve them so I can distribute it all equally amongst the hobos ... whilst if there were exactly twelve hobos ... I could just give them each one turkey. Now, if there's actually less than twelve hobos under there then, in that case-scenario, I could give each a turkey and then we could do trivia or parlor games for the rest of them.
Oooooh, hobo trivia and games sounds fun, I love that. I started to think up my questions for them to win the bonus turkeys ... Jeopardy style questions, you know? Like Carnac style questions like ...
"Hey you hobos ... the answer is: 'O'er a toilet or maybe under a toilet and let it sit for one month..."
And one of the smarter hobos under the bridge would pipe up with bonus turkeys lighting up in his eyes .... "HOW TO MAKE REALLY GOOD PRISON WINE!"
....and I'd say with utmost professionalism, "Bingo, daddy-o, you're as right as rain, here's the last of the extra bonus turkeys."
I would have made a great game show host. Hey, hold up a second, who says there's less than twelve under there? I haven't even got there yet.
Maybe I should do some reconnaissance first to see how many there are before I even go through with this. What if there's like a hundred of them under there? I'm not going under some bridge that has over a hundred hobos under it. I can't feed that many with twelve turkeys anyhow so it'd be a waste of time to begin with. Gee, sometimes you really just can't get rid of an pyramid-armful of replacement turkeys can you?
I made my way to a small nook in the road before the bridge that had a bit of topography that would let me get some height and some line of sight underneath that there bridge. I got a few feet up the nook and put my hand over my eye as a makeshift visor and looked out yonder way. There were quite a few figures under the bridge ... I'm gonna go ahead and assume that they are all hobos but maybe a few of the figures are the hobo's dogs though. Would I have to feed hobo dogs with these turkeys too? I guess, but maybe not as big of portions as for the hobos themselves. Alright, looks as though there's about sixteen individual silhouettes down there ... hopefully four are hobo dogs ... that way I can give one turkey to each of the twelve hobos and be on my merry-enough way. No, I should still cook them all and divide it up equal between the sixteen, these hobo dogs have to eat too. How am I gonna cook these? How do I get myself into situations like this, even? Oh well, let's get these turkeys underneath that bridge to these sixteen silhouettes and figure out how to cook them all later. First things first as they say.
I made my way down and under the bridge right straight deep into the hobo encampment. It didn't smell that bad for a hobo lair, to be frank. There seemed to be no actual hobo dogs just actual human hobos ... which meant I'd need to cook all the turkeys to divide them up evenly and without issue. I started to scan the hobos to see their relative body frames to see how much they'd each probably eat. I did the mental calculations and then made my opening statements to these hobos....
"Hey there hobos," I said.
"Hey," some of them said ... the others just muttered inconsistent and incomprehendable garble towards me.
"So, uh, do any of you hobos like turkey? I got about twelve extras over here!" I said as I motioned my arms full of the turkey pyramid to them.
"We sure do but those are raw turkeys. You need to cook 'em before any of us'll chow down on 'em," said one of the hobos.
"Yeah, I know, I wasn't just like gonna give you raw turkeys. Don't you hobos have like a makeshift stove? Like a, uh, a garbage can fireplace or something like that?" I asked.
"Yeah, we got a garbage can. Yeah. We got one of those under this bridge by the lanai. We have some stuff to burn too."
"Cool, you seem like such sweet hobos. Let's fire up that ol' garbage can!" I said with renewed enthusiasm for this endeavor.
We got it lit up pretty quickly, old brambles and newspapers were burning in the burgundy can like a nice vertical campfire. I fashioned a nice pointy stick into a spit and started working the first turkey over the garbage can fire. It smeeeeeeeeelled soooo gooooood. Wow. All the hobos started gathering around me to smell it and watch it cook. I took this moment, this moment of brief barbeque related social popularity to meet each one of the sixteen hobos. I gave them brief interviews as we watched the turkeys cook. I will relate to you now the important information from each of those sixteen interviews I conducted.
They were cool some of them. One of them told me he used to be the Prime Minister of Canada but I didn't believe him. His name was Salty Sainte Claire and I have never seen that name in any history book of Canadian Prime Ministers. If he was Prime Minister of Canada it must have been pretty recently or more likely he is just making it up.... or is very crazy.
