[stylist] another story

Fri Oct 7 21:55:58 UTC 2011

Thanks for the laugh. I read it twice, a bit slower the second time 
:) but just as funny.

Brad

On 10/7/2011  04:29 PM Chris Kuell said...
>This story was first published in Slate and Style about 7 years ago. 
>Since then I've placed it in 2 other journals, most recently in 
>Magnets and Ladders. Hope you enjoy it.
>
>
>
>
>One Writer's Tale
>
>
>
>By Chris Kuell
>
>
>
>
>
>My quest to become a professional writer began late in the summer of 
>1996. I was in Lowell, Massachusetts, visiting the grave of Jack 
>Kerouac. I bummed a cigarette off this other homage-payer, Keith, 
>who turned out to be the drummer for the moderately well known band 
>Phish. We got to talking, and it turns out Keith had recently been 
>released from a rehab center in Boston and was making his way out to 
>visit his uncle in Montana. Lacking direction in life, and having 
>little else to do, I asked if I could accompany him on his trip. 
>Surprisingly, he agreed. During the long drive, we stopped to visit 
>many of Keith's acquaintances, a generally wild, all-night bunch. It 
>was through these informal interactions that I acquired a taste for 
>a drink called the Kamikaze and ladies that didn't shave their legs 
>very often.
>
>
>
>Along the way, I learned that the uncle was a Native American living 
>in a trailer on a reservation. Apparently, he had recently won the 
>lottery, and wanted to share his earnings with all his extended 
>family members. When we finally pulled into the dirt driveway about 
>45 miles outside Missoula, I was beat from the long road trip and 
>ready for a beer. I had come to the right place. What greeted us 
>there in Big Sky country was truly breathtaking. Above me, the blue 
>heavens seemed to cascade infinitely upward. Before me was a giant 
>mountain, snow capped and so surrealistically beautiful it could 
>have been an Ansel Adams postcard. At ground level was a rusted old 
>trailer, a mountain of empty beer cans the size of a two car 
>detached garage, an eighteen wheeler refrigerated truck with a 
>thirty foot red, white and blue Budweiser label on the side, and a 
>dozen or so drunken Indians sitting in disarray on half-broken 
>plastic lawn chairs.
>
>
>
>Keith's uncle, or Big Trout as he instructed me to call him, had 
>spent 115,000 of his 125,000 dollars of lottery money on the truck 
>full of beer. His plan was to drink all the beer with his friends 
>and family, then cash in on the deposit on the cans, sell the truck 
>and buy a bigger trailer. With about two thirds of the truck empty, 
>it seemed things were on schedule.
>
>
>
>One evening, I was walking with Big Trout, Budweiser in hand, when 
>we heard the howling of a pack of coyotes in the distance. He scared 
>the hell out of me by howling back, in perfect pitch to match the 
>animals. They seemed to carry on a conversation for several minutes 
>while I listened peacefully and sipped my beer. As we walked on, Big 
>Trout informed me that the coyote was his spirit guide, and it had 
>told him it was time I found mine. When I asked how I was to do 
>this, he handed me a package wrapped tightly in old newspaper. The 
>package held special herbs, he said, that I should eat when I 
>reached the peak of the tall White Mountain to the north. There, he 
>informed me, I would meet my spirit guide, and finally gain 
>direction in my life.
>
>
>
>A few days later, I hitched a ride north with a couple of tie-dyed 
>Dead Heads in a 1967 VW Microbus. They had stopped by Big Trout's 
>for beer and their own newspaper bound packages, so perhaps they 
>were looking for direction as well, I can't really say. I drove with 
>them to Mount Ranier, listening to bootleg tapes of Grateful Dead 
>shows the whole way. I don't think these guys knew that Gerry Garcia 
>was deceased. Not wanting to rain on their long, strange trip, I 
>didn't mention it.
>
>
>
>They left me off at a camping supply store, where, using my old 
>girlfriend's credit card, I loaded up on stuff I thought I   might 
>need. After studying my new trail map, I was on my way.
>
>
>
>The hike was harrowing, cold and treacherous, a narration I will 
>save for another time. It suffices to say that, in less than 48 
>hours after base camp departure, I found myself entrenched in a 
>crevice some 8 feet below snow level, starving, dehydrated and 
>quickly entering delirium.
>
>  Only then did I remember the package Big Trout had given me. Since 
> my body temperature was dropping and death was becoming swiftly 
> probable, I used my one free hand to retrieve the bundle from my 
> jacket pocket. Inside the bundle was a baggie containing a half 
> dozen dried mushrooms. As instructed, I ate the mushrooms, licking 
> the ice surrounding me occasionally to dilute the horrible taste. I 
> think I must have drifted off to sleep for a while, because I 
> remember awakening suddenly to the snorting of an animal. Looking 
> up, I saw the majestic head of a large mountain goat, menacing 
> ivory horns coiling outwards. We stared at each other in a timeless 
> void, neither of us speaking, yet communicating.
>
>
>
>"Are you my spirit guide?" I asked the goat.
>
>"'Fraid so," it answered.
>
>"Why do you say it that way?" I asked.
>
>"Cause your ass is stuck in a crevice, and I'm only a god-damned 
>goat, that's why. I don't even have opposable thumbs, how the hell 
>am I supposed to get you outta there so you can start on what is 
>going to be an incredibly difficult quest?"
>
>I just looked up pleadingly at the goat. Perhaps it was something in 
>that glacier water, but things didn't seem right in my head.
>
>"Here," the goat said, then turned to show me it's backside. As it 
>started to squat, my initial thought was-Oh my God, my spirit guide 
>is going to take a dump on me! But I quickly realized that he was 
>actually just offering me his tail. I grabbed it with my free hand, 
>and with surprising ease, my spirit goat pulled me from the clutches 
>of the ice vice.
>
>
>
>We sat together on the snow, looking over the vast extravaganza of 
>life glistening before us. I asked the goat, "So, how did you get to 
>be a spirit guide?"
>
>"Oh, I used to be a writer in a previous life. Ever read any Jack 
>Kerouac? On the Road. That was me. After I died, damn defective 
>liver, I floated around in purgatory until the goat gig came up."
>
>
>
>I reflected on this for a few minutes before I asked, "So, spirit 
>guide, what am I supposed to do with my life?"
>
>"W-W-W-write R-r-r-r-omance," he brayed, then, I swear, he began to 
>laugh. It was really bizarre, this mountain goat bucking and 
>snorting like he was having a seizure. Once he regained control, he 
>continued, "Naw, I'm just kidding. Write anything you like, as long 
>as you enjoy it."
>
>Writing? I had never really given any thought to becoming a writer. 
>Seems like a reasonable occupation though. Make your own hours, show 
>up to work in your underwear if you want.
>
>"But, I don't know how to write. I don't know what to write." I objected.
>
>"Don't worry," he said, " just make it up. The New York Times might 
>even give you a job. Ya never know."
>
>With that, he bowed his shaggy head and butted me solidly with his 
>horns. My coat and gortex pants offered very little resistance as I 
>slid swiftly and violently down the face of the mountain.
>
>
>
>Three weeks later, I came out of the coma in Saint Francis Hospital 
>and they agreed to let me write in a small notepad. I penned an 
>article about the kind folks I partied with at Big Trout's place, 
>and the local paper bought it. Eventually, I drifted back east, and 
>now I am struggling to make a buck at stringing words together. 
>Hell, at this point I'd be happy to make enough to cover my postage 
>costs. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.
>
>
>_______________________________________________
>Writers Division web site:
>http://www.nfb-writers-division.net <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
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Brad Dunse

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