The Moose and the Poet

Sunday’s weren’t much to rave about for a kid in East Gish unless you liked going to church followed by Catechism. Usually a group of us boys would skip the mass, buy a few packages of cigarettes with the money our mother’s had given us to put in the collection basket, hike up through the hobo jungle to Gouger Hill, and spend the forenoon lounging around a crude lean-to engineered for such gatherings, and peruse the latest dirty books purloined from our fathers and older brothers. Even with fresh Winstons, donuts and milk heisted from the local neighborhood grocery, this cultural event soon became stale. However there was a year round ritual that I looked forward to with the same reverence and anticipation as child does the arrival of Christmas.

Once a month Louie Bingham’s father would be off for a five-day stretch from his night job at the sawmill. Louie’s father whose real name I never knew was called Bingy by all who knew him. Bingy was a short, wiry little man with thick shoulders, a nose that looked like a plumb, and rugged forearms. He always wore a gray, men’s dress hat and wireless spectacles that gave him a distinguished look, even when he wore his denim coveralls and a red and black checkered wool shirt. Bingy liked to tell the story of how he found the hat under a Catholic church pew that he slept on one night in Tennessee after he escaped from the police who were chasing him for terrorizing a group of women from the local whorehouse.

Old Bingy’s long weekend began on the last Sunday of the month, and the early morning hours of that blessed day always found me at Louie’s house having breakfast that never failed to feature at least one dish of wild game, usually shot out of season and often quite fresh. Bingy’s outdoor philosophy consisted of two themes; hunt in the summer, fish in the fall, and our Sunday morning gatherings usually found us enjoying fresh venison or moose steaks, eggs, homemade bread, potatoes “borrowed” from the farms up in the county, fresh coffee and all Marlboros I could smoke. From there it got interesting as Bingy drug out his Sears & Roebuck electric guitar and amplifier, popped the first Budweiser of the day and treated us to a litany of the filthiest songs one could ever ask to hear. Many times I have speculated about their origin. Hell itself would have expunged any miscreant soul who would have dared defile its halls with such bawdy harmonies as those that were sung in Bingy Bingham’s cozy kitchen on the Sabbath’s of my youth. The wealth of Bingy’s musical vocabulary included such masterpieces as “The Ring Dang Doo, The Farmer, Columbo, The Grand Farting Contest, The Winnipeg Whore, Little Ball of Yarn, Go Piss Up a Rope,” and scores of others, all sung with a voice that sounded as if it were trained at Julliard, and accompanied by guitar playing that would raise the eyebrows of Chet Atkins and Les Paul.

Louie’s mother Elsie was an affable woman. At 4” 8’ tall she could keep up with the hardiest of men, dearly loved her husband and her children, and could skin a beaver as cleanly as any of the local grizzled trappers. Elsie had a wonderful sense of humor and could laugh with the rest of us at Bingy’s litany of debauched tales and songs. Her home cooked meals, replete with illegal fish and game, were always a treat for those of us fortunate to be in the inner circle of Louie’s friends. One November evening Elsie invited me to join the family for dinner with the caveat that the venison steaks that she was frying probably wouldn’t be as tasty as usual because Bingy had shot and tagged it during the legal season.

Elsie was a pretty woman, petite, with short hair long fingers attached to delicate looking but nutcracker strong hands. Many of us kids called her mom. She once pulled Bingy out of the water in mid February after he fell through the ice while trapping beaver on a remote flowage. Elsie built a huge fire on the shore of the pond and helped Bingy peel out of his wet woolens to stand naked around the fire while they both roasted his clothing back to dryness over the roaring flames. Then the two of them, each saddled with a 35 pound beaver snow-shoed the 2-½ miles back to Bingy’s jeep.

One frosty morning in late September, 1970, I wended my way down the gravel road to Louie’s house for breakfast, sucking on a cigar and anticipating a hot breakfast of fresh venison from the doe that Bingy had shot from the window of his truck at midnight a few days before. “Took her right between the eyes under the low-beams” Bingy would boast over a steaming plate of tenderloin, fried eggs, home fries smothered in catsup, homemade bread and cold Budweiser.

Gorging one-self never felt so good as it did on that crisp, cloudless, Sunday morning in September. Wrapping my hands around a cup of hot, black coffee and leaning back in an old wicker chair, I asked Bingy if it wasn’t time for an impious tune. Hauling a long draught from his third longneck, Bingy cinched his eyebrows, leaned across the table and looked intently at Louie and me. “Today boys were gonna go look for a big black bastard that I saw on the on the Silver Ridge road near Old Man Creek last week. He’s got horns as big as canoe paddles and we’re gonna put the kibolts to that son-of-a whore.” Everything was a son-of-a whore. We were in for a day of the most illegal Sunday hunting in Maine with me and Louie driving the truck on remote back-roads, munching throughout the event on a huge assortment of grub that Elsie had put up the night before. Elsie would be in the back of the truck with Louie’s little brother glassing the open spaces for any sign of moose and passing long necked bottles of beer form a cooler to Bingy a he called out for them through the passenger window.

