by Craig Dirkes
We stood up. A couple birds that had escaped into the bushes flew away, clumsily, like bush pilots who’d pounded a few too many.
We walked down the knoll to retrieve the birds. They littered the ground in a ten-yard circle.
I grabbed one and studied it. The bird looked similar to the ruffed grouse I used to hunt with my dad and grandpa.
Finn held up the first bird I’d shot. “Look at this fatty,” he said. “Tonight we’ll slow-cook him and the others in cream of mushroom soup. Nice shooting, Eddie.”
Finn and I tossed all six birds into the front of the sled, and I walked off to dislodge the ice hook.
“Hold up,” Finn said. “Time to celebrate.”
I doubled back and joined him at the front of the dog team, near Biff and Joanie. Finn pulled a dugout and lighter from the inside breast pocket of his green wool hunting coat. He slid the top off the little wooden container. A one-hitter sprung up. He snatched the one-hitter and poked at the weed inside the dugout.
“Finally ready to smoke up with me?” Finn asked, offering the one-hitter and lighter.
Finn tried to get me to smoke most times we hung out, but I always declined. Now that I’d killed my first ptarmigan, he’d probably use the accomplishment as leverage to try to push me over the edge. I’d figured out that Finn had lied when I first met him, when he said he didn’t smoke that much. Dude smoked a lot. He barely drank, though.
“I don’t know, Finn,” I said, kneeling down to pet Joanie, who licked my face. “Like I told you, I’ve only smoked twice, and the second time I got real paranoid. Being out here in the middle of nowhere would probably make me tweak worse.”
Finn frowned. “Don’t be a pansy,” he said. “You just plugged your first ptarmigan. It’s party time.”
Part of me wanted to get high to take my mind off my problems. In the past month, I’d been feeling more and more pessimistic about Kusko — and my entire life situation in general. The thought of moving all the way back to Minnesota had even crossed my mind. Between botching college and the bleakness of Kusko, it was Alaska: 2, Eddie: 0.
“If I smoke that stuff,” I said, standing back up, “you promise not to screw with me?”
Finn crossed his heart.
“Okay, then,” I said, accepting the lighter and one-hitter. “But just one pull.”
I held the small pipe to my mouth, lit the business end, and inhaled. The smoke felt like hot thumbtacks pricking at my throat and lungs.
“Hold it in as long as you can,” Finn said.
I exhaled in barking coughs. Smoke streamed out of me like it was coming off a forest fire.
“Atta boy,” Finn said, chuckling. “You don’t cough, you don’t get off.”
He took the pipe from me, smoked the two remaining hits, and poked a fresh one for himself.
“Well?” Finn asked, lighting the freshly packed one-hitter. “You baked or what?”
After I’d finished coughing, I took inventory of how my mind and body felt. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, other than a hint of guilt. “I can’t tell,” I said.
“Well, it looks like your dog is,” Finn said, nodding toward Joanie. “She must have gotten a contact high.”
I looked down at Joanie. She peered up at me, smiling, curling her lips back and baring all her teeth.
“Dude!” I shouted, pointing at her. “Joanie’s smiling!”
“I know,” Finn said, snickering. “You’ve told me she does that.”
“Yeah,” I said, laughing even harder. “But, like, she’s a dog, and she’s smiling!”
My reaction got Joanie so excited she smiled even harder, wagging her tail and shaking her butt with her eyes closed.
I almost pissed my pants. Joanie smiling was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. I lost control of my body and fell to the ground in front of her. “This dog is fucking smiling!” I whooped, grabbing her by the jowls and getting right in her face.
She opened her eyes and looked into mine. “Joanie!” I said. “You’re a dog who knows how to freaking smile! You’re the shit!”
She licked my face and kept on smiling.
“Guess that answers my question,” Finn mumbled. “Get your ass up, Eddie. Act like you’ve been here before.”
“Damn that dog’s funny,” I said, composing myself. “I swear — without her and the other dogs, I’d probably be losing my shit in Kusko.”
