Three-Rivers stood, squirrel upon shoulder, and hat on head, along the side of the thunder-trail called Route Seven by the painfully unimaginative and ever-counting Masters of Nearest Sunset. They had, against T.T.’s advice, chosen the way of the thumb, as walking along this gravely side-path that ran next to the paved way would have scuffed Three-Rivers’ bison-rider boots of snakeskin. It was also out of the question to walk on the smooth road surface, or one would be flattened like so many of Gerald’s fellow Sunset squirrels who dared the perilous thunder-trails.
My, this is dangerous. I am so glad to be wearing my hat against the chance of some terrible accident.
When he had appeared it was just after dawn, as he did not want to frighten any of the thunderbeast riders. They were on the summer side of the road that followed the course of the Good River toward winter and sunrise. Gerald was hiding under his hat, as it was thought that people would not want squirrels inside of their mechanical servants, and, well, because Gerald was a coward, and was afraid to be seen and shot by some ‘hawngry redneck somebitch’. Gerald was therefore useless in the summoning of a compliant driver.
“You know Gerald, I bet people would stop if you stood on my hand and stuck out whichever one of your claws approximates a thumb.”
Gerald’s muffled voice could be heard from under the hat, “Listen dumbass dese country White-boys eat squirrels. “‘Sides you cute, some nice lady ‘ill pull ova en snatch yo ass up. En also, in case dare some law about hitchhikin’ I’m stayin’ unda da hat ‘cause da popo would give me ta animal control—daz like given a Jew ova ta a Nazi.”
“Oh Gerald, here is an eighteen wheeler, hear it rumble?”
The giant mechanical slave-beast of the white-haired man within stopped and hissed like a thousand copper-faced snakes. Three-Rivers then climbed up on the side and pulled open the door and hauled himself nimbly up into the seat.
How nice this is, this spry youthful body, compared to the sickly damaged body of my childhood.
He turned and grinned up at the jolly fat man with the white hair and beard and looking glasses for the eyes. “Mucho thanks dude!”
“Name’s Archie. Where ya off to son?”
“We are off to Three-Rivers’ town, my squirrel and I!”
As he spoke he took off his hat to expose his cowardly totem and the man smiled. “Oh my, he is a tame squirrel! Well I’ll be. Are you a carney?”
Carney: from carnival, a medieval European term for the season immediately preceding Lent, Lent being a Catholic adaptation of a Jewish tradition dedicated to the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth, associated with abstinence from meat, hence the carnivore root applied to the description of this preceding season. Carnival also denotes the winter festivals held in this season, and eventually the travelling amusement show, that gave birth to the term carney. The professional carnival worker or carney was a colorful and recognized member of the itinerant American underclass by the 1920s. As such, at your current time of configuration, it denotes a 20th and 21st Century travelling performer who works at carnivals, which are mobile celebrations, largely for children, including some animal acts. The last carnival was held in Roanoke Virginia in 2268…
That is quite enough, thank you Mother, you are so very informative.
“Oh yes Elder Archie dude, I am the Master of Squirrels. If you don’t mind, could you put on some Mo Town music for Mister Hicks?”
The man beamed and began turning the knob on the inside of the forehead of his thunderbeast that summoned the various singing ghosts.
“No country music please, although some old rock will do if you have it.”
The man finally found a catchy tune. “Smoke on the Water, how is that?”
Gerald got up on the dashboard and began to dance. “Hell, dis probly da only decent White-boy song eva wrote. Aks da man ta ged us ta da licka sto boy. If I gonna be dancin’ ta White-boy music I needs me some lube…”
Archie was in a state of amazement. “Can you really talk to that squirrel?”
“Oh yes Elder Archie. His name is Mister Gerald Hicks, a dead wino from Baltimore who transmigrated into the body of this displaced old squirrel just before I happened by on a vision quest. He says he will require a trip to the ‘licka sto’ if he is to dance to this ‘White-boy’ music. Can that be arranged? I wouldn’t mind a shot of Hennessy myself.”
The man’s eye-brows arched. “No liquor stores will be open this time of day but there is a roadhouse bar up the way. I can stop in and pick you up something, assuming you are under age.”
“That is so kind Archie, but I am of age to drink spirits.”
“Really, you have I.D.?”
“Yes I do Mister Skeptical Archie.”
With that Three-Rivers proudly produced the Sunset identification he had made using Mister George Silver’s laptop and Mother’s espionage protocols. He pulled the glossy card with all the official New York State information—as that was what the Whiteman had named his home after they had overrun it—and handed it to Mister Archie, who read the card out loud with a sinking tone of incredulity, “Three-Rivers WhiteSkyCanoe Thunderboy Hesperia, date of birth: one, two, fifteen-twenty-three; expires: twelve-thirty-one, twenty-eight-forty-five.”
The man then regarded him with a look of wonder and said, “Exactly how old are you Son?”
“Oh that is easy, because it’s an even number just now—four-hundred-and-eighty years on the dot!”
The man then laughed heartily. “Okay, how about if I go in and get your drinks. It will be my treat for the squirrel show—is it okay if I film Mister Hicks with my cell phone so that I can show my grandchildren?”
“Absolutely a-okay-filming privileges hereby granted by Mister Gerald Hicks’ road agent!”
“Okay son, let’s get rolling. I can take you to Wash. Pa, my hometown. From there you can take Route Nineteen into Pittsburg.”
With that Archie fired up his great mechanical beast, which hissed and lurched to a start, even as Gerald managed to turn up the sound of a rather distasteful song which he seemed to like quite a bit, about people ‘biting-the-dust’.
“Mister Hicks, you are a troubled squirrel.”
“Yep, bud ad least I ain’t a ninety pound Indian who trusts big hairy White Men wit dey booze money!”
This is a revelation!
“Mister Hicks, do you mean to say that you are beginning to understand English; that you overheard our human conversation and understood it with your squirrel ears?”
“Hellllll no boy! When people jawin’—except yo squirrely ass—it jus’ sound like gibberish still. But gibberish er no, I knows a dumbass deal when I sees it, en you jus’ made yo self a dumbass deal! Have you eva heard a Indian-givin’ boy? Sheeeee…
…Whitey got his self dis whole country by makin’ promises to you dumbasses who believe it—en den ya’ll wake up in a traila’ park in West Bumfuck Treatyville.”
This is a disturbing fact.
“Elder Archie, would it be acceptable if I witnessed the purchase of our ‘booze’ at the trail-side drinking house?”
“Sure son and it’s on me. Here, here is my cell phone. Please video your friend.”
When he took the cell phone and began filming Gerald, he seemed to have gained some respect from his totem.
“Dat’s da shit boy, take some collateral. You dumbass finally learnin’ a liddle. Hold ‘is grandbaby pictures hostage while he got ‘is Santi Claus paws on yo liquor. I wan’ a pack a Newports too boy—been too long witout a good smoke.”
“Of course Gerald. Now can you do
the most-muscular and front-double-bicep poses? Yes, and now the admonishing-chief-with-upswept-whiskers-of-disdain…
Good, good, now box ‘like you from Philadelphia’…”
Yes Mister Hicks shall one day be a ‘star’ as they say on Sunset.