The adventure would be replete with endless filthy tales and anecdotes told in Bingy’s inimitable style, including old World War II stories, and some of the most profound racist jokes and views that the likes of I have never encountered again, even in the whitest haunts of Mississippi.

It was Louie’s and my job to take Bingy’s old 308-lever action Savage, a box of ammunition, knives, an ax and a meat saw out to the old Ford under cover of a picnic basket, a huge cooler and an old blanket. Elsie would drive until we got out of the township where Louie and I would take turns sharing the chore under Bingy’s tutelage. As we placed the equipment in the back of the truck, Bingy climbed into the cab and told me to slip the rifle to him in the front seat under cover of the old blanket that served this purpose on many an occasion that I was privileged to be party to. As Elsie slipped the truck into reverse and rolled out of the gravel driveway, I passed Bingy a handful of shells for the .308. Slipping them one by one into the magazine of the old Savage, he muttered tersely. “Now we’re ready for that big black son-of- a-whore.”

We drove on the outskirts of town past the mud flats where the trailer dwellers lived in old chrome tin-boxes that dripped long streaks of rust from the roof and down the walls. Diaper clad, snot-nosed children with dirt-streaked faces played in dooryards among junk cars, piles, of garbage and old tires. “Look at those filthy sons-of-whores!” Bingy exclaimed with a sinister grin. “Last weeks dingle berries still hanging off their skivvies.” I looked at Louie through the rear window of the cab as he sat in back of the truck with little Willie and grinned. It was great to be alive.

Our destination was an old road that stretched northeast of Mattagammon that was built many years ago by the lumber companies. It was “Hog Heaven for any Son-of- a Whore that wanted to shoot a moose and not be bothered by the Son-of-a-Whore of a Game Warden.” Bingy exclaimed one cold night last winter during a break form one of his musical interludes. “We’ll hit er next September when those black Sons-of-Whores are prime.” When Elsie popped a cold one at the turnoff to the deserted washboard road it was time for Louie or me to take the wheel. The ash from Bingy’s cigarette dangled well over an inch from the end as I took my turn at the wheel while Louie helped his mother with the glassing chores in the back of the pickup.

“Drive ‘er slow and look for ears and horns in them alders.” Bingy instructed. “I’ll paste the Son-of-a Whore when we catch him.” I lit a Marlboro, slid the transmission into low gear and let the clutch out. The trucked crawled slowly over the sinkhole-laden road, shrouded by alders and cedar swamps on either side of us.

We had motored leisurely for several hours through 20 miles of swamp, ridges, putrid, scum-covered beaver ponds and cutovers without a single sighting of moose, deer, rabbits or any other targets of opportunity for a group of earnest Sunday morning hunters. At noon we stopped for lunch and watched the sky slip from crystal blue to a murky shade of gray. As we finished lunch and climbed back to our respective positions in the truck, Bingy relieved himself under cover of the passenger door exclaiming with a roguish smirk “Have to swing ‘er at a 45 degree angle so I don’t get hung up in the bushes. Reminds me of the time me and an old Navy buddy


got drunk down in Alabama stole the madam’s car from the whorehouse………” Louie and I busted up laughing as did Elsie. Three-year old little Willie joined in with an unwitting chuckle at our mirth. I jigged the truck around to the direction we came from just as a fierce wind began to blow and raindrops spit across the windshield. “This’ll make that Son-of-a Whore move now.” Bingy chortled as he took a long draught form a freshly opened brew and lit a cigarette.

The squall blew into a credible storm as I inched along the gully-filled road in low gear. Elsie and little Willie crowded into he cab with us while Louie covered himself with a tarp and hunkered down in back. “This Goddamned rain won’t last long.” Bingy exclaimed. “Louie likes it though. He’s probably wettin’ off under that tarp and thinks nobody knows.” We all guffawed again. Louie poked his grin-streaked head and a middle fingered hand up from the tarp to wave at us in the front seat. The wind had picked up to a dangerous crescendo of gusts and roars, breaking branches and strewing limbs in front of, alongside and behind us. Bingy looked deadpan. “Louie’s gonna come up from that tarp when we stop with a big wet load on his pants and try to tell us that the rain got in soaked his pants an’ I’ll say “The rain’s pretty sticky today ain’t it son?”

