A Hayward Thanksgiving

A HAYWARD THANKSGIVING

OR

IT’S THE GREAT TURKEY GIZZARD CHARLOTTE BROWN!

 

“One of the earliest “Thanksgiving” celebrations, is now known to have taken place in the Greater Hayward Recreational Area long before Wisconsin was a state or territory, indeed, long before the United States was a nation. A French trader, a certain Oslimane Roy, had culled together his trading partners, indigenous hunters and exuberant gatherers alike, and, roasting a freshly harvested whitetail buck on a six foot spit, had bade them feast together, before they had all drunk themselves into a stupor, resulting in the the Great Fire of 1699.”

–Midwest Historical Surveyors Organization, 2014

 

Snip, snip, snip a sequoia’s snaggle,

gird the goose, gird the goose, gird the goose’s gaggle

–early R.E.M. outtake from Chronic Town sessions

 

Lionel was hungry. Lionel was bored. For him, he knew, this was a dangerous combination. With time to kill and money burning a hole in his pocket, he took the cream colored phone off of its receiver on the wall and dialed long distance. After six rings, a voice answered.

“Hello?” asked Theodore.

“Hey Teddy Tutu, is Chaz around?”

Theodore, who hated when Lionel called him “Teddy Tutu,” reported that Chaz was no longer in school.

“Oh, home for the holidays?” asked Lionel.

“Um, no Lionel,” Theodore hesitated, confused. “He graduated last spring.”

“Oh, he did? Guess I didn’t know that.” And now Lionel was confused…though generally speaking, he was not so clear in his day to day thinking to begin with. “Hmm, well, do you know where he’s at? Do you know how I can reach him?”

“Umm,” again Theodore paused, not sure if Chaz really wanted to be reached–least ways by Lionel. He thought, maybe, there’d been a falling out between the two of them. Maybe.

“Teddy….Teddy Tutu…I’m waiting,” said Lionel in that cloying, weird voice he used to flirt or beg with people whenever he wanted something. Theodore disliked that voice even more than he disliked being called “Teddy Tutu.” His own discomfort taking precedence over his former roommate’s, Theodore reasoned that Chaz could handle Lionel and his strange begging on his own. And who knows, rationalized Theodore, that elusive rascal Chaz may have even moved on by now, without telling anyone, as was often his habit.

“Teddy…Teddy Tu…Tu.” Lionel was raising the pitch of his voice higher and higher, the way one might coo to a kitten, or a newborn. That cinched it.

“He’s at his mom’s,” said Theodore.

“Now that wasn’t so hard was it Teddy?” Lionel continued on, using his strange cooing voice. “Maybe I’ll have to come see you sometime Teddy Tutu.”

Honestly grossed out by the very idea of Lionel coming to see him, Theodore gushed out a lie that he was leaving soon with the Saint Martin’s College choir. Touring northern Europe over the holidays and the interim semester. He’d not be back for several months.

“Then maybe I’ll see you after J-term Teddy…I’ve been away from ol’ Saint Marty’s for way too long,” Lionel almost sang.

Theodore wasn’t sure what grossed him out more, the idea of Lionel visiting him (certainly without advance notice) or that he was colloquially referring to Saint Martin’s as he had–as someone who attended college there (or who had attended college there).

“I graduate in February,” Theodore said, lying again.

“Well you’ll have to give Chaz your new phone number, or I can just look up your parents’ number and call them Teddy Tutu,” said Lionel, oblivious to the fact that no one graduated from any college anywhere, anytime in February.

Truly frightened by the idea of Lionel tracking down and calling his parents, Theodore quickly said that his parents were retiring and moving somewhere–exacly where he didn’t know yet (A toss up between Arizona and Tokyo), and so, he would leave his number with Chaz. “Okay Lionel?” Theodore said with fearful hope.

“Okay Teddy Tutu, I’ll let you go now, but one more thing Teddy Tutu…just one more thing.” The cooing was nauseating. Trying not to vomit, Theodore accepted his fate, it was the only way to end this call.

“Okay…Lionel Lion,” said Theodore, doing his best to purr.

“Bye bye Teddy Tutu, bye bye,” came the final coo.

