Seven Strange Years

**Never Sent**

August 28, 2005
Crosslake, MN.

Dear Megan,

Something horrible is happening in Crosslake. Some strange sickness has spread through the entire town. At this very moment an angry mob of demons are surrounding the Cabin, demanding my head.

It all started at the employee party. It was at the Crosslake campground so I thought I’d be smart and take the Big Boat to avoid the cops in case I had a cocktail or two. Everything was going along far better than I had expected. The girls of the Long Skinny were actually being nice to me during dinner. After dinner, Dani even offered me a bowl. And she let me smoke the whole thing to myself. But it was horrible smoke. It didn’t even taste like pot. It was bitter and sour and I can still taste it in my mouth.

That’s when everyone turned on me. It happened like a flip of a switch. Even the sky turned red against me. Suddenly the girls of the Long Skinny were circling around me, laughing like evil little witches. Then their laughter turned into this ear-piercing squeal. And they shook and squealed until the demon inside them split their skin and crawled out, leaving a pile of skin and hair at their gnarled feet. They were hideous creatures with leathery, grey skin and long, boney arms with fingers that pointed straight into claws. Their eyes were bright red. Their veins spread like spider webs just under their skin, throbbing as they pumped black blood.

Then, thundering down from all around, a roaring laughter shook the Earth. It sounded as if the Devil himself had reigned down on Crosslake. The trees shook and swayed like a hurricane had swirled up from the mere force of the thunderous laughter.

So I ran for my life with the Devil’s demonic helpers cackling on my heels. The pitch was so high it pierced my brain like spikes driven just behind my eyes. My head was throbbing as my heart pumped blood to my brain in an effort to combat the noise. It was no use. And my head began to swell like a full Tick. It was seconds from exploding when I finally dove into the Big Boat. I shoved off just before the demons clawed their way on board.

I nearly clipped three boats trying to flee for the safety of the open water. I looked back only once to see that it wasn’t just Dani and the girls of the Long Skinny that had turned into demons – It was the entire campground. And the demons swarmed the beach, stopping at the edge of the water to tip their boney heads back and let out the most bloodcurdling screech you could ever imagine. Even the rumble of the Big Boat’s motor at full throttle was no match.

I was all the way to the channel that leads to Daggett Bay before the screeching died. I eased off the throttle and brought the boat to an idle as I entered the channel. It was packed with boats going both ways – the people had no idea the horrors about to overcome the town. I screamed at the first boat loaded with a seemingly happy family. They were headed in the opposite direction – right for the demons. But it was too late. The demons had already taken them. The moment they heard me, their heads tipped back and they screeched as their skin peeled and blew away on the breeze. They were on every boat – even the little children turned into demons. Within seconds the whole channel was screaming with demons.

So I jammed on the throttle. The last thing I was worried about was getting a ticket for speeding through a No Wake zone when the lake was teeming with red-eyed demons. I was weaving in and out of the other boats when the screeching got so loud my vision went blurry. I nearly nailed a bridge pylon as I buzzed under County Road 66. I had to cut the wheel so hard I nearly broadsided a pontoon full of little devils.

On the other side of the bridge, the channel was even busier with people lined up to get gas at C and C Boat Works and the Bait Box. But I still held the throttle at full. And all the people in all the boats, as well as everyone on shore, turned into demons as I buzzed by them. And their screeching followed me all the way to the Cabin.

I slammed the Big Boat into the slip at almost full speed and sprinted for the Cabin. I warned Pops to hide as I ran to the loft for cover. He did not believe me. And when the pontoon of demons that I nearly hit pulled up to our dock and started screaming, Pops hobbled down to face them – I begged him not to go.

I watched from the balcony as Pops’ shaky legs carried him out onto the wobbly dock. At first, I thought they were going to leave him alone. I thought, maybe, they were only after me. Then the biggest of the demons climbed off the pontoon and onto the dock. He was going straight for Pops. So I grabbed my B.B. gun off the dresser and took aim. I knew a B.B. would never do any real damage to a demon; I was only hoping to scare him off long enough for Pops to get away. So I pulled the trigger. THWACK: I nailed the demon just as he grabbed Pops. The demon jerked back for a second, but it was not enough to scare him away. So I unloaded the clip to give Pops enough time to escape. And the demon dove back onto his pontoon and they buzzed off, screeching for reinforcements.

