Tales for late night bon.., p.1
Tales for Late Night Bonfires, page 1
Tales for
Late Night
Bonfires
G.A. GRISENTHWAITE
Tales for
Late Night
Bonfires
STORIES
© G.A. GRISENTHWAITE 2023
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Tales for late night bonfires : stories / G.A. Grisenthwaite.
Names: Grisenthwaite, G. A., 1959– author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20230454143 | Canadiana (ebook)
2023045416X | ISBN 9781990601378 (softcover) | ISBN 9781990601385
(EPUB) | ISBN 9781990601392 (PDF)
Classification: LCC PS8613.R646 T35 2023 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Edited by Jamie Tennant
Book design by Natalie Olsen
Author photo by G.A. Grisenthwaite
Printed on FSC® recycled paper and bound in Canada by Marquis
To all the old men (young men, and women)who stand around backyard bonfires and
trade stories and laughter late into the night.
Where would we be without all y’all?
Splatter Pattern
ball lightnin
Roadkill
Three Bucks
Little Trees®
Catching Farts
Snk̓y̓ép and His Shiny New Choker
The One About the Boy and the Grey Squirrel
SPAM® Stew and the MALM Minimalist Bedroom Set from IKEA®
A Wager
The Sunshine Rainbow Peace Ranch
Gramps v The real Santa™
Tales for
Late Night
Bonfires
Splatter Pattern
Anyways, a kid, a boy, in town, drags his sorry halfbreed ass up Main Street — Only Street’s what most of us call it — carrying on him the kind of sad that attracts rain like a pile of crap attracts flies. So that kid, the boy, wading in sadness, walks Only Street. Rain falls around that kid, the boy, all the time. Wades in sadness, we guess. Maybe wades in sweat-like rain.
Could be in an Elvis song that kid, the boy, living in “Heartbreak Hotel.” Now that Elvis gets himself a co-writing credit on that song.
“Heartbreak Hotel” makes suicide a groovy thing. But that kid, the boy, don’t think that-a-way.
No, that kid, the boy, got himself so locked up he don’t see them thoughts, don’t hear them brain words, can’t speak none of it neither. Anyways, that father says only cowards make suicide.
Only one says jumping off the bridge’ll make him better. Even heal him.
That one, Me-Who-Looks-At-Me, comes from spirit world maybe? Come from all the bad stuff growing in that kid’s, the boy’s, heart, maybe? But we don’t know for sure. Anyways he says that boy’s father lies and doesn’t want him to get better.
Sure, we hear them rumours and sometimes screams from the house. Sometimes crying, that kid, the boy, in alleys, under stairs, in the public toilet. Probably at the house too; makes sense, i’nit?
We know something ain’t right about that father.
But we don’t know nothing but the rumours.
Father says to us, “You got no clue how clumsy and stupid and weak that kid. Lemme tell you. Just last night, that clumsy kid, just tying its shoelaces. They fall off a stool. Just fall off a goddamn stool and break a fucking wrist.
“Musta got all that weak from the mother, that kid. Musta got all that stupid from the mother, that kid. Musta got all that clumsy from the mother, that kid.”
We think that kidʼs, the boyʼs, mother pretty smart to up and leave that father. Pretty cruel to leave that kid, the boy, behind, but.
When we ask that kid, the boy, “What happened?” he tells us, “O, just clumsy me. O, just weak me. O, just stupid me.” Shrugs and sloshes away that kid, the boy. Sloshes away like that turtle with the head inside the shell. Rain splatters down. Wind catches it and spritzes our air with grey spray.
Wet footprints stain the ground behind him.
So few words we think maybe that kid, the boy, wrong in the head.
Maybe not enough oxygen inside the mother?
Maybe they drop that kid, the boy, on his head?
Maybe?
Who knows. Weʼre not shrinks.
And weʼre not doctors.
Maybe?
Who knows. We got our own stuff to worry about.
Anyways, this story ainʼt about us. This story tells about Me-Who-Looks-At-Me, someone that kid, the boy, coulda made up. But Me-Who-Looks-At-Me tells us he made up that kid, the boy. Me-Who-Looks-At-Me steals that kidʼs, the boyʼs, dreams: night dreams; day dreams; dreams inside dreams; dreams inside the brain pictures behind the words that kid, the boy, says out loud. Me-Who-Looks-At-Me rules dreams. Me-Who-Looks-At-Me the warrior, qéck looking out for the younger brother. Me-Who-Looks-At-Meʼs born way after that kid, the boy, but already older. Way, way older.
Maybe more agile, stronger, and smarter, too.
That kid, the boy, wades up Main Street just before dark. And splosh-splersh by us. We say, “Hey.”
Rude one, that kid, the boy. Splosh-splersh. He shrinks and throws up a wave like a block, splosh-splersh, like we take a shot at his head. Splosh-splersh. Water splat like a hawked loogie on the ground in front of us.
