Alter Boys (53 page)

“Un-fucking-real!”  The dealer must have made a mistake and given him the wrong baggie.  Two hits?  Just two hits!

He looked speculatively at his joint.  It waggled its head at him like an angleworm.  “Bwah-ha-ha!”  Whitey brayed
u
ncontrollably at the mind altering trick. 

“You have
got
to be fist-fucking me with a studded leather glove drenched in Tabasco sauce, wrapped in barbed wire, and powered by an industrial strength jackhammer!”  It was one of Slim’s expressions but Whitey didn’t think the cowboy would mind him borrowing it for this one special occasion.

The thought of Slim did, however, bring the small portion of his still lucid mind back to the Transitions program.  He needed to return, log in, and then find a good hiding place for his incredible stash.  And if Mr. Lister happened to ask about his bloodshot eyes?  Fuck him!  He would say that he was crying in the confessional!  Ha!  The night was getting better by the moment.

Whitey tried to get his bearings.  Transition building?  Umm, that way?  The world was billowing like a blanket in the breeze.  He mounted the next incoming wave and rode it 10 paces down the block, and sucked his third hit off the roach.

The ice crystals toyed with his mind.  One moment they were the outlines of ghosts, spirits long dead, seeking vainly to be at peace.  The next moment they were a zillion albino wasps with deadly painful stingers.  They morphed again, this time a civilization of diminutive eyes; all scrutinizing, piercing, seeking to discover what lay inside.  Then they became an attack force of alien laser beams, the white hot lights searing into his brain. 

Whitey closed his eyes to re-group.  Bad thoughts, he needed to stop them.  He took another hit for relief.

He was unaffected by the cold.  To the contrary, he was burning up.  He pulled off the Transitions program ski mask and let it fall unaccounted for to the ground.  His other hand, confused by the signal from the brain, also unclenched.  The half-smoked joint joined the ski mask. 

He was now in full drug-induced hallucination. 

The route he had taken was not intellectual, but gravitational.  The Elm sloped down to the banks of the
Minnesota river
.  Whitey
’
s mind told him to take the path of least resistance, and that meant down.  He stumbled to the intersection of route 34 and
Front street
, his brain now a washing machine of colors, shapes and emotions.  He was hearing shapes, seeing flavors, tasting colors.   

He felt he could fly.

And what better place to fly from, than the route 34 bridge that spanned the river.  Whitey’s subconscious saw the structure and a single word passed his lips:  “Fly”

An impulse of the fantastic compelled his body to the bridge.  He knew that once he got there, he would have the gift of flight.  His mind surged at the concept; rewarding him with a fireworks show of yellow, blue and red bursts of adrenaline.  At the foot of the bridge he was greeted by the ice crystal ghosts, so many of them!  All here to join him in flight.  They spoke to him, but he could not understand their words, their larynx’s turned to powdered dust centuries ago.

He achieved the middle of the bridge and looked out over the water.  There, in the deepest parts of the
Minnesota
, he witnessed the gates of heaven.

The gates were solid gold; behind them a spectacular aura.  Cumulus clouds billowed in the background.  Radiant light diffused through them, sending up spikes and rays of brilliant illumination.  In front of the gate there were colorful flowers; rabbits and squirrels cajoled in the grass.  And there, sitting sentry on a park bench, was the man himself, Jesus H. Christ; one moment wearing a white robe, the next a long
-
haired smiling savior in gray suit and tie.   

Whitey climbed one rung of the guardrail.  It was as if he had risen 100 feet.  He was seeing the world from above like a bird, like an astronaut, like a God! 

He climbed to the second rail.  Galaxies were under his command, the entire universe was his!

Immortal, untouchable, omnipotent!

He extended his arms above his head, tilted his face skyward and shouted:  “DOUBLE DEE DAY!  I CAN FLY!” 

He rea
ched up, and out to the heavens.

A
nd down he went.

2

Three days later, and 8 miles downriver
,
Zach Thorkleson was pheasant hunting with his dog Drake and his favorite bud- Budweiser.  The banks of the
Minnesota
now featured a hemline of snow, but otherwise the river flowed free and dirty.

The hunting had been a disappointment, but the beer drinking had not.  Zack had drained the better part of a 12 pack and he was clocked.  He bumped along the shoreline in his ‘74 Ford half ton, oblivious to the ruts and rocks concealed under last night
'
s three inch snowfall.   More snow was
in the cast, along with 40 mph n
orth winds that would drive the snow into the face of anything or anyone stupid enough to be out during the storm. 

“Piffle!” He snorted as the Ford lurched over a hidden chunk of stone.  At the word Drake cowered.  When the master said ‘piffle’ things were bad.  Very bad indeed.

“Probably bent a tie rod on that one Drakey-drake.”  The dog relaxed.  Drakey-drake was a term of endearment.  Whatever had angered the master was not of his doing.