But it was too late. Apparently, all it takes is to be touched by a demon. And Pops came screaming into the Cabin for me. All I could do was lock myself in the bathroom and crank the water to try to drown out the screaming.

He finally gave up and went downstairs about twenty minutes ago.

My plan is to wait until it gets completely dark out and then try to climb down the emergency rope ladder off the balcony. They’re probably watching all three of my vehicles. I’ll probably have to walk into town. And I’m probably going to have to steal a car if I’m going to make it to the airport in time for my flight tomorrow morning. But if this sickness travels as fast as it took over Crosslake, I’m afraid it will beat me to the cities.

If that’s the case, don’t wait for me – save yourself.

Oh God, they’re in the Cabin. I can hear them in the kitchen.

They’re coming up the stairs.

Oh wait…

Oh thank God, it’s the police –

Start at the beginning: HOSPITAL Chapter 1

August 25, 2005
Crosslake, MN.

Dear Megan,

Only four more days. I’m so excited. I can’t wait to see you. My flight lands at 2:50 p.m. – California time – on Monday, August 29. I have a layover in Las Vegas. Don’t worry, it’s only an hour and I’m broke. How much trouble could I possibly get into? Don’t answer that – I promise I won’t leave the airport.

I spoke with Tommy and he won’t be able to meet us for a night in California. So we can take any route you would like. But I think we should at least make a pit stop at Copper. I’ve been trying to picture the reaction of the Lift Op gang all week – they are going to shit when we walk into the locker room together. We should probably avoid your old office – your old boss would probably have me escorted off the premises. I’ve heard word that he is pushing to sue me – I hope they like rusty old vehicles.

The Beast is about on her last leg. I no longer trust her to go any further than Crosslake. And I decided to park the Blue Bomber until next summer when I can get my license and insurance. So I bought a new car. Well, it’s far from new. It’s a white 1991 Volkswagen Fox. It’s small. It looks kinda funny. But it runs great. And it was only seven hundred and fifty bucks. I bought it from Bob – the same guy I bought the Jetta and my first Audi from. He’s one of the most hilarious characters I have ever come across. You might remember picking me up at his house once back in ’97 when he was fixing the Audi. He was the little, old guy who chain smoked cigarettes and laughed like a hyena. Anyway, he’s a magician when it comes to fixing old beaters. He has assured me – if I don’t drive it like an idiot and change the oil – the Fox will run for another hundred thousand miles. It should be perfect for getting to and from school this winter.

Yup, I registered for classes on Monday. Unfortunately, I registered so late that I couldn’t get into most of the classes I wanted. There was room in the Introduction to Philosophy class – I’m excited for that one. Nothing else available sounded interesting, so I’m taking another Composition II class. I’m supposed to start on Tuesday, but I was told nothing much happens on the first week. So we have a week and a day to road trip back to Minnesota.

The way things are shaping up, I think it’s going to be a wonderful fall. While out to dinner the other night with my grandparents, I told them I was going back to school. Grandma was so happy she made grandpa write me a check to cover my books and tuition right there in the restaurant. Since I had already paid for my books and tuition, I got us tickets to see The Mars Volta play with System of a Down on Friday, September 23; and tickets for the Queens of the Stone Age and Nine Inch Nails show on Tuesday, October 11. I just hope I can find a job for this winter – something other than construction.

I only have three more shifts at Manhattan: Friday Night, Saturday Night, and Sunday Morning. Our employee party is after brunch on Sunday. The new owners put much less into thanking the summer employees than Rob and Carrie used to – This year’s party is at the Crosslake Campground. How lame is that?

No matter, I get to see your smiling face the very next day. Until then, I will be dreaming of our reunion.

Love,

Johnny

Read the next letter: That was Not Pot

August 19, 2005
Crosslake, MN.

Dear Tommy,

All is right in the world once more – Megan and I are getting back together.

I should probably back up. Megan was in Minnesota last week to attend her mother’s wedding. We spent almost the entire week together.

The day before the wedding, we spent cruising the beaches and the bars of the Whitefish Chain in the Big Boat. It was after one too many Long Islands at Zorbaz that I got the stupid idea to rip over to Manhattan for dinner.

