A Slash Burn Christmas (Part 6)

Fiction, NSP Correspondents

After Chris left, Matt went inside the trailer, snacked on the McDonald’s feast, cleaned up, and changed into some new clothes. He was going to burn the old tattered ones in the fire.

He walked outside carrying the rags and tossed them into the flames. The heat became intense, overwhelming, and Matt quickly stepped away. He looked around for the pitchfork, saw it, and went to work circling the pile, picking up smaller charred, glowing wood that had escaped to the edges. Matt pitchforked them into the air and they fell into the center of the burn.

He’d stick to this one pile tonight and touch off a few more tomorrow. Matt worked the burn, circling, circling. He wanted to see some wildlife but the small woodland creatures of the forest were either pulverized or refugees. Slugs were smashed. Mushrooms were obliterated.

Matt found a rusted folding chair riddled with bullet holes and set it up just outside the singe zone. The pile was burning higher, twirling, sparking, spitting, popping and launching churning smoke straight up into the sky.

The fire lit the night so brightly that Matt could read a book, and that’s what he decided to do. He jogged back to the trailer and checked out the library. He chose the thinnest one, a Western, Shalako, by Louis L’Amour. He returned to the fire, sat down, opened the book, and read the first sentence:”For seven days in the spring of 1882 the man called Shalako heard no sound but the wind.”

He kept going. A few paragraphs later he read: “He was a lone riding (meth) man in a lonesome (meth) country, riding toward a destiny (premature death by meth) of which he knew nothing (not true), a man who for ten long (meth) years had known no other life than this (meth)…

Matt stopped reading and closed the book. He had meth on the mind. His body had muscle memory for meth. He scratched what was left of his his original face. It was a mini-mountain range of scars.

His latest stint in jail had flushed meth out of his system, but the craving remained. It did for every incarcerated addict. They always used once they got out. Then they went back in. Then they got out. Then they went back in. When was the criminal justice system ever going to admit its obvious failure and treat drug and alcohol addiction as a medical problem rather than as failure of the human condition? Wouldn’t that be a big, fat, jolly Christmas present to taxpayers!

It might even change the course of American history.

A crashing sound snapped Matt out of his craving. The pile had collapsed precisely the way Chris had predicted. Someone had done their job well, piling the slash. Someone had done their job well, setting and tending the fire.

That was Matt. That was a start.

He wondered if he could make it a week or even three days when Chris returned. He wondered if he could reanimate as a human being surrounded by the willful destruction of nature that now he was tidying up for $200 a week. His job was like burning a pile of twisted bodies of soldiers killed by chainsaw after a battle. There were a lot of realities and metaphors unfolding and colliding in this clearcut, at this slash burn, on Christmas Eve.

Matt was thirsty and went to the trailer for a drink of water. He drank deeply from a plastic jug of Oregon rainwater. It was the greatest liquid he’d ever poured in his body and knew it right then.

He noticed the guitar. He picked it up and walked slowly to the fire. He sat down and held the guitar in the playing position, resting it on his knees. It was way too small for him, but what the hell. It was partially in tune and sturdy, not a toy. He fingered the frets. He made a G chord and strummed. Okay. He tried a C chord. Again, okay. He remembered a progression, a song the whole junior high class had performed at an assembly and butchered pretty badly.

He strummed the G chord with gusto and began singing.

You better watch out

Then he hit the C chord.

You better not cry

Back to G.

Better not pout

Back to C.

I’m telling you why.

The fire blasted out some sparks. Several flew by Matt’s head. Matt laughed but didn’t stop playing. He wouldn’t stop playing for hours. And after a dozen renditions of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” Matt remembered another Christmas song from that class and the kid who played only the opening riff of “Smoke on the Water,” by Deep Purple—all semester long. That was it. Not even something by AC-DC. He flunked the class but became a local rock legend.

Matt started strumming “Walking in a Winterland.” The lyrics materialized a few seconds later. He crooned it like Charley.

Later on we’ll conspire

As we dream by the fire

To face unafraid the plans that we made.

A Slash Burn Christmas (Part 5)

Fiction, NSP Correspondents

Matt ate a hamburger and fries while Chris drove and occasionally joined Charley on a chorus. It was funny to Matt that Chris seemed happy. He thought about asking him some questions about his life but was too tired to listen.

Forty-five minutes and three hamburgers later, Chris turned off a paved road and onto a rocked one. He stopped the truck in from of a yellow gate that blocked the way. He turned off the music, got out of the truck, unlocked the chain on the gate, swung it open, got back in the rig, and up into the clearcut they drove.

It was dry and bright outside. Chris mentioned something about rain in a couple of days.

