Lester McClain and the Bear – III

Land Cruiser Engine

“No fucking way!” Les blurted, staring through the passenger window at the sitting Grizzly.  During his time in the mountains, he had only had two encounters with bears, in as many days, yesterday and today.  A wave of uneasiness swept over him with the intensity of a mountain storm, swift and ominous.  Deciding that McGee Creek would not be his fishing destination de jour Les turned the key to fire up the Cruiser.  The always reliable starter whined, but the engine did not catch.  

“Shit!” he exclaimed, “Not Good!”  Les released his twisting pressure on the key momentarily then tried again glaring imploringly at the ignition.  The starter whinnied on for seconds like an anguished electric horse, but the familiar roar of the engine did not come.  

“Slam” something hit the driver side window with such force that Les closed his eyes, certain that he would be covered with broken glass.  His right hand shot to the passenger seat wrapping his hand around the grip of his pistol.  As he took up the .45, he saw through the passenger window that the bear was no longer on the river bank.  He whipped around to face the driver side window weapon raised.  A surprised Shash took a step back, showing a mix of amusement and concern in his dark eyes.

“Jesus!” Came Lester’s muffled voice through the closed window, “You scared the shit out of me!”

“My apologies,” offered Shash, taking another step away from the Cruiser to allow room for his enormous frame to execute the slightest of bows.  “Sounds like you’re having engine troubles.  I knocked to offer my assistance.”

“Knocked?” Lester thought, “The blow Shash had landed could have crushed a lesser car!” Les’ mind was swimming.  “Bears, giants, dead engines, what the fuck?  Did someone drug my Bourbon last night?  And what the hell happened to my truck?”  

He laid the Browning back on the passenger seat and unbuckled his seatbelt.  He reached for the door handle then hesitated.  What the hell was this Shash doing here and where the shit-hell had he come from?  Les hadn’t seen anyone, other than the Grizzly when he’d pulled to a stop here in the middle of nowhere, and there were no other cars at the turnout.  

“Pop the hood,” Shash commanded in his deep rumble of a voice, “I’ll have a look.”  

After a pregnant moment of consideration, Les smiled weakly and complied.  As the giant made his way to the front of the Cruiser Les noticed that he appeared to be wearing the same oversized mad-max, bounty hunter regalia that he’d worn last night at the Sierra Springs.  Les glanced at the Browning resting on the seat beside him, considering the bizarre, disconcerting nature of his current situation, then decided to leave where it lay.  He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his brow, opened his door and stepped out onto the dusty gravel ground of the turnout.

Shash had opened the hood and reached into the engine compartment with a mechanic’s confidence.  “Try it now” he bellowed not realizing that Lester had left the cab and was now standing two feet from him.  Les jumped, “Jesus!” He exclaimed.  

“How much coffee have you had this morning friend?  You seem a bit edgy.”  Shash grinned.

Lester looked up at him with a mixture of indignation, awe and thinly veiled alarm.  Without saying a word he turned and marched back to the cab.  

“I’m definitely taking a nap today” he muttered to himself.

Les swung into the driver’s seat and turned the key.  Sweet internal combustion music sprang from the now purring engine.  Shash closed the hood.   “Loose spark plug connections.  All good for now, but you may wanna look at replacing them before winter.”  Les, sitting in the driver seat with a bit of a glazed look on his face nodded slowly. “Safe travels Lester” Shash said.  Then he turned and strode across the road.   

“Thank you,” Les yelled at the closed window, his words bouncing loudly throughout the cab.  He fumbled for the window switch, but by the time the window was opening Shash had crossed the road and was heading for the woods.  Les watched mutely as the giant made his way into the beginnings of a cedar grove and vanished.

Lester McClain sat motionless gripping the steering wheel; feeling the gentle vibration born of the purring engine on his damp palms.  Eventually coming out of his stupor he turned his gaze to McGee Creek.  No sign of the bear.  Releasing the wheel, he ran his hands through his hair leaning back with a long exhale.  “Jesus!” He exclaimed for the third time that morning.  He put the cruiser in gear.  Fishing was no longer on the agenda.  No, if fact Les was suddenly and overwhelmingly motivated to pursue indoor activities for the rest of the day. With a spray of gravel, he wheeled out onto the road, made a hurried U-turn and headed back down the mountain.