In my reverie, I had completely spaced my status at Manhattan. It wasn’t until Megan and I were seated on the patio that the angry glances from all the waitresses reminded me of the fact that the whole wait staff hates me. The girls of the Long Skinny have all hated me since I hooked up with Mindy one night and then Ashley the next – The following couple of weeks were awkward to say the least. Then, because I never learn, I started hooking up with Dani. I didn’t think it was anything serious, until I cut things off the moment I heard of Megan’s visit. Dani was not happy.

And because it’s just my luck, we were seated in Dani’s section. Talk about awkward: I had been ducking out the back door after work to elude her all week. From the look on her face when she walked out onto the patio to see Megan and I sitting at her table, I was sure she was going to make a scene right then and there. To the contrary, she was cheerful and kind throughout the entire meal. But I’m pretty sure she spit in our food. No matter, we had cleaned our plates just in time to catch the legendary sunset from Manhattan. And the troubles of the world seemed to be laid to rest with the sun.

We were drifting on the waves somewhere in the middle of Trout Lake when we officially got back together, but I’m fairly certain we both knew it the first moment we came together – I know I did. Anyway, we were lying on the deck of the Big Boat as the stars slowly poked through the midnight sky when it was decided: Megan would move back to Minnesota.

The next day was her mother’s wedding. I didn’t dare go – Megan’s grandma scares the crap out of me. She used to like me, I think, but after all that has transpired I can’t imagine she still does.

The day after the wedding was Megan’s last full day in Minnesota. So we spent the whole day together racing around the old County Roads on the Blue Bomber. We tried to avoid town as much as possible – I am not supposed to be carrying passengers with my permit. To sneak around Crosslake, I decided to take County Road 36 on the south side of town. That’s when I spotted Alex’s truck buzz by on 66 heading for town. And like an idiot, I followed him. I caught up to him just as he was pulling into Maucieri’s – the new Italian restaurant just south of town. Alex is the head bartender and he was just walking into work when we rumbled into the parking lot. So we followed him in for ‘one’ drink.

And you know how well that works – especially with Alex pouring drinks. Every time we turned around, Alex was shaking up another strange concoction for us to sample. Then a familiar face strutted through the door – It was Dale Hamel. I hadn’t seen him since ’98 just before he had that bad acid trip and joined the army – I don’t think it helped. He doesn’t look a day older, but he’s not the manic old Dale we used to know and love. After years of being smacked in the snout every time he acted out, Dale now has the demeanor of a dog beaten dog. I couldn’t quite tell whether it was from the Army or his ex-wife. Apparently, he just left his ex-wife and daughter down in Florida.

The mood was quickly going downhill with Dales tales of woe. So Megan and I flagged down Alex for our tab – And it was only eight bucks! I was just digging for my wallet when the whole bar roared – “SANDERS!” I thought Megan was going to explode with excitement when she saw Sanders stroll up to the bar. And the mood turned electric. There was no way we were leaving now that Megan and Sanders found each other. It seems Sanders came back for the summer to tend bar and spend time with family. She’s only been in town for a couple months and already everyone in the Crosslake scene knows and loves her – She’s the Norm of Crosslake.

Luckily, the Maucieri’s crowd dies off early – another hour of Alex pouring shots down our throats and we would have been in some serious trouble. So Sanders, Dale, Megan and I stumbled to the parking lot to realize that both Dale and I had motorcycles. It was right about then that Megan spoke up about her mom’s house being empty – her mom was on her honeymoon and there was a fridge full of leftover beer from the wedding. The bikes were roaring within seconds. Sanders climbed on Dale’s bike and Megan on mine and we raced for Megan’s mother’s place. It was way out in Nisswa so it only made sense to go the long and curvy back way around Pelican Lake: County Road 118 is a riot on a bike. And somehow all four of us survived to crash poor Megan’s Mother’s perfect home.

So my plans have changed. Megan and I are going to weather the Minnesota winter together. I’m looking into taking classes at Central Lakes College and Megan is going to try to get a job in Brainerd. We plan to reevaluate our state come spring.

I’m going to fly out to Palm Desert at the end of the month and we’re going to road trip the WRX back to Minnesota. I know Palm Desert is a ways from you, but I was thinking we should meet somewhere in the middle for a wild night before I head back to Minnesota.