 

Without replying, Theodore hung up.

 

…

 

Chaz was running. He’d taken it up while at Saint Martin’s, had learned that value of a good run in letting off steam. He’d been full of steam today. His classes were not going well, he was sure, and he was sure that if his classes didn’t go well, he’d never get hired on full time for the following school year. He was currently teaching a mere two classes a day. Even worse, each class was a mere 38 minutes long, which, when combined with the minuscule prep time he was given, meant he was teaching less than two hours a day! He supplemented his teaching hours by working in the school as a teacher’s assistant in a “special room” for kids with behavioral problems. “Behavioral problems!” Chaz huffed aloud as his legs climbed up a leaf strewn hill. “Those kids have problems with everything!”

Running harder, he concentrated on not thinking about work. He’d graduated six months earlier, graduated from Saint Martin’s College! Such a thing! Life was a pearl! Life was a trove of opportunity! He’d student taught at inner city schools, at an elite suburban school as well, he’d gotten good grades, been in theater and choir and volunteered with the radio station, volunteered at the homeless shelters, worked non-stop for campus security, tutored the foreign exchange students!

And here he was, teaching 1.78 hours a day.

“Keep. Running!” he grunted, sprinting now.

1.78 hours a day meant he couldn’t live anywhere that charged rent. Now, wasn’t that a statement! He had worked hard his entire life as a student just to obtain a teaching job he couldn’t afford!

He had been working part time at his old high school job–at a supermarket in New Richmond but he had been forced to whittle his hours down to weekends only. For while he was paid part time as teacher, he was expected to work full time. He was expected to attend every before school meeting and to volunteer his time for after school activities! Eventually he would have no recourse except to leave his job at the supermarket (which he wouldn’t mind leaving as every former teacher of his–the bitter, snide ones anyway, would always make sure to bring their groceries to his lane to check out, making sure to make comments about Chaz working as a cashier and how they’d always known he’d “amount to something,”–as if there were shame in working for a supermarket–as if four years hadn’t passed, as if it weren’t possible that he’d gone to college, graduated and was now working two or three jobs just to make ends meet!). Now he had secured some additional school hours as a T.A. but had almost instantly pined for the preferred ridicule of his former teachers at the supermarket.

For Chaz had been placed in the Behavioral Assistance Room (BAR) at his school and while the students in the BAR program all had reams of files detailing their handicaps and behavioral diagnoses, Chaz, and everyone else, knew they were all just monstrous, unkempt, wild kids who had sprung from the loins of their monstrous, unkempt, wild parents. In a neat twist, 5 of the students shared 8 of the same parents, the mathematics of which, made Chaz dizzy.

He ran harder. “Stop. Thinking. About. Work.” He stopped at the curve in path he’d ground out in the woods. He found the birch trunk he liked and sat upon it despite the dampness. He looked out over the bay of the Apple flowage. Trees lined the opposite shore. His side of the river bay was all owned by a crazy pilot who lived in Florida 9 months of the year. The other side was owned by the department of natural resources. There was no one around, no one except the deer and squirrels and the turkeys, who had only recently returned.

Wiping the sweat off his brow, his heart thumping under his Saint Martin’s College sweatshirt, Chaz bellowed curse words, letting them fly off into the woods, taking with them, his so called Generation X angst.

 

…

 

Lionel was quite pleased with himself. He’d taken the initiative and called that jokester Teddy Tutu’s parents, he remembered they lived in Moose Lake, Minnesota and so he’d dialed Information and tracked down Teddy Senior’s phone number (before he could move) and Lionel had been a bit surprised that the elder Teddy had had no idea what Lionel was talking about as far as retiring or moving to Florida or Tokyo or really, even Teddy Junior’s trip to Europe or impending graduation. Lionel shrugged it off, for he knew those Marties, as his pals from Saint Martin’s were called) were always playing practical jokes on him–those rascals! He knew it must be a sure sign of just how much they liked having him around, so he went along with it, and laughed in concert with Teddy Tutu’s father as he expressed his confusion in the entire matter.

