The Island CH 5

Remember what happened last night? Good. Now tell the world.

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The Galiant Fuck
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The Island CH 5

Post by The Galiant Fuck »

When she showed up, she brought her own party. She made her own party wherever she went. I was lucky enough to have known her. Being her only son mattered in some way, but beyond that, she enjoyed my company.


I quite enjoyed her company, as well. That is why I’ve been writing these messed up and true tales. In honor of an original Not-Give-A-Fuck spirit. You know these sort of people. Many of us here on the Modern Drunkard Magazine forum are like this. If you know or have known someone like this in your own time on our tiny blue marble, (or perhaps you are one of these marvelous people), then raise your chalice in enjoyment.


DRINK.


Ready? Let’s go.



THE NEXT TIME



The sun glowed in the west, across the tops of the trees out back. High up on Oak Hill, the setting sun shined orange light, becoming red, on the walls inside our own personal space. The shadows of them oak trees waved on those walls, like ghosts of unexplored youth, lost in time to be un-remembered.


It was during the steamy summer night when she came back home the next time. She wanted to take me for another adventure. This time, it was not about stealing personal but-not-truly-personal items form uncaring individuals.


This was about stealing from a stealer of our Tribal identity. Some would call it Intellectual Property, and that would be correct. This time, however, it was about stealing something that cuts to the marrow.


She saw me watching the television when I looked up. She said, “Son. We have a new adventure. Want to go with me?”


Now, I don’t know about you, but when someone asks you such a question, you say “Yes.” Truly, do you want to stay where you can continue on with your television viewing, or do you want to risk danger? What is there to be gained in doing such a thing? Is it less about soft slippers and sweat pants, or is it more about putting on your boots and grabbing your leather? Are you good with your leather? Always mind your leather.


I said “Yes.”


She smiled, and we slipped out of that small house. She grabbed my hand and we walked down the driveway, then down the hill on the road to the bridge, as the sky glowed with red light that night.


Lost mittens on frozen ice. Being left behind, but never forgotten. Now going on a new adventure. It was my home, that there.


We walked over-town to Tim’s Little Big store across form Johnny’s Pizza, and she went inside. She came back out with a package and we walked down Main Street a bit, to under them bluish light lamp posts. She held her thumb out.


Sure enough, someone slowed down and she leaned in through the window. She said, “Heading to Bangor?”


That fellow said, “I am now.”


She stepped back and shook her head. He shrugged and drove off. Then he circled around in the parking lot by the old funeral home and came speeding by again in the opposite direction. He held his bird high as he flew by. Mom didn’t even respond. She was cool like that. Smooth as glass.


Another car came down the road form Alton and she held her thumb out. A young lady slowed and seeing me, she stopped. Was I bait for a hitch hike? I have no idea, but I can tell you that The Woman had good skills in odd situations. I would be heading into a very odd situation.


She leaned into the car, and the young woman nodded, so we climbed in. Turns out, we were not heading to Bangor, but Orono. I think that it was a test for the creepy man, because Bangor is further away than Orono. Someone who would be willing to go out of his way to drive you to Bangor would not be driving you to Bangor. Probably to the woods.


We arrived at the University there, and then mom asked the woman if she would like to attend a lecture. It was to be given by a woman who was an expert on the Injuns who once lived in Maine. “The Forgotten Red Paint Tribes.”


The young lady shrugged and nodded. I think, looking back, that The Woman was not looking for a ride back home. I believe that she was inviting someone to get a Friggin clue about the place we all inhabited.


But would help to have an exit plan, instead of trying to hitch hike away. Perhaps it was both. She was smart like that.


We arrived, parked and walked over to the front entrance. Mom held out her tickets at the front door of the auditorium, and she held a short stack of them towards us other two. She pulled out one for each of us and then laid own the rest on the walkway, all spread out like a little bird’s tale.

We handed our tickets to the little old lady inside her glass cage and continued on our way past the insecurity officer asleep on his chair. Mom pointed to the rest rooms, and we followed her finger. Those two went in the woman’s room, and I held ground. She came back out and dragged me in there.


Just we three were in there, and mom pulled out the brown paper bag. She held a flat bottle of Evan’s. I never had bourbon in my life, and I didn’t like it then. I do now.


Well, she chugged a healthy amount of it and handed the bottle out to me. I shrugged and took it and took a big swallow. I handed it back to her and she smiled, just as I started coughing. I sneezed twice and wiped my nose on my buckskin jacket. Mom said, “Son. Blow a snot rocket. Never wipe your nose on your leather. Always mind your leather. It will save you.”


I nodded and looked back up again. The young lady was horrified. She looked at the woman who just handed her son a bottle of booze and she decided to run away.


Mom said, “Some folks don’t have heart. Never lose that about yourself. Let’s go.”


Inside the auditorium, it was dark, except for the stage. On the dais sat folks in chairs, and one was standing behind the podium, asking the audience for questions. Good timing. Mom shouted out to her, “How much did they pay you to talk tonight?”


I saw glints form eyeglasses turning back towards us in the dark, and the woman onstage said, “Please, folks, let’s quiet down to hear this person. Excuse me, ma’am, from where do you originate and what is your question, again?”


Mom shouted, “I am from this land, since time immemorial. I want to know how much you were paid to speak about natives, here tonight. Did you contribute to us natives when you were writing about us? Did you ask our permission to be our expert?”


The woman on stage had no response. She collected her things and walked off stage, exeunt wrong.


Well, I tell you, I was very embarrassed. How could my mom make a spectacle of herself like that? I tugged on her fringes and she looked over at me. I saw red fire in her eyes. Not the devil sort of thing, no. It was red pride. She nodded at me and grabbed my hand. She led the way out, and I followed her. I was never left behind.


At the time, I had no idea what she was up to. I didn’t comprehend. I was just thinking about the horror of those folks sitting there for a lovely, condescending chat about the forgotten Tribes of Maine; the Red Paint People.


Possibly she made them remember that we have never left, and that is why they shouldn’t rob our graves and put the bones of our ancestors in glass cages in the museums.


We had to walk a long way before we found another ride back to our island. What a helluva party, looking back. Mom always brought her own party. Sometimes, the party isn’t simply about booze.



Booze is a condiment to living.



. . . . . . .



See you in the future.



.
There is a Blackout Island. It exists. I've been there many times. The map is on the bottom of the bottle, to be read from the inside.

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Dear Booze
Drinking God's Good Scotch
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Re: The Island CH 5

Post by Dear Booze »

There it is. I love that Woman!
DRINK!

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oettinger
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Re: The Island CH 5

Post by oettinger »

Yes, super cool.
Drink!
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