Brandon Berntson
Buick Cannon (A Joke From the Moon)
Print ISBN: 9781500987695
Ebook ASIN: B00853M6EM
Copyright © 2013 Brandon Berntson. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be copied, sold, or distributed in any way.
Covert art from Dollar Photo Club, royalty free image.
This is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, places, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Buick Cannon
(A Joke From the Moon)
by
Brandon Berntson
For my brother Ben,
who keeps everybody laughing.
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER I
Buick Cannon wasn’t the kind of man to let things get to him, especially when it came to Life. He snubbed his nose at it. If Life were going to tear him apart, it would have to work damn hard. Buick was more powerful. He threw punches at Life, instances of satisfaction, like licking the spoon after the gravy was poured. For Buick Cannon, Life was gravy. He challenged Life. He put his fists in the air, danced around it, and took potshots.
“Come on, you bastard,” he’d say. “You don’t scare me. You aren’t anything special, except in the eyes of Stupidity. In the eyes of Stupidity, you are everything. In the eyes of Stupidity, Life is everything.”
He would do this in the living room of his one story, gray, clapboard house on Perrywinkle Way, dancing around like a pugilist, pretending Life was a physical entity—a sparring partner. He moved his feet back and forth quicker than a Vegas dealer. He punched at empty air, throwing his head from side to side. He felt like Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, and Rocky Balboa all rolled into one.
Life, he thought, similar to living at the bottom of a toilet bowl, his new maxim, the joke it played. He dealt with Life in a similar fashion. Living in enough urine and feces was bound to turn you into the same, Buick thought. It made time spent in the toilet bowl worthwhile—knowing the shit you had to deal with. He imagined laying on a float tube with his shorts and sunglasses on, sipping lemonade in the Pool of Life, a great big toilet. He raised his lemonade to the porcelain, crap-stained basin. Buick did not believe in fairy-tales. He was a pretend pugilist taking potshots, knowing Life was only another name for Stupidity.
It was a beautiful spring day in the town of Peekie, Colorado (pop. 1,623), the sun bright and warm in a cloudless, blue sky. Summer smells hung on the breeze (even though it technically wasn’t summer yet): clean, fresh, mountain air, scented pines, shrubs, wildflowers, fresh cut grass, even the musk of several wild animals he couldn’t see. Peekie was a small town wedged within the Rocky Mountains. Tall, green, forested hills bordered it like bodyguards.
Buick Cannon had found salvation in this small town. It was perfect. He owned a bookstore in downtown Peekie on Main Street called, Little Time To Read. He was making a statement about people claiming they never had time to read, which Buick thought the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. He thought of calling it, Too Many Illiterate People With An Excuse For Everything and Anything, but then he’d have to change the merchandise.
The job was decent though, especially during the touristy, summer months. The winters weren’t bad either because of the ski resorts. Peekie did have its share of condos and a single hotel, though winter was never as prosperous for business as the summer, despite the ski resorts.
Buick owned a ’92 gray Cutlass; it was paid for. His gray clapboard, however, was a rental. He was still looking for something to buy. Buick was a part of Peekie, and Peekie was a part of Buick. In that, the future grew. Peekie was all he knew, all he’d ever known, and that was fine by him. Born and raised in this small town, Peekie felt like his own.
Buick Cannon was thirty-seven and weighed one-hundred and ninety pounds. At six-feet, two inches tall, he had a strong, noble jaw line, often pale—except in the summer—and brown eyes, which looked almost black, matching his thick dark hair. He kept it long, where he could rub his hands through it. Rubbing your hands through your hair was a great stress reliever, he always thought. New fads required a very short, almost military haircut, and if it was long on top, it was often messy. Most of the college kids were wearing it that way these days, and college kids were all about fads. But Buick was a grown man, and he liked to hide behind his hair, so he combed it back—not with a comb—but with his fingers.