Lionel had then turned on what he liked to refer to as his “Lion’s Charm,” and had sucked up considerably to Teddy Tutu’s father and then, in turn, with his mother. Lionel was quite certain that Teddy Tutu’s parents, being stuck up college snobs like their son, had not the slightest notion that he hated them and was just shining them on. Lionel knew he was a master manipulator–was quite certain that no one on earth knew just how fake his smarminess was.

Hanging up the phone, Theodore’s mother had looked at her husband and remarked, “Is it just me, or is that guy the biggest ass kisser you’ve ever met? Too bad Theodore and Chaz wound up with a loser like that in the school.”

“That’s just the thing,” Theodore Sr. clarified. “He doesn’t even go to school there.”

“Oh, he graduated with Chaz?”

“No, I don’t think he ever even attended Saint Martin’s.”

 

…

 

Having successfully suckered Teddy Tutu’s parents, Lionel had in turn called Chaz’s mother, Shermie’s parents, Frankie’s parents, Redorsche’s parents and he had even called good ol’ Pepper’s folks way down in Iowa! He had obtained the phone numbers of their now graduated children and was going to invite them all up to his neat little trailer in a remote alcove of Siren Lake.

He was going to invite them all up for Thanksgiving.

But such a momentous event, such a celebration would require a fair amount of preparation and so, wearing a little pair of neon lime green shorts he’d saved from the eighties, Lionel had begun dusting, organizing and tidying up! More importantly, he’d begun…plotting.

Oh how he loved to plot!

Lionel was playing some of his favorite cassettes from the eighties. He wanted to make sure he recalled correctly all of his college gang’s favorite tunes from the good ol’ days! Singing with the Violent Femmes and the Talking Heads, his tiny shorts somewhat glimmering in the twilight haze coming through the blinds of his trailer windows, Lionel felt that, perhaps, the music would be better, the cleaning more efficient, if he were naked.

 

…

 

Chaz had flown down the last part of the trail winding over the river and through the woods to the two room cabin he’d been afforded by the Florida Pilot. It wasn’t the nicest place, but it was more than enough room for him and his cat Jacko. True, there was no insulation, and that was a bit of an issue, but, there were always more layers of clothing one could put on, more wool blankets, more quilts. And there was the wood stove. True, the heat the wood stove kicked out rose and went out the uninsulated roof, but for the duration of the burning, the two room cabin was like a Swedish sauna!

Now, impossibly, his phone was ringing inside the cabin! His phone! As Chaz fumbled through his keys searching for the skeleton key which open the front door, he tried puzzling out just who could be calling him–all of three people even knew the number! He was quite certain it wouldn’t be anyone from school, it was the day before Thanksgiving and the school had already been closed all week due to the opening of deer hunting (with a firearm) season. While it was true that not everyone in the area hunted, more than enough did so as to make holding classes pointless. Chaz had already enjoyed several days off and he couldn’t imagine why anyone from the school district would be calling him.

It could be his dad, but unlikely. They already had made their plans for Thanksgiving and so there would be no need for his dad to make an expensive long distance call. His ex-girlfriend wouldn’t be calling to get back together–not yet. That wouldn’t probably be for another week at the earliest. So who was it?

Fidgeting the long, silver key into the old fashioned keyhole, Chaz managed to pop the lock and he burst through the cabin doors. Jacko mewed at him and Chaz rushed past and grabbed the black phone off of the tiny kitchen counter. “Hello?” he gulped, sweat ringing his sweatshirt.

“Heyyyyyyy!” came the voice. It was Redorsche, known to all, for obvious reasons, as Roached.

“Heyyyyyyy!” he answered by rote. “No way!” he added.

“Way,” said the voice on the other end.

“Roached?!” Chaz yelled.

“How’s it going man?” asked Roached, as carefree as you’d like.

“Aww, wow. Wow. Hey, how are you dude?” asked Chaz. He certainly hadn’t expected to hear from any of his Saint Martin’s buddies but he certainly was happy to be hearing from this one!

“Good man, how’re you? Jesus, you’re hard to track down,” said Roached. It was true, and they both knew, it was deliberate. Chaz was a fellow who, when he wanted to disappear, did and did so quite completely. It wasn’t anything personal, Redorsche alone understood, it was just in his nature.

