George proceeds to order and dine on both a greasy slider and a bacon-n-cheese, partly to show his solidarity with both factions in the bar. And partly to abide his hungry nerves.
He’s back to thinking on his plan with Karen.
“Tonight’s the night,” he says to Kemper.
“No shit,” Kemper says.
“Hell yeah. I’m going to rip off the Band-Aid and declare my love. I got to.”
“Big man like you, no way. Too chicken. Will never happen,” Kemper says, in good cheer.
“Yeah, well,” George says. “You’re wrong. Throw me in another slider. Extra cheese. And more coffee.”
Kemper goes about his work.
A number of townies and a couple more mountain staff have filtered in in the meantime. The entire while, Kyle has remained in shadow and silent. Now that the bar is more filled, people sitting at tables by the windows with candles, a few more at the bar, and a smattering few within the two green booths on a side wall, a bees’ hum of voices is rising. As with most major weather events, especially a blizzard, the outside has pushed the dark matter between barflies tighter. So this will be a communal conversation night.
Townie Pete, next to George, kicks it off with his loud booming voice.
“Well, now, George. Ain’t it was a night like this, what... seven, eight years ago? After you lost your Blessed Martha, bless her heart, may that good woman rest in peace.” Pete pauses to make a sign of the cross. As if in rote-practice in a Catholic mass, the entire bar, but for new boy Kyle, says, in clunky unison, “Bless that Blessed Martha. May she rest in peace.” George nods thanks to their deference for Martha.
“Anyway,” Pete continues. “Wasn’t it sometime years after, after Our Blessed Martha was stabbed by a, what you try to tell us? A robot?” The whole bar laughs, except for Kyle, who is still glaring at the TV or Kemper, or Pete or George. It’s hard to tell the angle of Kyle’s sightline, given the shadows of his exile.
George rolls his eyes. “Here we go. Go on then, get it over with. Go on with what you got to say, Pete.” These muggers are never going to believe George’s amazing true tales. And a robot did stab Martha. But whatever. “Whatever, Pete, whatever. Go on then.”
Pete, chuckling, says, “Hold on, hold on,” and takes a massive gulp of his rum and coke. It might be his tenth of the night. “Oh boy, George, you and your tales. So was after Blessed Martha, I know, but you come in a night after a blizzard just like this. And ho boy, did you lay one fresh pile of shit on us. I’ll never forget. You ever gonna forget it, Kemper?”
“Hell no,” Kemper yells, while setting down George’s extra-cheese slider.
“You ever gonna forget, Sue?” Pete says, swiveling to see a woman, sitting at the end of the bar, her designated townie seat. She has the frown lines of a lifelong smoker, and, incongruously to this deep dark forest of a troll bar, wears a shiny green sequined tank top.
“I ain’t ever gonna forget it, Pete. Neva,” Sue says. She tips her own rum and coke at George in salute. George tips back, even while he rolls his eyes, annoyed they don’t believe his true tales, but also willing to take a ribbing. He is, after all, a lover in his hot-furnace lumberjack core. And what none of these muggers knows is, he can, when he tries, be an actual poet. But whatever. Whatever. Let them roast him. He can take it. Because tonight is the night for telling Karen, no matter what. Ten years he’s been lonely, without his blessed Martha. It’s time for love again.
“Hey, I know this tale, Pete. Let me tell it,” annoying mountain staffer Bob interjects. Bob is sitting in one of the green booths. Kyle is still glaring at the news, or at Pete or at George or at Kemper, it is so hard to tell. George doesn’t want to call Kyle out because that would only escalate whatever it was it seemed Kyle wanted to previously escalate. George thinks it’s best to let the regulars roast him, finish his night breakfast, and get to the mountain.
In the background, the news has shifted from dystopia-level storm reports to the dominating news story of the last few weeks, the one George was listening to in his truck. All about some sick human-body filet artist that the authorities can’t seem to identify or catch. “The Spine Ripper is believed responsible for an alarming eight unsolved murders this winter thus far,” the newscaster says.
But the regulars are well into a communal story, and the news has to rise to the level of Mount Washington blowing and revealing herself to be a secret volcano for these muggers to quit a communal story.
“Go for it, Bob,” Pete blesses, ignoring the news. “Go on, tell that wild George tale.”
“Right, right. So, was a blizzard just like this,” Bob says, picking up the thread. “George here, he had the cold side of the mountain that night. I had Front Face. Anyway, we all worked all night. The next night, we’re back in here rearing up for another long night shift. George comes in. This George right here, you, George,” Bob says, pointing at George.
“No shit, Bob. I’m George,” George says, shaking his head to Townie Pete to indicate his opinion that co-worker Bob is daft.
“So, you, George, you’re a friggin’ kick. You pop in here, all big guy chest out, blustering about how on the cold side of the mountain, come 2:00 a.m. the night a’fore, a pack of coyotes comes up and surrounds your snowcat. Yipping and barking at you mad. And they’re threatening and jumping up and snipping away at the door and all, so you’re holding it tight.” Bob stands from his green booth and reenacts George’s first reenactment. Bob is pulling and pulling on air as if holding closed the door to a snowcat. “So, then, you say. Then, you notice that the alpha was standing directly in front of the point part of your plow blade, and under a full moon, which was blurry white, what with the snow. I remember you gave that detail, George. You’re good, a good storyteller, yeah. Anyway, that alpha bitch coyote stared at you as if a snorting bull, getting ready to charge one of them there marionettes with the red cape.”
“Oh my fucking hell, it’s a matador, you idiot. Not a marionette,” George says.
The bar laughs. But Bob is not derailed. He laughs himself and continues. “So anyway, Madam Coyote Bitch is about to charge and have her pack charge when a bark from behind her made her turn her head. Up steps Blessed Martha’s hound Cope, you said. Her very dog who ran off to the woods when she was stabbed by a robot, oh my Lord in Heaven, that’s what you claim. You hadn’t seen Cope in years, until that night with the coyotes. Seeing Cope, you near passed out. You got out of your cab, threw Cope an eggs-n-bacon, because you say you always carry a “pocket snack” from the bar, and Cope, well Cope she damn well took it! Cope growled at the coyotes, who hurried up behind her and waited. Cope was always a smart hound. And then, snap, the pack fled, along with Cope. You said your Martha was looking out for you is what. Oh what wild bullshit, George. A hound and coyotes living together. What extraordinary bullshit, you blubbering romantic.”
The entire bar is roaring now. Except for Kyle, who continues glaring on at the television, or at Pete or at George. Can’t be Kemper this time; Kemper’s shuttled to a somewhat hidden corner with the fireplace to add another log.
“Oh my God, George. Oh my God. And then, then, you say, up on a crest under the blurry moonlight, Old Cope, that magnificent hound, howls at the moon.” Bob pauses to howl at a fake moon in the bar, “Awhoooo.” He sits back down in his green booth, knuckles his table, and says, “Shit, George, it’s amazing you survived. Good thing you can communicate with animals. Sure as fuck can’t talk to a human woman no more. Amiright, y’all?”