Richard Pryor the Sperm Whale

Off Kodiak's East Side

I was a Geriatric Paperboy in Kodiak Alaska—and they fired me!

First off, this whole thing is Drew Herman's fault.

It was during a fundraiser for publicradio KMXT 100.1 FM two Saturdays ago. I was covering the early morning phone shift when Drew's stylish pea-coat whisked into the newsroom. I had just finished buffing the stainless sink and chrome fixtures.Radio folk are wonderfully slovenly.

"Terry Haines" he said "You are just the man to help me with a problem."
"Anything I can do, Professor."
"I have had a tune stuck in my head that I simply cannot identify." He hummed a fragment.
“I believe that is Mendelssohn's Fifth in D Flat Major, and you can certainly bet De Major was flat after he finished Mendelssohn's fifth...”
“Ah of course. I knew I could rely on you.”

Drew is a local writer of many talents (he recently aced the listener quiz on “Performance Today”.) I discovered he was, among his capacities, a  Paperboy . I was intrigued. I get fidgety between fishing seasons.
“Paperboy, huh? That sounds like fun. How do you get that?”

“It is simple enough. Just go into the office and  inquire with Janet.” I resolved to do just that.

Poor Janet. I would go on to make her life a living hell.

Two days later I was the proud Paperboy of two routes: Three Sisters and Bell's Flats. My wife was incredulous.
“So you took the two worst paper routes in the northern hemisphere, they are thirty miles apart and it's the dead of winter?”
“I'm just trying to help out.”
“You could help me out. What about the list on the refrigerator?”
“I plan to do that stuff between 3 and 5 AM while I listen to the BBC.”

She shook her head and walked away as I prepped the Jeep for arctic travel. My routes were the coldest this side of Iceland: down the precipitous curving iceways of Three Sisters, and in the wide dark valley known locally as “The Flats.”

Three Sisters is five miles or so north of Kodiak City. It is comprised of a handful of forking dirt roads, paved with ice at this time of year, that wind down a patch of the woody rocky coastline above Monashka Bay seeking out the nooks and cornices where tight little cabins are sometimes built side by side with wide windowed Alaska mansions. It is not a walking route. Ice covers the long sloping driveways like poured glass. I delivered 17 wafer thin newspapers, skillfully engine braking, dodging around dogs and goats and between spruce trees.

It is only after I headed out to the Flats--- through town and up to Dead Man's Corner, past the airport and the Coast Guard Base and around Woman's Bay,( the ruts in the ice holding the Jeep on the road through forty mile gusts of northwest wind,) that it occured to me: there is no way to make a cent on these routes—its just too much gas.
At nearly four bucks a gallon I am delivering forty two 50cent newspapers at a fuel cost of ten dollars per day.

The math was not lost on my wife.
“So they are paying you 120 dollars a month, and it will cost you two hundred in gas to deliver them.”
“I think I could break even in Three Sisters if I double the readership. I have big plans to go door to door...”
“Fine. But you can't drive out to the Flats everyday on your own dime.”

So the next day I told Janet I would like to keep the Three Sisters route but explained that I couldn't drive out to the Flats anymore, for reasons of domestic tranquility.

“But” she said “you signed The Contract.”

“I know” I said, smirking slightly, “and I certainly would not want to default on my paperboy contract but I just can't go out to the Flats anymore. I have big plans to expand readership at Three Sis...”

“But” she said “you signed The Contract.”

A chill raised the hairs on the back of my neck and I wondered if I should have read The Contract before signing it. It did have remarkable heft for a document designed for fourteen year olds, and perhaps the cracked leather binding and the fact that I was required to ink my name in blood should have been red flags as well.

“Well” I said, after an awkward pause, “I was talking to a friend of a friend about taking over the Flats. I'll talk to her again. Oh and I can't deliver papers on Thursday and Friday. I have to go to Anchorage to yell at the federal Fisheries Management Council and be on TV.”
Janet just raised a bemused eyebrow, but I seemed to hear demon voices keening low from somewhere down the long hallway. Chuckling nervously I grabbed my bundle and jumped into the Jeep. I delivered all of them even the Bell's Flats route, telling myself I would do the right thing and find a replacement on Monday.”
In Anchorage I instruct the North Pacific Fisheries Management Council on ways they can fix their errant policies. I feel confident they will listen this time. I was also very happily cranky as part of a panel segment of “Moore Up North” with that Alaska treasure Shannyn Moore.