“Losing your shit?” Finn asked, returning the weed to his jacket pocket. “What’re you talking about?”
“I’ve been having second thoughts about Kusko,” I said. “Hell, about Alaska in general.”
Then I rattled off my laundry list of issues — failing in college, my lame life in Kusko, the truck situation, my empty bank account, the prospect of being stranded if I made more monstrous fuckups at the paper and Dalton decided to fire me. (Other than my shit/shift typo, he didn’t have a lot of reasons to be unhappy with me, but, still, I had a sincere fear of screwing up, getting fired, and being trapped.)
“In Alaska, everything I touch turns to shit,” I said. “Now that I’ve smoked with you, I’ll probably go on to become a drug addict.”
Finn pulled the weed back out of his jacket, raised an eyebrow, and smiled. He shoved the weed back into his pocket and said, “What about Taylor? Are you still talking to her? That chick’s a smoke show. If you can get past her weird eye, that is.”
“She’s a smoke show either way,” I said. “I’m angling to hang out with her, Bristy, and Hope sometime in the next couple weeks.”
“I wish I could join you guys,” Finn said.
“I know,” I said. “Sucks that Bristy and Hope pretend not to know you.”
“Yeah, but whatever. I know plenty of other people,” Finn said. He thought for a second. “What if Taylor digs you? Would that make you like Kusko?”
“Maybe, but I don’t know,” I said. “This place is a full-on sucktown.”
Finn laughed halfheartedly.
I felt like I’d insulted him. “Sorry, Finn. I know Kusko is your home. I’m not saying I’m too good for the place. I just — ”
I spotted something out of the corner of my eye, fifty yards away. I went silent and stared in the direction of some bushes at the foot of another knoll.
“What?” Finn asked.
“Something small and dark,” I said. “I don’t know what the hell it is, but it’s in there.”
Finn studied the bushes I pointed to. “Did it run fast?”
“Yes.”
“Really fast?”
“Superman fast.”
“Fuck, Eddie.” Finn clutched my shoulder. “It’s the little people. We need to get out of here. Now. There might be more of them.”
I looked at him, confused. “Little people?”
“Yes, the fucking little people,” Finn said, almost knocking me to the ground as he ran past to dislodge the ice hook in back of the sled. “There’s no time to explain.”
Finn threw the hook and rope into the sled and got in, kicking away dead birds to clear himself a spot. “Drive!”
“What?” I jogged toward the back of the sled. “Which direction?”
“Doesn’t matter! Just go!”
I jumped onto the sled. “Hike!” I commanded the team. The dogs took off. I jerked my head in every direction, trying to spot a little person.
“Faster!” Finn said, riding in the front of the sled with the gun in his lap, his eyes locked onto the bushes in question.
“Dammit, Finn! What are the little people?”
He turned toward me, holding the sides of the sled. He looked afraid. “They’re little bastards, a foot or two tall. They live out here on the tundra, underground. They hurt people.”
Good God, I thought. How do they hurt people? Do they have weapons? What kinds of weapons? Spears?
Bows and arrows? Do they bite? Are they rabid? If I get bitten by something rabid, how long until foam starts coming out of my mouth? Once the foam sets in, will my mouth always be foamy, or will that just happen when I’m mad?
“EDDIE!” Finn screamed, hanging his body off the sled so that he could see behind me. “DON’T TURN AROUND! ONE OF THOSE FUCKERS IS RIGHT ON US!”
“HIKE!” I bellowed at the team. “GODDAMMIT, HIKE!”
The dogs ran like they had jet packs strapped to their backs.
I started crying, but I held my eyes closed. “GET THE GUN READY, FINN!”
No answer.
“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, FINN — WHY HAVEN’T YOU FIRED YET?”
I opened my eyes and saw Finn, sitting there, wearing a smile wider than Joanie’s.
“That thing was a rabbit, you stoner,” he said, shaking his head. “Got you.”
