[stylist] Another story

Sat Oct 8 21:10:43 UTC 2011

Chris,

Humorous. I like how you take us down this trail. You have a masculine
style of writing- very Hemingway. You don't tango with words, but stick
to sparse, concise sentences; I like this. This could be expanded by
focusing on the scenic development, if you wanted to expand it. It made
me chuckle though, and I just love the concept of a goat as a spirit
guide! Smile.

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/

"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan

Message: 1
Date: Fri, 7 Oct 2011 17:29:34 -0400
From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net>
To: "Stylist" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] another story
Message-ID: <1B2D0C24B6FA4EF2BA61EE20295BC1E9 at ChrisPC>
Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="iso-8859-1"

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.