After another hour of creeping along we neared the cutoff from the main logging road and turned off onto the current road where Bingy’s “Big Black Son-of-a-Whore” supposedly roamed. The driving rain had stopped but the sky remained a deep charcoal gray and the winds increased violently. Elsie and Little Willie climbed into the back of the truck and huddled up next to the rear window. I lit a cigarette, pulled over for a bush stop and killed the engine. The wind continued to roar through the Pine treetops all around us. Before I got out, an old Chevrolet station wagon with Connecticut plates came into the rearview mirror. Opening the truck door I waved at the driver who stopped just ahead of us and got out of the fin-tailed heap that looked as if it were had at a bargain price from a low-grade junkyard. If anyone was out of their element it was this guy. His blonde hair was slicked back in a ducktail, he wore a shiny sharkskin jacket with white, flared slacks, a pink shirt with the chest unbuttoned exposing a pawnshop, silver chain. The outfit was topped off a pair of loafers with chains across the tongues and ripped out sides. I don’t think they had seen a coat of polish since they were purchased.

“Look at that foolish son-of-a whore.” Bingy piped. “Looks like a Miami pimp!” I laughed “Nice day for a ride.” I said, barely containing myself. Even if he was offended he was so pathetically scrawny and pasty faced that Little Willie could have taken him.

“It’s a beautiful day except for this dreadful wind.” His voice was effeminate and so were his posture and his movements. “I’ve been staying at a camp in Mattagammon for the past month working on a book of poetry. I thought a ride through the lovely Maine wilderness would provide me with some inspiration.” Bingy rolled his eyes, unzipped his pants and relieved himself on the side of the road. Elsie took little Willie behind the truck and changed his diaper on the tailgate.

The wind was gusting at dangerous levels now. Limbs and debris littered the road behind and in front of us. All of a sudden I heard a sharp, loud crack, an effeminate “Oh my” and a “Jesus Christ look out!” followed by the crash of metal and glass as a tall pine tree snapped at its base and slammed onto the cab of the truck. “Look at that son-of-a-whore! Bingy exclaimed, zipping up his fly. The remnants of the windshield covered the front seat, the top of the hood and littered the side of the road. The area inside the crumpled cab was so small that Little Willie would have been cramped. The gusts continued to rise and the rain drove down in sheets. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Bingy yelled over the wind. The little poet helped us load the coolers, blankets and other equipment into the back of his station wagon. I passed the rifle and a handful of shells to Bingy as he slid into the front seat much to the consternation of the pale-faced newcomer. “Why do you have that gun?” He asked Bingy timidly. “Marauders.” Was the deadpan reply. Ellie, Little Willie, Louie and I took up residence in the rear of the wagon. Bingy called for another beer and offered it to our newfound chauffeur whose eyes were round with fear as the storm intensified. Several more pines snapped and landed dangerously close to our last means of escape. The little dandy passed on the beer. Bingy’s chapped lips smacked as he took a long haul form the long necked bottle and told him to get moving before one those sons-of-whores landed on top of us.

There are times when a man can feel an ominous tinge in the air. He may not be fully conscious of it, but there is a gray cloud of evil lurking, smoldering like an old cinder waiting for a breeze to flare it up. It may be the weather, or a person, the texture of the sky or a combination of many phenomenons imagined, real or a juxtaposition of unexplainable forces. I felt it this day and I sensed that the little dandy of a poet sensed it too. It was gray enough for sure. The wind howled and roared like so many wildcats. Evil was about. It was close but I knew not where it would come from only that it was on its way. The little poet’s cheeks were white and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead into little rivulets that ran down his nose as he strained at the wheel fighting fear and the wind that wanted to push that station wagon into the abysmal depths of the slimy morasses that quivered on each side of us on that lonely logging road.

We ground around a tight corner and into a small clearing where a thousand fir and spruce had been slaughtered. The rain drove at us horizontally, drumming on the roof of the old wagon without rhythm. And then evil itself appeared. The moose stood about 10 rods off the main road on an old skidder trail that had had grown over with maple and poplar shoots. “Look at that son-of-a-whore! Stop this goddamned car right here!” Bingy ordered, deep in his cups. Our little chauffeur slid the transmission into park. “Kill that Jeeslus engine and keep quiet.”