Up, up, up, winding and winding, past slash piles. Matt surveyed the landscape as the truck rumbled along: it was a massacre, scorched earth, a World War I No Man’s Land. Not a single tree stood. Everything was dead, including the soil. Rain would erode the dead soil into the creeks and rivers and kill salmon. It was murder, ecoside, suicide. Insane. Immoral. It was the worst possible thing a corporation could do to a watershed, public or private. The watershed was slayed for short term profit to enrich far flung investors who would never see the clearcuts, let alone walk through them to witness the carnage up close.

This is what passes for legal forest management in Oregon. Management is the word, the wrong word. You don’t manage forests. You let them be and work with them.

In the distance Matt spotted a flat landing where a white and green-striped trailer stood. It was older, rounded, smallish, maybe a 15-footer. A few minutes later, Chris parked the truck near the trailer. Matt noticed the name of his new home: Explorer.

Chris showed Matt the trailer, how to work everything inside, how to radio in, change out the propane tanks and maintain the water catchment system. Matt was listening and sort of remembering. He’d figure it out when he needed to figure it out. Life was like that sometimes. Maybe it’s not a bad way to live.

Dusk was coming on. It was time to light a pile and get the slash burning going.

Chris picked up a metal gas can that he’d rigged up with a pump sprayer. They walked to a slash pile some 50 yards from the trailer. It was 40 feet high.

“This is how you do it,” said Chris. He circled the pile and sprayed gas. He stopped and pulled out a box of long wooden matches, barbecue matches. He struck a match and tossed it onto the pile. Fire erupted. He continued walking around the pile and striking matches.

“Get the whole pile burning on all sides,” said Chris, as he stepped back a bit. Crackling had commenced. “That way it will burn toward the center and collapse on itself. Use the rake and pitchfork to keep moving the wood forward, banking it. It’s not rocket science but the key is to keep moving around the pile. You got it?”

“I got it,” said Matt. The fire was already climbing and he could feel the heat. It felt good.

“Time for me to go,” said Chris. “I’ll be back in a few days for this trial run. If you last, we’ll move the trailer in a few weeks.”

He stuck out his hand to Matt. Matt took it. They shook hands. It was Matt’s first handshake in years.

“Merry Christmas,” said Chris. He slapped Matt on the back and then got in the Ford and it disappeared into darkness.

A Slash Burn Christmas (Part 4)

Fiction, NSP Meditations

Matt had no notion what time it was. He had notions at all. But he had a job. That can change everything.

“You’ll need some clothes,” said Chris.

“I don’t have any money,” said Matt.

“I’ll pay. It doesn’t come out of your cash.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll drop you at the Christian thrift store and you’ve got 20 minutes while I pick up some more McDonald’s for you. The trailer’s stocked with food, but I don’t want you to have to cook. I’ll show you how to get one of the piles going and then you’re on your own.”

Chris pulled the Ford into the parking lot of the thrift store. He handed Matt a 50$ bill.

“Be sure to get some good shoes, maybe a couple pair and some coats,” said Chris.

Matt exited the truck and ventured inside the store. Bells ringed. He smelled cedar and woodsmoke. A life-sized Santa said, “Merry Christmas” in monotone. The store was decorated deep in red, white and green. Someone cared and damned those who didn’t care. There was a plastic blue flocked tree with pink balls and Grinch-faced lights. It was the first indoor Christmas tree Matt had seen in a decade. He fell into the last one, drunk, knocked it over. It was the last time he’d seen his sister.

The interior of the store was cavernous and stuffed, stuffed, stuffed, with items. There was one clerk, a young woman, and one other customer. He was inspecting puzzles and had a Parisian street scene in his hands.

Matt went up to the clerk. She was wearing a crocheted sweater featuring a snowman and snowflakes and writing in a notebook. She was the first woman he’d seen in a long time whose face wasn’t ravaged by meth. It took him by surprise. Every conversation he’d had with a woman the past decade was predicated on meth.

She had jolted him. Matt explained his situation and showed her the 50$ bill. He asked for help. She perked up, donned an elf cap, grabbed a shopping cart, and led the way to men’s clothing, practically sprinting. She said her name was Peyton. The bells on her red cowboy boots jingled and jangled.

Ten minutes later Matt was standing at the counter with two garbage bags full of clothing. His main scores were a green and black plaid Pendelton coat, orange rain slicker, a Hamm’s stocking cap, and new underwear and socks that JC Penney dumped after it shuttered. He didn’t find any boots that fit so he settled for some black high top Puma sneakers. He put them on right there. They felt so good Matt thought he could dunk in them.

Peyton smiled behind the counter. Matt held out his money.

“No charge. Merry Christmas. Good luck,” said Peyton. “And put the coat on.”

Matt put the coat on. He felt the wool. It was like being back in the womb.

It was then Matt saw a guitar, leaning against a hat rack that would never hold a hat again. It was a half-sized Flamenco model, made for kids. It had a hole in the front, below the bridge, just like Willie Nelson’s guitar!