Monday back in Kodiak saw me less than thrilled about my new paper route.
“I'm tired from all the mental engagement.” I told my wife.
“Not from the fact finding missions at Humpy's and Darwin's Theory?”
“And the Taproot. That place is great. Alright”. I struggled off the couch and to the Jeep. But I obviously needed to earn some gas money. I called Seamus. They had a couple of skates that need stripping and sticking. Sweet. I figured I would go down to the boat harbor tomorrow and knock out a couple before my route.

At the newspaper office I miss Janet who is out delivering another route. This pattern would continue. Each day I would come in with Janet out, tell them I couldn't deliver to the Flats anymore. And take the papers anyway. I only realized later that I was doing the Dread Pirate Robert's technique: “Well goodnight Wesley, most likely kill you in the morning.”

Then on Wednesday two things happened: My friend offered me a fishing job and I met The Publisher.

I was down on Seamus' boat working on my skate (I only ended up finishing one, but engaged in some great conversations regarding human nature and the function of faith). The wind was gusting pretty hard so I decided to check the lines of a friend's boat before lunch. On the way down the float I ran into a cod job.

Now there is a little man in my head who sits on a stool in front of a big red button listening for my ears to hear the words “Do you want to go fishing?” His only job is to lean forward and slam that button when he hears that magic question.
“Yes I do.” My mouth says automatically.
Ah Ha! Heavens be praised! A real job, with water underfoot and the shoreline a safe distance away! But what about The Contract? What fell fate awaited me if I broke it?
Nervous eyeballs regarded me at the newspaper office as I gave my daily renunciation of the Flats route. “I can't keep sneaking out to the Flats this way.” I joked. “My wife thinks I'm having an affair. “

I sensed there was something different. A presence. Then a figure glided out of the shadows like Fu Manchu from a forties film noir.
“I am Richard.” he said, “the Publisher.”
“Terry the Paperboy” I shook his hand. It crackled with static power.
“What would it take to induce you to keep taking papers to the Flats known commonly as Bell's?”
“Well,” I said “it seems to me that if you are already sending a truck out there to deliver to the store you could just give your carrier gas money and have him do it. That way you don't have to send it separately and the carrier wouldn't have to worry about gas wiping out his meager profits.” Now I realize this was a bit disingenuous of me, knowing I would have to go cod fishing next week anyway. But I thought this would work better for the next carrier anyway, and be more efficient for the paper.

I'm helping out.

The Publisher pounded the keys on a steam powered calculator and announced a fairly reasonable number. Great. I would call my friend's friend and tell her to come to the news office and grab the Flat's route- she wouldn't have my gas worries, making it a much better job.
Friday saw me doing my last deliveries in the Flats. It was five o'clock: rather late-- I had taken my herd of corgis for a walk to the top of pillar Mountain first. I felt good. The cold sunset was shining through the ice fog and the Flats were glowing in a surreal light. Now all I had to do was find a substitute for the Three Sisters route. I was still exited about expanding the...
My cell phone rang. It was Janet. She sounded tired. I realized that I had been little more than a headachy question mark for her. The good news was my friend's friend would start Monday. But I did not need to worry about Three Sisters anymore either. I had broken The Contract.
“You mean I'm fired from my paperboy job?”
I flipped the phone shut and thought “Oh thank God.” I had one more stop- a lady who hadn't received her paper for a couple of days even though I was sure I had delivered it. I knocked on her door and she answered in her bathrobe. Darn it. I hate answering my door in my robe. She seemed irritated. I tell her I'm sorry she hasn't got her paper and ask if I'd left it in the right place. It seems I did. I don't get it.
“Well I'm very sorry Ma'am. Here are those papers, and today's”
“That's OK”. She says, her face softening “Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks. Merry Christmas to you, too.” I smiled. That was the best tip I got.



Copyright—Terry Haines 2010

I was sitting next to Satan at the BnB

in Kodiak in the winter of 1992

when those two federal agents fell through the front door.

That was their first mistake: always enter the BnB through the side door.