“Aw, Roached, aw, I’m good. It’s really good to hear from you!” Chaz meant it. They were the best kind of best friends–the kind that were always a minute apart, no matter if they hadn’t spoken in days, months, or years. Without a misstep, with nary a hesitation, they updated one another on what was now almost a full twelve months of separation–and if you added the time Chaz had spent student teaching (wherein he saw virtually no one except his students and supervising teachers, and the back of his eyelids), it had been more like 18 months!

Roached was writing computer programs for the state of Minnesota now. Well, he was, first and foremost, working as a customer service representative for the state’s computer systems, but since virtually no one in the entire state (outside of the University of Minnesota and Saint Martin’s College) knew anything at all about computers, it still being the dark ages of the early 1990’s, he really spent his days writing basic programs for all the state’s departments, their computers, and for the people who didn’t know how to use them.

He was living at home with his parents, which was actually pretty cool since his parents, like Roached, were living and breathing (and inhaling) hippies.

Roached had been surprised that Chaz had moved “back home” at first but once Chaz had explained the teaching jobs situations (there were none), he’d understood. Chaz had described his cabin, his isolation, and how it had leant itself to his creative endeavors, and then Roached had not only understood, he’d been impressed. Though they’d gone to college in Big Town Minneapolis and enjoyed it, they were both small town fellas at heart. They would both live in New York city in their latter years, they would both retain houses or cabins in their hometowns, and, try as they might, they would both never forget this year’s Thanksgiving weekend.

 

…

 

Cliff Thigpen was tumbling down a hill. Somersaulting and turnstiling down one of the countless, steep banks lining Siren Lake, he felt his bowels release themselves, joining the urine already in his jeans. He heard that cooing voice call out his nickname, and then he threw up on himself too. His shoulders slammed perfectly into the “V” shape of a forked pine tree and he added salty tears of terror and pain to the mix.

“Piggy, Piggy, Piggy!” cried the voice–the voice of the thing chasing him.

Piggy Thigpen tried desperately to stand up. Unusually out of shape for a twenty five year old male, and terribly overweight, Cliff “Piggy” Thigpen felt his bruised chin briefly gain lift off of the “V” of the pine tree before his huge (but weak) legs buckled, causing his chin to slam back down into the “V.”

“I like to see you running Piggy,” cooed the voice. Piggy felt fingers grip and entwine the few hairs he had on his head (he was unusually bald for a twenty five year old male) and then he felt his head snap up. Screaming, he saw a man wearing a “pilgrim” costume and he saw the man holding an “olde tyme” musket. And then Piggy Thigpen saw the butt of the ‘olde tyme’ musket as it came at his bulbous, bald, beluga like forehead. He heard what he was pretty sure was his skull crack and then Piggy saw and heard no more.

…

     “Heyyy!” shouted Chaz.

“Heyyy!” the two men in the car shouted back.

“Heyyy!” all three of them repeated.

Roached was driving his parent’s black, two door Seville. It was one of the last ones of its kind you could see out on the highways still. A thing of beauty, it was larger than some houses, and some houses probably got better gas mileage.

Their fellow graduate of Saint Martin’s College, Patrick Pepper, had thoughtfully taken the back seat and so Chaz got into the front to ride shotgun. Roached had already clearly been living up to his nickname and Chaz saw that Pepper had a couple of Fosters king cans already emptied. “Jesus you guys, where do you think you’re at–Wisconsin?” he joked.

“I think we’re at the trailer park,” said Pepper.

“What’s the difference,” shot Roached.

“Taste’s like chicken,” said Chaz.

Roached pulled out of the large driveway of Chaz’s mother’s apartment building (he had been working at his hometown supermarket job and it was more timely to be picked up in New Richmond). The Seville, being even larger than the parking lot, required a “Y” turn to make it out onto the street. Snow was falling now, like it always had when the three men had been children, which it did less each year they aged. If there was a correlation, they didn’t know it.

