It took me about an hour to get things sorted out. Like I already mentioned, Walter has only been taking cash as payment. As I said before, he never takes checks, and since his credit card machine is down he doesn’t really have an option. He’s got several signs posted, some on the gas pumps, others on the door and by the counter, but apparently this guy wouldn’t listen. It wasn’t so much the gas, it was the case of beer and carton of cigarettes that he was pissed about. When Marty, the kid behind the counter, explained that they could not take a credit card for payment, the guy flipped out and started calling Marty all kinds of names. Things ballooned from there until the guy punched the glass door. You know the rest. Anyhow, Walter himself wasn’t in the store when it happened, he was taking a boat out of the water and putting it back into storage. When he made it back to the store we went over what had happened with Marty, and Walter decided not to press charges, although he did get a copy of Drake’s credit card to pay for the window when the system came back online.
Chapter 3
*click*
Third run under way. I’m feeling a little bit better. We made it back and transferred all the fuel we could into his main tanks. They’re all full now. As I thought, it didn’t take a complete emptying of the 55 gallon barrels to accomplish this. We now have a grand total of three empty barrels left for diesel, and four empty ones for gas. Once we transferred the fuel into his holding tanks we were left with the barrels that were still full in the trucks. It took both of us to unload those. We ended up using some two-inch nylon webbing to make an improvised sling. I would then tilt the barrels enough for Uncle Andy to slide and center the webbing underneath, and then I used some ratchet straps to secure the sling around the barrel. Uncle Andy brought the Terramite to lift the barrels off the truck and carry them to the fuel shed. We had originally tried to use the front end loader on his old Ford 3600 tractor, but the bucket wouldn’t go up high enough to clear the sides of our trucks. It still took us about ninety minutes to unload the barrels. Once we had the fuel barrels unloaded, Uncle Andy asked me to load the empty propane tanks while he took care of some things inside. I was wrong though; he’s got five, not four, of the one hundred pound canisters, three of which were empty, and he’s got sixteen of the little twenty pound “barbecue grill- sized” as well. The way the propane system is hooked up at his cabin is kinda cool. He heats the cabin with wood, not gas, so his propane fuel line goes from the tank enclosure to an “on demand” style of water heater, from there it runs around and goes to his propane refrigerator/freezer and finally to his stove. The propane tank enclosure is an exterior closet-like thing that is attached to the back of his cabin. It’s vented to the outside in case of gas leaks, but it also receives warm air from inside the cabin through vents in the wall. The way he explained it to me was that the warm cabin air helps to keep the propane tanks at a more even pressure during the cold winter months. Apparently, propane tanks don’t maintain their pressure in the cold . . . I don’t know . . . something like that. Inside the “propane closet” there is a . . . not sure what it’s called, maybe a “two gang valve supply input . . . thingy.” Whatever it’s called, he uses the hundred pound tank as the main supply, and there’s a twenty pound tank that functions as an emergency backup when the hundred pound tank gets close to being empty. He can also run it using just the barbecue style tanks, he’d just have to change them more frequently. I got all the tanks loaded and secured into my truck, and then I moved all the empty fuel barrels onto Uncle Andy’s pickup. He’s got one of those older dual-wheel, crew-cab Chevy 3500 work trucks with four wheel drive and a big gas guzzling engine, but I think it could haul over 5000 pounds if it had to. As I said though, I got all of the propane tanks loaded and went in to get Uncle Andy. When I opened the door, the smell that hit me about made me choke on drool. The little rough carved birch table that he uses for a combination kitchen-poker-chess table was covered with two round plates, a big plastic bowl, and a large oval platter. The oval platter was heaping over with freshly fried walleye filets.
“Sit down and grab yourself some grub, boy. There’s hot rice on the stove, and ketchup, mustard, soy sauce, and whatever else you want in the fridge. Although why you’d want to smother the delicate taste of my special recipe, hand caught, beer and buttermilk dipped walleye filets are beyond me.”