He had a strong, prominent, Roman nose, slightly red from imbibing. He wore khaki pants with Oxford or Italian shoes and long-sleeved, light-colored blue shirts. His favorite color was blue. He had a wardrobe full of them. It brought him and the sky above Peekie together. Because it was a mountain town, he could wear long-sleeve shirts year round and still manage to keep cool and warm at the same time. He liked that about Peekie.
Buick had never been married, never gone to college, or been slightly in love. He enjoyed his time alone because he did not like anyone telling him what to do, like what to pick up at the grocery store, or to keep his feet off the couch, and when was the last time you took out the garbage, honey? Loneliness was not something he experienced. He was every inch his own man, walking to the melody of his own mandolin. One thing he hated was when people told him what he needed. He did not like the word ‘need.’ His grandmother had been notorious for that. “Buick, you need to settle down. You need to make a decent living. You need to add some red and green shirts to your wardrobe, because blue is out of fashion.” He hated that. If anyone knew what he needed, it was Buick Cannon.
He was currently taking one of his evening strolls down Main Street on his way to Gilmour’s Tavern. The walk to Gilmour’s was a ritual. He did it every night after work. He closed the shop, pocketed his keys, and headed down Main Street in the cool summer evening, or in this case, the early spring, which was Tuesday, May 29th.
Buick whistled a happy melody as he strutted down the street. He made his hand into a pistol and said hello to imaginary people along the way. He winked, smiled, made a clicking sound with his tongue, and said, “Gotcha. How ya doin?’”—and winked again.
Buick entertained himself often—why he never got lonely, he supposed. Peekie residents made comments about it when they saw him.
“Saw you on Main Street yesterday, Buick,” Merton Tuveson, the local barber said once. Buick liked Mert. He always did a good job on his hair, and he gave the man a ten-dollar tip every time.
“Yeah,” Buick said. “I’m on Main Street a lot. It being where the shop is. Didn’t see you, though.”
“You wouldn’t,” Mert said. “I was cutting hair. But I saw you through the glass. You were having a good ole time, it looked like, firing that pistol of yours, winking, smiling to people who weren’t even there. Looked like you were having a good ole time, too. Even saw you wave once…like you saw an old friend…then kept on walking.”
“Just getting ready for tourist season,” Buick had said.
Back on the street, a block away from Gilmour’s, the portal opened. Buick wasn’t surprised when it did…one of Life’s mysteries, he supposed. Life had lots of inconveniences, like pesky flies, so he was used to them. The portal, to him, was no different.
&n
bsp; The sky disappeared, the sun, the brightness, and the beautiful day. Buick didn’t know what the portal was. It was as meaningless as Life itself. The portal was maggots and graveyards, cryptic underground worlds swallowing people with its massive pink mouth. The portal had leprous hands and bad breath. It was the size of a regular doorway. It appeared directly in front of him while he was walking down the street, a big, black rectangle, blocking his way, smelling of dirt, crap, vomit, and animal breath.
A cool blast of air spewed forth. Then the breeze turned warm; the smell intensified, smelling…well…like shit, he supposed, as if the portal were the toilet bowl he’d been thinking about earlier.
Amused, raising his eyebrows, Buick stepped into the portal. He was a curious man by nature, and he wanted to see what it was all about. The doorway closed behind him, surrounding him in darkness, and bad breath. Wind gusted.
“I just stepped into the toilet stain of Life, didn’t I?” he asked no one in particular. “Isn’t this interesting? Wish I’d brought my camera, so I could’ve taken some black pictures.”
He hoped the wind didn’t mess up his hair. He’d put a lot of hairspray in it that morning to keep it in place. He didn’t like admitting he used hairspray, but it was either that or get one of those military cuts he’d been thinking about earlier.
“Man, I need to go fishing or something,” he said to the darkness.
The wind grew cold and strong, trying to toss him about like a ship at sea. A deep, diabolical roar filled the darkness:
“BUICK CANNON?”