Splosh-splersh.
That kid, the boy, so rude.
Splosh-splersh down Only Street.
And that pick-up zooms over the hill.
So fast all four wheels clear its crest.
Truck rocks left, jerks right.
Straightens out.
And guns it.
Like it needs to go faster through town.
Like they got a lightning bolt up that tailpipe. And maybe gonna jump into some future.
Like it wants to splat that kid, the boy all over the street.
Only that kid’s, the boyʼs, father drives that pick-up. And thatʼs whoʼs driving it.
That kid, the boy, stops right in the middle of Only Street. Right on the faded white line. Heʼs got plenty of time to get offa Only Street. And just ten feet from the sidewalk he stops dead. Frozen stiff: maybe from fear, we think.
You know we want to say something.
You know we want to save that kid, the boy.
But we, frozen as him, wait and watch.
That pick-up donʼt hit the brakes. It swerves around them.
That kid, the boy, now split in two. That second one, Me-Who-Looks-At-Me, got a rifle: bolt-action .303.
They pull back bolt.
Kickback knocks them on their arses.
Oncoming headlights shine through windshield blood and brain splash-pattern.
Now we give our head a shake. And eyes a good rub. Did we just see what we see? We dreaming? That kid let Me-Who-Looks-At-Me kill their father?
Sure, that father maybe not the best, but to kill it like that?
Me-Who-Looks-At-Me jumps to his feet and hands the rifle to that kid.
That kid flicks the safety. Points its barrel down. Someoneʼs shown them how to hold the gun when not killing with it.
Probably their grandpa.
That Me-Who-Looks-At-Me claps their hands, looks at us and says, “One helluva splatter pattern, huh?”
He grabs that kid by the sleeve.
“Gotta be one crazy exit wound! S’go check it out.”
That kid feels empty to us. Like an old shell. We see that sometimes, soul or whatever check out and go on a TC, cruising Only Street. Maybe all zoned out?
Who knows.
Absence seizures, maybe?
Weʼre not doctors.
Me-Who-Looks-At-Me skips to the truck. That father hunched over steering wheel like a sleeping drunk, donʼt move, even when Me-Who-Looks-At-Me poke it with a stick.
Pretty quick them cops show up.
Pretty quick they jump that kid.
Got him face down in the asphalt.
Big splash of water gushes from that kid. Sounds like them old ladies who cry at funerals.
One cop says, “Fucking kid pissed on me.”
One cop says, “Dirty little Indian puked on me.”
That kid now in the cop car, hunched over like that father.
That Me-Who-Looks-At-Me? Long gone.
One cop says, “Tell me what happened here.”
We say, “We dunno. I guess someone shot that kidʼs old man.”
One cop says, “Old man?”
&n bsp; We say, “You know, the father.”
One cop says, “You seen it?”
We think a bit. No right answer. Cop probably wants to hear us say what he thinks we should say. Cop wonʼt hear about Me-Who-Looks-At-Me. We canʼt blame them, can we? Cop makes us accessories for saying truth.
Seen it happen before.
Truth might let some free, but it imprisons many more.
Not always that way. But that way now.
Anyway, that kid will wind up in jail sometime. Jail, or dead.
So no need to take us with him.
We say, “Yeah. Didn’t know that kid had it in them. They usually so quiet. So shy. So pleasant. Donʼt know what went wrong. Pretty sad, hey?”
ball lightnin
she, maybe three, I guess
no, four she was, down Cisco
over there on the west side
wearing her shiny shoes and Sunday dress
for pickin berries? jeez you, says her gran
better keep it clean, or that Sunday school god’ll gechoo
and she cackles
you know the one, that old lady laugh?
but she don’t make her change
so yeah, she meant to keep it clean
anyways, I guess she tried
walkin the CP track with her gran
her gran and aunt and her stupid dog
over there, on the west side
at Cisco
near that place Fraser finishes swallowin Thompson
where them two rivers, one all green and sparkly
and the other all dirty, them two rivers roll into one
the three a them and that stupid dog
just comin back from pickin sx̣ʷúsm
yeah, sx̣ʷúsm, and wild raspberries, too
anyways, them three and that dog returnin home
her gran haulin a basket a sx̣ʷúsm
and her auntie, a pail a raspberries
and that little one chasin that dog a hers
that dog runnin, in a jingle dress made a burrs
and she, that little one? got a smile
as stained as her fingertips
and that dog?
yippin up a storm
tail high and waggin, tongue lollin
she races up and back along the tracks
up and back, up and back
then this last time she runs up and up and up
tail folded up under her belly
paws barely touchin them ties
leavin them two-leggeds to fend for themselves
so that girl, she stamps a foot on a tie
calls after her stupid dog that disappeared around a bend
and from behind her, maybe a hundred feet
maybe a little more, her gran shouts, run!