“Yep,” I replied, “I’m sure that a lot of beer was involved in this recipe. I strongly suspect that most of it came on the front end during the catching part.”
Uncle Andy smiled and put four large filets and some rice in the plastic bowl, mixed it all together with his hands, and gave it to Max. All three of us spent the next half hour enjoying some of the best fish we’d ever tasted.
*click*
I’m tired. We’ve just left Sheldon’s. I think we were there about five hours. According to my watch it’s 10:04 PM. It’s April 17th, the day after I started my vacation, but dang, so far it doesn’t feel much like a vacation. The drizzle that went on all day has now increased to a steady sprinkle, and I imagine the dirt road is going to be kinda slick. Max is riding in Uncle Andy’s truck, probably getting fed an entire bag of the treats that I know Uncle Andy keeps there for just that occasion. So let me see—a lot of info—where to begin? Well, the third trip back to Sheldon’s was uneventful, although I did take the time to remove my cuff case from my duty belt and attach it to the belt I was wearing now. When we arrived, it looked very similar to when we were there for the second time, although it actually looked like there were more cars with trailers in the gravel parking lot across the road. Since we had both the gas and diesel barrels on Uncle Andy’s truck, he pulled close to the diesel pumps and got in line; there was a pickup filling up there already. I pulled up alongside him and we switched vehicles, since he’s the only one of us that both has permission to, and knows how to refill the propane from Walter’s main tank. He drove my truck around the back of the marina and once the pickup in front of me moved, I pulled his truck forward, got out and lifted the nozzle on the pump. It turned on and reset to zero, I guess Marty was looking out the window this time, so I filled the diesel barrels. After that I got in line for the gas. I didn’t have to wait too long and that operation went fairly smooth as well. On a whim, I filled two of the gas barrels with high test fuel. I also filled the three 5 gallon gas cans that Uncle Andy had. The only can we didn’t bring with us was that two and a half gallon one that he uses for the gas-oil mix for the chainsaw; it was already mostly filled with a fresh mix. The last fill was the transfer tank. A little over one hundred gallons in that later, I pulled away from the pump island and moved the truck to a parking spot on the side of the bait shop where I could see it through the window from inside. Max and I got out and I dropped the tailgate.
“Guard the truck Max,” I said.
Max hopped into the truck bed and took over sentry duty. If anybody could get past him, they were welcome to the fuel. When I walked into the bait shop, I noticed that the door had been repaired with two sheets of plywood, cut to fit and bolted to each other, sandwiching the door between them. Both sides had been painted white and had several words stenciled in large black letters. They read “cash only, no credit cards, no checks!” In addition to the door sign, several larger “cash only” signs were scattered throughout the store. Sheldon’s store is kind of “L” shaped, with one leg comprising primarily the gas station and tackle & bait store. The other leg—the larger and wider one—has the groceries and hardware, as well as most of the “non fishing” sporting goods. A separate building houses the marina facility. I moved through the bait store into the food section, grabbing a blue plastic hand basket on the way. I picked up a six pack of Dr. Pepper, some Pop Tarts, and a few snack packs of sunflower seeds. I was kneeling down to sort through several mixed bottles of condiments, specifically looking for Louisiana hot sauce, when I heard a voice.
“Reach for the sky you scurvy pile of steaming dog turds.” It was a female voice.