I really missed snowboarding with you last winter.

Hopefully,

Johnny

Read the next letter: Back to School

July 12, 2005
Crosslake, MN.

Dear Megan,

I was not expecting to get a letter from you. You made my day. And I really wasn’t expecting to hear that your mother is getting married – this August. Please bestow to her my congratulations. I bet she’s happy you’ll be home for a week.

And it sounds like you managed to find another sweet pad. A pool house converted into a studio apartment has to be an absolute dream in the desert. Especially when it’s as hot as you say.

Your story about the “Lizard King” reptile that commands all the bugs around your front door to dive bomb your head really made me laugh. But when I pictured you freaking out after finding a Tarantula in your dryer, I nearly wet myself. As frenzied as your reaction is to a harmless Daddy Long Legs, I can only imagine your reaction to a big, hairy Tarantula – I would have paid to see that.

Things around the Cabin have been far less exciting. If I’m not working on a project around the Cabin, I’m pouring drinks at Manhattan. You should see the Cabin. Pops and I have really polished her up this summer.

Last week we finally finished the Big Boat. We got the whole thing back together without a single extra part. We were pretty proud of ourselves. Then we tried to put the old girl in the water only to find the track too crooked and buckled. The track that the boat cart rides into the lake is made from old railroad tracks. At the end of the line, the tracks are in about five feet of water. They’re nailed to old, waterlogged railroad ties that have been sinking into the muck for forty some years. We spent an entire day prying the track back to straight, one quarter-inch at a time.

The next day we were finally able to take the Big Boat out for her first run in over ten years. I don’t think I have ever seen Pops happier. It was the perfect day. The humidity had finally blown away and the temperature topped out at a pleasant seventy-eight. And we were barely backed out of the slip when a pontoon nearly clipped our stern. An old-timer with silver hair was Captain of the pontoon. He had no crew. The rumble of the Big Boat’s engine when we started her up had attracted his attention – There’s not a boat on the Chain that has a better sound than the Big Boat’s rumbling motor as it gurgles through the water. And the old-timer raced straight for us. Had Pops not jammed the throttle into drive, the old bastard would have slammed right into us. Pops was just about to scream when the old silver-hair began praising the Big Boat. He went on to tell Pops that he was the head of the antique boat show, and then begged Pops to enter the Big Boat in the parade. So we drifted for forty-five minutes whilst Pops traded stories of the Big Boat’s history to the old-timer for hubris.

The channel was packed with boats full of glistening, brown tourists by the time we rumbled away from the old-timer. We spent the next two hours cruising the channels and waving at the gawkers like we were in a parade. The day got even better when we spotted Alex and the family playing on the Whitefish beach. Alex and Devin climbed aboard the Big Boat and Pops gave us a tour of the Whitefish Chain, telling his story of how the Chain has changed. It was just like the old days. It was the first time since 1984 – according to Pops – that three generations have ridden together in the Big Boat. He was so proud.

I think my work here is done. I think I’m going to finish out the summer at Manhattan and then find a new adventure. But I’m still uncertain as to which direction to run. I tried, for months, to volunteer with different organizations that are helping rebuild Thailand after the tsunami, but there is not a single one that will accept me because I don’t have a college degree – My years of carpentry experience are of no matter to them.

I was considering Alaska, but I think I’d rather hit Alaska in the summer. Besides, I don’t think I’m yet ready to face the snow – too many memories.

So at the top of my list, for the moment, is cruising the Southwest by motorcycle. If you hadn’t heard, I bought a motorcycle. I figure if I save all my tips for the rest of the summer I can cruise through the entire winter. I can live with no expenses, other than food and gas, if I strap a pack and a tent on the back of my bike. Living with Pops has really taught me to eat for cheap. And the Blue Bomber (that’s what I named my motorcycle) doesn’t suck gas too fast – if I don’t get on her too hard. All I need now is my motorcycle license. I did get my permit, so I’m pretty much legal – if only I had a helmet and insurance.

With that, I will wrap it up. I understand you’ll be busy while here, but, if you need a break from the family, I would love to see you. If not, I understand – I know what it’s like coming home for a short stay and feeling like the rope in a game of tug-o-war. Hell, I’ve been here for almost five months and the family is still tugging me in every direction.

