by problembear

it’s been real everyone…… but it is time to close out the blogging and commit myself to writing on real paper again. thanks for the virtual adventures.

by problembear

“after 45 years of working i want something for it. is that so bad? i want a nice truck that can pull a fifth wheel wherever i wanna go. i want a couple of lazy boys for the old lady and me to look out the back window of the fifth wheel and watch some birds on a shore somewhere. is that too much?” – overheard -customer at an RV place in Kalispell

“i just wish we could get enough food to make it until the next paycheck.” – overheard -one of the pay clerks in a casino in Ronan

“we’ll have to cut back this year on entertaining at the lake. we’re looking  at a new property in hawaii.” – overheard in a mercedes showroom in missoula

“The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed- It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.”

William Shakespeare

Chapter 1.

Bud Robert looked around the kitchen. Unopened hospital bills from Irene’s last days in intensive care littered the kitchen table. The first wave of bills for the cancer surgeries and treatment had already bankrupted him. Bud Robert could see no sense in opening the last two month’s worth of bills. There was no money for crop seed or even a decent head stone for Irene. The bank would be coming for the keys to everything on the farm soon.

He glanced at the last vial of medical marijuana on the kitchen sink drainboard from Irene’s last days at home. Bud Robert picked up the small pipe Irene had used to ease the waves of nausea brought on by a last ditch chemo campaign. Bud Robert fingered the small soapstone pipe carved with an angel’s face and wings. He hadn’t even smelled the stuff since coming home from Vietnam over 42 years ago. Bud Robert took a whiff of the pipe ash and winced as a bitter wave of pungent tar took him back to his forward position and even further to his early high school days……

He was an altar boy then. He remembered the Stations of the Cross. The halting procession of incense as the priest’s vestments swayed in even rhythm through the church. He recalled Latin verses; the repeated phrases, his black shoes moving and stopping, turning slowly to face each station that represents the suffering.

Bud Robert smelled Vitalis in his grandfather’s white hair as he moved closer to the pew he knelt in. Bud looked at the floor or at the red glow of the incense that burned in the brass urn at the bottom of his chain. He swung the incense urn on cue as the priest spoke in Latin and the people answered as they knelt. Bud tried to imagine the suffering of a man who died almost 2000 years ago. The kiss of betrayal fascinated him.

At thirteen years Bud couldn’t imagine how it was. Roman soldiers gave the man vinegar instead of water; Gambled for his clothes, stabbed him with a spear till water came out. It was too much to think about, so Bud said “Dominus Vobiscum” and “et cum spiritu tuo” when the priest needed him to.

Five years later, Bud sat in a tree near the Ho Chi Minh trail. The supply line of North Vietnamese passed like a procession in slow cadence. Two soldiers stopped and said something too far away to make out. Through the scope Bud watched their lips move. They pointed at him and all around him.

The one who was talking the most was the easiest. The other one was turned sideways. Bud squeezed the trigger and said “Dominus Vobiscum” to calm his breathing. Some snipers just breathed out slowly but Bud always said this phrase. It was his mantra. It meant The Lord be with you. The green barrel did not smoke. The shot was silenced. Bud watched in the scope.

To the untrained eye, metal jacket bullets give few clues as to which hole is the entrance and which the exit. The body muscles spasm uncontrollably when the bullet passes through. There is blood, but very little. The easy one twitched forward when he was hit. This was lucky. The sideways soldier crouched over the easy one. He looked for Bud. Bud heard shouting and gunfire as they ran the wrong way. They scoured the valley below the trail, looking for him. Someone drug the body away.

The priest Bent low to deposit a small wafer on each tongue. With his left hand Bud held a silver dish beneath their chins in case the host was dropped. Bud held his right hand to his heart as the priest said to each person, “Corpus Christi.” The people knelt at a rail that surrounded the altar. They tilted their heads back and closed their eyes when Bud approached. With open mouths and tongues extended, they waited for the body of Christ.

When Bud took them out, they usually lurched back or fell sideways, their mouths open in astonishment. The tongues sometimes hung out but not always. The eyes he did not notice. Bud never looked at their eyes. Bud aimed for the button on the left pocket. They never moved again.

