Dead Simple

by Bryce V. Giroux

conclusion

I sighed — there wasn’t much else I could do. “Does this place have a restaurant?”

“Unfortunately no, we don’t. We do have a picnic table out dos.” He waved his hands, indicating the back of the store. “I could have my wife make you a sandwich.”

I rubbed my stomach. Now I was beginning to regret not stopping in Kapuskasing for supper. The thought of food right now was simultaneously appealing and disgusting. From the looks of the store and Joseph’s appearance, I leaned toward more disgusting. Images of headcheese on pumpernickel danced in my head. My stomach turned. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine. Do you have some bottled water?”

Joseph laughed at the comment. “Who drinks water out of bottles? If you’re thirsty I can get you some water from the tap.”

I sneered, but my body needed something to sustain itself for the next three hours. “That’ll be fine. You say the picnic tables are out back?”

Joseph pointed the way to the rear of the store. Outside, the view was spectacular. Currant Goods and Outfitter stood atop a steep cliff. Below, almost a hundred feet down, the floor was carpeted green with spruce trees. I hadn’t noticed how high up I had actually driven until this beauty greeted me.

The vicinity directly behind the store was far less appealing. The stench of a dumpster, which was overflowing with rotting garbage bags, overpowered any aroma that would have come from the forest far below. Bald tires of varying sizes piled next to the dumpster. Wrappers from chocolate bars and pop cans lay strewn across the area directly under the table making it impossible for me to place my feet anywhere comfortably.

I tried to distract myself from the mess around me by gazing back into the deep wilderness. I almost longed to run free in the woods.

My mind must have drifted further than I imagined, for when I swung back to reality the two children stood directly in front of me. They giggled and whispered to each other. It was apparent now: they were brother and sister, possibly only a year apart and looking about six or seven years old.

“Hello there,” I said in my most un-intimidating voice possible.

“Are you a...” the boy began but covered his mouth and giggled into his hand.

“What am I?” I asked.

“You ask!” he demanded of his sister.

She giggled back to her brother and poked at him. “You wanted to know.”

“Great grandpa says you’re a loup-garou,” the boy finally let out.

“He said what?” I was shocked. It’d been so long since I heard that term. Most people didn’t believe in my kind anymore; those who did were too afraid to say anything for fear that doctors would lock them away.

Allez! The voice of Joseph erupted angrily behind me. The two children scattered. I turned back to Joseph, who was holding a glass of dirty water. “Pour vous,” he said offering the glass to me.

I gingerly took the glass from his frail hands and set it on the table. The glass wobbled showing the obvious flaws in the table’s structure. “Were the children bothering you?”

I blinked at him for a moment trying to cut through his accent. “Oh, no they weren’t bothering me at all. They were just playing. You know kids.”

“Yes, I know kids.” His voice was soft and distant, as if reminiscing on days past.

I took a slug of water. It was warm and I could feel the sediments sliding down my throat. Despite this, it was slightly refreshing. “So, where is Pleasant Creek?”

“You don’t know? You’re here, aren’t you?”

I laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean the town. I meant: where is the creek the town was named after?”

“There weren’t a creek. Just some joke by the settlers of this place. They thought it would be funny if they called this place after some creek that weren’t there. Some joke, eh?”

I laughed even though I didn’t get the joke. I tried to force myself to take another drink of the polluted water but I just couldn’t bring myself to. I pushed my glass aside. Joseph looked at the glass then at me.

“Is there something wrong with the water?”

“No. Well... it’s just a bit dirty.”

“Ah, Jesus! I’ve been drinking this water since I was a baby. Ain’t harmed me none.”

I shrugged. It was hard to argue with Joseph’s logic. I picked up the glass again and took another drink.

“Are those your great-grandchildren?” I asked and nodded my head in the direction the children ran off.

“Ah, oui. They’re Alan’s children. Alan is my grandson.”

“Cute kids.” I laughed.

Joseph threw me a cool look. “I don’t know why you’re here, but I think you better leave as soon as possible.”

I smiled at Joseph through the side of my mouth. “I’m trying; remember? Your grandson is coming to give me a tow.”

Joseph walked around to my side of the table and placed his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know why you came back, but we don’t want you around here.”

My spine began tingling. The tension emitting from Joseph was nearly unbearable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Joseph backed up and threw his hands in the air. “Mon Dieu, bâtard dégoutant. We don’t need your kind around here; not again.” He crashed back into the store cursing in French as he left.

I took a deep breath and held it as long as I could. I don’t know why I wound up in Pleasant Creek. It almost felt as though something drew me here, but I couldn’t say for sure. Maybe I could feel the twilight. Maybe there was a calling deep within those woods; a calling that drew me here. I returned my gaze back to the woods far below and daydreamed of running through the forests.

Free.

Three hours passed quickly as I dreamed. The electronic beep of a truck backing up and French cursing brought me back into reality. For a moment, the sweet aroma of pine needles hung in my nose and I swore my fingers felt tacky with sap. Then the putrid scent of the dumpster overpowered it all again.

I pushed myself up from the picnic table and headed back to the front of the store where my dying car sat. A bright red diesel pick-up truck with a rigging on the back slowly backed up towards my car. Chains and straps swayed uneasily as the driver, a large balding man in his late thirties, sat forcing himself out of the cab window. Big meaty hands worked the steering wheel and gearshift simultaneously. Beads of forced sweat formed on the large man’s brow. Behind the truck, Joseph guided the driver in with wild hand signals. There was a sickening crunch and a look of pain on Joseph’s face. I knew Alan had backed up too far. I didn’t want to see the damage.

Joseph ran up, positioned himself between the tow truck and my car, and rubbed his head with his weathered hands. “Ah, mon Dieu,” he sighed. He looked up at Alan and then noticed me standing outside the scene of the crime. “Is all right. There is very little damage.”

That sentence made my heart sink even further. I trotted up to the car to get a better look at the incident. The front bumper had cracked and bent. Thank God for plastic, I said to myself.

Then I noticed the headlight. “Son of a bitch!” I howled. This was going to cost a lot — a hell of a lot. “What kind of asshole tow truck driver are you?” My rage vented on Alan. The car was ten years old and I was still paying off the loan. This was going to cost. That kept running through my mind repeatedly.

Alan hopped out of the cab. He stood much taller than I did but I could see he was distressed. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t.”

“Well, who the hell is going to pay for it? Not you, I suppose.”

Alan knelt down and looked at the damage. He scratched his balding head, much as his grandfather did. “It doesn’t look too bad, really. Not too bad.”

“Not bad? You busted the damn headlight. You wrecked the bumper. Look, the radiator!” I noticed a puddle beginning to form. Rivulets of anti-freeze began working their way through the dirt forming a completely new world of lakes and rivers for the ants that crawled by.

That’s about when it happened. By God, I didn’t want it to happen but it did, much like it did every other time — and it’s why I had to leave Kapuskasing in the first place.

I don’t know exactly what happened. I never really do. All I ever remember is the beast welling up inside me, like a volcano on the verge of erupting. Sometimes I can remember my skin tearing, sometimes I can feel my own blood pour out. Most times though, I remember nothing at all. I only know the aftermath.

Often all that there’s left is the taste of blood in my mouth. That thick, metallic taste is unforgettable. A few times I still have the meat stuck in my teeth and I vomit when I awaken. I’ve always hated that taste. I once heard that the taste of pork is the closest approximation to the taste of human flesh. What is it the cannibals call humans? Long pig?