Bombay, Alaska
A short story I'm working on...
I’m looking at the Pacific Ocean, pack on the dock behind me, and this guy comes and sits down next to me. He’s got long hair and a long beard. Obviously been a long time out. He smells like skunks, and shoves his pack, which smells like dead skunks, next to mine. He stretches his feet out over the dock’s edge, and, reaching into his pocket, produces a silver cigarette case.
How goes it stranger.
Nothing but some sitting in the morning sun.
Like that song.
True, like that song.
For a while he didn’t say anything, just looked out at the ocean, smoke poised and unlit.
Mind if I sit here a spell? Just walked in from up north and boy are my feet cold.
Only if you stop talking like a fool. And if you got an extra one of those smokes. Those, stranger, are my conditions.
*
My mom yells at me a lot.
Did you do the dishes? Did you? Good, now go outside. Can’t have a moment of peace with you in this house. Go clean the spears. The spears have blood from yesterday’s hunt and I won’t have blood in here. Just cleaned the floors. I know you didn’t put it there. But you might put it here with all that fucking around by the stream. And since you’re not old enough to hunt its your job to clean the spears, now clean the fucking spears and then clean your fucking hands because you better not bring any bloody hands inside this house.
It’s not that bad. Out in the back of the house there’s a stream, it runs behind all the houses on our block. Mountain water. The mountains are behind the stream – horizon to horizon, tall, Mount Stephen twenty thousand feet easy according to the other people on West End Avenue. Snowcaps even in summer, deep green tree cover down to the streams and the town.
West End Avenue the western edge of Bombay, a town that hides at the bottom of its mountain. The human presence in a Japanese painting. The town has two art museums and a sushi joint we sometimes go to with fresh salmon from where our stream meets some other streams and becomes the Stephen River. Dad said he’d take me fishing there when I’m old enough. He also said he’d take me to hunt the buffalo.
*
Heavens am I hungry.
Ocean full of fish in front of you.
They say Lewis and Clark came through here but were so sick of eating fish they ate their horses instead.
Then they put what’s her name, their guide, on a coin.
Sacagawea. I have one of those. Ugly.
Ugly?
I mean, coming from a collector’s point of view.
But Sacagawea was totally desirable. I mean, coming from a hunter’s point of view. You, with your coins, you’re clearly more of the gatherer type.
Well fine, I’ll just gather up my weed and walk right down the road where I was heading then. Nice to meet you.
I’m just kidding. Don’t want to see you walk away. Now what were you saying, about Lewis and Clark, I don’t think they came through Alaska.
Sure they did. Book I read said they explored western America to the Pacific Ocean. Seeing how Alaska’s as west as you can get and still be in America, and seeing how from where we’re sitting on this dock we could spit into the Pacific Ocean, I think its true.
Not true. Funny, but not true. And I’ll tell you why if you pass that smoke this way.
Let’s hear it.
Well, I read some books too, and they said that Lewis and Clark explored lands that America bought from France. So how come there aren’t any French people around here? And how come there are so many Russians?
Sure are a lot of Russians. I got stories about Russians. And Japanese? Forget about it.
Hey, watch out. My mom was Japanese.
No shit. So, my half-Japanese brother, where you heading?
Town called Bombay. Inland, cross the Stephen. I hear they have good sushi. Tuna even.
Tuna, shit. Mind if I come with you?
Don’t mind at all. I got some wine if you got some more of that sticky.
Sure thing. Bombay or bust.
*
Past the stream is where Dad goes to hunt – and where I go and follow – because the buffalo sometimes try to sneak between the town and the mountain. That’s where I go after I clean the spears, in the time when the sun makes a silhouette of Mount Stephen and then finally sinks behind, when my vision starts failing at surprising distances and then I know its what Dad calls the magic hour. Can’t hunt then, but like he says weird shit happens and there isn’t nothing to explain, and that’s why we have gods, because if you think you see your dead grandmother out the corner of your eye, its just a god sending you an apparition. That’s how they work, gods. In the peripherals.
*
He’s a good boy.
No buffalo and mud all over the fucking carpet.
He’s a little queer, but he’s a good boy. Well intentioned.