When the priest said “Corpus Christi,” the eyes closed and the mouths pulled in their tongues to say “Amen” before they tasted the salty bread wafers. The wafers stuck to the tongues then were flicked into the mouths. When the people reached their pews each touched one knee to the floor and made the sign of the cross before sitting.

As a linebacker, Bud dreamed he would go to Notre Dame. The local high school coach was a Jesuit priest. He wore a black shirt unbuttoned to the waist. His stiff white collar stuck out of the back pocket of his black game pants. Once, he hit Bud in the helmet with his clip-board. He shouted, “Take the little son of a bitch out – take him out of the game.” Bud looked at the lights. Through the glare Bud prayed to be invisible. He needed this to do what the priest wanted.

The center fell as he snapped the ball. The quarterback struggled for the football. Bud rushed him. Untouched, he smashed the quarterback’s chest with his helmet. Hurtling his body as a spear, Bud heard the crack of bones coming unhinged. The crowd cheered. The quarterback that the priest wanted taken out lay sprawled and useless to his team. The crowd was silenced until he moved again in pain. They cheered as he limped off, supported by his coach. He was holding broken ribs. The opposing coaches yelled for revenge. They looked for Bud, but Bud had disappeared. Invisible, he’d slipped away into the dressing room. He cut the tape off, dropped his pads, and showered while the defensive line coach stood yelling. Bud unloaded his locker and walked away. The line coach screamed obscenities and threw his clip-board. Bud said “Amen.”

On the trail the procession moved quickly. They had already forgotten the death of the easy one. They were sure the sniper was gone now. Hit once, then move on. That’s the way it went there. They understood this. But the easy one saved Bud a hike by falling forward. Bud thanked him silently. “Et cum spiritu tuo.” And with your spirit.

Bud Robert loaded the pipe, lit it and took a long smooth toke. He closed his eyes and listened to the quiet of the farm without Irene. He let the first wave of forgotten grief float away and then mercifully, with each ensuing draw of the pipe he momentarily remembered less and less.

i hope so.

everybody at the big cheese called him ironhead. but steve mead didn’t mind. just another crazy salmon fisherman reading a book at the end of the bar. ironhead waved sadly to willie when we dripped in smelling like cedar smoke from the trask. no fish at the stump hole and it looks like they’ll keg up until the water clears. arnie spoke first.

“heard the nestucca might clear by tuesday.” but nobody turned their head to listen. arnie was always too hopeful when the november rains started and he always thought wishing would work when floods were likelier.

“doubt it” ironhead answered. and went back to reading. the waitress brought willie his mexican omelette with jalapenos and we all grabbed another booth. somebody’s dog started howling in his box out in the parking lot and a surly ex-con named dink went out to his rusted ford pickup to shut his hound up. he pulled out an electric cattle prod and zapped it once. a sharp whine and then silence. dink drove off without paying again so the waitress wrote the ticket and tucked it into the iou box under the counter.

“don’t tell me i don’t take care of my kids.” a lady a booth over yelled into her cell phone.

arnie went back to his hopeful yammering and we all drank our beers and looked out the window at the clouds impenetrable and pregnant as lies. they squirmed between the peaks of the coast range and laid their endless skein of eggs while willie ran to the bathroom just in time.

(C)

deep in the woods there is chaos

and beneath your feet

a magma river is melting what is left

of solid ground.

radio waves from outer space

are scrambled into future languages

you can sense but not define.

bicycle tires hit a pumpkin shard

buried in leaves and your brains are scrambled.

a canadian flag at the border stands limp

while answering the border guard’s questions.

do you have anything to declare?

today you are called for jury duty.

what questions will they ask that enables them

to pass judgment whether you,

who are unsure just what in the hell anything means,

are fit to survey another’s life and render a verdict.

(C) W.C. Fleischman

“Most of us outlive our usefulness.”