Bingy jacked a round into the chamber of the weathered old Savage, took a drag off his cigarette and let it drop to the floor near his feet. He rolled the window down and squinted as the rain stung his face and the wind roared into the car. The big bull ambled slowly toward us and stopped broadside to Bingy as he slid the scoped rifle through the rectangular opening and set the crosshairs on the animal’s great neck. “That’s the first live moose I’ve ever seen!” Exclaimed the poet as Bingy squeezed the trigger. The rifle roared and the big animal tottered and went down on his front knees. The wind ripped into the car with long demonic moans as the 308 cracked bellowed again. The bull dropped onto its side and laid still, the rain streaming off its massive body. Bingy hauled the rifle back into the cab and looked the poet in the eye. “Goddamned dead one now!” The little man went white. His forehead wrinkled and his diminutive frame shuddered. “You just killed a Maine moose! That’s against the law! You can’t do that. I demand that you get out of my car this minute. I’ll have no more to do with this!” Bingy looked over the tops of his bifocals. “Mister there were five shells in this rifle. I just put two into that moose. There’s three more in the chamber and I don’t know where they’re gonna go. But if you don’t shut up and calm down, I’ll give you a Goddamned good guess. You stay here and don’t’ move until I get back.” Bingy jacked a round into he chamber of the rifle and passed it across the seat to Elsie. “ If that little bastard hollers or tries to take off, put one right between his eyes.”

Louie and I stepped out into the driving rain and followed Bingy over to the dead animal. I wondered how hard they would go on me. Did kids get long sentences for kidnapping and accessories to murder? I shook at it all. The wind from hell, the oncoming darkness, the cold rain, the dead monarch of the Maine woods, the little man at the mercy of Bingy’s drunken capriciousness. The day had turned into one of the darkest evil, at least for an effeminate middle-aged man from the city who had encountered the country folk of the North Maine Woods.

“That son-of-a-whore is a gone goose.” Bingy said. “Spread those legs boys and I’ll slit him open.” Bingy had his coat off and his thick biceps bulged with each deft cut of the razor sharp knife that we always carried for such occasions. The steam hissed from the bloody cavity. The taught hide fought the knife and sounded like stiff cardboard being sliced as Bingy ripped through it “We’ll come back tonight with Uncle Jack and Aunt Tilley an’ take care this big black bastard.” Louie and I looked at each other, half excited, part terrified and somewhat proud of our Sabbath expedition. Our eyes met as we tallied up the charges; kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, shooting a moose on Sunday in Maine. I hoped that the judge would look at me as a sorry little waif who had fallen among bad companions and go easy on me. If not, maybe Louie and I could at least be cottage mates at the boy’s reformatory. That way we wouldn’t have to worry about being someone else’s girlfriends. My father would not pleased.

The rain had slowed to a fine mist. A musty dusk converged on us and the wind had slackened to a stiff breeze. We hurried back into the car. Bingy slowly opened the door and stuck his head in the car. “How’s everything in here Els’?” “All well here.”

Elsie cradled Little Willie in her left arm, and leveled the rifle about a foot away from the sobbing man’s head. “How long before we have tenderloin?” “We’ll go back and get Beaver Jack and Tillie up here tonight. We’ll cut and wrap tomorrow.”

“I’ll never get out of here alive. I’m going to die up here in these Godforsaken woods at the hands of these hillbillies and no one’s ever going to know what happened. I knew I never should set foot up here. I’ll take you where you want to go if you’ll just let me leave afterward. I promise never to tell anybody anything.” “Listen to me you little son-of-a-whore. If you want get out of this alive, you’ll do as I tell you. Now you start driving and keep your Goddamned mouth shut. One wrong move out of you and I’ll blow your Goddamned head off! We’re going to get my brother in-law. He’s the local sheriff up here, and if you think I’m crazy you wait ‘til you meet him. He doesn’t like your kind up snooping around here and he’d just as soon slit your goddamned throat as look at you. You’ll be goddamned lucky if he doesn’t lock your ass up in jail when we get through.” Bingy leaned back in the front seat. Elsie slipped the rifle to him over the seat and he pointed the muzzle at the poet’s torso. “I’ll tell you where to go. Now drive.”

We rolled back into the outskirts of Gish around seven o’clock. The wind had picked up again and the rain fell hard. I knew where we were headed and hoped that once we got there the little laureate would be set free from what must have been the worst nightmare his fragile psyche had ever been dealt. “Follow this road to the fork and turn left. The Sheriff’s house is up in the field. You’ll see the big light on the garage. Stop in front of it.” Bingy was all business now. We motored along down a coal ash covered road through a stretch of tall oak trees. The lights were on in the trailer and the dogs barked at the approach of the car. The wind howled forlornly through the trees and the rain let up once more. I stepped out of the muddy wagon and took a deep breath. The sweet musty odor of wet leaves rose from the woods. “Kill that engine and those lights and don’t make a sound.” The poet pleaded through chokes and sobs. Bingy ambled up the long gravel driveway. Fresh fallen acorns crunched under his boots. Elsie held the rifle at the back of the poet’s head. I yawned, rubbed my face in my hands and leaned limply against the car. Louie came out and asked me for a cigarette. “What’s up now?” I asked. “I dunno.” Louie answered flatly. “Think we’ll git caught?” “I dunno.”