Fishtailing the Seville was impossible–it held four fifths of its weight up front and so Roached put the pedal down and raced through Chaz’s hometown and headed his way out to the back roads rolling through Star Prairie, bypassing Deer Park, rounded east of Amery and shot on through the construction site of the new casino in Turtle Lake, onward and upward, further and further upon the grim, small, tree lined roads leading to Hayward, leading to Siren Lake, leading to Lionel.

 

…

 

“Hold still,” came the voice, the voice came to Cliff Thigpen, the same voice he’d heard just before the sharp pain had come to his skull. “Please just hold still my puffy Piggy,” bade the voice, in a coo. Cliff stopped squirming. He felt ropes around his arms and legs.

“Yes, that’s better my puffy Piggy. Time for the stuffy stuffy my puffy puffy Piggy. As Cliff opened his mouth, intending to scream for help, he felt something jammed into it. Something gooey, something crusty, and something…berry. Feeling as is he might choke, Cliff Thigpen instinctively bit down, chomped, gulped, swallowed.

He tasted bread, celery, and…cranberries.

“Good boy my stuffy stuffy puffy puffy Piggy,” came that sickening, saccharine voice. “If you keep this up, it will be time for fluffy fluffy, my stuffy stuffy, puffy puffy.” Through glazed eyes, Cliff thought he could see…lime green shorts. Then he saw them…twirl? Twirling-in a dance? Cliff cried out, his head yanked back, pain shooting through his cracked skull. He felt the mixture of bread and celery, cranberries (and was that a hint of nutmeg he tasted, and cinnamon crusted almonds?) shoved in between his lips once again. Pain and delicious, complementary flavors burst through his brain and Cliff Thigpen chewed and swallowed again and again, the neon lime green shorts twirling between each spoonful.

 

…

 

Roached was an excellent driver and the trio of Marties made their way up to the Greater Hayward Recreational Area in good time. (“I’m going to make extra special time,” Roached had promised.) The Seville was a smooth ride, luxury and comfort in a steel beast, with velvety upholstery, and a nice radio complete with a sweet cassette player. Roached, a handyman genius, had installed the entire system himself as a high school junior. It was true that he himself drove a neat little, two seated coupe these days but for a trip like this, more seats were needed, more comfort, more protection from the foul elements (and beasts) north of highway 8.

Pepper recounted his latest work as a graphic designer. He was pushing for his employer to invest in the information system more and more people were referring to as “The Internet.” His employer wasn’t sure, thought it might be more of a fad, more of a hobby for computer geeks and nerds. “Why invest money in some kind of hypothetical fantasy when you can just save all your stuff to your hard drive or to a floppy disk?” his boss had asked Pepper.

Pepper, never one to skillet what one could stew, had simply smiled and, pretending he was playing Doom (online), shot his boss with a pretend laser machine gun blaster.

Chaz was content to listen. He shared, briefly, his travails as a part time teacher. He shared with them a few, gross stories about the supervising teacher he worked with in the BAR program and how he liked to leave “Stink bombs” in strategic locations for the students to take in, thinking it the height of hilarity. It was noted, that the teacher, was of course, married to one of the local principals. A former “star football player,” he’d led Wanderoos to an impressive 4-6 record his senior year. He’d flunked out of three state schools before being granted a “provisional” license by the state board of education on the appeal of the superintendent of Wanderoos schools, who was known to be screwing, among other people, the teacher’s wife.

Hearing all of this, Pepper, who was from Protestant Iowa, had asked, “Is this Wisconsin…or Kentucky?”

 

…

 

Cliff Thigpen was feeling rather full. Ordinarily, he did not much mind feeling pleasantly full. But this was different. He felt, well, he felt…stuffed. He felt warm. He felt…fluffed. His eyes shot open, still blurry, his concussion acting as a gauze over his vision. He thought he could still see the neon lime green shorts. They were covering a very white body which seemed to be adorned by a crown of curly, extremely red hair. He thought perhaps he recognized the person, but with his brain’s already limited capacity for comprehension even further compromised, he could not quite be sure.