Dean Talbot was talking to no one. He stopped to blow his nose, looked back at the gravesite and spat on the pile of dirt mounded in front of his machine. The idling John Deere backhoe obeyed as Dean worked the well-worn knobs of his machine. He swung the claw around to scoop dirt onto the gloss black box. In a few minutes the first job was done. Dean’s arm hairs told him that rain would come soon to this little graveyard far out in the Montana prairie where the grass seeds Dean sprinkled would get a quick start. Dean raked the seeds in lightly and tamped the dirt with his boots around the edge carefully.

The mourners had long since dispersed, the tent removed, flowers discarded.  Dean and his machine were all alone. Even the small gravel road was deserted. A gopher barked a warning as the shadow of a red tailed hawk touched his mound. White puffy clouds swept the vast pale sky and their lazy late morning shadows prowled the graveyard and crept slowly east toward the rolling terrain of the river valley below.  The Marias river ribboned through the bony canyon toward the brownish blue waters of the Tiber reservoir which reflected a glint of sun in the midmorning glare and reminded Dean of record size walleye. Dean smiled. He fingered the keys to  the boat and trailer in his worn jeans jacket. One more hole to dig at the graveyard in Cut Bank, then finally retirement.

Dean crawled the backhoe up the landing pile onto the flatbed trailer, chained it tight and lit a cigarette while he waited for the diesel engine in his old ford dump truck to warm up. The broken radio would only pick up a BBC station in Calgary Canada instead of his favorite country channel from Havre.  Dean listened for a few seconds to the stuffy nasal voice of a narrator introducing a new author who had written a book about global warming then flicked the button to the country channel and its hiss of empty signal for a few seconds more before switching it off.

Dean pulled out of Chester and turned onto highway 2, pointed west toward the mountains. Fresh Canadian pacific rain clouds from British Columbia scuttled their way across the eastern face of the Montana Rocky Mountain front and began to blanket The Sweet Grass Hills off to the North. The small island of hills was barely visible in a gauzy ghostlike blanket which seemed to spread across the entire horizon. Dean worried about the upcoming auction of his equipment with the low prices Bud had quoted him.  He might have to find someone who isn’t too ambitious to work the contracts for wages and make payments on the backhoe for a few more years until things stabilize. The recession was spreading its cloud of doom over rural America and Montana. Eastern Montana’s hi-line was no exception. Dean reached for his cigarette in the ashtray when he felt the buzz of the cell-phone in the pocket of his wrangler roper shirt and flipped the cover open.

“Dean here.”

“Dad? Where are you?”

“I Just left Chester. One more hole to go in Cut Bank.”

“I should warn you. there’s a party planned at Chet’s tonight. Do you have your good shirt?”

Dean looked briefly at his favorite tattered shirt with the hydraulic stains and the rips in the sleeves, “yeah.”

“You do not. It’s hanging here in the closet. I’ll bring it. “

“Your mom going to come?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How is she?”

“Let’s not go into it. Ok.”

“How are the kids?”

“You’ll see them at Chet’s tonight. I gotta go now OK?”

The entire eastern face of Glacier National Park was enveloped in a mass of North Pacific thunderheads by the time Dean pulled into the cemetery on the outskirts of Cut bank. It would be dangerous to dig with a backhoe until the lightening passed, so he pulled an old western novel and a small ziplock bag of oreos out of his lunch box and made himself comfortable while raindrops as big as silver dollars splattered his windshield. He rolled the driver side window down a few inches to catch the sweet smell of  ozone before the wind started and he breathed deeply, sucking in the moisture mixing with the prairie grass and alfalfa fields nearby. Dean eyed his cigarettes but opened the oreos instead. He enjoyed the first bite as he bent back the page he had used to mark his spot and resumed reading ….

”there’s no use goin’ on with this ranch business. The railroad’s comin’ in and settlers will swarm all over this land” Jake said to his younger sister. “Dad left us enough land and cattle to keep one family goin’ and I guess that I can make my own way somewhere else.”

“That’s mighty noble of ya, Jake. But where will you go?” Emma asked.