Satan was spinning a quarter on the bar and a williwaw whirled across the street. The tiny tornado snatched up slate dust and coffee cups and crows as it rose up behind the feds and shoved them through the doorway. Their awkward entrance caused one of them to jostle the elbow of the dangerously crystallized Crabber Mike as he was lining up a shot on the eight ball.

The quarter hummed and jumped and seemed solid as it settled into a saddle in the red mahogany. The Devil arched his eyebrow and smiled like the Yukon border: long and cold and crooked. I knew those federal boys were in for a whole lot of trouble.

“Why don’t you just leave those fellas be?’ I asked.

“Oh you know me.” Said Satan, sipping his Sauza as he tipped his head toward them, “It’s you they‘re looking for, of course.” The corner of his smile poked me in the ribs.

“I know.” I said, pulling the Tilley hat down over my eyes, “I know.”

Satan scooted down as the agents approached. They sat on either side of me. I slumped over my liquid sunshine.

“You Terry?”

I sat up. “Yes I am. And you are?” I stuck out my hand.

“Ahm.” He shook my hand- soft and droopy. “I am Agent Breitz. This is Agent Dobromowitz. ” Red lettered FBI badges flopped open. Behind us we heard a short laugh, a cry of alarm and the sound of a sack of potatoes hitting the floor from a height of three feet.

“Two Liquid Sunshines for Cool Breeze and Dobro, please Bernie.”

“No beers sir. This is official business.” he waved off Bernie who went on filling the pints anyway.

Crabber Mike, who had been looming, stepped up. “Who's your friends, Terry?”

“Oh- Crabber Mike, this Is Cool Breeze and this is Dobro.”

“You.” He pointed a kielbasa sized finger at Agent Dobromowitz “You made me miss.”

“Maybe you two should play a game” I suggested. “Looks like Louie's taking a break.” Louie was laying on the floor. His hat was a couple of feet away.

“Go ahead Tom.” Agent Breitz handed his partner the pint of Sunshine. “Blend in. But be on your guard.” He looked around the dark old bar- (not much more than a converted cabin, really)- “There is something about this place...” His eyes rested momentarily on the Devil. “Something...” He took a slug of the Sunshine. Crabber Mike seemed to smile behind his impenetrable blond beard which run high up his red cheeks like wild salmonberry bushes. He even has a streak of blond hair that runs across the bridge of his nose and reaches up for his eyebrows.

“Terry." Agent Breitz turned to me.

“Yes?”

”You are not an easy person to put your finger on in a town of only six thousand residents, and that is saying something, considering our training and resources. Everywhere we went you had just left.”

It was true. My crabber senses had been making me move all day. I didn't know what was making them go off, but when I saw Satan sitting at the B holding an icy Bloody Mary to his forehead I just sat next to him and waited. When you see Satan you may as well walk right up to him. The Devil is, if anything, more dangerous from a distance. One Sunshine later the FBI was sniffing up the stairway.

Why me? What did I do?

Did they know about the doorway under my house? That Pillar mountain was a spongecake of secret tunnels and chambers, chock full of whacked out delusional nutjobs with bears and blowtorches and massive Tesla coils? That ghosts of whalers and longliners past sat at the bar beside us??

“You were born, were you not, at Bunker Hill Air Force Base in Peru, Indiana?”

“Yeah...my Dad was in the Air Force.”

“Your parents were unwitting participants in a genetic manipulation experiment. In 1961 the Department of Defense embarked on a program using irradiated prune juice and a specially designed forceps in an attempt to create a supersoldier. You are the result.”

“I'm a Supersoldier?”

“No. The experiment was a spectacular failure and a humiliating black stain on the nation's entire secret genetic manipulation program, sadly.

You see, scientists had long been aware that certain individuals have “Rainman” type abilities: fantastic cognitive and memory powers combined with a fractured and asocial mentality. We hoped select American children could be carefully damaged to create the perfect soldier: ruthless, relentless and with a computer like ability to remember mission parameters and details as well as rules of engagement, ahhh anniversaries, phone numbers...”

“I'm a Super Rolodex?”

“No. One by one the participants have all died in remarkably stupid ways. Number Four stepped in front of a bus while buttering a bagel. Number thirty two simply forgot he was in the bathtub. Etcetera.”