Nelly’s going to hurt himself fooling around at night out there by the stream.
Worst he could do is drop in the water or stub his toe. Nothing dangerous out there. And don’t call him that.
Nothing edible out there seems.
Nothing edible? Are you trying to be a wise-ass?
I think I’m succeeding in being a wise-ass. You, on the other hand, are a total failure of a man. My mother was right, I shouldn’t have married a Jew.
Now this is about my religion? Who the fuck do you think you are?
I’m your son’s mother and I’m telling you, I’m this close to selling him.
*
The stream and West End Avenue behind me, pine trees and snow in front of me. In Bombay the fall brings a wet breeze and a slight chill and it starts to get dark early. The magic hour becomes harder to catch but now I can just grasp it. I’m going to kill a buffalo, and while he’s trying to be sneaky at that.
My boots are laced up to the knee, the bottoms of my pants tucked in, my shirt and coat buttoned with the cuffs tucked under my gloves and my scarf. A matching set, wool from Russia. Bombay’s got actually got some nice shops, but Dad says the Chamber of Commerce is a bunch of douchebags cause they won’t let the hunters and the fishermen in. Still, good bow and arrow shop too where I got my black leather quiver and the finest eagle feather arrows.
Ease the spring-loaded back door shut, set out towards the fallen log upstream in the Mayor’s property. Derek Yamasaki. The gods of the forest have a sense of humor, I guess, making a natural bridge in a construction magnate’s backyard. The stream’s shallow enough to wade but I don’t like to get my feet wet, and anyway, the sneaking around is fun.
Cross the log bridge, pull out an arrow and ready my shot. Eyes adjust slowly to the lack of light. No moon. Lots of stars. Scrubby land rising to mountains in which there doesn’t seem to be much buffalo.
*
We crossed the river, wandered down it, and up an, um, tributary. But I think we might need to cross the tributary at some point.
Nothing but a stream.
So.
So these Japanese guys are working on this fishing boat. They’re on the ocean catching tuna.
Tuna – like the kind they have in Bombay?
Well yeah, but these guys are using this huge boat with huge nets, the kind you don’t see anymore. They processed their catch and put in cans right there. So this one crew is on this boat, a cannery boat, and they’re in the ocean near Japan.
The Pacific Ocean.
Right. Now simultaneously, a film producer is leaving New York – that’s in Eastern America – and going to an island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.
With the cannery boat.
No. They’re different kinds of boats entirely, on different missions. The film producer –
What’s a film?
What’s a film?
Yeah, what’s a film?
*
I find some white rocks and make a little circle, inside of which I put some dry brush – easy to find this time of year – and start a small fire to sing my prayer.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may live long and prosper.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may eat of its flesh.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may use its hide for shelter.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may use its bones as tools.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may live long and prosper.
The prayer is old and has to be sung loudly and clearly, so that the gods, who are somewhat hart of hearing, can understand. Then they may or may not send a buffalo, and they may or may not send many buffalo. My mom says the prayer hasn’t worked in a long time, that the gods must have lost their hearing entirely, or fallen asleep, or worse, died. But my dad keeps telling me about the peripherals, so I keep looking at the places I’m not looking, focusing on the edges of my vision so hard my eye muscles hurt. But sometimes in the magic hour I see things.
*
I can’t believe you never heard of a film. You must be from the boonies. I’m a little bit scared, I’ll be honest, but since we’re both almost stumbling I figure I’ll be alright.
What was that?
I didn’t hear anything.
Smoke. Look. In front of us, to the left, a thin stream of smoke. Hard to see in the starlight isn’t it. Be quiet – listen.
Swinging his hair back, smoothing down his beard, he tilts his head up and closes his eyes. He seems to recognize what he’s hearing. He hums along.
We must be close to the edge of town.
What was that all about?
Just an old hunter’s prayer. But look, that fire is out. Let’s try to find whoever lit it.
You sure we should do that? If that’s a hunter, I mean, it is getting dark.
Come on, we’ll be the charming travelers and get a place to stay for the night, maybe even a meal. I got the whole shtick down.
Shtick? I didn’t say that, just followed the stranger towards where the fire was lit.
