The Boy from Hell's Kitchen in Minnesota

De: John Fleming

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

Now an adult, John has left behind the crowds and concrete of New York City for a totally different lifestyle among the lakes and forests of the upper Midwest. He works at different jobs, on an auto assembly line, in a bakery, as a Merchant Marine on the Great Lakes. Eventually the challenges of health and family convince him to move to Arizona. Here are some excerpts: The ice on the lake's shoreline is splashed and twisted by waves of blue clear water--frozen into a white maze of mangled towers. “Jesus. What the hell are we dragging this boat over land for?” “It’s not dragging. We’re portaging.” Charley says, “We’re supposed to do this with canoes on our shoulders. Not dragging a fucking speed boat.” He’s sweating, and the mosquitoes are swarming around us. “It’s just a little further, and we’ll hit the river, and the rest will be easy.” The few lights on the Minnesota shore line disappeared hours ago. I’m on deck sounding ballast tanks. The ship is skating placidly over Lake Superior, throbbing softly, leaving a gentle wake. It’s a clear night, not a cloud or moon in the sky, just the stars and their dangling planets. Five globe-shaped lights move across the sky, passing the ship, then stop as though they had missed something, turn back, and hover over me. I can’t tell if they are part of one unit or a squadron in a flight pattern, but they are obviously intelligent and watching me. Alone, out on the deck, and no place to run--hair stands up, heart pumps, tunnel vision. It’s 300 feet to the stem or the stern. I could drop everything and run like hell, but-- but which way? That’s dumb. These guys move at the speed of light. Since they don’t have a clue about what I’m doing, I continue dropping the rod down the tanks and writing depths on the chart—like I’m doing something real important. Funny, now I get the feeling that they’re in my head and scanning around to see what’s in there—maybe I read too much science fiction. Yet I get this communication that they are having a meeting about what to do with me—maybe put me on their ship and do some experimenting . One alien wants to chop me up and do a remake. But this is all bullshit, I’m just making it up—I think. It's just like I thought. Gale winds coming off the lake in gusts, blowing my car around. The Russian boots are too big for the pedals. This sucks. What the hell have I done? Maybe if I take them off --will the socks be warm enough? It’s twenty degrees below out there--will my feet freeze? Fuck, it’s starting to snow, and the wiper is shit. Can’t keep the car from sliding into the incoming lane--lucky there’s no traffic. The radio says that the wind chill is fifty below--good thing I got these boots. Now I can feel my balls shrinking from the cold. My nose is running; I wipe it with my mitten and the snot crystallizes. Goddamn window is frosting up now--what the hell? Why didn’t I move to Arizona? Sunny every day. Palm trees--do they have palm trees? Heat, lots of it. Run around in shorts and a T-shirt. One of the zombies comes up to the window. I see the red in his eyes. He has this string in his mouth and he’s twirling it around like floss. He gives me this big smile. Another guy with a flat face and Chinese eyes sticks his drooling mouth in the window. Other heads are butting his to get a look at me. A few of them are flossers. “What’s with the string?” “Lots of them do that. It’s part of the deal.” “What deal?” “The deal. The deal with the devil.” Richie points through the window. “He’s up there near the ceiling.” “You’re into your visions again.” “Don’t you see him up there?” “Is that guy taking a crap on the floor?”