In which CheeseburgerBrown details the minutiae of his current situation, explains a few bruises, and shifts wantonly back and forth between the present and past tense for no particular reason beyond lazy typing and a lack of editing. No purchase necessary. See website for contest details, some restrictions apply.


Feast or Famine

At long last I am coming to the end of my mad summer of endless work. I only have one job to do this week, and it feels like I'm on vacation. Imagine -- quitting work at suppertime! I feel like a lazy feudal lord, a limp aristocrat, a stock-market plutocrat -- infinite leisure!

It's a whole new world. Did you know I have a wife and kid? No kidding! I met them during my time off last night. Apparently, we live together.

The glow kinda came off when my next job cancelled.

Aw, shit.

Two weeks of confirmed work, gone. I called the Commodore, producer of that ill-fated project, hoping I wasn't catching him in the middle of an important meeting. "I'm painting a house!" he said. "Working with your hands is cool."

Aw, shit. When your producer contact says "working with your hands is cool" you know the deal is not only off, but it's royally fuckin' pooched. The Commodore explained that there were still some outstanding "funding issues" to be resolved before animation production could start. My services as supervisor of lip-synch would not be required in the schedulable future.

Still, I figure all is not lost. No doubt the Commodore has many irons in the fire, any one of which could come to life at any moment. No doubt he has been very busy shaking trees, some of which are bound to drop low-hanging fruit for us.

"I've been writing a novel," he told me.

Aw, shit.

I love the Commodore. I'm happy that he's finding such a high in typing. Nevertheless, a financial chill crawls up my spine. October is not shaping up the way I'd hoped, with jobs continuing to fall into my lap in a neat stack. Instead, the world has declared a hiatus I cannot afford. And so, I must poke and prod at the world until I find a fresh corner that I can profit by.

Cross your fingers for me, or it's going to be a lean Christmas at the schoolhouse.


It Never Rains, But It Pours

Ever seen a hundred years' worth of sediment? Sure, I know you've seen a beach. But I'm talking about a more compact presentation, such as the horror-encrusted meteorite of calcified household snot Old Oak pulled out of the plumbing system late last night. "Here's your problem, ja," he said, scrunching his nose against the heavy, violent stink of the thing.

As he loosened a corner of the blockage a torrent of high-funk swill was liberated from the pipes, pouring down upon his glasses and face. His subsequent utterance frightened every bird from every perch for a mile around.

Upstairs, Popsicle was heard to ask LittleStar, "Uck?"

"Don't say that word, honey," said LittleStar.

Old Oak filled two large pails with the horrifying refuse and then called up for LittleStar to try the taps. "The water is going down!" she cheered. After a moment she added, "And the kitchen smells a lot better, too."

I, for one, knew where the smell had gone. It was spread out at our feet in a chunky puddle with an oily sheen. "Plucky will clean it up, ja," Old Oak muttered, nodding at the splooge. "I'm going to take a nap."

"Ooo-kay," I said, backing out of the room. I went out the front and up the steps and back upstairs. "The kitchen is fixed!" I announced. "But it's an assplosion downstairs and your pop thinks your mom is going to clean it all up."

LittleStar rolled her eyes. She carried Popsicle into the mainfloor washroom to brush her teeth before bed. I followed, making faces to make Popsicle giggle. "Oh, Dada," she grinned with a sleepy sigh.

LittleStar put her down on the smoothed brick counter and started pulling out the toddler-washing bits from under the basin. I peeled off Popsicle's muddy clothes. "Washa-washa-washa..." she sang in anticipation of the watery fun.

"Fudge!" cried LittleStar.

I complimented on her non-profanity and then turned around to see her holding part of the washroom faucet in her hand. The other part was still attached to the basin, and was gushing water uncontrollably.

I made a hollow little laugh.

Ever tried to find a replacement faucet for a fifty year old basin? To make a long story short, they don't carry them at Home Depot or Canadian Tire. You basically need to find a hardware store at least fifty years old, and hope there's some old crap lying around in the back. My step-father was the one who found the winner, bringing it by the next night. He fixed the sink, and showed LittleStar every step of his work so that she could manage it herself next time.

Stand up guy, my step-father. LittleStar finds learning new skills from her own father to be...a patience-taxing exercise in futility and mutual frustration. Pedantry is an easier pill to swallow from my step-dad, in its milder, less crotchety form.