CHAPTER 10
DEAD END
I had to wash the FJ quickly. Dalton said if we ran out of water before the next delivery in three days, he’d dock me fifty bucks to pay for half of an emergency delivery. I couldn’t afford that.
I attached a green garden hose to the spigot jutting out from the house near the front door. I didn’t have time to hit the truck with soap and a sponge — just a good once-over with water to rinse away the worst of the dust and dirt that had accumulated ever since I moved to Kusko.
The sun shone brightly at nine o’clock at night. On this last Saturday of April, the sun wouldn’t set until close to eleven p.m. After that, you could still read a newspaper outside almost all night because the sun never dipped too far below the horizon.
I turned on the water and jammed my thumb into the hose to create pressure. As I sprayed a clump of mud off the driver’s-side front fender, I heard a woman’s voice yell from across the street, “What’s her name?”
I looked to my right and saw our neighbor, Peggy Paniptchuck — a Native lady in her fifties with short black mom-hair and a stiff-legged walk. She had just exited a cab, arriving home after her shift working at the airport.
I didn’t know if she meant my truck or what. But considering she liked to give me shit all the time, she probably meant something else. I was pretty sure she had a crush on me.
“The FJ doesn’t have a name,” I said with a smile.
Peggy ambled across the street toward me. “That’s not what I mean. You haven’t washed that truck since you got here. You must be trying to impress a girl.”
How’d she know? I thought.
Peggy approached as I doused the spare tire mounted to the back of the FJ. “Guilty as charged,” I said with my back to her, rushing to finish washing the truck.
She chuckled, patted my ass, and said, “Don’t fuck it up.”
When I turned around, she was already hobbling back to her house. “That’s all you wanted to say?” I asked, laughing.
“Yep,” she replied.
* * *
Gravel crunched beneath the tires of the FJ as I pulled into the driveway at Taylor’s place. I parked near the house, hopped out, and looked around. Taylor and her parents lived in Kusko’s newest housing development, across the road from the Kuskokwim River. I counted ten boats — eight aluminum flat-bottoms, two wooden skiffs — speeding across the lazy, dirty brown water. The ice had broken up a few days before, giving everyone a sharp case of spring fever. Just like in Minnesota, folks had been champing at the bit to put away their coats and shovels, turn off their furnaces, and live life the way it was meant to be lived — outside.
The homes in Taylor’s neighborhood were about the only modern ones in town. They were nothing spectacular, with their tan vinyl siding and red or green trim, but in Kusko they looked luxurious.
Tinfoil covered a second-level window of the house next door. Dalton had told me people sensitive to light did that from April to August so they could sleep.
I walked up to Taylor’s door and knocked. Her house was one of the two-bedroom homes, with a newer steam bath in back.
I heard laughing inside. Taylor opened the door, in stitches.
“Oh my gosh, Eddie,” she said, giggling as she leaned to give me a half-hug hello. “You have to try this. It’s the funniest thing ever.”
“Okay?” I said.
Taylor wore gray leggings and a tight white tank top. The tank top acted as a megaphone for her boobies as they shouted, “Look at us! We’re right here! Now that you’ve looked once, look again!” I looked and looked again and hoped I wouldn’t get caught.
I followed Taylor inside, where everything looked spotless and the whole place smelled like vanilla. Family photos plastered the crimson walls. One photo showed Taylor, probably a couple years earlier, sitting on top of a big bull moose that, judging by the blood on the snow, was a fresh kill. She looked like a toddler riding a Clydesdale. In one of our first conversations, Taylor had told me that her dad started taking her hunting with him when she was twelve years old. She shot her first ptarmigan that year and downed her first caribou at age fourteen. In another photo, Taylor and her mom hugged and smiled on top of a mountain at sunset. Both wore spandex from top to bottom and looked like they’d just run to the summit. Taylor’s mom was beautiful (for a mom), with short blond hair and a sleek, thin build.
