But I guess by that logic nobody in the world or in time has really been anywhere because collectively we haven't collectively been anywhere-
of course you could say that in that same token - we have all been everywhere. But some glasses are one way and some the other.
I drive into Ashland on highway 2, man thats a little number for a highway. Does that mean it was the second highway ever?
If I find the first I can trace history.
For a while I drive along side of Lake Superior which is an arrogant thing to call one of the Great Lakes - They’re all great right? It really is magnificent though. I stop and get out for a minute and breath the lake air. Huts sit on the ice as far as I can see and I long for the solidarity of one small shack, a twelve back of beer and a mini television - shit, I prolly wouldn't even drill a hole in the ice.
I’ve been stalling long enough, wasted enough time. Twenty Five years to be exact.
It’s time to find him. Lester Puloski, what kind of fucked up name is that? Sounds like a character Gabriel Byrne would play.
There is a swooping main street that leads down a long hill and back up towards a school behind swaying branches and high power lines. And I hit the gas station and buy a butterfinger and ask the gas station attendant if she knows Puloski.
“Sure” the attendant says. “Good guy. Runs the taxidermy half mile from here.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Well, super bowl is tomorrow. I don’t know if you’re from here but the Packers are playing.”
I don’t tell her I am a Vikings fan. Its a good way to get lynched when the Packers are in the playoffs - which is a bit of a stretch - but natives may feel genuine disdain for who you are and everything you stand for - its like that.
I nod and say “I know”
“Well, all the old timers been drinking all yesterday, all today, all tomorrow and all monday. And if the Pack wins they’ll keep it going for a few days after that - till one of them dies or has a stroke.”
“Devotion” I say.
“Devotion” she says.
-
“McCoy’s” it was called and snowmobiles and pickup trucks surrounded the tiny structure. Behind the bar streams separated a system of lonely drifting fields. The wind swirls and mashes against itself as the sun turns towards the horizon. Pulling my hood over my head I run inside.
Carter would be fine in the car. He liked the car.
-
Wisconsin doesn't fuck around when it comes to the Packers.
Inside McCoy’s two plasma televisions replay the Packers three previous playoff games. And old timers and young timers cheer as Jay Cutler pouts on the Bears bench.
And the wings are going around and the pitchers are emptying as faster than they can be filled.
And if I wasn’t looking for some grave information this could be the coolest day of my fucking life.
But I walk to the bar and ask the tender if Puloski is in the bar. He shakes his head.
“He stepped out. He lives in that little house back there behind the bar.”
-
So I walked for what seemed like a million years. Then, with my two eyes I saw Lester Puloski’s shack. It was there, standing strong against the winter wind, holding true to the stark moon in it’s background.
Im not scared. I won’t be scared.
I open the front door. There is a sign on the door that says “welcome”. I feel I am not.
It’s silent inside. There are pictures of old people with wavy hair and starchy shirts, I pay them no mind.
I walk past the mountain of dishes in the sink, the stacks of letters from the Energy Department, return letters from the Republican party, whatever they are.
And I watch a hunched figure. He’s not laughing but his body heaves. It sobs, great shoulders raising up and down. The television flickers in his tiny shack.
A ‘jar’, the contents shimmering gold sit before him. He rocks back and forth and whispers to the jar.
I can barely see him - but what I can, it looks so sad. I wanna say:
“BABY DON’T CRY. HURTING IS ALL THE GOOD THINGS,”
but I can’t. He is my enemy.
“Hey Puloski,” I say. And it turns, with weak hungry eyes, a desperate mouth.
“Who are you?” It screams.
“I want to know where her heart is,” And I am upon him.
I can only kill him and him me. It is clear now.
He is older and no match for me. He tells me what I want to know. -
“In that jar,” he gasps “That is your friend Connie. We kill them sometimes but most of all, we take their souls as they pass from this world to the next. I feed on their memories. I’ve done my best to stay underground, but I cannot. You’ve found me, I knew you would.”
“How did this happen?” I ask.
“How does anything happen?” He says and of course I don’t know. “This kill was easy shadow hunter. From now on, It won’t be so. I don’t know why I am the way I am, just that I am.”
And I say OK whatever and I strangle this old guy till he’s dead. I take the jar and go.
-
It was simple and easy. Just like that. I start driving home.
-
I get gas and snacks and Carter licks the jar riding shotgun. I tell him to stop because in that jar is someone who is neither a lesbian basketball player or an Asian neurosurgeon but a sweet young college girl. Not that all are mutually exclusive.
I stop along the road by Lake Winneconne and open the jar. It isn't spectacular, it isn't awe inspiring but little wisps of gold float out of the jar and into the lake. And I do a little a round of applause. I do.
-
Then I go straight to Rita’s house.
I knocked on the door, and she answered and I, all of a sudden, said the best thing I ever did.
I said.
“And I am sorry, which I can’t say enough, and after I turn to dust and all my friends turn to dust, and after everyone I ever knew turns to dust”
And I took a deep breathe.
“And after every Big Mac and Whopper or Whopper Jr, or Crunch Wrap Supreme, or Wendy’s Double Stack or Nacho grande or four piece fried chicken meal or (good forbid) the Double Down, when all these distractions turn to dust, I will be there waiting. For all of these sweet nothings, to turn to dust."
“I won’t take you back,” She says. “Not now, maybe not ever. You just have to deal with that.”
She kisses me on the cheek and closes the door. I turn to Carter who is sitting in the hall next to me.
“Not bad,” I say.
We go to Gold Rush and I get a twelve piece fried chicken.
-
For now, I did something. I found Connie’s soul and freed it. Sure I have problems, my uncle will be pissed I stole his car and evidently there is a race of soul eating vampire type things that I know about and may be responsible for stopping.
But this week, I’m gonna savor the little things in life, like push up popsicles, Speed Queen, chicken teriyaki sticks, Jake's Deli and forty ounce Mickey’s malted beverages.
I’m gonna take some me time.
