Fiction
Shawn
The Last Skald
"I left mine in Seattle."
"Excuse me?"
"I left mine in Seattle. Washington State. Pacific Northwest.
God, what a beautiful place. You ever been?"
This is how I met Mark. Sitting on a barstool staring at my
lukewarm coffee, wondering if the waitress would ever look at me
again. Somehow I had become invisible to her. Perhaps since I was the
diner's only patron, she had simply forgotten me. I heard the chime of
the door opening, but did not bother to look. Then, this scruffy guy
in a worn out camouflage jacket sat on the stool next to mine. I could
feel him look me up and down. Apparently, my aura of invisibility
extended to his seat, because the waitress did not look his way
either.
"Miss," he said.
The girl, whose nametag read Suzy, continued to stare down the
length of the bar toward the windows.
"Miss," he repeated. There was still no response from the girl.
"Yo, Suzy," he said loudly while slapping his hand on the bar. At last
the waitress snapped out of her stupor and quickly looked around. She
could not have been older than twenty, but she had the worn look that
only highway side diner waitresses have.
"What can I getcha," she asked him as she walked our way.
"Just coffee, doll."=20
As she turned toward the coffee maker, he eyed my half-full cup
and added, "And my friend here sure could do with a refill, too."
At this he winked at me and said, "You just need to understand
how to treat people. I left mine in Seattle."
"Excuse me?"
"I left mine in Seattle. Washington State. Pacific Northwest.
God, what a beautiful place. You ever been?"
"No."
"Well, I can say from experience that it is a helluva lot
prettier than this place. Where the hell are we anyway?"
I momentarily racked my brain, trying to remember the name of
the town. Just then, Suzy returned with his cup and a pot of coffee.
"Possum Run," she said as she filled our cups. "You're in Possum
Run, the boringest place this side of Amarillo."
"Most boring," I softly corrected as she returned to her vigil.
"Ah, a grammar man," he said studying me. "I'm Mark," he stuck
out his hand.
"Aaron."
"Well, Aaron, I read people pretty well. Let me see if I'm
close. You went to college somewhere north of here. Your girlfriend
left you or something and you up and quit your job at the local gas
'n' go and went off to see America a la Paul Simon. How am I doing so
far?"
I smiled and answered, "Well, north, yes. College, yes.
Girlfriend, no. Switch gas 'n' go with the local Denny's and you're
pretty close."
"Smoke," Mark offered, as he reached into an interior pocket of
his jacket. I studied him a bit more closely. His brown
shoulder-length hair was stringy and unkempt, and he looked as if he
had not shaved in a while. His eyes were a cold blue color, but they
seemed to twinkle with a mixture of mirth, self-assuredness, and false
bravado. Mark's entire physical attitude practically oozed with
confidence.
"Sure," I replied, taking the offered cigarette. It was slightly
bent and that was somehow appropriate. Mark lit my cigarette with a
time-worn Zippo, and I could not help but wonder if everything this
guy touched instantly turned second hand.
I looked at the Airborne insignia on his left sleeve and asked,
"Were you in the Army?"
"Huh? No. I picked this up at a surplus store. Why? You got
something against the armed forces," he stressed the word armed so
much that his question felt comical.
"No. I was just curious."
"Look, I've been walking for a while and those booths over there
look a bit more comfortable than this stool. Care to join me?"
Since this was turning into the first real conversation I had
with another human in a while, I assented. We picked up our bags and
coffee cups and moved to a booth. The seats and backs were cushioned,
and the orange imitation leather was cracked with age. Greenish-yellow
foam seemed out of the cracks, but he was right. These seats were far
more comfortable.
"Well now, Aaron," he looked at me from across the table. "This
might seem a little odd, but I have this tradition, you see. Whenever
I run across a fellow wanderer, I swap tales with him."
"What do you mean," I asked, even though I had a feeling that I
already understood. From my experience in life, though, clarification
is usually a good thing.
"Well," he tapped his ash into the disposable tin ashtray.
"Everyone in this world has a story in them, sometimes about
themselves or someone they know, sometimes it's just one they've made
up or heard somewhere. Anyway, I live for stories. That's why I
travel, I guess. Everyone you meet has something they could teach you.
Look," he reached into his backpack and pulled out a battered notebook
which he then placed in front of me.
I opened the cover and it seemed to be gibberish and doodles
that vaguely resembled hieroglyphs.
"What's this?"
"Those are stories," he looked at me as if waiting for a
reaction. "I take notes. Gotten to where I just use symbols,
though--words take up too much space. The art of storytelling, you
see, is really in the telling, not the writing. Anyone can learn to
read and write, it's the gifted who can tell a story, and the equally
gifted who can actually listen to a story. You follow?"