I’m looking at the Pacific Ocean, pack on the dock behind me, and this guy comes and sits down next to me. He’s got long hair and a long beard. Obviously been a long time out. He smells like skunks, and shoves his pack, which smells like dead skunks, next to mine. He stretches his feet out over the dock’s edge, and, reaching into his pocket, produces a silver cigarette case.
How goes it stranger.
Nothing but some sitting in the morning sun.
Like that song.
True, like that song.
For a while he didn’t say anything, just looked out at the ocean, smoke poised and unlit.
Mind if I sit here a spell? Just walked in from up north and boy are my feet cold.
Only if you stop talking like a fool. And if you got an extra one of those smokes. Those, stranger, are my conditions.
*
My mom yells at me a lot.
Did you do the dishes? Did you? Good, now go outside. Can’t have a moment of peace with you in this house. Go clean the spears. The spears have blood from yesterday’s hunt and I won’t have blood in here. Just cleaned the floors. I know you didn’t put it there. But you might put it here with all that fucking around by the stream. And since you’re not old enough to hunt its your job to clean the spears, now clean the fucking spears and then clean your fucking hands because you better not bring any bloody hands inside this house.
It’s not that bad. Out in the back of the house there’s a stream, it runs behind all the houses on our block. Mountain water. The mountains are behind the stream – horizon to horizon, tall, Mount Stephen twenty thousand feet easy according to the other people on West End Avenue. Snowcaps even in summer, deep green tree cover down to the streams and the town.
West End Avenue the western edge of Bombay, a town that hides at the bottom of its mountain. The human presence in a Japanese painting. The town has two art museums and a sushi joint we sometimes go to with fresh salmon from where our stream meets some other streams and becomes the Stephen River. Dad said he’d take me fishing there when I’m old enough. He also said he’d take me to hunt the buffalo.
*
Heavens am I hungry.
Ocean full of fish in front of you.
They say Lewis and Clark came through here but were so sick of eating fish they ate their horses instead.
Then they put what’s her name, their guide, on a coin.
Sacagawea. I have one of those. Ugly.
Ugly?
I mean, coming from a collector’s point of view.
But Sacagawea was totally desirable. I mean, coming from a hunter’s point of view. You, with your coins, you’re clearly more of the gatherer type.
Well fine, I’ll just gather up my weed and walk right down the road where I was heading then. Nice to meet you.
I’m just kidding. Don’t want to see you walk away. Now what were you saying, about Lewis and Clark, I don’t think they came through Alaska.
Sure they did. Book I read said they explored western America to the Pacific Ocean. Seeing how Alaska’s as west as you can get and still be in America, and seeing how from where we’re sitting on this dock we could spit into the Pacific Ocean, I think its true.
Not true. Funny, but not true. And I’ll tell you why if you pass that smoke this way.
Let’s hear it.
Well, I read some books too, and they said that Lewis and Clark explored lands that America bought from France. So how come there aren’t any French people around here? And how come there are so many Russians?
Sure are a lot of Russians. I got stories about Russians. And Japanese? Forget about it.
Hey, watch out. My mom was Japanese.
No shit. So, my half-Japanese brother, where you heading?
Town called Bombay. Inland, cross the Stephen. I hear they have good sushi. Tuna even.
Tuna, shit. Mind if I come with you?
Don’t mind at all. I got some wine if you got some more of that sticky.
Sure thing. Bombay or bust.
*
Past the stream is where Dad goes to hunt – and where I go and follow – because the buffalo sometimes try to sneak between the town and the mountain. That’s where I go after I clean the spears, in the time when the sun makes a silhouette of Mount Stephen and then finally sinks behind, when my vision starts failing at surprising distances and then I know its what Dad calls the magic hour. Can’t hunt then, but like he says weird shit happens and there isn’t nothing to explain, and that’s why we have gods, because if you think you see your dead grandmother out the corner of your eye, its just a god sending you an apparition. That’s how they work, gods. In the peripherals.
*
He’s a good boy.
No buffalo and mud all over the fucking carpet.
He’s a little queer, but he’s a good boy. Well intentioned.
Nelly’s going to hurt himself fooling around at night out there by the stream.