Thanks for writing.

Sincerely,

Johnny

Read the next letter: A Change of Plans

June 28, 2005
Crosslake, MN.

Dear Tommy,

Summer is heating up. I finally had to buzz the frizzy mop off the top of my head. The humidity has been killer. This past month has felt more like August than June. It probably hasn’t helped that I’ve been working on the Big Boat, in the direct sunlight, everyday for the last three weeks. Pops and I hope to finish before the summer is over. It’s been a hell of a job. We pretty much had to take the whole thing apart. We pulled all the seats out, the motor cover, the windows, the throttle, and even all the little button snaps – It’ll be a miracle if Pops and I can get it put back together. But before we can do that, we need to get all the last nooks and crannies sanded. And that’s been the hardest part. Between ripping open beer bottles at work and banging my fingers to sand the tight little corners of the boat, my poor hands are shredded.

Today was the worst. Somehow, the night before, word spread of a bonfire party at the Cabin. I had dug a new fire pit right down by the lake and made benches with a few of my old snowboards. I figured there was really only one way to know if my fire pit placement was perfect. So I called a few friends. I didn’t figure so many people would show. My friend Jim stopped by. A few of the Zorbaz bartenders dropped in. Robert even came – I hadn’t seen him all summer. By the time the night had swallowed the last of the orange sky, the firelight was flickering on dozens of faces I had never before seen.

Then this tall, curvy figure strolled through the shadows of the front lawn. I was just about to toss another log on the fire when she caught my eye. She had such a strut her flip-flops clapped over the chatter of the party. Her blonde hair shimmered as if it were somehow drawing all the moon’s light. But her face, along with the rest of her body, remained a shadow. Even so, for a moment, I was certain she was walking right for me, staring straight into my eyes. Then the rest of the dogs caught the scent and the shadow was surrounded with chatter. So I returned to stoking the fire.

Sparks flew from the fire when I fed it another log. They danced like bright-orange fireflies all the way up to mingle with the leaves at the tops of the trees. When they finally faded to ash, I watched them float back down like little grey feathers over the crowd. That’s when I saw the shadow standing directly across the fire from me. She was no longer a shadow as the flames flickered between us. She was… Dani. She was a waitress from Manhattan. But this was not the Dani I see at work wearing khaki slacks and the cotton polo uniform. She was wearing this tight, little plaid skirt and a white button-up dress shirt – barely buttoned. At work she wears her hair up in these strange buns. Last night it was long and wavy and shimmering in the firelight.

Soon after she arrived, we were lying on the dock. The stars were brilliant and bright and just out of reach. And before I was able to point out the Big Dipper, she was snuggled up tight for warmth.

Suddenly the dock was shaking. A whole mob was stomping our way. I tipped my head back to see five angry, upside-down silhouettes staring down at me. It was the girls of the Long Skinny. I did not invite them and I knew I was in trouble. Not because I didn’t invite them, but because I’ve been dodging two of them for a few days. Anyway, they were not happy to find me on the dock with Dani. I should have known word of the party would spread through Manhattan Beach. The screaming started before I ever had a chance to stand. And it echoed all the way across the lake and back. The whole party went silent to hear what an asshole I am. Then the Cabin lights flashed-on as Pops’ way of saying “Shut the hell up, I’m trying to sleep.”

That’s when the party died. When the smoke finally settled, and I had said my apologies and goodnights, only one strange car remained in the driveway. It was a beast of an old boat. It was a big, black Plymouth from the sixties – it had to be twenty feet long. I was certain the only person that would possibly drive such a beast was the creepy old guy that no one seemed to know. I did not expect to see Dani sitting alone by the fire when I returned. I was certain she would have slipped away shortly after hearing what a horrible person I become as soon as the sun rises – It didn’t seem to bother her in the least. In fact, from the smirk on her face and the glimmer in her eyes, I almost think she planned this whole disaster from the very beginning. I can’t think of any other reason why she wouldn’t have run.

This morning, I bet she wished she had: Walking through the kitchen of the Cabin at 6 a.m. while Pops is drinking his morning coffee, wearing nothing but his boxers, has got to be the worst walk of shame, ever. Especially after we kept him up all night. Pops was not happy and he tortured the poor girl with twenty questions before she could get out the door.