“West.” Jake said. “Just somewhere West.” At that Jake tugged the reins and guided his stallion out of the small graveyard. He glanced back at the small family gathered there at the grave of his newly buried father, and waved goodbye to the only home he had ever known near the Platte River. Jake could hear Emma’s cries fade off as he rode toward the setting sun.”

A face appeared in the side window as the storm clouds darkened. It was Sam Thompson, the groundskeeper. He had to hold onto his wide brim Stetson hat as he yelled over the wind. “Big John’s passed out in his truck again.”

“Where?” Dean asked.

“The Circle K.”

“How long?” Dean put his book back in the lunch box.

“Pulled in last night, Bob told me.” Sam started to walk back to his truck. He turned and looked at Dean hard through the whipping dust and squinted through the wind lash.

“I can’t keep him on anymore if you don’t talk to him.” Sam shouted over the gale.

Sam was caretaker of the CutBank cemetery but he also owned half the town along with a big grain outfit that shipped high quality wheat to Budweiser; another wealthy guy in Montana that you don’t cross if you want to keep on working. Dean was no longer interested in working, but he couldn’t help but respect Sam Thompson. Sam wore greasy coveralls and went to every High School Basketball game even after his kids had graduated. When he sat on the stool at Chet’s bar, nobody who wasn’t local could tell they were talking to a millionaire who hunted with the governor.

“I’ll try.” Dean said. He rolled up his window and started the engine.

The parking lot of the circle K was empty except for John’s idling kenworth. Dean could see the gauges on the dash glowing in John’s eyeglasses, head thrown back, snoring loudly. Dean rapped on the driver’s side window. No reaction.

Dean shouted. “Haysacker. John. Wake up.” No reaction.

Dean tried the door handle, locked tight.

“Godamnit. John. I don’t have time for this,” Dean muttered.

Dean walked back to his own idling truck. He grabbed a bent piece of rebar out of the back of the tool box hanging off the passenger step. Dean rapped the side of the sleeper directly in back of John’s seat hard. Dean was careful to hit the rusty spot where a small dent would hardly be noticed.

“What the Fuck.” Big John growled. John grabbed for something in the cab and bleary eyed, he opened the door a crack. A wavering unfocused face protruded through the gloom of the truck’s interior and smashed its fevered visage against the glass of the driver’s door trying to make out the source of the noise. Cheeto bags and coke bottles spilled from the floor of the old Kenworth into the gravel and mud in the parking lot, along with a half devoured convenience store ham sandwich and an empty bottle of Jim Beam that hit the ground last. The ghoulish specter in the glass produced a hand with a pistol undulating crazily in the air like a dangerous metallic blind cobra.

“goddamnit Haysacker, put the gun away it’s me. Dean.”

The hand sucked back into the cab and the door slammed shut. Some muffled swearing and crashing and banging could be heard in the sleeper as John rifled through scattered belongings to find his shoes. The door opened again. The truck’s engine died as john switched off the ignition and pocketed the keys.

“ya but, goddamnit Dean you hit my truck ferrkrissakes.” He searched the side of the cab for damage.

“I just hit the rusty part.” Dean showed John the rebar’s dent and displayed the weapon in case John was feeling feisty. John was like a son to Dean but with retirement moments away he wasn’t taking any chances.

“You ok?” Dean asked.

“Oh sure.” John answered. “Sounded like a gun shot. Nice way to wake up.”

“Let’s get coffee.” Dean walked back to his truck and shut it off. He slid the rebar back into the tool box. “My treat.”

“Some treat.” John grumbled.

Together they walked to the back door of the circle K. the café in back of the bar was empty of customers. The lunch crowd had dispersed. Pool balls cracking from a hard break and a general din of NASCAR races and small town gossip and laughter filtered through the swinging door from the bar. A tired waitress reading a newspaper at the near end of the counter looked at her watch testily, grabbed the coffee pot and served them as they settled into the booth near the kitchen. The cook could be heard through the order window talking on his cell phone. Some Mel Tillis whined from a duct taped radio shack tape player back in the kitchen. Its twang somehow made all the more annoying by the magnification of the already terrible sound waves bouncing loudly off the greasy fryer hood. The French fryer protested loudly with volcanic explosions as the cook tossed some freezer burned jalapenos into the hot oil. Dean knew that would be his nuts if he missed the retirement party his daughter was planning tonight. He needed to make this quick and to the point.