Worst he could do is drop in the water or stub his toe. Nothing dangerous out there. And don’t call him that.
Nothing edible out there seems.
Nothing edible? Are you trying to be a wise-ass?
I think I’m succeeding in being a wise-ass. You, on the other hand, are a total failure of a man. My mother was right, I shouldn’t have married a Jew.
Now this is about my religion? Who the fuck do you think you are?
I’m your son’s mother and I’m telling you, I’m this close to selling him.
*
The stream and West End Avenue behind me, pine trees and snow in front of me. In Bombay the fall brings a wet breeze and a slight chill and it starts to get dark early. The magic hour becomes harder to catch but now I can just grasp it. I’m going to kill a buffalo, and while he’s trying to be sneaky at that.
My boots are laced up to the knee, the bottoms of my pants tucked in, my shirt and coat buttoned with the cuffs tucked under my gloves and my scarf. A matching set, wool from Russia. Bombay’s got actually got some nice shops, but Dad says the Chamber of Commerce is a bunch of douchebags cause they won’t let the hunters and the fishermen in. Still, good bow and arrow shop too where I got my black leather quiver and the finest eagle feather arrows.
Ease the spring-loaded back door shut, set out towards the fallen log upstream in the Mayor’s property. Derek Yamasaki. The gods of the forest have a sense of humor, I guess, making a natural bridge in a construction magnate’s backyard. The stream’s shallow enough to wade but I don’t like to get my feet wet, and anyway, the sneaking around is fun.
Cross the log bridge, pull out an arrow and ready my shot. Eyes adjust slowly to the lack of light. No moon. Lots of stars. Scrubby land rising to mountains in which there doesn’t seem to be much buffalo.
*
We crossed the river, wandered down it, and up an, um, tributary. But I think we might need to cross the tributary at some point.
Nothing but a stream.
So.
So these Japanese guys are working on this fishing boat. They’re on the ocean catching tuna.
Tuna – like the kind they have in Bombay?
Well yeah, but these guys are using this huge boat with huge nets, the kind you don’t see anymore. They processed their catch and put in cans right there. So this one crew is on this boat, a cannery boat, and they’re in the ocean near Japan.
The Pacific Ocean.
Right. Now simultaneously, a film producer is leaving New York – that’s in Eastern America – and going to an island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.
With the cannery boat.
No. They’re different kinds of boats entirely, on different missions. The film producer –
What’s a film?
What’s a film?
Yeah, what’s a film?
*
I find some white rocks and make a little circle, inside of which I put some dry brush – easy to find this time of year – and start a small fire to sing my prayer.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may live long and prosper.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may eat of its flesh.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may use its hide for shelter.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may use its bones as tools.
Please, gods, send me buffalo, so that I may live long and prosper.
The prayer is old and has to be sung loudly and clearly, so that the gods, who are somewhat hart of hearing, can understand. Then they may or may not send a buffalo, and they may or may not send many buffalo. My mom says the prayer hasn’t worked in a long time, that the gods must have lost their hearing entirely, or fallen asleep, or worse, died. But my dad keeps telling me about the peripherals, so I keep looking at the places I’m not looking, focusing on the edges of my vision so hard my eye muscles hurt. But sometimes in the magic hour I see things.
*
I can’t believe you never heard of a film. You must be from the boonies. I’m a little bit scared, I’ll be honest, but since we’re both almost stumbling I figure I’ll be alright.
What was that?
I didn’t hear anything.
Smoke. Look. In front of us, to the left, a thin stream of smoke. Hard to see in the starlight isn’t it. Be quiet – listen.
Swinging his hair back, smoothing down his beard, he tilts his head up and closes his eyes. He seems to recognize what he’s hearing. He hums along.
We must be close to the edge of town.
What was that all about?
Just an old hunter’s prayer. But look, that fire is out. Let’s try to find whoever lit it.
You sure we should do that? If that’s a hunter, I mean, it is getting dark.
Come on, we’ll be the charming travelers and get a place to stay for the night, maybe even a meal. I got the whole shtick down.
Shtick? I didn’t say that, just followed the stranger towards where the fire was lit.
posted by base at 11:19 AM
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