A light over the front door of the doublewide came on and I saw Bingy dash inside. The light went out as the door closed behind him. As I butted my cigarette I saw the door open and heard a group of footsteps clomping toward us over the gravel and acorns. Against the inky skyline I made the outline of a wide brimmed cowboy hat on a tall frame with a loose fitting coat. Behind Louie’s uncle Jack was his aunt Tillie. She came over to the driver’s side rear window and stuck her head in. “Nonie’ll take care of Willie for the night. I got some extra clothes and another ax, a saw and some coffee for the boys. We’re comin’ to help you.

“Git out of the car!” “The sheriff here wants to talk to you!” Bingy yanked the driver’s side door of the station wagon open and took his rifle from Elsie, took Little up to the trailer followed by Tillie.

Now Old Jack who probably couldn’t spell sheriff, sauntered up to our driver, shined a flashlight into his eyes, grabbed him by the collar of his sharkskin jacket and shoved him up against the vehicle. “Put your hands flat out on the hood. Splay those fingers and spread your legs. I want to see some ID and damn quick.” Shaking, the little poet pulled a stiff leather wallet from his breast pocket and handed it to Louie’s uncle Jack. I pulled Louie around to the back of the car.

The newly elected sheriff, still unknown to his constituency in the town below towered over the diminutive man like stilted scarecrow and frisked him like he was the most reprehensible of criminals. “I don’t like your kind boy, snoopin’ around these woods, drivin’ up my driveway in the middle of the night trespassing on private property. I should shoot you fer temptin’ to break into my home and harm my wife n’ kids like you just done. Bingy, hold that rifle on him, make ‘im walk up to the house. Have him put his hands all over the back door and the doorknob, the break the window in the door. Then push him in. I’ll shoot the son of a bitch from the hallway an give you time to git outta here before I call my deputy.” The poet choked on sobs that I judged to be the size of watermelons from the way he struggled with each breath. “Hold on a minute Jack.” Bingy walked over, stood on his toes and whispered in Jack’s ear. “Well…. aw’ right. I’ve got a good mind to lock your ass up in jail for vagrancy an’ leave you there ‘til court on Wednesday.”

Elsie and her sister Tillie hurried from the trailer carrying two large battery operated lamps. Bingy shuffled to the back of the station wagon to relieve himself. “Bet you didn’t know your uncle was such a fine officer of the law.” Bingy snickered under his breath. “He oughta run for re election next fall.” Louie and I breathed deeply and laughed quietly. I was ready to resume our Sunday adventure. “Louie you drive your Uncle Jack an’ Aunt Tillie in his truck and follow me. We’ll take the tourist with us and head back up in the woods.” We went around to the front of the car and joined the newly elected sheriff.

“I’ve taken where you wanted to go and done everything you told me. You don’t need me for anything else. Let me go and I won’t tell a soul about this. I promise.” “You’re Goddamned right you won’t tell a soul. I just talked this crazy son-of-a-whore of a brother-in-law of mine out of dumpin’ you out in the swamp. Now we’re goin’ back up to get that moose an’ your gonna help us. Then if the Sheriff here don’t lock you up when we get done, I might let you get your ass out of this Goddamned country providin’ you never come back. But one wrong move an you’re a gone goose” “I’ll do anything you say. I promise. I’ll help you if you let me go after and I promise I‘ll never tell anyone” The six of us stood beside the station wagon, half bathed in the lights held by the two tiny women. Bingy cast Louie and I a solid wink and a grin. “I’m ready let’s go.” I said. Bingy whispered something in Jack’s ear and motioned Louie in the direction of Jack’s pick up with the homemade plywood cap on the back. I took up the space in the back behind Bingy in the front passenger seat. Our little guest, haggard and shivering, climbed behind the wheel on Bingy’s order. Elsie picked the 308 up from the seat and leveled the barrel at the head of the terrified little man.

There was a ramshackle country store run by an old Russian and his sister on the way out of the flats. Bingy directed the driver to stop in front, and leave the motor running. “You go in there and get a case of beer and some cigarettes for the girls. I’ll pay you when you get out. And keep your goddamn mouth shut. I’ll be watchin’. ” Louie pulled up behind us and waited. I glanced in the rearview and saw, unbeknownst to the county, a fine representation of voter confidence in their choice of local law enforcement. “Sheriff’s behind us.” I said. “Good one ain’t he.” Elsie laughed. We looked at one another, shook our heads and laughed. “Goddamned good way to spend a Sunday afternoon.” Bingy cackled. “That poor little bastard don’t know whether to shit or go blind. He probably thinks the demons from Hell have got him and he ain’t gonna see tomorrow. Got any food left Else’?” Poor little bastard hasn’t eaten all day. He’ll probably drive all the way to Connecticut without stoppin’ just to get away from that crazy son-of-a- whore of a poacher and his Goddamned crazier brother-in-law, the sheriff.”