“Sam says this is it, John. He’s tired of it and so am I. I don’t care if you lose the truck anymore, but if you do, you better get your shit squared away real fast. Cause unless you get it together Sam’s gonna make sure the bank never helps you again.”

John looked down at the coffee. He took his glasses off, breathed hard at both lenses and wiped them off with a napkin. He stirred sugar into the cup and looked down at Dean. John was huge; 6’8” and around 300 lbs when he was starving himself. His wrist was double the size of Dean’s who at 6 foot was no small man himself. Dean had seen John lift two bikers up by the collar ten years ago and throw them both out of the Red Dog Saloon when he was a bouncer working for beer. Big John rubbed his unruly knot of curly blonde hair that tufted his huge bear head. He shrugged his shoulders.

“What do you want me to do?” John said flatly. “I try to keep up with stuff, but I just get behind.”

“You won’t know what behind is John. If you lose your truck…”

“I know.” John said. “I’m an idiot.”

“Sam fronted the down and even cosigned at the bank.” Dean said. “Every man has his limit. You gotta respect that john.”

“What should I do?” john asked. He put his round wire framed John Lennon glasses back on. John peered out at Dean with the moist eyes of a lost drunk. John’s question told Dean everything he needed to know. John had no gumption left. No plans except getting another bottle. He’d seen it too many times in his life living out here where the wind can drive a man crazy. Sometimes when a man says he doesn’t know what to do, it means he doesn’t want to do anything right anymore, and there is nothing Dean can do about that. Dean looked at his watch. He thought about inviting John but then remembered the last party they had together and decided to keep the retirement party to himself.

“Show up when you’re supposed to. And talk to Sam before he lowers the boom.”

“ok.” John says. “I’ll try.”

“Hey look, I gotta go.” Dean said. He felt a pang of abandonment guilt as he saw John sit there looking so helpless and lost. He regretted saying it as soon as he said it:

“Look- I got a hole to dig today for some marine who lost it in Afghanistan. I’m retiring after today. You can take over the payments on the backhoe and cover it up next Monday if you want to quit the road…just Talk to Sam first about getting the Kenworth back to the bank though OK?. Take care of yourself?”

John just sat there sipping coffee, too hung over or maybe too stunned to answer. It was hard to tell which. He could get no read in John’s eyes. The glare from the fluorescent light in John’s glasses was all Dean could see. He left Big John to his decision, a huge lumbering man who had a scary high IQ and almost 85% retention of all those history books he devoured in every library in Montana; no college degree and without a clue how to survive in this world and growing more and more dangerous to be around by the day. But, like most drunks that Dean had worked with, John was hard working when he showed up; high-functioning with heavy equipment and good with tools when something goes down.  They just never have a clue how to fix their own life.

When Dean pulled the door shut, he could hear the cook yelling into his phone. “goddamn it you bitch…” then the screen door slammed and all Dean could hear was the wind blowing in from Canada. A spring freshet from the arctic carried small flakes of snow and the alley behind the bar seemed to crawl with graupel as it skittered past him in the wind. The wind whipped madness of white motion made Dean slightly dizzy as he walked toward his truck for one last job.

(c)  W.C. Fleischman (excerpt from work in progress)

by problembear (C)

Gordon lifts his welder’s hood. Extinguishes his cutting torch. Stares  hard at Isaac.

Gordon

I thought you said his name was Darrel.

Isaac

Howard don’t hear so good on the phone.

Gordon takes his welder’s apron and gloves off. He turns the tanks off and walks out of the shop. Howard is on the porch scoping gophers with his varmint rifle ready.

Gordon

turns out the guy’s name is Terrell.

Howard lowers the spotting scope and stares at Gordon. He unslings the rifle and rolls his wheelchair down the ramp toward the Harleys.

Howard

them ignorant hillbilly’s ‘ll dice him up fer breakfast.

