THE GOOD LIFE: By Mary Ann Back
Tuesday, March 22nd, 2011Fate is a seriously twisted bitch. Why else would she put in a fight at Morrie’s Pub at 2:00 a.m.? There I was on the run, again, with rain pouring like banshee tears. I wanted to put some distance behind me but the roads were slick. Lying low made more sense. There was a light maybe a couple hundred yards west. Off road looked like the best choice –until a wolf ran out in front of me. I swerved, laying my Harley down in a stinking gravel patch. I was busy counting body parts and picking pebbles out of my skin, when a voice came out of nowhere.
“Some spill, kid.”
My head spun around so fast it damn near fell off. Some old dude, ugly as sin, was standing right next to me. He grabbed my hand and yanked me to my feet. We were face to face - his eyes locked onto mine. Then he started sniffing long and slow. The corners of his mouth twitched.
“The steamed clams at Wharf 61 are good aren’t they? Me, I prefer meat, warm and juicy.”
Freak. I took a step back; my knees buckled. How could he know I ate clams?
“Careful there, Mike. See the light over that rise? That’s my place. Let’s get you there and clean you up.”
“How’d you know my name?”
“It’s on your jacket,” he said. His mouth formed a grin but his eyes forgot to join in.
He hauled me there through knee high brush and plopped me into an antique aluminum lawn chair with moldy green nylon webbing. We were under a makeshift lean-to butted up against his doublewide. A blazing trash barrel wafted heat my way. I was soaked to the bone. It felt good.
He handed me a cup. “Here you go, kid. Take a big swig. It’ll cure what ails you.”
Toxic fumes singed my nose hairs. “What the hell is this?”
“Home brew. You’ll like it. It’ll take the burn out of that road rash.”
I figuredwhat the hell, bottoms up.
“I’m Charlie Two Socks. Welcome to my hunting ground. Anyone you need to call? Anyone missing you about now?”
“No man. No one’s missed me in a whole lot of years.”
Charlie smiled. His lean-to was plastered wall to wall with dream-catchers.
“Bad dreams, old man?” I asked.
“Never.”
“So where’re the rest of your…people?”
“Afraid I’m the last of my kind, around here anyway.” He had a weird look in his eyes. “How you feeling, Mikey?”
“Wicked-good man.” And I was — warm, relaxed, half drunk. He was right, that drink was good shit, but it was gone. He refilled my cup. “Charlie, you trying to get me drunk?” Think you’re gonna roll me, old man?
He leaned forward with a crazy twisted smile. “Ever wonder what it’s like to be free, Mikey? Really free, like a bird or an animal, like a wolf- strong, fast, fearless? Taking what you want when you want it, being in control?”
“What are you talking about, old man?”
“Shapeshifting- freedom, power, domination. It’s a rush.”
“You been drinking too much of your own hooch,” you freaking nut job. I shook my head then drained my cup.
Charlie poured another, winked and shouted, “Atta boy, Mikey, drink it all up ‘cause now it’s time to howl!”
He walked into the pouring rain, sauntered really, his arms swinging free, his legs striding slow, confident. He turned to face me. Lightening flashed and I could see his eyes had gone blood red. The rain steamed off his body in a swirling haze. Thick fur covered his skin. Then there was this ripping sound. Sure, his clothes were busting apart but it was a different kind of ripping sound, a sick, nasty muscles tearing and bones breaking kind of sound. His joints were twisting, grinding, and separating. When they snapped back together there was no sign of the old man - just a 200 pound wolf, sitting on his haunches, waiting for me to make a move. We sized each other up. I had to admit, Charlie made a bitchin’ wolf, huge, sleek, and fearsome. He was jet black, so black he had that midnight blue tint, except for patches of white fur on his front legs. Ears laid back and hackles raised, he bared his teeth. A low growl hummed in his throat. I tried to scramble out my lawn chair, but hey, I was hammered. The best I could manage was falling flat on my face, pulling that antique aluminum piece of crap lawn chair over on top of me. Charlie lunged and bit my forearm. I closed my eyes waiting for the kill but it never came. When I finally did look, Charlie was gone. His bite had barely broken my skin. The last thing I remember was laying on my back under the lean-to listening to the rain drumming on the roof and staring up at the dream-catchers, praying they’d work, that this was all just a bad dream - that I wouldn’t wake up dead.
In the morning, I woke up to find the old Indian staring down at me. God, I felt great! And hungry. An insanely good smell, even better than coffee, got me to my feet. “First hooch and now breakfast. You’re okay, Charlie. That hooch was kick-ass! Man, the dreams I had! What smells so good anyway?”
“Fresh meat, kid.”
Whatever it was, I wanted it bad. Drool slid down my chin. “Bacon, sausage, ham?”
“Something like that.”
“I could get used to this life, good hooch, good eats. Hell yes!”
“Stick around. I’ll take you hunting with me tonight. Show you the ropes.”
“I know how to hunt.”
“Not like me.”
“Awesome. Count me in.”
We walked into Charlie’s trailer to chow down. His crazy lopsided face looked happy. Lonely old coot, I thought to myself. He likes having me around.
_______________________________
© 2011 Mary Ann Back
Ms. Back, of Mason, Ohio, was awarded the 2009 short story Bilbo Award by Thomas More College. Her writing has appeared in many publications, including: Eclectic Flash, Short Story America, The Loyalhanna Review, Flash Shot, Earth Joy, Words, and Flash Me.
