Wednesday, October 31, 2012


Happy Halloween.


Monday, October 29, 2012

Wallet Chain Party Time

“We used to party with this guy named Doy.”

Chris popped a nicotine lozenge and shifted the brown Four Runner, accelerating down the hill. The clackacraft tracked tightly behind, playing peak-a-boo in the side view mirror around the back of the truck.

Fly rods jiggled in the magnetic holders on the hood. Streamers hooked in guides fluttered violently in the headwind and I stuck my hands into the pockets of my jacket.

“Doy was a cab driver which was great because he would give us rides in exchange for us taking him to these parties that we would go to.”

We crossed a concrete bridge and I looked at the San Juan River reflecting the warm yellow morning light on the buttery hills.The concrete wooshed under the truck and the low bridge sides echoed the pushing air. The tires made a thunk as we transitioned back to blacktop as the view of the river passed.

“I didn’t know him that well at the time,” Chris continued, “I thought he was pretty quiet, you know? Didn’t say much.”

We turned from the pavement to dirt and passed houses with dogs and chain link fences on sloping hills bracketed by fiery yellow cottonwoods. The sun warmed with nonchalance over tall shadowy sandstone canyon walls.

“So one night Doy drives us to this party, and we are hanging out drinking. Then he disappears for a while, you know like he went to the bathroom or something, but then I hear this guy in the other room say ‘oh no, Doy’s doing it again’ and I look and see that Doy has his dick coming out his fly and has it tucked into his back pocket. And that shit ain’t even stretched, you know? It’s just hanging there like a wallet chain. You know those chains that bikers wear? Yeah, it’s just like that, Just like one of those wallet chains but, you know, his dick.”

Chris laughed and spun around in the dirt lot, pointed the trailer toward the water and shut off the truck.

“Makes sense that he was quiet,” I said. Chris opened his door and looked back over his shoulder.

“Don’t need to say much when you got that going on.”

He laughed again and stepped out into the chilly morning river air to get the boat rigged.

I smiled.

It was a good day.

-Alex who knows the back pocket is way too far away.

Monday, October 15, 2012

life like noodles

He had packed it like a cigarette smoked to the filter and the zipper made a hot noise as it closed like night around day.


The duffel hit the floor at his feet. A disturbed dust bunny made a break for the safety under the box spring but settled for a discarded leather slipper. He coughed like an afterthought and walked to the kitchen.

He stared at the other packed stuff on table and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. His fingernail found a little scab and he thought absentmindedly about the important things he was probably forgetting.

He picked the scab and examined it closely in the buzzing, greenish light.

He rarely forgot things but when he did he had a tendency to make it something spectacularly important.

He flicked the scab to the carpet and turned to the refrigerator. The door sucked open and the interior was illuminated in yellow long enough to show him again that there was still no sustenance contained within before he closed the door again.

Something tickled his cheek and wiped at it. There was a little blood smear on the back of his hand. He licked it and grunted in agreement and tasted plastic.

He stepped over a wet spot and moved to the sink and squeezed some dish soap into his palm as the hot water struggled through the old copper in the walls.

He tried to scrape what looked like an old noodle from the edge and only succeeded in bending his thumbnail back painfully. He put his hands under the water and flung them away from the lava-hot flow with a yelp.

He bit his knuckle and tasted soap as the space heater hummed on the counter drying his freshly washed hat.

Out the window a light breeze gently pushed the mosquitoes in wobbly circles in the shadows of the carport.

He looked upon the defiant noodlet with contempt.

The hours before a trip were always the longest hours of his life.

-Alex who has long hours, too.

Saturday, October 06, 2012

Coulda Been a Contender

Walt Redman called that fucker in, and the son of a bitch just about jumped into the truck. He stood about twenty yards from us, grunting and snorting, bloodshot eyes, covered in piss.

He had just been talking to her from down in the valley. Then he heard some other asshole bugling up here with her and he came to see about that. She was here somewhere; that pretty little cow elk that he had heard talking all slutty.

He got to the top of the hill and stopped.

What the hell is this? He stared, still quivering with desire. Who are these bastards? Two big metal bastards and three two-legged bastards standing up here all alone in the early morning light.

He stomped the ground and turned slightly, grunting. Something ain’t right, he knew now. The wind shifted and he caught the scent and turned his big head bolted down the hill, pussy be damned this shit smelled dangerous and he got out of here.

That was Tuesday. Elk season stated Friday. That randy kid wasn’t going to be tricked a second time. No sir.

Friday morning we hit the call, waved, and said hello from 425 yards as he turned and walked away, knowingly. That was the end of that.

I will become a better elk hunter. Yes. I will.

-Alex who will never be okay with 2am as a "get up" time.