I watched the bald headed old Russian hand the little poet some bills and change from behind the counter in front of a smoke clouded window. He held the door open for the skinny customer who seemed to struggle with the mere weight of a box of Ballentine Ale and a carton of cigarettes. Uncle Jack, our newly anointed county sheriff met him at the door of our wagon and relieved him of half of the beer and a handful of packages of cigarettes. Bingy ordered our driver to slide the rest across the front seat before he got in. When he was settled Bingy offered him a hearty ham sandwich and a cup of coffee from our grubstake. “You’re gonna need your strength when we get back to that big black-son-of-a-whore. “Is this the last supper?” Bingy laughed. “Not as long as you do what I tell you and you don’t cross the sheriff. There’s some punkin’ pie here too if you want it.”

We wended our way out of town with Tillie at the wheel of the official county vehicle behind us. Elsie relaxed her grip on the rifle but maintained a steady aim at the back of the poet’s head. Bingy passed a cold Ballentine back to Elsie and me. The poet eagerly munched his sandwich, slurped hot coffee and let a loud fart. “Jesus!” Bingy exclaimed frantically rolling down the window. “It’s bad enough I have to gut that stinkin’ Jeesles’ moose tonight, but you’re enough to make a man puke his guts up. I know whores who lived in the back alleys of Mississippi that smell better n’ you. What you been eatin’ since you been up here? I know it ain’t that goddamned ham sandwich.” All of us guffawed. The poet responded meekly. “Its just my nerves. This isn’t what I’d call a joyous picnic in the country surrounded by the beauty of nature you know.” We all laughed again. “Well here, this should calm you down.” Bingy said, passing an unopened bottle of Ballentine to him. “I’ll gladly go to jail for all we’ve done today, if we don’t have to smell one of them Jeesley stinkin’ things again!” Everyone snickered a third time as we wound out of town though the flats and back into the high country. Tired, clothes hinting of stale sweat, I dragged a hand across my oily forehead and rubbed a slippery palm on my corduroy trousers in the ragged darkness of the back seat of that fetid station wagon.

An hour later I recognized the mouth of the road that would lead us to where the events of that fateful day began. “Turn onto that road and drive slow. Don’t stop ‘til I tell you.” Bingy ordered. I sat up and looked for the clearing where the dead moose lay waiting to be delivered from its forlorn place of repose. The poet inched the now coffee, beer and cigarette-fragranced wagon along, restrained by Bingy’s frequent admonishments to “Slow this goddamned tub down you little son-of-a-whore so I can see where we are!” Bright shafts of light from Jacks’ high-beams sporadically swathed us with bounding rays that eerily bounced through our windows, to the treetops above and back again in erratic intervals, lending an ominous tone to our mission.

“There it is Bing!” I hollered. See the dead pine on the edge of that opening? That’s where the meat is. By Jesus we’ll have tenderloin for breakfast tomorrow!” Caught up in the allure of our adventure, I momentarily forgot that I was expected home sometime tonight and my presence in school the following morning was another prospect that I was considerably unconcerned with at the present point in time. It was of no consequence to me that most kids my age were at home studying for tomorrow’s academic endeavors while I was up in the middle of Hell’s Asshole, involved in undertakings that few people could dredge up from the most twisted depths of their psyche, on an undertaking that would surely result in the finding of myself idling away the waning years of my youth as someone’s dancing partner at the boy’s reformatory in Windham.

Our driver pulled off to the side of the road. Louie rolled up behind us in Jack’s mud covered truck, jumped out and greeted me at the equally filthy station wagon. “Uncle Jack’s about half drunk an’ wants to get this job done with so he can get back home an’ fry up some fresh liver. Let’s git goin’.” I climbed out of the car followed by Bingy. Elsie and the poet waited in the wagon with the muzzle of the moose slayer pointed squarely at the back of his head. Our friend, the raw wind, was at it again, snapping branches like an invisible trickster, driving sharp shivers through our clammy skin and threatening to bring the entire forest down on top of us as just reward for our misdeeds on that day. The now less-than-respectable sheriff jumped out of the unofficial county vehicle, fell in the muddy road, got up and half-staggered toward us. “Get that Goddamned vagrant criminal of that car.” He hollered. Elsie poked the terrified man between the shoulders with the rifle barrel and they both stepped out into the elements. “What’s this?” Jack pointed to the bottle of Ballentine clenched in the poet’s hand. “I’m arresting you for drunk driving an’ endangerin’ the lives of your passengers.” Our friend stood quaking in the middle of that God forsaken road, wet his pants and threw the bottle into the woods. “And for that I’m gonna’ add a charge of litterin’.” Bingy grabbed a flashlight from the wagon, turned it on and waved it in the direction of our fallen prey. “You boys grab that bone saw and the ax. The girls