Gordon

what I’m thinkin’ too.

by problembear

as most of you know, i am fairly progressive in my views but i was visiting with my right wing conservative gopher shooting brother last night and we have decided (over a few cold ones in the backyard) that what this country needs is something stronger than tea to send a message to our politicians who are too corrupt to be trusted anymore.

the montana beer party’s main tenets:

1. the people can go to church on their own time and in their own way. this is a political revolution. not a phony excuse to impose religious beliefs on others.  no religious tenets, teachings or prejudices of any kind are allowed in the beer party.
2. the people hold first title to the mortgage of this country. any claims made on any debt transacted by the rich and powerful in order to further enrich the same rich and powerful and their friends are hereby cancelled. we are repossessing the country for non payment of promises made to the people who own this country.
3. the beer party is an independent political party which believes that proper government should make every effort to institute and maintain peace so that the people may live freely in the united states of america-not wage war in other countries or stick our noses into their internal affairs. we believe in a strong defense which causes no offense to other countries.
4. we believe in protecting our interests by manufacturing and growing what we need in this country so that we can have a market-place which supports americans instead of wealthy multi-national corporations.
5. we believe that all americans have personal control over their own  homes, firearms, lives, marriages, uteruses, and any other personal decisions. government has no business intruding on personal decisions regarding our bedrooms, lives or lifestyles.
6. we don’t necessarily condone alcohol. remember there is root beer for those prospective beer partiers who don’t indulge.
7. fun is allowed and encouraged. but corrupt politicians must go.
8. proselytizing  hypocritical political leaders who espouse racism, homophobic violence, and hatred toward others while helping themselves to lobbyist dollars and enriching their friends are expressly denied membership. same goes for hypocritical political leaders who profess to be for the people’s interest but are corrupt enough to take corporate lobby money and support legislation written by their corporate bribers.
9. workers of america who have seen their world diminish while the wealthy help themselves to our tax debt are encouraged to join.
10. we profess peace toward all and welcome differences rather than condemning those who do not believe as we do. (although we do believe that the recent behavior of the montana tea party does qualify for us to declare it lame and irrelevant to normal working montanans.

by W.C. Fleischman

Bud Robert abandons the pile of medical bills lying on the kitchen table. He stands near the sink and stares at the sodium vapor yard light burning away in his farm yard through the pre-dawn darkness. His Big Bud tractor stands near the shop door, it’s  16 valve Detroit diesel 900 hp engine idling and ready to pull an 80 foot plow accross sixteen hundred acres of winter wheat stubble.  Bud Robert is used to its size. At fourteen feet tall and nearly 30 feet long, it dwarfs the small farm house and is easily the biggest tractor still in use in Montana today, perhaps even in the world.

Bud Robert once dreamt big until the doctors could not save his wife of 35 years. He once thought his dreams a reality. But now, dimming the lamp which burns in the cold darkness above his shop, and surrounded by the stars of a limitless universe, the pale morning sky lightens the roll of Bud’s eastern fields and he is not so sure anymore. The bills from the hospital will surely bankrupt him. The mortgage on the place held by the farm credit bureaucracy will not allow for any more borrowing against this year’s crop. Today Bud Robert must hand over the keys to the place at the bank. He will eat a good breakfast at The Mint in Chester, and drive the world’s biggest tractor out into the middle of Highway 2, also known locally as the Hi-line, and park it where no-one and no vehicle can go around. He has staked out this place carefully beforehand. There is the Marias river on one side and a high bluff on the other. Bud’s Big Bud tractor will block a major national highway for a time anyway and it will inconvenience people. Bud knows this.

There will be anger and cursing. Sometimes when you set into motion something that creates a problem there is no telling what can happen. All Bud Robert knows is that Bud Robert and his tractor will be on the news today and as much as he misses her, he is glad that Doris will be spared the humiliation of her husband making an ass of himself on the nightly news.

When the newspeople ask Bud Robert why he is doing this, Bud Robert is prepared. He will say that he is fed up and enough is enough. This country rewards bad behavior and punishes good behavior and he is sick of it. Then he is going to fold his arms and wait for the state police.