Matt stared at the guitar. Peyton watched him. He heard a horn honking out in the parking lot. It was time to go and get on with the slash burning.

“You want it?” said Peyton.

Somewhere back in the lost world of his mind before meth. Matt remembered he’d once played guitar. Not well, but he knew a few chords and some finger picking runs. He’d taken a class in junior high.

“I can have it?” said Matt.

“It’s been sitting here for months. No one’s picked up,” said Peyton. She went over to the hat rack and retrieved the guitar for Matt. She handed it to him. Matt strummed it. It was, incredibly, somewhat in tune.

“Thank you,” said Matt.

“You made my Christmas,” said Peyton.

Matt tossed the bags in the bed of the pickup, but carried the guitar inside the cab.

“You play?” said Chris.

“I think I did.”

The cab smelled of McDonald’s. Matt looked at the sacks with the golden arches.

“I ordered the entire menu,” said Chris.

“A milkshake?”

“Vanilla.”

Matt dug the milkshake out of the sack. He found a straw and took a sip, a deep sip. He sucked down half the shake. His brain froze with clarity.

Is there such a thing as ablution by milkshake?

Chris got the Ford on the road. Matt chose a Charley Pride Christmas cassette from the shoe box. Chris approved. He loved Charley. He’d seen him a couple weeks ago at an Indian casino.

Notes for a Story: Dead Man’s Mac and Cheese

Fiction, NSP Meditations

A few days before Christmas, an old man dies in his old RV in a disheveled RV park in a remote part of Oregon. A dissipated and disgraced doctor is holed up in the park for the winter, in a gleaming Airstream, trying to become the next Chekhov.

On Christmas morning, the doctor wanders into the park’s laundry room and beholds the dead man’s wardrobe. They are giving it away. He discovers an incredible selection of Western wear shirts and a Pendleton wool coat, plaid, hand warmer pockets, cuffs, brand new except for that it’s probably a half century old. Made by union women in Portland. He hauls away a dozen shirts and the coat. The clothes begin changing his life.

A day later, the doctor decides to return to the laundry room. He’s wearing the dead man’s Pendleton coat and one of the choice Wrangler Western wear shirts—blue and purple, Eddie Rabbit the bone. The doctor loves wearing the coat and the shirt. It makes him feel way more alive wearing a dead man’s clothes.

The doctor opens the door to the laundry room and can’t believe the overnight transformation from thrift store to food pantry! All the dead man’s non-perishable items are stacked on tables, five or six deep on the shelves, resting on the floor, here, there, everywhere. There must be five hundred items! Canned soups, chilies, relishes, pickles, vegetables, 19 salad dressings, five jars of Miracle Whip, four different mustards, an assortment of soy and hot sauces, seven different brands of jalapenos, including one the size of a goldfish bowl, a container of Mrs. Butterworth’s pancake syrup the size of a lawn gnome. (Note to self: write a science fiction story where Mrs. Butterworth ravishes a lawn gnome and the offspring is a cousin to Satan.)

But the spices. My God the spices! Three different kinds of turmeric, chili powders, mustard, cumin.
But the strangest spice of all is a paprika, an imported Mexican paprika in a tin the size of a bowling ball! The typography on the label dates from the 1970s. Oh the baked beans it must have spruced up in the RV!

The doctor finds an empty card box box and goes nuts sweeping the items into it. He’s practically skipping.

Tonight he will cook with the dead man’s food and spices. He will make a dead man’s mac and cheese and he will smother it with 40-year old Mexican paprika and throw in some smoked salmon and fresh onions.

Naturally, the doctor will cook wearing the dead man’s Western shirt.

A Slash Burn Christmas (Part 3)

Fiction, NSP Meditations , , , ,

Matt ate his breakfast slowly. Chris began driving across the Columbia River on the Megler Bridge. Matt watched the freighters anchored in the channel and the gulls that glided by.

“You know what a slash burn is?”said Chris.

Matt knew what slash burn were. They were the piled woody remains after an industrial massacre known as a clearcut that forest law required logging outfits to burn up, typically in the winter and spring, when the rains came. Their smoke and fires on the hillsides up the lonely river roads were a staple part of coastal living.

They were like funeral pyres for nature. They were one of the more obvious displays of how humans destroy watersheds. They were a precursor of bigger fires and thicker smoke to come.

“Yes,” said Matt. He’d partied up in the clearcuts a few times while the burning slash piles lit up the night and miscreants.

Chris explained the job: oversee about two dozen slash burns on some clearcuts near Saddle Mountain. He had a contract with the outfit that logged it last spring. It was seasoned and ready to go. This was Chris’ business. He’d being doing it for a long time.

“You mean live up there and tend the fires?” said Matt.