He watched the mop of red curls as they seemed to be going up and down and up and down, the neon shorts following suit in accordance. Cliff focused his eyes, realized that the shorts were much closer to him than he had previously made out, could see they were ascending and descending a ladder situated right next to him. His hearing slowly overcame the ringing in his ears and now he could hear that cooing voice singing “Stuffy stuffy the fatty puffy, now stuffy puffy get his fluffy fluffy!” Cliff soon found himself humming along with the singer in the shorts, his concussed delirium taking over his better intentions, his awkward reservations.

“Oh! Fluffy Puffy with the stuffy stuffy is going to sing with Mr. Huffy Huffy! Now that is…happiness!” cried the singer, shimmying in his shorts. “Piggy Piggy Piggy going wiggly wiggly wiggly!” The red hair bopped.

This snapped Cliff Thigpen out of his reverie of pain and he realized that, rather than being plucked, he was being…feathered.

Great white, feathery plumes–the kind you find in home furnishing stores for sixty five year old, small town women, were stuck into Cliff’s roly poly, naked body. Looking down, Cliff noticed he was on something silver.

A tray, he was on a tray. “A tray?” he stopped singing, to ask.

“No, no, no Fluffy Stuffy Puffy, Wiggly Piggy, not a tray! Piggy Piggy, you are getting fatter…fatter for the platter!” sang the redhead, shaking his tight freckled butt in his even tighter shorts.

Grimacing, Lionel pierced with another plume, filling a small area devoid of plumage, on Cliff’s pimpled ass. “Presentation is everything Piggy Piggy Piggy!” explained the Red Chef. “And, when presenting, it’s the details, the details which make the banquet a bouquet!”

 

…

 

The three young men in the Seville had been rounding curves for some time now, the laborious route to Lionel’s trailer on Siren Lake, not being a road for the timid…or the hurried. They’d exhausted their beers, exhausted their lungs, and now they were anticipating a different kind of exhaustion at Lionel’s.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” asked Pepper.

“Yeah, tell him,” said Redorsche, inhaling.

“Look guys, we don’t have to do anything, especially not with Lionel. But, don’t you ever think it’s worthwhile to see out new experiences? Challenge yourself? Like we did in college?” said Chaz, ever the intrepid explorer, the Kerouacian Fool, seeking out Roman candles, searching for the next Cassidy. “Happiness is watching a train wreck.”

“Yeah, I get it Chaz,” said Pepper, “Who doesn’t like a good train wreck? But, and here’s the rub, why seek out the train wreck?”

“Or worse,” warned Roached, “Why be a part of it?”

“I’ve survived worse train wrecks than Lionel,” said Chaz. Who had.

“Those weren’t train wrecks,” said, Pepper. “Those were women.” And they had been.

Pulling off the curving road and down a pine needled driveway, Roached brought the Seville to a stop, the journey over, the adventure just beginning. “Either way,” he said, with that steady voice of his, always the essence of pleasant civility, rather like James Stewart in the movie Harvey, “we’re here. Though by the looks of it, I’m not sure Lionel is.”

The other two could see that it was apparently true. There was only one light on inside Lionel’s trailer and one small, outside light on above the trailer’s front door. Despite being a mere twenty or thirty yards off the road and into the woods lining Siren Lake, the three Marties were enclosed in near blackness, strange sounds echoing off that strange lake, in that strangest of lands. “Sweet Jesus,” said Pepper, who never said such things.

The three men climbed out of the Seville and walked gingerly up to the spot lit door. A note taped to it eloquently read, “Cum inside.” Rolling his eyes, Pepper looked at Chaz and said, “Your train wreck sir, may I get you anything else?”

Himself a true Wisconsinite yet still spooked by the sheer eeriness of the scene, Chaz said, “Um, yeah, you can get me the hell out of here.”

“Uh uh,” said Roached, who was unflappable, and who liked a good scare, “You brought this on yourself Chazzy Boy, and I might add, you brought it on us. Time to take a closer look inside.” With a wicked grin framed by his new twenty something beard, Roached opened the door and flung it wide. Mouthwash and Brut (by Faberge) sprung out of the trailer, like locusts in gaseous form.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Pepper, yet again, as they entered.

“Any lights?” asked Chaz.

“Yup. I got your light right here pal,” said Roached, igniting his zippo. And his pipe. “That smell any better?” They laughed.