I knew the voice,
and I knew the answer. “You only want my hands in the air for two reasons. The first one is so you can admire my firm, manly backside. The second one is so you can steal my food and stuff it into your own face, you pitiful excuse for a female Sasquatch.” I turned around as I rose. Standing a few feet away was Michelle Owens. She was north-central North Dakota’s lone U. S. Fish and Wildlife officer. She was tall—just a smidgeon over six feet. She wasn’t stick figure skinny like a lot of tall girls, but she definitely wasn’t fat either. I know this, um, personally. High cheekbones and long, curly strawberry blonde hair usually pulled back in a ponytail framed a stunningly beautiful face. A light smattering of freckles and a perpetual smile completed the picture. Her green eyes and infectious laugh always brought a smile to my own face. She and I had gone to school together, and although we were never an official item, we were always friends. Best friends. It’s a really complicated story, our dynamics that is. A lot of guys were interested in her, and a lot of the girls at school were jealous. She really was good looking—the right combination of curves and attitude mixed together and forged with her personality made her an irresistible package, as well as a target for the resentful girls at school. They gave her the name “Sasquatch.” At first she took it as an insult, but eventually it seemed to grow on her and the more they tried to use it in a derogatory manner, the more she’d just smile and laugh—then go out with their boyfriends. Our paths crossed several times since high school. The standard “two ships that keep passing each other in the night.” It’s just . . . well, complicated. I’d see her every now and then . . . she’d call and stop by, or I would. There was the occasional weekend at the cabin, fishing with me and my uncle. Even less frequently we’d both be in our hometown at the same time, and then it was usually out to dinner with her and her mom; that kind of thing. Everything from birthday cards and the occasional email to conferences and trainings . . . even a few cooperative efforts between her agency and mine. It was at a conference on endangered species smuggling three years ago that we, um, finally hooked up for some quality time. I’ve got to say, it was a wild weekend. Right time, right place, excessive amounts of alcohol and apparently a decade long buildup of sexual frustration and flirtation. Since that time she’s been married and divorced, no kids. He was an older guy who worked for the highway department. Scumbag. Shortly after they got married, she caught him screwing around with his ex-wife. She came back to our hometown and spent a few days with her mom, and as it turned out a few more days with me. Max was just a puppy then. Michelle Owens . . . my personal kryptonite . . . sigh. Have I mentioned that it’s really complicated?
“You just gonna stand there with a dumb ass look on your face or are you gonna give me a hug? Of course, maybe since your time with me you’ve realized that no other woman can truly satisfy you, and now you’re ‘playing for the other team’ as they say.”
“Officer Owens, I didn’t recognize you without your lime green Scooby Doo bikini underwear and matching lace bra,” I said as I hugged her. She felt slimmer, harder, like she’d been working out a lot. She felt good.
She whispered in my ear as we parted the hug, “I still got them.”
“Hmmmm,” I thought . . . “file that one away for later.”
We were still catching up a few minutes later when Walter appeared.
“Evenin’ Miss Owens . . . Eric . . . would the both of you mind coming back to my office for a spell? Eric, Andy is back there as well.” We nodded and followed him.
Sheldon’s office was attached to the building where the boats were kept in dry dock. We walked through the food section and I paid for my groceries. I didn’t know the lady behind the counter. Her name tag read “Francis”; there was something about her that looked a little familiar though. We exited through the door by her checkout counter and turned left towards the dry dock building. I saw Michelle’s USFW Chevy Tahoe parked there. I could also see my truck parked near the propane filling station. We crossed the gravel and entered Walter’s office; Uncle Andy was already there.
“’Chelle, how are ya’ darling?” Uncle Andy smiled and said to Michelle.
“Oh, I imagine I’d be a whole lot better if I could ever find me a good man, someone who’s a hard worker, maybe someone who owns a big chunk of land with a cute little cabin on it. Someone who is financially well off. Why, maybe even someone who’s stubborn, mean, nasty, and foul smelling; someone who’s fast passing their golden years and is not long for this world; a man who after one night with me will die with a big smile on his face and a worn out pecker in his shorts, leaving me his entire estate including his hot little nephew. Know anybody like that?”
For a man who spent so many years in the military, Uncle Andy could still blush. “Ah . . . maybe . . .” was all he could get out before Walter, Michelle, and I busted out laughing.
We spent the next half hour exchanging pleasantries, fish stories, and on occasion some bold faced lies, usually in conjunction with some of the fish stories. Michelle said she was just passing through and stopped in for a bite to eat. Uncle Andy and myself, well I’ve already told you about us, and Walter is, well, Walter. He says he’s been so busy he doesn’t hardly have time to think. The last time he actually got a line wet for himself was over a year ago. Anyhow, of course the topic soon drifted around to the president’s speech and what was going on in the world.