So now if we could just fix the upstairs washroom we'd be sitting pretty as far as the schoolhouse waterworks go. But that's another renovation, and shall be paid for another time.


Fuck You, Nature!

Nothing makes you feel the weight of your nads like killing something. But since all the animals I know are dependents, I have to make do with killing plants.

You all know my nemesis: the unkempt rear corner of my land, overgrown with wild bushes, garbage trees and junk.

But this time I faced the wild corner with a gas-powered harness-rigged metal-bladed trimmer. This instrument is truly the lightsabre of gardening.

I slung the thing over my shoulder and plowed into the shoulder-high bramble, swinging it in mean arcs right and left. It sang and hummed as it swung, biting off everything in a clean line. "And you will know," I cackled to a fat, thorny bramble, "that I am the Lord!" Anything I pointed the spinning blade at fell apart like paper. I felt like I was using a flamethrower.

Which gave me an idea.

I piled the chaff loosely and dotted it with gasoline. I tossed in a lit match and with a sudden wallop of air the whole thing went up. I dragged a trio of fallen trees out of the thatch and tossed them onto the flames. Then I fished around for burnable junk -- old timbres and stumps and antique worm-eaten wooden knobs. I kept tossing it all in until the fire was very, very angry indeed. Tall and roaring, fast. In a hurry to get into the sky, pouring out of the ground in a stream that was pale orange in the afternoon light.

It was Christly hot, I can tell you. I took a few steps back.

For the first time in a long time I felt the urge for a cigarette. I didn't own any, so I smoked a mime cigarette. I smoked a lot of mime cigarettes when I was quitting, and I've always found them very satisfying. Also, low in tar.

And so: another two dozen square feet of quasi-recovered land. Hopefully we can afford another load of filler dirt before the snow flies.

I feel good, but I ache. But not just brandishing the gardening lightsabre. To explain why I'm limping I have to go back a couple of days...


The Flying Dutchman

Though we live in what is officially designed as a rural zone, our schoolhouse is actually situated in downtown Gilford. The term "downtown" must be taken in appropriate context in a village with only four streets -- across the street is a wild thatch of land, and then a wide, grassy field that the farmers down the block are letting go fallow this season. Behind us are several acres of wild grasses.

To the west of the schoolhouse is the village plaza, consisting of a bait shop, a hairdresser and the general store. (It was principally the proximity of the schoolhouse to this plaza that made the price low enough for somebody like me to afford.) When we first moved in the parking lot of the plaza was continuous with our front yard. We spent a winter with people parking their snowmobiles at our doorstep while they asked us if they could buy worms.

So we built a fence, planted grass and installed a line of evergreens. Problem mitigated.

To the east of the schoolhouse, shielded behind a wall of low trees, lives a family of Dutch people. We first met them when we went over to inquire, as politely and as amicably as possible, why they were venting their waste water into our backyard through a pipe buried under our fence.

The short Dutchman's moustache bristled. He became quite outraged. We bid a hasty retreat before Old Oak and the Dutchman came to blows.

But he rerouted his waste water, and our yard became less of a swamp. Obviously he knew what he had been doing was wrong. He had probably figured that the previous owners, a family of Newfoundlanders who kept the field filled with RVs, campers and various rusting truck parts, wouldn't ever notice. And he was right. After all, they didn't notice a meteorite of grand funk snot calcifying in their pipes -- why should they notice a little thing like their yard being slowly turned into wetlands?

Months passed. We had no contact with the Dutchman. His wife, a surly redheaded cow who yelled fruitlessly at her insane children, used to pause to glare at us through the bushes now and again, though. "Nice neighbours!" she'd spit, if someone caught her eye.

Ah, country hospitality! The warmth of a neighbour's baseless spite!

But the Dutch can be hard to figure. The other day I'm out back, playing with Popsicle and LittleStar while I waited for a render to finish in my laboratorium. "Hey you!" calls a voice from the bushes.

"I think somebody is in our yard," says LittleStar, furrowing her brow.

I walk over to investigate, putting my beer down on my dirty old sailboat. The short Dutchman's little moustached face is sticking out of the greenery, but he's standing on his side of the chainlink. "Hey!" he repeats.

"Hi," I said.