So today was a rough day of hand sanding in the sun – with a hell of a hangover and Pops busting my chops about last night.

Because we didn’t quite finish the sanding, today – like Pops was certain we should have – we are getting up extra early tomorrow: I better wrap it up.

Disgracefully,

Johnny

Read the next letter: My work here is done

June 10, 2005
Crosslake, MN.

Dear Boots,

Thanks for the heads-up. But to be honest with you, I couldn’t care less if Copper sues me. I have one bank account with a negative balance of two hundred bucks – What are they going to take, the Beast?

And I did hear Megan moved to California; I did not know she transferred to an Intrawest golf course in Palm Desert, though – I haven’t heard a word from her.

I’ve been trying to keep myself busy and out of trouble by fixing up my father’s house. The years have not been kind to the Cabin. But the weather has been beautiful the last couple weeks so we’ve been working outside. The old retaining wall down by the lake was crumbling and bowed from eighty years of the Earth’s pressures. We got all the cracks and crumbles patched, and then put a wooden shelf over the top to hide the eight-inch bow. With the new shelf and a fresh coat of paint, you can’t even see the bow. Then we painted the entire Cabin. Next was the boathouse – The deck on top hasn’t been safe to walk on for years. And the roof has been leaking for even longer. So we patched up the roof, put outdoor carpeting on the deck, put up a railing, and then we painted the whole thing.

Next week we start on the Big Boat. The Big Boat is an old wooden boat that my grandfather bought back in the late sixties. It’s not really very big – it’s only a sixteen-footer. It was just really big compared to their previous boat – a little rowboat that is now a flowerbed in the front yard. Anyway, Pops tells me it was the first inboard/outboard on the Whitefish Chain. My grandfather bought it, brand new, back in 1963. The sides are painted white, but the entire deck has a beautiful mahogany finish. Unfortunately, years of being stored under the leaky roof of the boathouse have severely weathered her finish. Pops and I plan to completely strip all the old stain, sand her smooth, and then refinish her. I’ve been hearing all sorts of old stories about how the hollow bow of the Big Boat was my favorite place as a baby. I would sleep for hours listening to the waves lap against the hull as the old motor gurgled through the water.

I wish I had a wild tale to tell you, but I’ve become quite the bore since my return to Crosslake. I only leave the Cabin for supplies, and to tend bar a couple nights a week. It’s been really nice to get out of the Cabin – even if it’s only to go to work. And this year’s waitresses are mighty fine. There are even a few of them that seem to be intrigued – I think it’s my wild tales of life in the Mountains. The Beast, however, has not helped my cause. A few nights back, I finally talked one of the waitresses into coming to the Cabin for an after work bonfire. She’s this cute, little, art school brunette named Mindy. She lives with four girlfriends – all Manhattan waitresses – in a trailer they call the Long Skinny. The Long Skinny is right on Main Street in Crosslake, right behind the Dairy Queen. Anyway, Mindy’s friends were ready to leave after one post-shift cocktail. So I assured the girls of the Long Skinny that I would have Mindy home safely. And Mindy stayed to watch me close the bar.

I was skipping out the door, with Mindy by my side, twenty minutes past ten: that’s why I like bartending at Manhattan – the bar closes with the restaurant so there’s still plenty of time to play after work. Then we stumbled upon the Beast. I quickly strutted to the passenger door to open it for Mindy, and she burst with laughter. “You drive the murderer mobile?” she was finally able to sputter once she toned her laughter down to a giggle. Apparently, the girls of the Long Skinny, as well as all the other waitresses, have nicknamed the Beast: The Murderer Mobile.

The following day I bought a motorcycle. I blew all the tips that I had squirreled-away on an old 1977 Yamaha XS 750. She’s in mint condition with a blue-tone paint job and shiny silver chrome. The engine is big and black and it’s so old it takes leaded gas – I have to add a lead substitute to every tank. She looks like an old Café Racer. I’ve been riding her from sun up to sun down for the past two days. I can’t believe I have never ridden a motorcycle before. Just sitting on the thing and revving the engine gets my blood boiling. Bombing down the road provides this perfect mixture of hot air rolling off the engine and a refreshing wind in your face. The faster you go, the more refreshing the wind. The faster you go, the harder that wind tries to peel you off the seat. June bugs suck at ninety miles an hour – I still have a big, red welt on my forehead from yesterday. But cornering takes the cake. I can’t even describe the feeling of tipping your whole body, along with the weight of the entire bike, down towards the pavement. Forces I have never before felt seemed to guide my every movement. I could actually feel the physics working. And even though I couldn’t possibly put it into words, I somehow understood – Then I’d jam the throttle and another strange force somehow pulled me straight. I think I’m addicted. I think it’s about time I get a helmet – and my permit.