"So this is what you do? Wander from place to place collecting
stories. What are you going to do with these?"
"It's what I already do with them. I exchange stories with
people. Someone tells me one and it goes into the book to be shared
with someone else down the road. In exchange, I tell them a story, one
of my own from my own book. That way you could wind up with a story
from San Francisco, even if you've never met the original teller."
"Kind of like a skald?"
"Those Norwegian poet guys? Yeah, kind of. Only I don't
embellish them. Each story has to be true to the teller, that's why I
take notes."
"Wow. Have you ended up with a lot of the same stories?"
"Well, elements are often similar, but how each story is told
has been unique so far."
"How long have you been doing this?"
"Close to four years now, and I love it. Sure, it doesn't pay
rent and I can't afford a car, but if I lived in one place too long or
drove through towns at thirty-five miles an hour, I'd miss quite a few
good tales. So, to the ignorant observer, I probably seem a vagrant.
Well, maybe I am, but I'm doing what I love and it's been interesting
so far."
"What about the future?"
"I have collected several stories that are set in the future."
"No. I mean, what about your future?"
"I don't worry about it. It'll be here soon enough, whether I
worry or not. I mean, I'll do this until, for whatever reason, I
can't. And then, I'll do what I can, ya know?"
I scrutinized Mark for a split second in order to gauge the
truthfulness of his statements. He calmly stared back with smiling
eyes and asked, "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Do I pass whatever judgment you just put me through," he asked
as his face broke into a grin.
I could not help but smile back, "Yeah, I guess you do. So a
story, huh? Any old story?
"Preferably one that means something to you, or maybe even one
you never understood."
"Well, my grandfather used to tell me these stories about
animals and the woods when I was little. The kind that explain why Mr.
Rooster crows and why the coyote is afraid of fire, that sort of
stuff. I always thought they came from native American folklore, or
campfire tales. I don't know whether he made them up or not." Having
said this, I drained the remainder of my coffee and asked for another
cigarette.
"Certainly," he reached into his pocket and pulled out the
crumpled pack and an ink pen. Mark placed the pack and the lighter on
the table between us, then opened his notebook to a page near the
back. "Go ahead, just tell a story and try not to pay too much
attention to my scribbling. Hey Suzy," he yelled, "more coffee
please." Suzy looked at us as if she had never seen us before, and
went to get the coffee-pot.
"That girl is a dreamer. She probably has a terrific story
involving whoever it is she's waiting for," Mark said as he lit
another cigarette.
"How do you know she's waiting for someone?"
"Aren't we all?"
While Suzy refilled the cups, I lit a cigarette as well. The
whole time she poured, she kept glancing back toward the windows and
presumably the parking lot beyond.
"Are you expecting something," I asked her.
This seemed to almost startle her. "More like hopin' than expectin'."
"Something specific," Mark grinned.
"Anything at all would be different," she answered, smiling in
return. She then swished away to her post behind the bar.
"Ready whenever you are." Mark held his pen to the paper.
"Okay. My grandfather once told me about this stubborn man and
his struggle with nature. This man had built his house near the river.
Folks said that he was crazy because the river often flooded, and he'd
surely lose his home."
Mark drew what looked like a stick figure, a house, and a squiggly li=
ne.
"The man said he'd be damned if he'd let the river destroy his
house, and the spirit of the river heard this and remembered. When the
next flood season came, the river did not overflow into the usual
flood plains, but unnaturally focused on this guy's fields. The man
had prepared with drainage ditches and sandbags, but the water soon
poured over these and flooded through his house. The man just laughed
at this, because he had made a deal with the earth spirit. When he
called out, the ground opened itself into a sinkhole and the water
drained into it.
The river was amused by this. He sent much more water and called
upon his cousin, the rain, to aid him. The man was amazed to see the
sinkhole fill and his land begin to flood again as the rain added to
the river's strength. The man called to the sun to help him, and the
sun, taking pity on the man, did so. The sun heated up so much that
the rain clouds and the floodwater began to evaporate."
Mark just smiled and nodded as he continued taking notes.
"By now, the river spirit was angry and he asked for the help of
the four winds. The four winds gathered clouds from all over the world
and brought them over this man's home. Try as he might, the sun could
not evaporate the clouds quickly enough to keep the rain from falling.
All of the spirits began to grow tired, for their struggle went on for
many days.
Only the earth spirit had much strength because he had only made
a sinkhole. The soil was so saturated that he had little trouble
sliding the mud around, and he diverted the river's course. The four
winds were always fickle at best, and they grew bored with this
confrontation, so they returned to the four corners of the world.
