It was not one of them big ole ten-feet-tall totem poles, but it was about three feet, anyway, an was carved with eagle’s beaks an faces of stern-lookin Indians an bear’s paws an all, an painted pretty bright colors. I ast the feller at the counter how much, an he says, “For you army grunts I make a special price—one thousan, two hundrit, and six dollars.”
“Damn,” I says. “What’d it cost before the discount?”
“For me to know an you to find out” was his reply.
Well, anyhow, I stood there figgerin that it is gettin late an I don’t know when I’m gonna get back into town an little Forrest probly need to hear from me, so I dug down deep into my pocket for what was left of my paychedcs an bought the totem pole.
“Could you ship it down to Mobile, Alabama?” I ast.
“Sure, for another four hundrit dollars,” he says. Well, who was I to argue? After all, we are within spittin distance of the top of the world, so’s I dug down again an coughed up the money, figgerin wouldn’t have nothin much to spend it on up here anyhow.
I ast him if I could send a note with it, an he says, “Sure, but notes are another fifty bucks.”
But I thought, what the hell, this is a genuine antique Alaska Indian totem pole, an I am already gettin a bargin. So’s I wrote the note, which said this:
Dear little Forrest,
I spose you been wonderin what has become of me up here in Alaska. Well, I have been workin very hard at a very important job with the United States Army an have not had much time to write. I am sendin you a totem pole to fool with. The Indians here say they is very sacred objects, so you should put it someplace important to you. I hope you is doin well in school an mindin your grandma.
Love...
Well, I started to put “Love, Dad,” but he ain’t never called me that, so I just put my name. I figgered he just have to figger out the rest.
Anyhow, time I got back to the bar my guys had proceeded to get drunk. I was just settin at the bar nursin a beer when I noticed a feller in a chair all slumped over a table. I could only see half his face, but somehow he looked familiar, an I gone on over an walked aroun him a couple of times, an lo an behole, if it ain’t Mister McGivver from the pig-shit farm!
I raised up his head an sort of shook him awake. At first he don’t recognize me, which is understandable, account of there is a mostly empty quart of gin on the table. But then a light sort of come on in his eyes an he jumps up an give me a big hug. I figger he is gonna be real mad at me for lettin the pig shit blow up, but in fact, he ain’t.
“Don’t worry yourself, my boy,” Mister McGivver says. “It was all probably a blessing in disguise anyway. I never dreamed the pig-shit operation would get that big, but once it did, I was under such pressure to keep up with things, it probably was taking years off my life. Maybe you even did me a favor.”
As it turns out, of course, Mister McGivver has lost everthin. When the pig-shit farm blowed up, the townspeople an the environmental people shut him down an ran him out of town. Next, because he had borrowed so much money to build the pig-shit-fueled ships, the banks foreclosed on him an thew him out of bidness entirely.
“But that’s all right, Forrest,” he says. “The sea was my first love anyway. I didn’t have any business being an executive or a magnate. Why, hell, right now I’m doing exactly what I want to.”
When I ast him what was that, he tole me.
“I am a ship’s captain,” he says proudly. “Got me a big ole ship out in the harbor right now. You want to see it?”
“Well, I gotta get back to the weather station in a while; is it gonna take long?”
“No time at all, my boy, no time at all.”
In this, Mister McGivver was never more wrong in his life.
We gone on out to his ship in a launch. At first I thought the launch was the ship, but when we finally got there, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The ship is so big that from a distance it looks like a mountain range! It is about half a mile long an twenty stories high.
Exxon-Valdez is the ship’s name.
“Climb aboard,” Mister McGivver shouts. It is cold as a well digger’s ass, but we climbed up the ladder an gone onto the ship’s bridge. Mister McGivver pulls out a big bottle of scotch an offers me a drink, but since I gotta get back to the weather station, I turn it down. He proceeds to drink it hissef, no ice, no water, just straight in the glass, an we talked over ole times for a while.
“Ya know, Forrest, there’s one thing I’d have given a lot of money to see,” he says, “that is, if I’d had any.”
“What’s that?”
“The expressions on those bozos’ faces when the pig shit blew up.”
“Yessir,” I says, “it was kinda a sight.”
“By the way,” Mister McGivver says, “what ever happened to that sow I gave little Forrest—what’d you call her?”
“Wanda.”
“Yeah, she was a nice pig. Smart pig.”
“She’s at the National Zoo in Washington.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“In a cage. They are showin her off.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “A monument to all our folly.”
After a little while, it become apparent to me that Mister McGivver is drunk again. In fact, he is not only drunk, he is reelin. At one point he reeled over to the ship control panels an begun turnin on switches an pullin levers an knobs. Suddenly, the Exxon-Valdez begun to shudder an tremble. Somehow, Mister McGivver had turned on the engine.
“Wanna go for a little spin?” he ast.
“Well, ah, thanks,” I says, “but I gotta get back to the weather station. I’m on duty in a hour or so.”
“Nonsense!” says Mister McGivver. “This won’t take but a few minutes. We’ll just go out in the sound for a little spin.”
By now, he is lurchin an stumblin an tryin to put the Exxon-Valdez in gear. He grapped hold of the wheel an when it begin to turn he follered with it—right down onto the floor. Then he begun to jabber.
“Hoot, mon!” Mister McGivver shouts. “I think I’m about four sheets to the wind! Arrr, me buckoes, we be forty leagues from Portobello! Run out the guns! You’ve a bit of the animal in you, young Jim—Long John Silver’s my name—What’s yours...?”
Shit like that. Anyhow, I got ole Mister McGivver up off the floor, an about that time a sailor come onto the bridge, must of heard the commotion.
“I think Mister McGivver’s had one too many,” I says. “Maybe we oughta take him to his cabin.”
“Yeah,” say the sailor, “but I seen him a lot drunker.”
“It’s the Black Spot for you, laddie buck!” shouts Mister McGivver. “Old Blind Pew knows the score. Hoist up the Jolly Roger! You’ll all walk the plank!”
Me an the sailor carried Mister McGivver to his bunk an laid him down. “I’ll keelhaul the lot of you” is the last thing Mister McGivver says.
“Say,” the sailor ast, “you know why Captain McGivver turned on the engines?”
“Nope—I don’t know nothin. I’m with the weather station.”
“What!” says the sailor. “Hell, I thought you were the bar pilot!”
“Me, no. I am a private in the army.”
“Greatgodamighty!” he says. “We got ten million gallons of crude oil on board!” An he runs out the door.
It was apparent I could not do nothin for Mister McGivver, account of he is asleep—if that’s what you want to call it. So I gone on back to the bridge. Nobody is there an the ship seems to be sailin along, buoy markers an things be passin us at top speed. I didn’t know what else to do, so I grapped the ship’s wheel an tried to steer us at least in a straight direction. We had not gone too far when suddenly there is a great big bump. I am figgerin this is good, since the Exxon-Valdez has finally stopped. Turns out, though, it is not.