He cocked his head and frowned. Had he really heard that? “Uh, is someone talking to me?” he said.
“BUICK CANNON?”
“How many times you gonna ask me that?” he said, irritably. “I’m standing right here.”
There was a pause. Was that a deep sigh in the darkness, too?
“YOU ARE A CREAMY WEENIE!”
A chuckling sound reverberated all around him.
“I think you need some new material,” Buick said. “Do you mind letting me out of this dust bin? Dan’s probably wondering where the hell I am.”
The laughter stopped. Another pause followed, as if the voice were slightly offended.
Buick raised his fists to pound on the black walls, but it was just empty air. “Hey!” he cried. “If you don’t let me outta here, I’m calling the cops!”
A roar, the filthy breath of some wild animal, hit him in the face. Wind rushed past his ears, virtually knocking him over. Buick took another step into the confines of the darkness, thinking this might break the spell, but nothing happened.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with!” Buick shouted.
He shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts, then clenched his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the portal spit him back out, and closed in on itself, disappearing from sight. Buick stood on the street, watching clouds slide leisurely across the sun, which was now dipping below the pine-covered mountains. Hadn’t it been bright and beautiful minutes before? Jesus, he needed a vacation. Maybe he was working too hard. He really should go fishing or something.
Gilmour’s Tavern was just up the street on the right. The clouds had come from nowhere suddenly. Colorado’s weather was like that. Buick paused, listened, and shook his head.
“I think you’re in need of a vacation, Buick old boy,” he said. “Christ’s eyes! My feet are burning!”
He continued his evening stroll. The afternoon had shifted into something terrible, but he didn’t let it bother him. That was just Life.
What the hell was a creamy weenie anyway?
~
Evening darkened to twilight. The stars were a scramble of breaking blue in the velvet dark. It was a warm night. Buick frowned at the strange weather. Frickin’ Colorado, he thought.
Buick walked to Gilmour’s Tavern and opened the door. Gilmour’s was not busy; he was the only one in the bar. Buick looked around and frowned at the emptiness.
Dan, a short, portly man with blond hair stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. Dan wore a loose, white, button-down shirt and an apron. He had a long, patrician nose. A nose like Ingrid Bergman, Buick always thought. It looked good on Ingrid Bergman, but it didn’t look good on Dan. The man had beady green eyes—if you could see them in the dark ambience.
“Buck, old buddy!” Dan said, looking up. “My only man of business. If it weren’t for you, there’d be no business!”
Buick stepped up to the bar and sat down on a stool. “Just shut the hell up, Dan-O. I’m in no mood for party favors. I’ve got an achin’ up to here,” he said, putting his hand in salute-fashion near the top of his head, “and it hasn’t subsided in forty years.”
“But you’re only thirty-seven,” Dan said, bringing his eyebrows together.
Buick looked at Dan with coldness.
Dan looked crestfallen. “What’ll it be?” he said. “The usual?”
“The usual is perfect, Dan-O. The usual is fine.”
Dan procured two Beck’s Darks, pouring them both into frosty mugs. Buick was appreciative and drank the first in three gulps. German beer was his favorite.
“Ah!” he said, licking foam from his lips. “That is genuine concern. All good things to the temple and the time appreciated. If it weren’t for the time appreciated, Dan-O, where the hell would we be? Huh? I’m asking you a goddamn question, Dan. Why the hell don’t you answer me when I’m talking to you? Chrissake!”
“Beats the hell out me,” Dan said, looking confused, not knowing what Buick was talking about.
“How’s business?” Dan asked.
“Business?”
“The bookstore?”
“Ah, who gives a shit about the bookstore? There aren’t enough people in this town who know how to read as it is. Throw a Dr. Seuss book in front of them, and they just point at the pages, sounding out the words. You know what I’m saying? I’m surprised you know how to read, Dan. Surprised you didn’t spell your name wrong on the sign out front. There aren’t enough people who know how to drink, either. Have you noticed that? Maybe we ought to go into business together? Drinking and reading. We could combine the two. Make a goddamn festival of everything apprehensive. Whattaya say?”