can hold the lights, then we’ll all hoist that son-of-a-whore into the truck.” We started for the clearing where the big animal lay. The poet stopped at the edge of the woods. “Can I go now, you don’t need me any more, I’ll just go home and I promise I won’t say a word to anyone.” “You ain’t goin’ nowhere. You’re now a prisoner of the county sheriff. Get over here and help or I’ll skin your ass just like that big black fella’ in there.” Bingy and I led the way through the wet jack firs followed by the poet with Elsie prodding him along with regular pokes in the back from the business end of the 308.

We must have been a sight that would have inspired the likes of Poe and Hawthorn with Louie, Uncle Jack and Tillie bringing up the rear, flashlights flailing over everything and tools of our trade clanging like together like sounds emanating from a haunted old mine. As he accompanied that entourage in the pitch black of night with the wind blustering across the ridges and through the trees, the poet must have thought that he had stumbled upon the Festival of the Fiends hosted by the dastardliest demons from the inner hubs of Hell.

Bingy scanned the forest floor ahead of with quick jabs of his flashlight into the black void that surrounded us. “There he is Bing’ “ I see his horns.” “Goddamned good job boy! Let’s get them guts an’ asshole out of him and load him in the truck so we can get to Hell out of this Jeesless place.” Louie, Bingy and I took off out jackets, rolled up our sleeves and reached up into the long slit that Bingy had made with his razor sharp hunting knife that afternoon. The cavity was still warm and the blood felt like tepid water as it slid down our arms. We made quick work of the steaming entrails, the three of us tugging and cutting and piling them up in a ghastly pile next to the dead beast. “”Jack, you put that swill down an git up here with me, an the boys and your vagrant prisoner an we’ll grab that son-of-a whore by the horns. The girls can turn those the hind legs up so he’s slidin’ across the moss on his ass. Do like I say an’ we’ll git i’m outta here slicker ‘n shit.”

The stage was set, our roles assigned and another chapter in that infamous day began. Everyone huffed and hauled, cursed and spit as we dragged our prize toward the truck, our slender, effeminate guest, grubby, sweating, and bloody and in the thick of it with us. The poet cursed and spat loudly. “Come on you no good son-of-whore!” Bingy laughed and looked at me. “By Jesus I think he’s getting’ the hang of it!”

The sheriff led the way with one hand on an antler and the other navigating between a bottle of beer in his coat pocket and a nine-volt flashlight. “Dammit Jack, you’re gonna be all in if you keep bullin’ like that!” Bingy mocked. Soon the edge of the road appeared in the dying beam of Jack’s flashlight. Another burst of groans, grunts and curses brought us and the fallen monarch of the Maine Woods to a resting spot that could now be reached with a short drive in the pick-up.

As we labored for our breath, Elsie and Tillie, with their thick strands of sweat-caked hair stuckto their faces, went for the truck. The rest of us smoked and relieved ourselves in the road.

“We’ll come back for my truck tomorrow.” Bingy said dryly. I’ve just about had enough Goddamned fun for one day.” “Will I be able to talk to my lawyer when we get back to town?” The poet asked meekly” Seizing the opportunity, Bingy replied “”We ain’t out of here yet. There’s a good chance that we might have to bury a Game Warden tonight if he comes on us.” If that happens dead witnesses don’t need lawyers.” I cringed at the thought of old Francis McCauslin, a few months away from retirement haplessly stumbling upon our pathetic lot with Bingy and Beaver Jack deep in their cups.

Elsie backed the truck up to us. We were a motley looking lot Louie, Bingy, The Sheriff , Bingy and me, standing in the glare of the taillights and flashlight beams, covered with mud, tree slime and patches of caked blood from our dead prey. The little poet looked as he had gotten into a knife fight with everyone except him wielding a weapon. Blood and moose-hair covered his sharkskin jacket, scratches and sweat streaked across his face like downed telephone lines after a storm.

I flung the tailgate open. Bingy commanded, “Let’s get him in there and be done with it boys.” Everybody had a piece of the moose. Louie, Elsie, and Tillie had the hind legs while Bingy, the Vagrant, Mr. Sheriff and I struggled with the front. Yelling, cursing and groaning, we hoisted the moose onto the tailgate and shoved him forward. Bingy barked out the last order at the killing site. “Grab the stuff and let’s get to Hell out of here. “Tillie we’ll follow you.” I was glad to be headed home.