 

Moving slowly through the trailer, they were able to locate a light switch for the living room on the wall opposite the trailer door. Flipping it on, the three of them were stunned at the sheer size of the place. While it looked like a smaller sized trailer from the outside–even the size of a grandiose doghouse–on the inside the place seemed to have quadrupled in its square footage. They stared at the mock wood paneling lining the entire place. It was slightly orange in color–truly putrid. There were blue and white daisy floral curtains on each and every window and matching runners on the floors. A pool table–a full pool table, was at the end of the living room and led to a long hallway which they could not see the end of. An efficiency kitchen was the only admission of omission as far as comfort went, but they knew Lionel was always grilling and probably did not use the stove much. A replication of Picasso’s “Still Life of Kite and Tree,” hung over the small table in the kitchenette.

“Sweet Jesus,” the three men said, in unison.

…

     They had found a note on that small table in the kitchenette. It had offered them some Mickey’s malt liquor (in the fridge) and it had instructed the three Marties to walk down the path just north of the cabin, the path which looked like it would go right into Siren Lake. “Don’t worry,” the note had read, “the path doesn’t go right into the lake, it leads to a pumpkin patch”

“Uh huh,” said Pepper. “I’m thinking it might be time to get off of this train fellas.”

“Come on!” said Roached, laughing. “Where do you think you are? Vista Grove or something?”

Thinking over the great tale of the Vista Grove Pumpkin Patch serial killer from the sixties, Chaz said, “Maybe let’s not find out.”

“We’ve come too far to turn back now Chazzy Boy,” said Roached, who, with his long, easy strides, walked out the front door, and, finding the path, led the way.

 

…

 

The path had been even more winding and full of curves and bumps than the road. There were steep drop offs to the left and then the right of them, seemingly impossible, though, the recent college graduates knew, in the Greater Hayward Recreational Area, the laws of physics need not apply. From time to time, they could see Siren Lake itself, again, now on the left, now on the right. Again, they knew better than to question what their eyes were questioning–the vision of the Wisconsin night being a thing of twilight’s last scheming.

Pepper cuffed his foot right on the root of a tree and turkeyed his ankle, foreshadowing future trips in distant lands. In the strange stillness which lay between the harvest and its whirlwind of activity and the rush of December’s snow, the men made their way, uneasily, towards what they slowly perceived to be man made lights. A grove of pines ceded their territory and within their encirclement was the strangest little pumpkin patch, its brood still rounded and quite orange, silent witnesses to the bounty of yesterday’s October, but these pumpkins, the men knew, they were all rotten on the bottom.

“Rotten bottom, rotten bottom,” sang the host, reading their thoughts.

It was Lionel!

Under a delightful, if slightly odd combination of Christmas lights and candles, next to jack-o-lanterns replete with burning candles of their own, Lionel was standing in front of a large cornucopia, the kind you find in decorating stores designed for small town sixty year old women. But this was the largest cornucopia any of these young men had ever seen. Spilling out of it were cans of Mickey’s malt liquor, Slim Jims, Swisher Sweets cigars, cans of Coca Cola, and a few bottles of Windsor Canadian whiskey.

To the side and above the three men could see and hear an array of speakers, all hooked up to a sound system, carefully placed just to the side, so as not to interfere too much with the impending feast. Each speaker blared out “We’re On the Road to Nowhere,” by the Talking Heads, a song the three of them had not listened to willingly, for at least seven years. Oblivious to Grunge (or the Nineties) Lionel pumped his arms to the left and to the right, shouting along with David Byrne.

Lionel himself, he was playing the part as well, dressed up as a pilgrim, at least the kind usually portrayed as having been at the first Thanksgiving, with the black hat with the buckle, the boots, with the buckle, the knee highs, with the buckle. “Look at me!” he yelled, “I’m a pilgrim!” He sashayed.

“No you’re not,” corrected Pepper. “You’re a puritan. And they weren’t at the first Thanksgiving. Everyone gets that wrong.”

A bit miffed, Lionel began repeating, “Puffy Fluffy Stuffy, Piggy Piggy,” over and over, collected himself, and then bowed again, this time indicating, with over pronounced fanfare, the horrific sight behind him. “Well! I got this right!”