“We’d be the only two to show up,” Dan said. “I kind of like the business of the bar.”
“See, that’s your problem, Dan. You have no imagination. You don’t know a good deal when you see it. There’s plenty of opportunity. Nothing fits. Nothing makes sense. If I were you, I’d open a porn store.”
“A porn store?”
“Sure. Porn is thriving. People like skin, juicy toot-sweet. It would sure bring something interesting to this pathetic little community. Think of the business. All the lonely people.”
“Are you feeling all right, Buick?”
“Maybe if you pour me another beer, I’ll feel all right,” Buick said. “Christ, I can’t go anywhere anymore without someone asking me what the hell the problem is. Personally, Dan-O, I’m getting sick of it. What do you think is wrong with this place anyway? Have you ever thought about what the hell could be wrong with this place?”
All this caught Dan off guard. He swallowed the lump in his throat, continued to polish glasses, and gave Buick another beer, despite him already having a full one on the bar. Dan tried to iterate:
“Well…gee. I guess…”
“See, that’s your problem, Dan. You spend too much time alone. This goddamn bar! What the hell did it ever do for you?”
“Now wait just—”
“This stinking bar! Where the hell is my goddamn beer?”
“You still have two on the counter!” Dan protested, unnerved.
“What are you, an optimist?” Buick said. “That’ll be gone in two seconds! What the hell is your problem? Get me a goddamn beer, will ya? Jesus! If it weren’t for alcoholics, you wouldn’t even have a job! Have you ever thought about that, Dan-O?”
“I think about it all the time, actually. What the he
ll has got into—”
“Did I ask? Did I wonder, Dan? Did I ever, for once, ask you what the hell the problem was? Nothing makes sense. Have you ever figured your problem is that you were born in the wrong time and place? Nothing makes sense but the wrong time and place. You don’t have anything to look forward to, do you, Dan-O? There isn’t anyone special in your life, is there?”
“Well, no—” Dan said, crestfallen.
“See, you don’t have an existence, Dan. It’s all spit and pa-tooey. There’s nothing left for you. You might as well hang up your spurs and jack-up a donkey on a fender bender when the cause is good enough—!”
“Now wait just a goddamn minute!”
“We don’t have a minute, Dan. That’s the problem! There isn’t a minute! The minute is gone! No minute can be accounted for! Would you please pour me another goddamn beer before I go into hysterics!”
“You have a beer half full and another one waiting for you!” Dan said. “What the hell do you want from me?”
“I want a beer!” Buick said, suddenly irate. He slammed both fists on the bar and went into a fit like a spoiled child. He closed his mouth and held his breath. Buick’s face turned purple and blue.
“Okay, okay. Quit that,” Dan said. “Your lungs will explode.”
“I want a beer!” Buick shouted, pounding his fists on the bar. “I want a beer! Gimme gimme gimme!”
Dan poured another beer, and now there were three on the counter.
“I want a beer!” Buick said, again. “Is that too much to ask? A beer, I thought, had never been so hard to come by! There is no such thing as an easily sought-after beer! You can’t just get a goddamn beer without having to build your own personal shooting star to throw across the galaxy, you know what I mean?”
“You definitely need another beer,” Dan said. “Here. Let me pour you a shot while I’m at it.”
“Sure. Sure. What are you trying to say? That I’m a frickin’ alcoholic? So? Pour me a shot.” Buick finally looked down, saw three beers on the counter and a shot of whiskey. “Christ, in a murdering rage, Dan-O. Like I haven’t got enough beers sitting here already, plus a shot. What the hell are you trying to do to me? I guess this will solve all my problems, won’t it? If it weren’t for my liver—”
Buick Cannon: (A Joke From the Moon) Page 1