If you’re planning to take a fishing vacation this summer, you should try Crosslake. We have an extra bedroom at the Cabin and the fishing is great on the Whitefish Chain. Pops knows all the hot spots.

Say hello to the rest of the gang for me. Tell them I miss them. And extend to them my invitation for a Minnesota getaway.

Seriously,

Johnny

Read the next letter: Playing with Fire

May 9, 2005
Crosslake, MN.

Dear Megan,

I hope this letter finds you well. I heard from Molly that you’re moving to California. I hope this letter reaches you before you’re gone. California sounds pretty nice right about now. April was a cold and dreary month: A dark and drizzly month that provided ample time for inside projects.

You should see the Cabin – the inside, anyway. We completely remodeled the bathroom – I found the toilet to be falling through the floor. That was a nasty job: I had to crawl under the Cabin and reinforce all the rotten floor joists. I hung new lights in the kitchen so Pops can read his notes. I made nice oak valances for all the windows. We painted – everything. I fixed faucets, cabinets, doors… We really whipped the old place into shape.

This week we started on the outside projects. We started with the easy projects first. We planted flowers all around the Cabin, cleaned the windows, picked up all the sticks… You remember the old wooden fishing boat that was planted in the front yard? We turned her into a flower bed, gave her a fresh coat of paint and made a sail out of 2×2’s and lattice for vines to climb. Next week we start on the boathouse – It is about to collapse.

Other than that, life at the Cabin has been pretty tame. I was hanging out with Molly a bit. It seems she returned to Minnesota in the same state as I – at nearly the same time. We came together over our shared need for weed. It turns out Ryan is the only dealer in town – and he will not sell to me. So Molly came up with a plan to score quarter pounds from her friend in Minneapolis. I never expected to make any money. My only hope was to break even with enough left over to smoke for free. We made three runs – and I didn’t sell a single bud. I quickly burned through the last of my savings and had to give Molly my black and red Ipod to cover my half of the last Q.P. I never was a good drug dealer.

At least I’ve been learning to live frugally. Once a week Pops and I make a run to the Wal Mart in Brainerd for supplies. We have to be super frugal: I’m completely drained of cash and Pops has been feeding himself with nothing but food stamps for months. He only gets a hundred and fifty bucks a month for food – and somehow he has been able to stretch it far enough to feed two. But paying for your groceries with food stamps has got to be the most embarrassing thing I have ever done.

So today, I got a job. To be honest, I really wasn’t seeking employment. Pops had been raving about some old bakery up in Pine River that, back in the day, sold the best apple fritters in the world. So Pops and I went for a drive to see if the old bakery was still around. It was – and the apple fritters are still to die for. Anyway, on the road home, we past Manhattan Beach. The billboard read: SUMMER HELP WANTED. And wouldn’t you know it, Bob is still the manager. That didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was the fact that he offered me a job. It looks as though I will be spending another summer as the weekend bartender at Manhattan Beach Lodge – they must be desperate.

With that, I will wrap it up. I hope your new destination is paradise. If you would like to send me your new address, I would love to write. If not, I understand.

I hope you have a wonderful birthday.

I miss you.

Johnny

P.S. Auntie Ging said to say Hi – she says I’m a horse’s ass for screwing things up with you.

Read the next letter: June bugs suck at ninety miles an hour

March 26, 2005
Crosslake, MN.

Dear Tommy,

Thanks for writing. Sorry it’s taken me so long to write back – Nothing important to report from dreary Minnesota. And please forgive me for screwing up your spring break plans. Though it sounds as if you managed to have a bit of fun without me.