With a 308 hunting rifle pointed at the back of his head, hair looking like an oil soaked birds nest, expensive clothing soiled and tattered, sweaty hands trembling on the steering wheel, and four sullen and edgy captors giving no allusion to his fate, I have long since reflected on those final ninety minutes of our Sunday sporting event as probably most terrifying of our little driver’s life.

Breaking the silence, and not for the better as far as our little friend was concerned, Bingy posed a question to him. “Ever shot a pistol boy?” “No, I never have.” “We’ll it ain’t too hard.” Bingy opened the glove box and slid out a revolver with worn grips and badly in need of bluing. “You just pull the hammer back, point it and pull the trigger like this.” The hammer dropped with a sharp click. “We’re almost out of this Jessley place boy, but there’s 35 miles between us and a locked garage where you’re gonna help us hang that big black son-of-a whore, an I don’t want no old game warden who’s about ready to retire making one last show for ‘imself on my dime. SO here’s the deal boy. You’ve got a lot of stuff on us even though you’re guilty as Hell just fer touchin’ the damn thing, and to insure that you stay guilty an’ keep your moth shut if you ever git out of here alive after the sheriif gits done with you, I’m givin you one last job to do if the need arises.” Our little driver, white knuckled,and hunched over the steering wheel darted an apprehensive glance at Bingy and stammered meekly “What is the job?” “You’re gonna shoot that Jeesley warden right between the eyes with this here pistol if we see him an’ he stops us. You understand me Boy?” “I can’t do that and I won’t!” Elsie poked the barrel of her rifle into the soft of his neck just below the skull. “You do as Bingy says or I’m gonna blow your fool head off!” I wondered what my dancing partner at the reformatory for boys would be like. Did they swap you around after awhile? Seeing the bleakness of my future and my fading hopes of ever amounting to anything outside of a steel cell, my only wish was that the other inmates would put me closer to the top rung of the food chain for the heinousness of the crimes I was involved in on that Godless day, sparing me from a career as somebody’s bitch in the caste system of the Sate Prison.

Fortunately for all of us and especially the local Game warden, or any law enforcemnt official our ride out was uneventful, save for a couple of teenagers from the flats parked on the side of the coal-ash road in a beat-up yellow Chevy pick-up. Windows cloaked in steam, and with careful observation, one could see an occasional jarring of the entire vehicle.

Upon our arrival back at the Sheriff’s command post, I felt a sense of relief that could only be described as elation, as we would soon be rid of the huge critter locked in the back of Beaver Jack’s truck. I could commence fabricating my tale to my mother about how I was going to stay at Louie’s house for the night to help him prepare for tomorrow’s math test, that in reality would consist of a day of butchering, laundering my filthy clothes and feasting on the delicacies of grilled moose tenderloin, tongue and liver. All I could hope for now was that Bingy and the Sheriff, largely unknown to his constituents, deep in their cups wouldn’t take the joke too far as far as our out-of state friend was concerned.

I stepped out of the car and looked across the black-forested ridge, saw the lights from the town below twinkling at me in the cold night air. Their shimmer punctuated the serenity of that Sunday evening. “Tillie back that truck up to the garage and we’ll hang that son-of-a whore up.” Bingy ordered stepping out of the mud encrusted station wagon. “Where’s the sheriff? He’s got a prisoner to tend to here.” “He’s passed out in the front seat Bang. I ain’t been able to wake him since we left the flats.” Cried Tally in the cold darkness. “Jesus!” Bingy retorted. A dead moose to hang and a vagrant to take care of. Elsie bring ‘im out here! Elsie marched the wobbly-legged poet in front of the business end of the .308. He looked worse for the wear and anxiety over his fate during the last hour than the rest of us combined.

“Bingy relieved himself and belched loudly. “Well Mr. Poet, you’ve done what you needed to do an’ with the Sheriff out of commission for awhile you had better make good your escape. “I-I can go the little man stammered?” Yes you stupid son-of-a-whore you can go. I’ll tell him you slipped your cable an was gone before I could get a bead on you. “ The little effeminate extended a greasy hand. After today I have learned what life is all about and I want to thank you for the experience. I’m going back to the city and write a book about the whole thing! What an adventure story!”


Bingy grabbed the filthy little man by the collar and got into his face. “If you so much as tell one soul about this I’ll hunt you down and blow your Jeslus head off! Now git in that goddam car git the Hell out of here before I change my mind an wake the sheriff.

The would-be adventure writer wasted no time. He hopped into his car, spun the tires and sprayed wet gravel everywhere. “Foolish son of a whore!” Bingy exclaimed. I ought to write the book my goddamned self! Jesus what a day!”

Thus the adventure of the winter meat harvesting came to a close and I began fabricating the story about how the tree crashed onto the truck and there was this kind stranger who came upon us in the dark of the night………………………..