There was this guy, Pancake Jack, who I assumed was named that because he likes pancakes but turns out they started calling him that after he got his foot run over by a truck. Poor guy.
Armstrong, boring hobo, just a standard out-of-his-mind smelly hobo. Nothing interesting about him, really.
Armstrong's wife Brumhilda was pretty cool though. She told me she was a ghost but I didn't believe her.
Some of 'em had super sad stories like Paul, he was a normal guy that went nuts after his family ran away from him. When it's time to divide up the turkey ... I think I'm gonna give Paul a double portion because I feel for the guy, you know?
The rest stunk and I kinda just half-listened to their stories. When I counted them all again ... I was pissed. There was only twelve of them here ... but in my first count ... I remember there being sixteen of 'em.
"There's twelve of you hobos under this bridge?" I asked the hobos.
"No, there's thirteen of us ... but Alton Jackerye don't eat." Pancake Jack told me.
"Why don't Alton Jackerye eat"? I asked Pancake. Damn that's a mysteriously cool name, though.
"He don't eat cause he's dead like Brumhilda...." Pancake informed me.
"He don't eat because he's dead? That's um, that's weird though, man." I said.
"Yeah."
Ok, this was a friggin' bad idea coming down underneath this bridge. These hobos seemed chill and cool but they are starting to wig me out and shake me loose. I debated inwardly if I should skedaddle outta here or go talk to Alton Jackerye. What am I so afraid of? There's no such damn thing as ghosts. I walked over to the slumped over shadowy figure of Alton Jackerye....
"Hey, you don't eat old brother?" I asked the faceless shadow.
"Nah." He said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Cause I'm dead." He said.
"Ohh...."
"You gotta problem with that, man?"
"No....."
"Then scram!"
I was feeling a little annoyed with this mystery hobo. What was his deal? I think I'm gonna prod and poke it out of his shadowy interior ....
"Soooo, uh, what's more fun, man ... bein' alive or bein' dead there Alton Jackerye?" I asked him.
"Hm? Alive."
"Why?"
"I could taste food when I was alive...."
"Food is good. I made a whole mess of turkey ol' friend ... you sure you don't wanna break this dead man gimmick and come eat some?"
I waved a plate of smokin' n' pipin' hot turkey right in front of his nose...... he didn't even flinch an inch. Did not even flinchaninch, Not even a one. What the hell is up with this hobo? I've never met a hobo who regarded a warm meal with such a lackadaisical response ... I'd even describe it as being outright disdain for food.
"I told ya..... I DON'T EAT!"
"Ok, Alton Jackerye, you don't. I believe you. So you're dead?"
"Me? Ya. I died in the big ol' FAG building fire about ten years ago. I accidentally burned it down with a cigar on a carpet one night shift. Burned me up."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yup. Dyin' is bad but I feel guilty too for the damage to the FAG building, which was a company of high regard in Cornwall. Also ... guilt for the Bystander."
"The Bystander?"
"Yuuup. Poor kid. Some poor little urchin kid. Was looking for cans or clams or something by the road side."
I froze. My body could not move. My brain was nailed to my skull and could not even lick an ounce of sense in any direction it tried to. There is no way that it could be the same kid. There's no way....
"Yuuuuuuuuuuup, I met him a coupla times in town. Had a funny way of talkin', you know? Could barely understand his verbiage at times. I feel bad about the FAG building fire. It eats me up.... even in Death."
I'm out of here. I can't. I just can't. That kid ... it can't be. What is going on? This scene, man. This scene, man? It 'aint kosher duuuuuuude. This mysterious shadowy (yet strikingly interesting) hobo is friggin' FREAKING ME OUT!
"You asked me what's better bein' dead or bein' alive when you met me ... right before you taunted me with that turkey that you know I can't eat and enjoy. Well, lemme ask you something, man...."
"Okay Alton Jackerye. What is it?"
"Let my hidden-most and never-ending voice of malfeasance call out to you from the endless tests-of-time of never-more, my friend, and ask you...."
"Ask me?"
I looked around again, now there was only six figures around me I could make out. From sixteen, to twelve, to thirteen, and now just six. There was little consistency with the amount of apparitions under this bridge. What did Alton Jackerey want to ask me?