“Why don’t we try us this spot over here.  Can’t be any worse than the ones we’ve tried so far.”  Zach Thorkleson brought the Ford to a stop, the bald tires sluicing on the hard wet surface.  “You ready to taste some pheasant boy?”  Drake knew this one well.  He let out a happy bark and pawed at the passenger side window.  “That’s right boy, I shoot ‘em, you bag ‘em, and then we both eat ‘em.

The hunter reached for his 12 gauge, and then signaled the dog.  Drake bounded out the
driver’s
door and danced happily at the master
’
s feet.  “What do you say we walk the river a spell, but remember,” he put a finger to his lips.  “Quietly.”     

The dog knew the routine but delighted in the attention. 

The master wobbled unsteadily, the dog trotted in confidence.  “Looks like a good area just ahead” Zack whispered.  “Corn stubble on one side, lots of trees on the other.  Them pheasants like corn and trees.”  Drake understood.  He stood sentry, unflinching, while the master crept toward the target.

Suddenly three pheasants, a cock and two hens, took frantic flight from the field.  Even liquored up, Zach Thorkleson was an ace shot.  Perhaps even a better shot when he was juiced.

He swung the barrel artfully, disregarding the hens and drawing his bead on the cock.

The 12 gauge shattered the silence and the bird went immediately limp.  It nosedived through the trees and landed dead with a shallow splash along the bank.

“Go get him boy!”  Drake was
already
20 paces ahead of the master
’
s command.  He ran forward about 50 yards and then turned toward the bank.

“By golly we got us one, that deserves a celebration!”  Zack retreated to the truck to get a fresh tallboy.  He popped the top,
took a long draw, and then settled in the
driver’s
seat for Drakey-drake to return with the prize.

He took another gulp and waited.  No dog, no prize.  He started to speculate that maybe the bird had fallen into the current and was already down river.  Drake was a good swimmer but he knew better than to mess with the
Minnesota river
.  “Well piffle.”  Zach said to himself, “maybe we lost him.” 

He was about to hit the can again when Drake popped his face up from the bank, looked at the truck and began barking.  The dog looked back at the river, assessed it, directed three more barks at the truck, and then ducked back down out of sight.

Just as the dog had understood the tone of the master, the master recognized the tone of the barks.  Something was wrong, seriously wrong.  Zack illegally and dangerously propped his shotgun on the floorboard, fired up the truck and bounced his way as close as he dared to the
river’s
edge.

“What is it boy, what’s the matter?”  Drake gave two quick directional barks.  One to indicate his location, the other to designate the source of the trouble.

Zach moved cautiously now, not out of concern for his dogs discovery, but for his own self preservation.  He was dangerously close to the crumbling bank.  Ducking under a skeletal bramble bush,
then skirting
a small cluster of trees; and there was Drake, in classic pointer position.  He didn’t see the object of the dogs concern until he navigated his line of sight around the last tree.

Then it was evident.  “Drakey-drake you foolish dog, that’s only a Halloween scarecrow.”  But the dog would not budge.  Ten feet from the shore, tangled in a fallen poplar tree was a flannel shirt sleeve.  By the looks of things, a man’s arm occupied the sleeve but it was bent at such an awkward angle that it just couldn’t be real.  And bobbing right below the surface, a head of hair.  It bopped up, revealing the scalp, it bobbed down.  It bobbed up, it bobbed down. 

Zach watched the floating mystery object loll in the water.  The 8 ½ beers he had put away roiled in his stomach.  And then he noticed the most compelling evidence of all; the wristwatch.  The poplar branches lined up with the wrist, and save for a step to his left or right, he would have missed it all together. 

A few alcohol-saturated brain cells decided to make an intellectual contribution.  And only then did he remember the news:  The jumper, dragging the river, the search downstream. 

It clicked.

“Holy shit.”  Drake didn’t respond.  He didn’t recognize the words or the tone.  A second set of words made him jump.  “Drake,
now
!”

The dog returned to his master.  They scrambled into the truck and the two of them hauled ass perpendicular to the river until they hit gravel.  “We gotta mark it.  We
gotta mark the spot Drake.”  Zach
whipped his head around the truck looking for something, anything to mark this spot on the road.

Nothing.

Then inspiration.  Zach Thorkelson took the final three cans from his 12 pack and planted them in the gravel.  Three red and white aluminum pylons on the side of the road; even a drunken pheasant hunter would be able to spot them.       

He raced toward town with a bellyful of booze, but otherwise stone cold sober.

Double Dee Day

A lone figure walked the snow
-
covered grounds of the Elmwood cemetery.  Another time and another day it would have been necessary to consult with the superintendent about the location of a specific marker.  Not so with this one.

The
recentcy
of the burial made it easy.  There had been a light but driving snow the night before, and a few mourners, based upon the fresh road tracks, had come by to pay their respects.  The visitor traced the tracks with his eyes.  Most of the tombstones were barren of remembrance offerings, but he saw one with a respectable wring of flowers and plastic greenery. 

The man walked silently, respectful of the dead and deep in thought.  He followed the tracks and when they stopped, he stopped.  Even under the snow, the area had a matted down look, as if dozens of sets of feet, mourners, pallbearers, and backhoe trench diggers had recently walked or driven over this very spot.