“You got it. I’ve got a trailer on site that I move from job to job. If it works out, you move from burn to burn. The season usually lasts until May or when the fire departments shut it down.”

Matt didn’t say anything, but Chris could tell he had questions.

“I supply food, propane and gas to get the fires going. There’s a composting toilet and a solar shower. You collect rain with a little barrel system I’ve rigged up. You can wash your clothes in the stream like our boys at Valley Forge. I come up and resupply you once a week and see if you need anything special, within reason. I don’t bring pot or liquor and I don’t allow it on the job. No visitors either. I can post your letters, too.”

Matt had never written a letter in his life. He didn’t know a single address.

Chris waited for a few seconds, then continued.

“You’re alone up there and can’t leave the fires. That’s the law. If the wind picks up you got to check around the clock. If something happens you radio me and I radio the fire department. But there’s nothing left to burn up there except slash piles and I’ve never had a burn get away from me.”

“What’s it pay?” said Matt, who noticed that they had crossed the river and Chris was turning the truck around at a wayside and they were going right back across.

“Two hundred a week. Cash. No government. You could finish the job with three-four grand in your pocket. Lots of money for meth or starting over. If it works out, you could have this job for years.”

Years, wondered Matt. He’d had thought about years ahead in years.

“There’s no phone, no internet concoction, no TV, nothing. Just some old books. You like to read.”

“What kind of books?”

“Westerns. Some science fiction. A couple of Dickens. And a Bible.”

Matt had thumbed a few books in jail. He pretended to read them.

“Most people quit after a week, two tops. I had some would-be writer think he could hack it and quit after three days. I get most of my employees right out of jail, on probation. Always methed out.”

They had returned to Astoria. The truck was just pulling off the bridge, when Matt said, “I’ll take it. When do we start?”

“Right now,” said Chris. “I’ve got to get you settled in and burning before it gets dark.”

Notes for an Upcoming Christmas Tale: Dead Man’s Western Wear

Fiction, NSP Meditations

A few days before Christmas, an old man dies in his old RV in a disheveled RV park in a remote part of Oregon.

A dissipated and disgraced doctor is holed up in the park for the winter, in a gleaming Airstream, trying to become the next Chekhov. It’s not going well. He can’t get at the current human condition through his stories. He’s trying to get at it though health insurance bureaucracies and policies. No wants to read that! He doesn’t, but he keeps writing them up and submitting to little magazine and even smaller web sites. He’s never received even a rejection.

He thinks about his ex wife a lot. A nurse. He blew it. He always blew it. She supported his dreams of becoming a writer. He didn’t give her support for any of her dreams. She wanted to sing in a local rock and roll band and he just scoffed.

The doctor has to launder his clothes. The park has a laundry room. It’s Christmas morning and he figures the rest of the residents will be sleeping in or sleeping it off and he’ll have the washers and dryers to himself. He can bring paper and pen and start on another story. He could listen to the Christian station on the radio in the room for Christmas music. It’s the only station that comes in.

He enters the laundry room carrying his dirty clothes in a basket. He sets the basket on the table. Something is very different about the room. It’s become a tiny thrift store with clothes on hangers hanging from a pipe on the ceiling and pots and pans and a coffee maker, a toaster, and rugs and cutlery and VCR cassettes and DVDS.

He gets his laundry going, turns on the radio, and decides to check on the clothes.

It doesn’t take him long to realize that on this Christmas morning, he has stumbled upon an incredible collection of vintage Western wear, all Wrangler, from the 60s and 70s, in mint condition, most never worn, many still with tags or encased in dry cleaners’ plastic. He also discovers a Pendleton wool coat, plaid, hand warmer pockets, cuffs, brand new except for that it’s probably a half century old. Made by union women in Portland.

The doctor doesn’t get it…what is all this stuff doing here?

Then he gets it. He’d heard someone had died in his rig a few days ago. This is his stuff. For free.

The doctor in him wants to know why the old guy died. That might be a good story. There’s some real human condition in this death. The guy had style. What was his name?

He tries on all the shirts. They fit perfectly. The coat is last and it makes him feel like a new man. Maybe he is in this coat, a Christmas coat from a dead man. He slaps his thighs like a hick and laughs a cornpone laugh. He’s not taking off the coat.

Crank up that Jesus Christmas music on the radio!

The doctor holds up one shirt. It’s shiny black with yellow sequins. Embroidered accents. White pearl buttons. Long sleeve. Huge collar. His ex wife would have loved it. It’s a kick ass-rock and roll woman-lead-singer shirt. You sing in front of an audience in this thing, you’ll kill it.

He decides to mail it to her tomorrow with a note. He sits down at the table, warms his hands in the coat’s hand warmers, and begins to write. The writing is different. Something interesting is happening. He can feel it in his fingers.

«‹ 220 221 222 223›»