"What do you like better?"
"I like...."
I know where this guy is going with this. He probably paid that kid with the poking stick to hang out on the outskirts of town to give a sob story to travelers to get them to buy turkeys. The kid probably sets them on this course to the bridge where these trickster hobos make people think they are like dead or something .... and then they THROW SALT INTO THEIR EYES AND STEAL THEIR WALLETS!
I'm gonna get it out of him. The truth. I'm gonna accuse him of being a cannibal and then under duress he'll admit that he's just a highwayman who robs travelers.
"I'm on to you Alton Jackerye. The jig is up. I know you and that kid Wes are in cahoots. You lure unsuspecting travelers under this bridge and even though you pretend you can't eat ... I bet you eat plenty, Alton, I bet you don't flinch in front of turkey meat ... because your evil tongue only craves one kind of food, daddy-o ... and that's .... HUMAN FLESH! You're no hobo! You're just a big stinky man-eating whack job!"
"Nope."
"No?"
"No. Lemme ask you.... you ever laugh too much?"
"What?"
"You ever laugh so much you thought you died, man?"
"......"
"You ever laughed so hard that you gasped for air and you clawed at the floor....?"
"...." My temperature is beginnin' to rise.
"Yeah? Well, it's suffice to say that you died that day....."
"......" My foot was starting to really hurt now.
"Yup. You're one of us. You're a hobo like us.... roaming the streets of life as a ghost...."
"................" My foot hurts so much. It feels swollen. Why is that?
"You ever think that, maybe, you ......"
"?????"
Toronto
"Hey wake up, g-unit." A voice said to me.
"I'm awake, guy." I responded.
"Yo that was pretty cool last night!"
"Yeah? What did we do? Last thing I remember I was like giving these turkeys to these hobos and..."
"Hahaha! What!? You have weird dreams, guy."
I looked around, I was in Ol' Kurtis' apartment in Toronto. I guess most of Cornwall was just a dumb dream or something. What was it about? Turkeys? Crabs? Worms? Who knows with dreams. I sat up from the couch I slept on and saw Ol' Kurtis and Connecticut playin' a hockey video game.
"I HATE THE WAY YOU MOVE!" Connecticut said to Ol' Kurtis.
"Haha! You're winning though still! It's 3-2!" Retorted Ol' Kurtis.
"You guys simming the playoffs? Who's gonna win the cup?" I asked them.
"Uuuuuuuuuuuuh. The Whalers." said ol' Connecticut.
My foot hurts. I took off my sock and it was BLUE and PURPLE. I remember now ... this overweight fellow fell on it when we were playing touch football the other day. It's okay though. Who cares? I've been walking on it for like three towns now so it can't be that bad.
"What's wrong with your foot, guy?" Ol' Kurtis asked me.
"A 350 pound man fell directly on it with all his weight at some party..." I said.
"Haha. That guy? The one from the next door high school to ours back when we were in high school?" He asked.
"Yeah."
"Haha. Remember the time he walked from his high school, the high school right next to ours, to the deli down the street from our high school with his pants down and his big fat ass flopping around in baby-blue underwear?" Kurtis asked.
"Yah guy. Yo, Fleegs told me one time that that-guy got so wasted at some up north party that he chased a llamma around for an hour then passed out......"
"Pffff. Hahahahaha."
I didn't know the other guy playing the video game hockey all that well. Ol' Connecticut. Seemed like a nice enough fellow. He was Cross-eyed and walked with a demonstratably strange gait. Could have been rickets. He was an Ol' cross-eyed ricket-ridden large-set fella is what he was. He began to speak...
"Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Yeah. Whalers are gonna win in six games. Kurt is Red Wings but he's gonna lose." He told me.
"Cool."
"Uuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmm, you know what my dream is?" He asked me.
"No."
"I'm gonna be a big time hollywood director one day. Wanna hear about my movie?"
"Ok."
"It's about this oil tycoon guy, uuuuuummmmmm, but like his brother doesn't like him." He said.
"Sounds good." I said.
Connecticut put down his hamburger and continued.....
"Yeah, me n' Kurt are about to start making it ... uhhhhh .... you wanna be in it?" He asked me.