and that little girl?
she turns, sees a fireball
ball lightnin, an electric tumbleweed
rollin her way
and that girl?
she runs
her gran and auntie screamin after her
their berries bouncin off the gravel between two ties
and them old women, all in one motion
hike up their skirts and chase the lightnin
chasin that little girl
up them train tracks that little one runs
with that lightnin ball right behind her
then that little one
she zigs off the track
and climbs that scrabbly hill
till Moses’ barbed wire fence stops her dead
so down she slides
kickin up dust and pebbles
down the hill
her mouth twisted into a scream she don’t let out
or maybe can’t
and she crosses them tracks again
jumps a patch a prickly pear
jumps that cactus all right
but trips, tumbling down
rollin like that lightnin ball
poppin out a little cry each time her butt touches ground
and that lightnin chases after her like mad on a mule
and then that lightnin ball fizzles, sputters
spreads that stink a ozone
and dies in a thunderous boom!
well! then her gran scoops her up
wheezin and cryin and holdin that child close
and that little one’s fancy dress?
all dirty, and torn
her fancy shoes all scuffed and dusty
and that girl cries
maybe more for them scuffed toes
and that torn an dirty dress
than that fireball nearly takin her
her gran carries the girl tucked up under one arm
her basket a sx̣ʷúsm up under the other
and her aunt, now all thousand-eyed
watches the hill, the sky
them three hurry home
where that stupid dog’s hid
under the house
hidin like a mole
they don’t see her for maybe three days
yeah, three whole days
the whole time that girl cries
thinkin her stupid dog got ett by that fireball
thinkin maybe she got ett by that Sunday school god
three days she cries
then that dog?
her fur a messa caked mud and dust
her jingle dress a burrs
as runed as the girl’s Sunday one
all whimperin, hungry
and she jumps up on that little girl
scaredy-tail waggin between her legs
forepaws on that little girl’s shoulders
they hold each other
they hold each other tight
that little girl smilin a rainbow
and that stupid dog?
she tries lickin it off
Roadkill
Chuckie thought the two most important women in his life hated each other; well, Edna was a woman, and the other, Hazel, a ’61 Impala SS. Edna despised Hazel, but Hazel couldn’t hate Edna or anyone else. All 409 cubic inches of her engine loved her two-leggeds, even when she thought Edna a bit burdensome at times. But Hazel, as white as a polished pearl, and as smart and faithful as a purebred Arabian, loved Chuckie the same way she loved the caress of clean thirty-weight oil on her pistons.
Every now and then Chuckie took a drink; sometimes he took many. When Chuckie had too many, Hazel drove her man and his gang of rowdies home — and only home — no matter where her human charges thought they wanted to go. And Chuckie — drunk, sober, or somewhere in between, like tonight — chuckled and caressed Hazel’s steering wheel like his lover’s earlobe, and said, “You taking us home to bed, old girl?”
When Hazel pulled to a stop in front of the house, Edna, unasleep in bed, relaxed, and as her head nestled into the pillow, snored lightly.
Her worried frown softened into a less worried one.
Despite his buds’ cussing and grumbling, Chuckie, he all soft words and sledgehammer-fists, laughed, sent them on their way. “Catch you for coffee at Rose’s in the mornin?”
His buds waved yeah, and grumbled up the rez road, yelling at yipping rez dogs, who now barked louder, and tried to shake free of their chains.
Chuckie leaned against Hazel’s right front fender: “You could teach them a lesson or two, i’nit, girl?”
After the last of his buds closed their doors to the night, Chuckie nodded. He crawled into bed beside Edna. Her sleep breathing slowed and her less frowny frown smiled, looking kind of heavenly.
Some nights later, while tootling east on a narrow, curvy section of the Canyon (Ah, Heaven! Wind through my grill at seventy miles an hour!) —
Crash!
Thunk!
Thud-Thud.
Thud-Thud.
Thud-Thud.
A four-point white-tailed buck bounced off Hazel’s right front fender, and landed on the shoulder, more dead than alive.
Chuckie saw a huge dent in Hazel’s fender, new paint and trim, at least three hundred dollars in parts, and another year’s delay in buying that new gas-powered log-splitter.
Edna saw a freezer full of venison roasts, burgers, jerky, and a hide and sinew for her crafts.
So did Hazel, not that she wanted any of it for herself.
“Put it out of his misery, then into the trunk. Hey, hun?” Edna said.
Chuckie, already reaching into the glovebox for his skinning knife and nodded. “On it, Sweet-thang.”
He frowned at Hazel’s dented fender, thanked her, thanked the buck, dragged it up beside that rock that looked like Coyote humping his sister-in-law, and then slit its throat.