“What do you know about what’s been going on?” asked Walter.
Uncle Andy had already filled him in on our attempt to watch the president’s speech online. Michelle had the same experience with her office laptop. She also added that before the Internet went, down she had received several emails, mostly from the state office but a few from the national office as well. Their general “flavor” seemed to indicate, without actually spelling out, that there might be a need for increased awareness of personal protection barriers when handling suspects. Most of the emails had attachments about bloodborne pathogen trainings and procedures. Of course, the lack of television and Internet was putting most people she knew in a grumpy mood, she added.
Walter chimed in, “Why is it that we can’t get no TV up here? I was talkin’ with my daughter down in Miami this morning, and let me say it took forever to get through; I kept getting that ‘system busy’ message for over two hours before I was able to get her. She says that they have local TV, but most of the time it just seems to be news reports about Korea where nobody really knows nothing except what’s already been said. But she also said . . .”
“I can answer that,” cut in Uncle Andy. “Most large cities still have broadcast TV. Which is to say that their signal is transmitted from a local antenna to their customer base in the immediate area. Some of the larger stations can probably transmit thirty to fifty miles. Of course that depends a lot on the terrain they’re in and where the antenna is located. Local cable television is usually transmitted from the TV stations to the cable company via a dedicated system. Those channels are then delivered to the cable company’s customers through the wires that go into the back of the TV.”
“Uh-huh,” said Walter.
Uncle Andy continued, “The problem that we’re having is that there ain’t a television broadcast signal within about 170 miles, as the crow flies, from us. Therefore everybody up here has satellite TV, and whenever the powers that be decided to install whatever they did to block the signals, they most likely chose the choke point of the satellite systems . . . same thing for the Internet.”
“You want to try that again in English?” asked Walter.
“Shoot, I already dumbed it down enough so as Eric could follow it,” he said. “Let me try it this way. Because we don’t have a local TV station broadcasting signals that we would pick up with an antenna on our television set, or since we’re so far out in the boonies here there’s no cable TV either, the only choice we have is satellite television. In Miami, your daughter is probably getting the three or four local channels broadcast through her cable TV hookup, but I’d bet my bottom dol
lar that she used to get a hundred different channels. The ones she doesn’t get any more are the ones that are beamed via a satellite network to the different cable companies who’ve then rebroadcast it to their customers. Got me so far?”
“Yep,” Walter replied . . . “I mean nope,” he added with a wink that Uncle Andy didn’t see.
“You are dumber than a big bag of hammers. I’ll bet your brain is fried from sniffing the ink on all of that money you rake in,” Uncle Andy said.
“Well, if you were smart enough to explain it correctly I wouldn’t have to ask for all this clarification,” Walter shot back.
I had been both privileged to witness, and on occasion caught in the crossfire of their legendary “one-upmanship” insult contests, but I was tired and this could go on for hours if I didn’t step in.
“Think of it like this,” I said, “let’s say that Ghost Echo Lake is the only lake in the United States. Everybody comes to get their fish from there. However, in order to get onto the lake and have the best fishing they have to come through your marina, rent your boats, and use fishing rods they bought from your store.”
“There you see, Andy, this boy knows how to put it into an explanation that I like,” Walter said as Uncle Andy frowned and shook his head. “Go on Eric.”
“However, there are other ways to get fish from Ghost Echo Lake; for example you could take your own fishing rod and stomp through the mud and weeds until you finally make it to the water. Now let’s say that Michelle needed to prevent as many people as possible from fishing in the lake. The easiest and most practical is not to try and put a fence around the entire lake, it’s to close the marina. That will stop ninety-nine percent of the people from getting access to the fish in the lake. In other words, if you control the access point, which in this case is the marina, then you control ninety-nine percent of the people who fish there. Television works the same way, only in that example your marina would be the satellite system and the lake would be the information and signals for television and the Internet, understand?”
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