Without the winds to hold them in place, the clouds drifted away. The
sun was very angry, but he'd extended himself so greatly that he had
to cool off or risk burning himself out. The river spirit was furious,
because not only was the man's house still standing, but he had to
learn an entire new route to run. The earth spirit was so exhausted
from his redirection of the river that he fell into a deep sleep.
The man's house still stood, but the earth was so tired that no
crop would grow. The river's new course took it away from the lands it
once irrigated. The winds stayed still and the sun refused to heat
this place, so an early winter fell. The man was overjoyed that he had
beaten the river, but his neighbors were angry at him. They all had to
move to new land.
The man was left alone, with an empty house and land that would
not grow anything. In his pride, he refused to leave the house he'd
fought so hard for, and he starved to death."
I paused, "Well, how was that?"
"Excellent, it's even got a moral in there somewhere. It's a
good story, and one I hadn't heard before. Thanks. So, now I'll tell
you one."
Mark began, "In the 1930's, somewhere in Louisiana, in a tiny
town that is no more, there lived a young lady named Macy Strawbucks.
Macy is not the central character of the story, but she is important.
Macy was the prettiest girl the region had ever produced, and she was
sweet as honeysuckle. Every young man for miles and miles imagined
what it would be like to court her. This included Bingo Jed. Bingo Jed
was not his birth name, but this is the story of how he came to be
known as Bingo Jed.
Jed was a young man who loved two things in this world: whiskey
and Macy Strawbucks. He saw her every Sunday at church and often tried
to screw up enough courage to speak with her. He failed miserably at
this, and so, was often seen in the embrace of his first love. Jed
knew that in order to win Macy's heart, he would need to make himself
stand out. He would have to somehow become special when compared to
the other young men, many of whom had more money, charm and better
hygiene than Jed.
It was at church one Sunday when the idea hit him. If he were
somehow to win the annual Bingo championship the following Saturday
night, then surely Macy would see how special he was and marry him.
Before you jump to conclusions about Jed's logic, let me just say that
the winner of the annual Bingo championship received the Macaroni
Star. The Star was handcrafted by only the finest kindergarten artist
each year. Along with the star, came bragging rights that would last
until the following Bingo championship. Now Jed wasn't even sure how
to play Bingo, but he had a whole week to figure out how to win.
The week passed very rapidly and it was Saturday before Jed knew
it. Jed knew that he could not win the Bingo championship, so he
racked his brain for another way to impress Macy. He finally decided
that a puppy would win her heart, so he visited Jack Rousseau and
bought a mongrel puppy that pissed himself whenever anyone would pick
it up. I know you're thinking that was a poor choice, but it was the
only puppy Jed could find on such short notice. Feeling hopeless, Jed
resigned himself to spending another evening with a bottle of Old Crow
when another idea hit him. Mad Maggie! Maggie was this lady that
supposedly had some sort of voodoo about her. Jed was terrified of
Maggie, but if she couldn't help him impress Macy, then no one could.
Jed fortified his strength with a half a pint, scooped up his puppy
and headed toward Maggie's shack.
It was here that a devil's bargain was struck. Jed was to trade
the remaining half pint of whiskey, his puppy, and the best years of
his life for a magic frog leg that would help him win at Bingo. Jed
agreed and promptly bit off his left pinky toe to seal the pact. The
long and short of it is that Jed won. He jumped almost to the ceiling
while shouting Bingo to the heavens. He was awarded the Macaroni Star,
and instantly ran to Macy's house.
When he arrived on her porch he was a bit winded, so he placed
his hands on his knees and bent over to catch his breath. His new
vantage point allowed him to see into the living room between the
blind and window sill. What he saw stunned him. Macy was in the
embrace of another man!
Jed threw down the Macaroni Star, stomped it good, and then ran
off wildly into the swamp. No one ever saw Jed again. But on certain
nights, when the moon is just right, you can hear him in the swamp,
yelling Bingo over and over again."
"So what do you think," asked Mark.
"That's pretty twisted."
"I picked that one up from a barber's assistant in Wyoming.
Thank you for the company. I think it's about time I mosey on down the
road. There are a lot more stories out there." He threw a couple of
crumpled bills on the table. "That should cover our coffee. Good luck
Aaron, I hope you find America," he laughed.
"Where are you heading?"
"Don't know yet. How about you?"
"Seattle sounds nice."
"Excellent choice, be sure to check out the Sound Garden."
"I have another question," I called after him.
"Shoot."
"How, exactly, do you mosey?"
Mark just chuckled to himself as he headed out the door.
"Yo, Suzy," I yelled. "I need a refill here."