To Be Continued

#fiction

Lester McClain and the Bear – I

Blurry bar

Lester McClain sat at the bar, gazing over his glass of single barrel Four Roses bourbon at the glittering array of bottles along the mirrored wall.  His hands rested on the worn oak bar top, its lacquer nearly nonresistant in places where for decades patrons had leaned their elbows, set their belongings or held on for dear life as the countless drinks had taken hold.  The bartender passed back and forth, no more than an blur; a ghost drifting this way then that serving the spirit needs of the living. 

Les had been fly fishing the Narrow Canyon Creek that day.  It had been a good day for such adventure.  Not too hot, the water was crystal clear as it hadn’t rained in a week, and the trout had been in the mood to be deceived.  He had cleaned and packed the catch of three rainbows on ice before walking the pine-lined lane from his cabin to the Sierra Springs Tavern for his nightly cocktail.  It was a relatively normal day, except for the bear.

The faintest scent of tobacco wafted in with the opening of the door.  Les loved the aroma of tobacco, cigarettes, cigars or pipes; which was odd because he couldn’t stand the taste of any of them and so did not partake.

“Mind if I sit,” rasped a deep voice from behind and to his left.  

Lester turned to see a man of substantial presence, heavy brown beard, bushy eyebrows, long wild hair and usually large deep brown eyes.  So dark was the brown of the man’s eye color that it was hard to tell where his irises ended and the pupils began.  

“Be my guest,” Les offered, sliding to his right to make room for the unusually large man.  

The old stool groaned as the stranger sat and the bar flinched to a near buckle under the weight of his massive forearms.   He seemed familiar, in an odd, not particularly comfortable way, as though Les had met him in a dream but never in waking life.  He thought it curious that this fellow had chosen the neighboring seat at the long spacious bar.  Perhaps he was in need of companionship.  From the wild look of him, Les surmised that he might have gone quite some time without conversation or at least a conversation with someone who wasn’t concerned for their personal safety.

The phantom barkeep materialized in front of the two men but took a half step back when he focused on the newcomer.  

“Shash,” he blurted, “long time no see.” His tone teetered between conversational and disconcerted.  “What can I get you?” 

“Old Rip Van Winkle 25, double.” 

“Ice?”

“No.”  As an afterthought, Shash added, “thank you, no thank you on the ice.”

The barkeep vanished.  Les turned to his new companion, who seemed suddenly lost in thought, “Name’s Lester, Lester McClain.”

“Yes,” agreed the stranger.  Silence.  Perhaps he wasn’t interested in conversation after all.  The keep set the glass of Rip down on the bar; it seemed to emit the faintest glow.  

“I’ve never heard of Old Rip Van Winkle” Les offered. “I’m a Four Roses man myself.”

“It’s not sold here, Old Rip Van Winkle,” said Shash.  “Junior keeps it in a hidden cabinet at the end of the bar.”

“Junior?” Les thought, the guy’s name is Dillon.  Though he surmised, compared to this substantial gentleman, everyone was a ‘Junior’ of sorts.

“How was the fishing today?” The giant asked.

“Ah, good.  How did you know I was fishing.”

“I can smell it.”  Shash offered.

Lester raised his glass as if to take a sip, which he did.  More of a gulp really, but it was the sniffing of his hand, which he had thoroughly washed that was his true intention.  He smelled only soap and bourbon. 

The brown-eyed man raised his glass, swallowed the double in one gulp, set the glass down gently on the bar.  

“Nice to see you, Lester.  Be well.”  With that he rose, his stool exhaling a sigh of relief.  He adjusted his enormous brown leather coat, turned and walked out of the bar.

“Nice to see you, Lester?”  Les thought, did I get too much sun today? 

Dillon returned.  “Everything okay?” He asked, a bead of sweat escaping his hairline.

“Yeah, ah, yeah, fine.  Can I have another Four Roses please?”

“On the house.”  Dillon offered, pouring quickly then darting off.  

“On the house? That’s a first!” Les thought, swirling his bourbon in the glass. He watched the amber liquid cling to the walls of the cylindrical vessel then slowly fall in viscous waves under gravity’s pull.  Dillon scurried outside for a smoke break.  Les sipped his bourbon, considering the odd moments that had just passed, trying to conjure any waking memory of his curious new acquaintance.  The sweet smell of Dillon’s cigarette wafted through the open front door of the Sierra Springs Tavern.  Les inhaled deeply, raised his glass and took a long pull.

