The Artsaypunk

I looked down at the moose lying on the side of the highway. Despite being dead, the animal had definitely seen better days. In fact, it was a God-awful mess. By the looks of the strips of fibre-glass lying around, I guessed that the animal had been hit by an 18 wheeler. There’s not much that can slow down a moose, but a long-haul truck is definitely one of them.

I was working for the Department of Natural Resources and Energy, which is just a fancy, bureaucratic way of saying “Forest Rangers.” It was a great job, no three ways about it, one that I returned to every summer of university despite the low pay and the tongue twisting effort of answering the phone with a perky: “Good Afternoon, Department of Natural Resources and Energy.” The real advantage of the job was that the “Ranger Station” is located right next door to my house. Every morning, I would walk across the lawn to work. I remember one morning I woke up at 7:56 and got to work on time at 8:00. The commute was a killer, especially if there was a lot of dog-poop to jump over. I was technically hired as a computer guy, office assistant type, but the great part was that if I got bored, I could head out into the field with one of the guys. So I was often out traipsing through the woods, rocketing down old roads on quads, canoeing [...]

One summer, I was home from University and my brother and I decided to play Soccer in a summer men’s league. Technically, it was called the International Men’s League, which makes it sound like we played Slovakia every third week, but all it meant was that we played one team from the State of Maine. Now, I’ve seen a lot of soccer in my day, but I have never seen a rougher, rowdier, or more violent league than this one. Basically, you’ve got a lot of guys who used to play, but are now pushing into their thirties and don’t have the wind that they used to. What they still have however, is their pride and competetive natures. So, when they get frustrated, they tend to lash out and try to compensate for their slower footwork by, you know, body-checking a guy. But I guess I shouldn’t talk, since I got the nickname “Tank” for (accidentally) knocking a guy unconscious. What can I say, there’s not much I can do about momentum… it’s physics… I’m a big guy… I have to admit though, it was kind of satisfying that he was out cold and in the fetal position before he hit the ground.

Anyway, this particular game we were up against one of our principal rivals from St. Andrews. The last meeting of our classy, gentlemen’s teams had led to three separate fights, one of which involved me being forced to knock a guy off of my brother [...]

That last post reminded me indirectly of a story. This would have been back during my first year in Calgary. I’d only been in the city for a few months, so I was still looking for full time work. I signed up for a temp agency since I can type like a demon fiddles in Georgia, and the next day got a job with Shaw Cable. Now generally, this was one of the worst jobs I’ve held. And for anyone in Western Canada, just the fact that it was for Shaw Cable should make that self-explanatory. But it was something like $12 an hour and still gave me enough time to look for permanent work during the day.

As a result of the strange hours, I was often riding the C-Train back into the city late at night. On one of those trips, two old drunken bums stumbled on board and sat directly across from me. I sighed, since up until that point, the ride had been urine free. The downtown core of Calgary is linked by a “free-fare zone” for the C-train, which is cool, but the old drunks sometimes take advantage and ride up and down 7th avenue to stay warm.

I settled back into the regular transit stare at the window across from me, fascinated that my reflection somehow looked better in a subway window than it does in my bathroom mirror. Suddenly one of the drunks, weaving back and [...]

Well, you just can’t tell two stories about Elmer now can you? Elmer has trilogy written all over him.

Where to start? Well, for new readers, Elmer was my Beer-Swilling-Eel Fishing-Ex-Uncle-In-Law. A well-known source of childhood trauma in my life. He stands out in my memory because of his amazing capacity to make exactly the least appropriate comments, and his ability to shatter childhood innocence with an admirable non-chalance. I would link to the other two stories about Elmer, but I’m just too damn lazy. If you haven’t read them, they’re down there somewhere.

Elmer and my ex-aunt Sharon lived in a trailer, on a farm of sorts, on a huge plot of land on top of Dickie Mountain (You might think I make this stuff up, but it’s true). I can say for sure that it was a farm, I just couldn’t tell you what was farmed, except maybe trout. Elmer had trout ponds out back. Of course he did, what else does an eel fishermen do in his spare time than raise fish in a pond for the purpose of sport fishing. I really never understood the “sport” in standing in a field, casting into a pond full of 300 trout, but then again, I don’t think I ever saw anyone pay to do it. I don’t think it was the most successful venture in the world. In any case, it gave me some amusement during family visits.

So one weekend, [...]

It strikes me that if you know a guy named Elmer, then you better have maore than one story about him. It also strikes me that the “Elmers” of the world must be near extinction. It’s just not a name I see being passed down much longer. I’ve never met any 4-year old Elmers. They are going the way of the Ralphs and Nancys of this world.

In any case, you may remember from last time that Elmer was my crazy, long-lost uncle’s ex-wife’s new husband: A crude, rude, seasonal eel-fisherman, and the cause of much trauma in my young life (well, that’s an exaggeration, but what isn’t?).

One day, actually long before the “One-armed man spills thousands of eels all over the highway” incident, I was out with my father and Elmer on my hometown river, the Magaguadavic. The Magaguadavic is the bane of all elementary school spelling students in my home town, and is inexplicably pronounced “Macadavie.” It’s a Micmac or Maliseet word that means “River of Eels”, so apparently Elmer had done his research. It was a beautiful day, and we were cruising up-river in a small aluminum boat. We would motor up beside a floating marker-buoy, pull up the eel pods and then dump the squirming contents into a holding container. I was disgusted, yet fascinated.

One trap seemed heavier than the rest. And even before it reached the boat, Elmer was cursing. A huge snapping turtle had [...]

The other night I was having sushi with a friend, and I came dangerously close to telling this story:

You see, I can’t eat sushi without thinking of Elmer.  Long before I even knew what Sushi was, I knew Elmer.  He was short and burly.  The hair he did have was cropped short, and he was one of those guys who was proud of his baldness.  His head always shone like my mother’s stainless steel mixing bowls, and probably contained just as much substance.  He had one of those bellies that kept a belt well preserved.  If you squinted you could just imagine him at the mall in a Santa-suit, but it would help if your image of Santa was of a guy who worked as a crude, alcoholic, fisherman during the North Pole’s off-season.

Even our connection with Elmer was strange.  He was my uncle’s ex-wife’s new husband, and even though there was no blood relation to either of them, we always visited, maybe for our cousin’s sake. Elmer was a seasonal eel fisherman.  He would set traps called Eel-pods out in
the rivers and then sell his catch to the Japanese.  His partner’s name was Rick.  Rick was the type of guy that everyone always called “Rickster”
or “Tricky Ricky.”  He had one arm, which made him immensely fascinating to us kids.  He had lost his right arm in some kind of accident years ago.  He always wore plaid flannel shirts with one sleeve pinned up and it was impossible, as a kid, not to stare.  If [...]