“I'm a Super moron?”

“Yes. The only remarkable thing about you is that you are still alive. However, since the government has spent so much time and effort on you we have decided to present you with a unique opportunity to serve your country.

Satan elbowed me. Crabber Mike was physically pouring a shot of Jagermeister down Dobro's throat.

Over the years Satan and I have gotten pretty well acquainted, I’m sorry to say.

And I’m not going to tell you he’s misunderstood. He’s understood pretty well, actually, except for the part about the souls.

And the part about who he is and where he came from.

But he really hates the humans.

He despises us.

The Angels took his wings away impossibly long ago, and the time has tightened around the Devil like a Moebius anaconda. It has crushed and swallowed him. In its belly the acid of the ages has left him stripped and diminished. He has become a shard of sharpened bone, a hard evil speck with a single flickering pilot light in his head that won't go out:

He wants to see the human race burned down to cosmic ash and blown across the expanse of this entirely too unlikely universe. The looping and repeating laughtrack behind the human comedy has driven the Devil mad. He wants us gone, gone, gone, finally gone. And if that means he is destroyed too, along with all the Angels and everything else that ever has been, or will ever be, well, that’s OK with Mr. Scratch.

He just wants out.

Chapter One: Dogs Playing Poker

Set out running but I take my time…

A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine…

I first met the Devil in Dutch Harbor, which may come as no surprise to anyone who has spent time on that island paradise. It was 1989, before the crab was rationalized and the dire one thousand were sent back to Kodiak and Seattle to gnaw through their long winter months standing on dirt.

City of the Future: Kodiak, Alaska

Mumbai? Shanghai? Pittsburgh? Which of these great cities will dominate the globe thirty years from now?

How about Kodiak?

Yes, Kodiak Alaska, world's most progressive city.
Located on the United States' second biggest island and surrounded by earth's richest waters, Kodiak is a deep water port par excellence, conveniently located outside the frying pan of the coming global meltdown.

Speaking of which, the rapid retreat of Arctic sea ice will make for a reliable over the top trade route very possibly in the next decade. Look at a globe and you'll see Kodiak sitting midway, like a gas station in the middle of the desert. Already the home of the nation's biggest Coast Guard base and a brand new 600 ton Marine Travelift, Kodiak has two working boat harbors and facilities to accommodate container ships, jet airplanes and rocket ships. And we have our own brewery.

Kodiak's hydroelectric and wind power generation capacities should have it at 95% renewable electricity by 2020. Add a little fish oil capacity and we could be 100% oil independant for our power needs. Take that oil-igarchy.

And the people can't be beat. A remarkably diverse community Kodiak enjoys that camaraderie that comes from being trapped on a merciless rock together. Like inmates at Alcatraz.

Or maybe the last cornered humans in a world overrun by zombie banks.

Bad Poetry Cafe, Vol. 1

Sumo Buddha

No direction
Misconception
A thousand points of darkness
Downstream on a river of pure aggression
Minnows into sharkness
What is right and who is wrong
Fight the fight or go along
Its like Buddha in the Sumo ring
The roaring crowd
Is much more loud
Than the choir in his head can sing.

"Now here is life on the halfshell nut"
he says to himself as he's kicked in the gut
"Laid out languid or pinprickle fury-
these are my choices? (Don't call me Shirley)
Stinging bee and honeyed hive-
Its a study in contrasts just being alive"
Pinning his opponent with a peaceful piledriver
He says "You are alive
But I am aliver"

The Jobs Americans Don't Want To Do

How to Lose Your Soul by Not Using Your Hands

It was 8:45 AM, March of 2008. I was slumped into a convention chair on the holo-deck of the Washington DC Hilton, listening to a slight, scholarly lady talk about immigration policy. The morning's latte was dancing a slow waltz in my head with the ghosts of the previous evening's martinis. All around me dellow felegates from the National League of Cities' annual descent upon the nation's capitol sipped coffee or dozed under ten gallon hats as the lady, Tamar Jacoby, argued that Joe Farmer needs access to cheap foreign labor, i.e. illegal aliens.