 

Continued in Lester McClain and the Bear – II

#fiction

Stepmom-O-Rama

Here We Go Again

stripper shoes crop

Juliet zipped her dress and gave herself a once over in the hotel room mirror.  “Here we go again,” she half spoke, half laughed then took a swig of Stoli straight from the bottle.

I peered around her well-preserved, thirty-something body into the mirror straightening my tie.  “If I have to go to one more of dad’s weddings I swear I’ll set myself on fire!” I said.

“Really? Oh, that would be so sad for me.  I’d have to go to all his future weddings without my favorite brother.  Besides I thought you always wanted to die in a killer whale attack.”

“Yes,” I acknowledged, “killer whale attack has long been my preferred legendary death scenario…and I’m your ‘only’ brother.”

“Which makes you a shoe-in for ‘favorite’ you awesome man.”  She laughed.

Both of my sisters are wonderful, but Jules and I have always been especially close.   Our senior, and noticeably absent sister Samantha was supposed to be with us for pre-ceremony cocktails, but it seemed her chronic tardiness had struck again.

Juliet handed me the Stoli, “At least we’ll never have to live with this one.” She smiled.

“True.” I mused.  “I suppose being somewhat grown up and thoroughly self-sufficient has its perks.”

The door flew open.  “Sorry, I’m late!” Samantha rolled into the room like a runaway circus train, garment bag, cosmetics kit, and other undefined bits of tiny luggage hanging from her person.  “What are we drinking?”

“The usual pre-dad’s-wedding fair…vodka.”  I handed her the bottle, and as her lips touched it, we had once again closed the circle, completing a ritual celebration that had been part of the Montfort family culture since we were in high school.  Other family’s had Thanksgiving or Christmas; we had Dad’s weddings.

Sam lowered the bottle, “Well, here we go again!  How long do you think this one’ll last?”

Juliet sat on the edge of the bed pulling on her high heels. She motioned for a bottle pass.  “Her name is Candy for Christ’s sake…it can’t last too long!”

“I don’t know,” I interjected.  “Bambi lasted almost 13 months…come on…Bambi?  I give ‘Candy’ better odds.

By now the average observer may be wondering why three siblings in their late thirties to early forties were in a hotel room preparing for a wedding with no significant others in tow.  As it happens, the old expression about the falling apple and the inevitable proximity of its final resting place relative to the tree from which it came is beautifully illustrated by our family.  That’s right, my sisters and I are all divorced.

The advent of dad’s pending nuptials had Samantha in a reminiscent mood. “Do you remember the screaming red Christmas tree that Cinnamon put up my senior year?  The place looked like a holiday whore house.”

“Who could forget,” I laughed.  “How about Buffy’s pink Corvette with the heart decals?”  To this day her dropping me off at school in that thing ranks among my most awkward moments.  Idiot high school boys alternately calling me a fag for coming to school in a pink car, then saying they wanna ‘tag’ my mom.  “Ew,” I’d protest, “she’s not my mom”…and as an afterthought, “and I’m not gay you assholes!”

My darling sisters laughed.  We’re a fucked up bunch to be sure, but at least we have each other.  The shared experience of growing up in the company of a fast-moving parade of “dancers” has had the effect of “Gorilla Glue for the Soul” on us.  Jules looked at her watch and grimaced.   Then as her right hand applied deep red lipstick, her left reached into her carry-on luggage sized purse.   Without turning her attention from the mirror, she found, apparently by Braille, and produced three silver flasks.   She tossed them at me with a playful wink.  “Fill ‘em up bro; it’s go time!”  As I poured and spilled the Stoli into the unreasonably small flask openings, I laughed to myself.  Thank god for my two wonderful sisters.  We may not be well equipped for matrimonial endeavors of our own, but we make a hell of a team at a stripper’s wedding.

We raised the dripping flasks high. “To Pops and…uh, Candy is it?” Sam hissed.

Jules snorted, which turned my snigger into a guffaw.  I quickly composed myself.  Cleared my throat and in my best, if hastily conceived oratorical tone confirmed the name of the stepmom de jour.  “Yes, yes, to Pops and Candy, and the two most wonderfully inappropriate, dazzlingly witty and truly lovely siblings-in-arms a brother could ask for!”

“Goddamnit,” Jules scolded.  “If you make me tear up I’ll wipe my runny-makeup face all over that white shirt!”    I laughed.  We finished the toast with the clink of silver and a quick slug.  Next stop, stepmom-o-rama!

#fiction

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