My spring break has been far less exciting. I spent the first two weeks doing nothing but cleaning the Cabin – Pops hasn’t been able to do much around the old place in the past couple years. He has been trying his best to help, but he can hardly stand for more than fifteen minutes. And I can’t stand to see him like that. It breaks my heart a little every day to see My Father – the strongest man in the world from my childhood – now even more helpless than a child. But things are looking up. He hasn’t had a drink since I’ve been here. Instead, I’ve prescribed pot to dull his back pain. He says it does the trick wonderfully. And it has done wonders for his appetite. He’s even back to cooking again. I think just the fact that he no longer eats TV dinners seven days a week has made a huge difference. He even makes these decadent desserts every night after dinner – Tonight’s dessert was a hot cinnamon roll covered with ice cream and drizzled with homemade caramel sauce. Once we wake from our sugar comas, we typically burn one and play cribbage until it’s time for bed – I’ve finally found a way to beat the old man at cribbage: get him stoned. Plus, Pops says he can’t remember ever sleeping so soundly.

So last night I took advantage. After skunking me twice at cribbage, Pops trotted off to bed. He was sawing logs ten minutes later. That’s when I traveled back to the high school days and tiptoed out the backdoor. After nearly a month of only leaving the Cabin once a week to go to Reed’s Market for groceries, I had the Cabin fever. I just had to get out. I blame the full moon. Not so much her strange pull on me, I’m used to that, it’s the fact that the outer wall of the loft where I sleep is all glass – the full moon eyes me all night. I won’t even go into the impossibilities of sleeping-in. Anyway, the night was far too perfect not to venture out. It was one of those crystal, clear, cold Minnesota nights. The air so cold you can feel it crystallize in your lungs. When you exhale, your frosty breath drifts all the way to the heavens, glowing all the way in the pale and bright full moon night. And it was that light that carried me all the way to the backdoor of Zorbaz.

I thought nothing about wearing my snow pants and snowboarding jacket into the bar, until I noticed everyone was staring at me. When I explained to everyone that I had walked to the bar, they were even more certain that I was insane. Even telling them that it was only a fifteen-minute walk wasn’t enough to sway their judgment. So I decided I might as well go with it. I no longer know a soul that hangs out in the Crosslake bars, anyway. Not anymore. So I stripped off my jacket, slammed a Jack, strutted out to the dance floor, and, believe it or not, I danced like a mad man. Such nonsense can only be attributed to the weeks and weeks of pent-up High-altitude energy. I have found it very difficult to do nothing day after day when you’re used to going a million miles an hour, seven days a week.

So I was a sweaty, wild-haired maniac within an hour. That’s when I met an interesting cat named Jim. Jim is a few years younger than us. He’s very mild tempered. He’s one of those soft spoken and philosophical cats. He likes good music. He drinks whiskey, straight. He’s intelligent. He reminds me a lot of Robert. Unfortunately, I think he might be some sort of undercover NARC or something. I would have never pegged him as such at the bar. But when we were pulled-over less than a mile after leaving the Zorbaz parking lot, I was certain. Obviously the fact that we got pulled-over at 2:30 a.m. after a Friday night – in Crosslake – was no cause for alarm. But what happened next was unimaginable – in Crosslake. We had just turned right off of Highway 66 at Andy’s Bar when the cherries lit the sky. I was certain Jim was going straight to jail. When the officer finally descended on the driver’s window, he informed us that Jim had turned without signaling. It seemed like a normal traffic stop, at first. Then the officer asked for my driver’s license – I have never been carded while sitting shotgun. The situation got even stranger when the officer returned only to give Jim a verbal warning. That does not happen in Crosslake. This kid was whiskey drunk. He was hanging out with me. Even I could smell the booze in the cab of that little Ranger pick-up. And we were let off with a warning? The only explanation is that cat’s a NARC. Oh well, he’s an interesting cat.

It was good to get out of the Cabin for a night, but I think I returned to an even drearier state. I had to tell the same tale, over and over again – to much acclaim from the local ladies – of my returning from the majestic Mountains of Colorado to a frigid Minnesota in order to save my poor, ailing father. And every time I told the tale, I was poked in the eye with the realization that it was in no way true. It was an excuse at best. I only ran home to run away from my own problems. Now I’m twenty-seven, unemployed and living with my father. Well, here I am.

I knew I shoulda taken that left turn at Albuquerque.

That’s All,

Johnny

Read the next letter: Reconnaissance Correspondence