Then she said something that pulled me up in my seat. Little alarms were going off in my brain, so I looked down on my notebook to see what righty had written. Ms. Jacoby had said:
"A large percentage of them work in dirty, demeaning, low paid jobs that native born Americans no longer want to do: busboys, chambermaids, farmhands, nurses' aides, sweatshop workers, on the assembly line, in meat packing plants."

I shook the martini ghosts out of my head and listened. She described an America that is older and more educated, and not willing to do "unskilled work". I look down on my own rough and misshapen hands. Hmmmm.

She goes on to make the case that the American of tomorrow will be heady and shiny, graduating with honors along with his friends and classmates, festooned all over with gold stars and blue ribbons, comparing their trophies for participation at the mall where they consume the proper products in languidly prowling packs, waiting for the day when they will be placed in a skilled, non demeaning positions of oblique responsibility. Obviously these uber-Americans will need unskilled, uneducated foreigners to clear the plates, harvest the corndogs and empty the chamberpots.

At first I thought I' was just offended by the idea of an underclass, a shadow segment of our society with a hungry belly that the rest of us rule because of their need to fill it.
But there's something more. We are also hurt by our own aversion to simple physical work.
This didn't really strike home to me until the recent "financial crisis" began to unwind. For years my wife has been asking me what it is Americans do, exactly. Most of us (If WalMart wages aren't sucking you into the underclass) seem to make a living providing services to other Americans. Chefs, CPAs and surgeons all charge each other enough to make a sweet living. "But if so few of us actually make anything," my wife asked "where does all the money come from?"
"I don't know." I replied "Maybe its the savings from all the illegal beef butchers and diaper changers."

It turns out some of our most skilled and educated financiers conspired to build a house of mirrors that crashed under the weight of its own reflections. What they did to the entire world should be criminal, but instead we have chosen to open our forgiving arms and wallets to these prodigals.

But the original prodigal son was contrite. Ours have flown back to Daddy unrepentant, in sleek private jets, sheepishly grinning fops with silk hankies who need a new stake after foolishly gambling away their ready cash. Of course Daddy is broke too, so the sharecoppers in the valley will have to pony up Junior's bailout because, after all, if he can't generously spread his money around how shall the little people survive?

Well I have news for the dandies of high finance. You are the little people. I know working people here in Kodiak who came from Mexico and Guatemala and the Phillipines who work their whole lives gutting fish and sorting mail who have more honor and nobility than a thousand bailout sucking CEOs. Their character is the true bedrock of our society, and it is built from dirty hands and sore backs.

And isn't true value created by the one who catches the fish, builds the car and invests in the factory? That's real capitalism. You work to make or do something and are paid a purchase price or wage. Then you take that money and risk it to make more. The emerging pseudo capitalism in which morbidly obese corporations are "too big to let them fail" neatly combines the worst aspects of Marxism and fascism. Corpogovernment will preserve our failing businesses like Lenin's waxy corpse for the good of the people. But what should we expect from a culture that no longer values the contributions of those who actually do something? Somehow we got it backwards. We seem to believe that money makes people and that character comes from strength.

You know it is ever true that the best of us, he kindest, those with real patience and generosity seem invariably to be those who have known real hardship and adversity. If you ask me every kid in America should have to work in the sweatshop before he gets his Gap t shirt. And every financial executive who gets a bailout should carry chamberpots for lettuce pickers.

News Flash- Bush Will Never Pardon Ted Stevens

"Bush" or the Justice Department that is made in his image, went after him in the first place

Scuttlebutt has always centered on a certain Native Corporation that Uncle Ted helped to get a no-bid contract to supply cell phones in Iraq. The phones were second hand Fisher-Price Big Bird models that would only connect you to Elmo, or some such. At any rate Phonegate added to a pile of embarrassing contractor scandals in Iraq, and it was one of the only ones in which Cheney wasn't involved. Add that to Stevens' "Don't pet me, I bite." charm, and we find a Republican Mr. Bush is quite happy to see the J-Dog clamp onto.. Bush let the beast off its leash in the first place.

So don't look for a Presidential pardon for Uncle Ted. W. has himself to worry about.

A complete look at the pillaging of both Iraq and the US taxpayer by contractors and their Congressional enablers, including Ted's Big Cell Phone Adventure:

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m0PBZ/is_6_86/ai_n27084061?tag=rel.res1