From the hallway I heard voices and laughter. Taylor led me into the living room, where Bristy and Hope sat at opposite ends of a brown couch. Bristy had her bare feet up, and Hope, who also had on a tank top (thank you, spring) but with baggy blue jeans, slouched against the armrest. They both wore dumb smiles.
“You remember these two,” Taylor said.
I nodded and smiled at Bristy and Hope, and they started giggling just like Taylor had been.
“I wondered when I’d see you two again,” I said, pretending like the only time I’d ever met them was the night at my house. I sat down on a red easy chair across from Bristy and Hope while Taylor plopped down at the dining table, which stood behind the sofa and between the living room and open kitchen. “What’s so funny?”
“You probably won’t think it’s funny,” Bristy said, having barely composed herself. “Name a state or country, plus a random object.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Hope said, “Like Kentucky steak sauce, or Chilean toilet plunger.”
Taylor exploded in laughter at the mention of the Chilean thing. She repeatedly slapped the kitchen table with her hand, like she couldn’t take it anymore.
I stared up at the ceiling and thought for a second. I looked back down at the girls. “Irish ice auger?”
They all cracked up. Hope laughed so hard that snot dripped out her nose. Bristy got tears in her eyes.
“What is this?” I said, laughing too, but not really knowing why.
“They’re fictitious sex acts,” Hope said. “Like, ‘Taylor Kentucky steak sauced him,’ or, ‘Eddie gave her the old Irish ice auger.’”
“Hilarious!” I said.
“Yeah, well you won’t be laughing after I give you the old Turkish pump handle!” Taylor replied.
Whatever that is, please do it to me, I thought.
More laughter from everyone. It seemed like they were all high, but I knew that wasn’t likely with Taylor around.
“Or the Arabian pickle slicer!” Hope said, kicking her legs like a wounded animal.
Maybe she really is high, I thought.
Bristy screamed, “And don’t forget about the Peruvian condom!”
Everyone stopped laughing.
Hope snapped out of her convulsions. “You’re doing it wrong, dumbass. A condom is already something sexual. The object has to be something nonsexual for it to be funny.”
We all laughed again, this time at Bristy’s expense.
She wasn’t amused. “Whatever, douche-mongers. I still think it’s funny. You guys think you’re so funny?
The only thing that’s funny is how — ”
“Stop talking,” Hope said, cutting Bristy off before she could begin another one of her pointless rants about nothing.
After we settled down, I asked Taylor about the Native spelling bee.
“I forgot — when’s it scheduled in Kusko? I should probably write a little story about it.”
“Next Friday, in the multipurpose room at Kusko Elementary,” Taylor said. “I’m super excited. A few other schools around Alaska have already held their competitions. The lady from the UA language center said they all went perfectly. The winning word in the town of Barrow was ‘akargik.’ That’s the Inupiat word for ptarmigan.”
That reminded me of something.
“I know this is random, but do any of you know anything about the little people?”
The girls laughed.
“We all have stories,” Bristy said. “But let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah,” Taylor said, rising from the kitchen table. “It’s too nice out to be inside. I heard Joey Bragg is going wakeboarding tonight. Let’s go watch.”
Wakeboarding? I thought. What’s so special about wakeboarding?
* * *
The girls put on sweatshirts before I followed them out. I wore a long-sleeved camo T-shirt, blue jeans, and my camo baseball cap flipped backward. It must have been fifty-five degrees outside. But after the long cold winter, it felt more like seventy-five.
I kicked a rock as we marched across the gravel road to the Kuskokwim. I purposely walked behind the girls so I could gawk at Taylor’s backside without getting busted. Hints of pink highlighted the partly cloudy sky above us. Another bitchin’ part about the long days in Alaska: the sunsets lasted for hours.
“So then,” I said, “what about the little people?”
In front of me, Bristy said, “They’re mythical little creatures who live underground on the tundra. My grandpa loved talking about them when I was younger. Anytime anything went wrong, he always blamed it on them.”
“Same with my grandma,” Hope said, turning around to explain. “Whenever she heard noises or lost things, she said, ‘Damned little people.’”