"Okay. What's my part?"
"You're the brother and uuuuuuuhhhhhh you hate me because I'm a big oil tycoon and I'm like worse than like even Ebenezer Scrooge and everything. I'm greedy and I'm bad." He said.
"Ok, man. Sounds fun." I said.
Kurtis took out a beat up old 8 millimeter vintage rotary camera and yelled ... "ACTION!"
I wasn't really all that prepared to be in a film that very second but you know how it is. You always sort of have to be ready to be in an ad-hoc movie at any given moment in these highly technological times. Alright, let's get in the zone here, let's get mentally into it, what's my motivation here? I'm a brother to Connecticut... is his name Connecticut in the movie though?
"Yo what's your name in the movie, Connecticut?" I asked.
"Ummmmmmmm. Uhhhhhhh. Oh. My name is Sweet C the oil man. Uuuuuh, and you're Morgan."
"Ya. ok, cool."
He began his lines. He wrote the movie and knew his lines but I guess he just assumed I would know the lines from like divining them outta the ethers of the cosmos or something. We started the scene...
"Ummmmm. Why do you not like me, bro? Just because I'm like an oil tycoon and have like lots of money and everything?" He said whilst in the character of Sweet C the oil tycoon.
I had no idea what any of the lines were to this screen play. So I just made them up.....
"It's just, Sweet C, I never learned to read and am crippled with blue and purple feet ... and I'm not as smart as you. You're a big big oil guy, you know? You have so many oil fields and I don't have like any." I said on whim.
"Ya but I like you though. Uhhhhh, Ummmmm, so why don't you like me? What if I gave you like maybe three or even four of my oil fields? Would you start to like me again, bro?"
"Well, yes, actually I would really like you if just gave me a few rich-guy oil fields of Texas Tea, there Sweet C. That's a very good idea. We could be Oil Brothers together....." I responded.
"Cool. Ok, I'll get my lawyer to write up the contracts Morgan. Just gimme a sec. Okay?"
"Ok."
".....and SCENE," said ol' Kurtis as he put down the camera.
"Wow! That was great! You're a natural!" Connecticut levied praise upon my acting skills.
"Thanks dude. You're amazing too...." I said.
Me, Kurtis, n' Connecticut all high fived. It was wicked and it was good. We were all having a huge blast. Movies really bring out the inner soul of us all don't they? I really hoped Connecticut could achieve his dream of being a big time hollywood director one day. I knew the odds were stacked against him but who knows? The guy has natural artistic abilities, no doubt about it. I hope one day I'll wake up and turn on the Oscars and Connecticut would be there winning the best actor Oscar for Sweet C The Oil Man. That would really be something.
"You think you could get this made and win the Oscar with it Connecticut?" I asked the ricket-hobbled bow-legged cross-eyed actor/director.
"Ya. Uhhhhhh. I just gotta focus right now and learn some more film stuff but come like in five years from now I'm gonna have a BMW and Oscars for sure." He told me.
"I hear ya, Connecticut. I hear ya loud and clear. How does your movie end?"
"That scene was the ending scene. I give my brother Morgan like two or three oil fields and then he likes me. It's a happy ending."
"Oh. What a deeply touching and heart warming film. How could it not get an Oscar?" I openly pondered to anyone who listened.
"Yeah, it's gonna rake the gold up," said Kurtis from behind the kitchen counter.
"What's the name of it?" I asked Connecticut.
"Oil Brothers," he told me.
"Ya. It's called Oil Brothers," said Kurtis.
Oil Brothers, eh? I was honored to be Morgan in Oil Brothers to tell you truth. Man, the next time I'd see Connecticut again in real life was in Pittsburgh and wouldn't ya know ... by then he had a BMW and two Oscars ... but back in those times in Toronto though ... he wasn't a big humongous celebrity yet .... he was just our friend.
I think I'm done in Ontario, gang. It's time to get on my flat feet and huff and shuffle on out of here to the next dopey Province. What's after Ontario? Winnipeg? What's it called? Manitoba? Oh jeeez, that's gonna be a boring one.... or is it?
....Vaya Con Dios, El Connecticut, compadre.
No comments:
Post a Comment