"Listen, I'm getting rid of a set of swings. I was just going to throw it away, but you have a little one, right? If you have any interest..."

I shrug, and crane my head to look past him at the swingset. It is well-used, but functional. "How much do you want for it?"

"Nothing. Just help me to take it."

"That sounds great. Thanks for thinking of us, Dutch. I'll be right around."

He nods curtly and vanishes into the bushes again. So Popsicle, LittleStar and I come around to the neighbours' back yard. I figure we're now all going to be introduced properly. Little blonde Dutch kids are everywhere, screaming and laughing and chasing each other. The Redhead Cow is sitting up on a wooden deck, but doesn't come down to greet us. She calls down, "Dutch was just going to throw it out, but I said hey, they have a little one, don't they?"

"Thank you very much," I called up.

The swingset was no problem. A dozen little giggling blonde kids each grabbed a hold and we all walked it over to the schoolhouse as a unit. But the Dutchman was also getting rid of a heavy wooden clubhouse, and LittleStar had already decided she wanted it. "How will we get it over?" I asked.

"I'll drag it with my four-by-four," said Dutch without hesitation.

"Drag it?" I echoed uncertainly. But he was already walking away, disappearing into his shed. I watched two of his boys shoot BB guns at a hole-riddled statue of a deer. Dutch returned a moment later atop a chortling red behemoth of a 4x4. He tossed the tow-hook down to one of his larger sons who secured it to a crossbeam of the wooden jungle gym.

"Okay!" called Dutch. This was his only warning. He gunned the 4x4 and his son and I scrambled out of the way as the jungle gym toppled over and began to plow up his yard, digging a deep trench of dirt through the lawn as it dragged roughly behind the speeding ATV.

Only the combined shouting of his entire family caused him to stop before smashing asunder his own wooden gate and fence. He barked at everyone to shut up while he noodled the problem of fitting the jungle gym through the gate. LittleStar came and touched me on the shoulder. "Are you alright?" she asked.

"I'm fine. He's insane."

"Yeah," she agreed.

We manhandled the jungle gym through the gate and then Dutch jumped back on his 4x4 and blasted across his front yard, the wooden contraption skidding wildly back and forth, tearing up lumps of earth and flowers. "The car! The car, Dad!" his son screamed, but Dutch didn't even turn around. So I threw myself between the car and the jungle gym, grabbing one of the outstanding posts and using it to steer the thing just clear of the driverside door. "Holy crap, Dad!" yelled his son. "You just almost smashed your car!"

"Shush now," mumbled the Dutchman, turning into the street. The jungle gym fishtailed out behind him leaving white chalky lines on the road as sparks flew from the bolts.
LittleStar ran ahead of us and opened up our wooden gate. Dutch careened around the corner and charged up our driveway, sand and pebbles flying everywhere. I jogged beside the jungle gym, trying to steer it away from obstacles. Dutch never looked back.

The land begins to rise right after the driveway; the jungle gym plowed into the grass, sticking behind a crater of raised dirt. "Hold it up!" yelled Dutch, gunning the engine. I grabbed the crossbeam and hauled with all my might to keep the front of the thing off the ground, running to keep pace with the speeding 4x4.

Dutch doesn't even slow down when he hits the big rise before the house. As a consequence, the jungle gym piles into the hill and flips over heavily. I am tumbled with it, clutching the crossbeam. I let go and scramble out of the way as I notice, to my surprise, that the Dutchman has not stopped. I just manage to roll clear as the lumbering clubhouse grinds past me.

Dutch stops. Together we right the jungle gym. "Thanks," I say weakly.

"Yeah," he says, and drives off.

LittleStar runs up to me. "Are you okay? He's insane!" But I'm fine. It will be minutes yet before I start to feel any real pain, and hours before the black and crimson bruises will surface on my thighs and knees.

I pick up my beer and sip. "So," I say, catching my breath. "Free stuff."

Popsicle proceeds to go mad with glee. It takes a serious effort to make her go in for bed. She sits on the ground and wails. "Zwings! Zwings, Mama!" So we try to explain to her what "tomorrow" means, and finally her energy is spent away in tears and we peel her off and take her in.

Swings, indeed. Who can predict the moods of a fickle Dutchman?

Not I, not I.


HuSi 500

It's real, and it's happening. More details/polls/ideas to be posted soon, by either myself or LittleStar.