55. The Secret War, Chapter 6

Chapter 6

That was it? See Ed. Go to Marbles’ place. Three hours ago. I checked the backside of the papers, uncrinkled the crinkled ones: Nothing.

I went outside and started mumbling Ed’s name. I knew no Ed. How would I ever find out? I started chanting, until the words became meaningless, “Ed, Ed, Ed, Ed, Dead, Dead, Dead Ed, Ed, Dead, Dead, Ed-Dead, Dead-Ed, Dead-Dead, Ed, Ahead, Ed, Ed-Ahead, Land Ho!”

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” said my neighbor, holding what looked like a gray squirrel. “Just sayin’ goodbye to m’ dawg.”

“That’s Dog Killer?” I asked.

Ed held him up by the ears. The dog shivered and whined and dripped a little bit. He appeared to be a miniature short-hair Chihuahua, and a runt at that. “He’s a real killer,” Ed said proudly, locking Dog Killer in the house. “You the guy?” he said.

“If you’re Ed.”

“I’m Dog Killer’s neighbor,” he clarified, coughing up his lungs, “but I also go by Ed.”

“Do you—“ I tried to ask about the mission.

“Get in the truck,” he ordered. “We need ta get goin’.” Dog Killer howled from inside the house and cried like a newborn with colic. I figured Chihuahuas could get colic.

I climbed into the truck, which smelled vaguely of the “canning” factory. A sticker on the front dash read, “Ed’s taxi. Don’t try anything funny.”

Ed started up the truck successfully on the fifth try and turned the radio down. “I hate that punk music,” he said, adding, “That’s all Squamish’s turning into . . . a big fat punk rock city, and grunge and all the seedy elements that go wit’ it . . . “ He seemed genuinely disgusted, and continued, “I’m First Nation.” His rant stopping abruptly, he remained silent and motionless for about five minutes to let it sink in, then continued, “All we need is a good drum.”

Ed turned to me, took a small pouch from his shirt, and said, “Keep this in a safe place . . . if things don’t go . . . “

Before I could say anything, Ed handed me a cup of coffee. “We mark the occasion,” he said, solemnly, “of our adventure. Now drink!”

I tasted the coffee. It wasn’t bad. Nor was it good. And that was the last thing I could remember . . .

 

***   ***   ***

When I woke up, my mouth was sticky, my mind unfocused, my eyes a blur. I was lying on my back, covered by a tattered wool blanket. The air was thick and moist, and smelled vaguely of the “canning” factory. Crowded around me were Marbles, Summer Spring, and Ski Mask. My head rested on what felt like a huge, soft but stinky pillow. I looked up. Flippers was smiling down at me. “Hi, sleepy head,” he said in a way that was both soothing and creepy. I bolted straight up. The truck was flying over bumps and swerving around corners. I fell to one side. Boxed in a camper, itself tied down by bungee cords to the truck bed, I could only guess that Ed was driving.

“How did my clothes get all wet?” I asked.

“Canoeing,” replied Marbles.

“You fell in,” added Summer.

“But why was I canoeing?” I asked, having no memory of the experience.

“Modalities,” replied the voice of Ski Mask.

I rubbed my arm; my right elbow was swollen from where my coat sleeve had been shredded. “How did this happen?” I asked—again having no memory of the experience.

“Hang gliding,” chimed in Marbles.

“You lost a bet with an outcropping,” added Summer.

“But—“ I tried to ask.

“Modalities . . .” repeated Ski Mask.

“It’s in the mission statement,” said Flippers, rubbing my hair. “Silly, didn’t you read it?”

We sat in silence for the next fifteen minutes. Marbles smiled at me whenever our eyes met, occasionally losing control of her choppers. I looked down and noticed the beginnings of a tattoo on the back of my hand. Below the crude image was the start of the lyrics All you need is lub . . . , a rough translation or misspelling of a Beatles' song.

“Who did this?” I demanded to know.

“It’s a long trip,” replied Summer. “I got bored.”

I looked at the tattoo again. Luckily, it was crudely etched with just a ballpoint pen. “What’s it supposed to be?”

“A grizzly bear,” she said, “or a polar bear—I haven’t decided yet--and there’s supposed to be a baby seal . . . but you were moving around too much.”

We continued north as the sun sank in the southwestern sky. Soon the Canadian skies would hide the mountains and the mountains would hide the seas. And it would get really cold. And really dark.

“Why was I drugged?” I finally asked. “I thought I was in charge of this mission.”

“That’s why Ed drugged you,” said Summer. “A person needs a little humility once in a while.”

“Plus you’re a jerk!” yelled Ski Mask. “You’re a pancake jerk!” he yelled even louder, magnifying the insult with the memory of Marbles’ pancakes.

“Hey, aren’t you a little too young to—“

The truck fishtailed and slid sideways to a stop, throwing us around like plastic dolls. Flippers rolled over like a sack of russets on top of Marbles and I held my balance on top of Flippers and I thought of all the possibilities this was probably the least objectionable. A memorable sentence from my training: “If presented with two bad situations, opt for the less bad situation. What you sacrifice in character you gain in overall health.” 

“Git offa me!” Marbles cried. “I can’t breathe!” Her only defense, she bit into Flippers’ flank with every bit of energy she could muster, breaching his worn fleece, her choppers clamping on him like a rusty bear trap. Flippers responded with a long, horrifying, other-worldly shriek and a howl—a howl at once so pathetic and yet so powerful that it carried on for seven full seconds, echoing into the British Columbia wilderness and catching the attention of nearby moose and moose hunters. One moose actually bumped the camper affectionately, sniffed around, and left a marker on the right rear wheel, which had already sustained many seasons of rust and corrosion. 

Years later, local hunters would tell the story of the world’s cleverest moose that managed to hide in Ed’s orange truck taxi service. They would say that as long as it hid inside and stood just outside to piddle and whatnot no one could ever get a clean shot at it. They would eventually name it Hides-In-Trucks. He would soon have a son, named Hides-In-Winnebagos, and he’d carry on the tradition with another son, named Hides-In-Ramada-Inns. As a member of the First Nation, Ed said nothing to discourage the telling and retelling of this story, which would eventually become Squamish folklore and the basis for an often-visited, profitable tourist attraction in downtown Squamish. Ed received a 5% royalty from the trinket business.

The camper door flew open. “All right,” said Ed, “everybody out. The plane will be waitin’ on ya tomorrow.”