In the criss cross shadows of the firs and the pines, the cast away spires of light from both Christmas and Halloween shone their bright gaze upon a long table which was lined with Twinkees, glasses with ice in them, plastic forks, meat cleavers, bowls of popcorn, bags of carrots, and as many different kinds of squash as you’d like, each a wonderful shape, each a ruddy color.

And in the middle of it all lay a turkey. The biggest turkey anyone, anywhere had ever seen! White feathers adorned it as it lay on top of what was clearly a platter made of aluminum foil.

Ripping off his pilgrim pants in excitement, revealing his tight, lime green, neon shorts, Lionel began shouting, “Fluffy puffy stuffy!” over and over again, before adding, “It’s the great turkey gizzard Charlotte Brown!”

Aghast, the three men ran up to the table, wanting to confirm their worst fears. It was true, they could upon closer inspection, the “Great Turkey” was in fact, a person, naked, shaved, and impaled with great, white feathers. Upon even closer inspection, the three men could see that the great turkey was their old classmate Cliff Thigpen, and Cliff, never much of a looker to begin with, had definitely seen better days.

“Oh my God!” cried Pepper. “What have you done to Piggy!?”

“Stuffy stuffy, puffy fluffy!” sang Lionel, who clearly had been into the Mickey’s malt liquor. “Schtuffy! Schtuffy! Fluff fluff fluffy Puffy!” It seemed, perhaps, he had been a bit too much into the Canadian whiskey as well.

“Good Lord Lionel, you ain’t right. This ain’t right!” cried Roached, who thought maybe he’d been smoking the wrong stuff.

“Lionel, what would drive someone to do something as horrible as this–something so, so, so…heinous?” yelled out Chaz, who, it must be said, did not like this train wreck at all.

“Heinous heinous heinous!” sang the red headed puritanical pilgrim Lionel. “Anus heinous heinous anus!” He clapped, somewhat offbeat, for while his voice could find pitch decently enough, he never could keep time.

Just then, the pitifully living remains of Cliff Thigpen moaned an awful, tragic, turgid moan. It was, the three classmates recognized, the moan (or warble), of a dying turkey. Pepper lifted up one of Cliff’s “wings” revealing a disemboweled stomach. A fine dressing of bread crumbs, celery, cinnamon crusted almonds, and cranberries spilled forth from the wound causing the woods to smell…delicious.

“So warm, so warm,” gobbled poor Cliff, heated to a safe 150 degrees (or so the thermometer had read). The three classmates could see, from the sheen on Cliff’s beluga forehead, that Lionel had done a nice job of glazing and basting the bird.

“But why? Why would you do such a thing?” repeated Chaz, who was getting hungry.

“Because because because…because of Sally’s! Sally’s Sally’s Sally’s! Alleys alleys Sally’s alleys!” Lionel sang a new song.

“Huh?” the three Marties asked with one voice.

Lionel, who snapped up a rounded bottle of Mickeys, one which he surely did not need, and cracked it open. Having downed half of it, he scooped out a handful of Piggy’s dressing and ate some of it. Ever the perfect host, he offered some to Cliff too, who, considered it for a moment before declining, not being a fan of cranberries in his stuffing.

The three classmates, having witnessed this, threw up as one. Gagging and feeling their stomachs turn inside out, they couldn’t help but grab some beers to clear their throats.

“Again, why?” asked Chaz, his head dizzy with illness.

“Sally’s! Sally’s!” sand Lionel, his lime green shorts coming dangerously close to bursting.

“Yes, but what about Sally’s?” demanded Roached. Sally’s had been their main hang out while at Saint Martin’s College. In fact, it was the main hang out of all Marties and, even after they had graduated, it was a frequent destination. The beer was never flat, the atmosphere was cozy and safe, and Sally’s was known for their handmade, hand pickled…

“Turkey gizzards!” the three friends shouted out with one voice!   “This is all about Sally’s delicious handmade, hand pickled turkey gizzards!” deciphered Pepper. “But, why oh why would you do this to poor ol’ Cliff Thigpen? He never hurt anyone Lionel.”

“Fluffy puffy, stuffy, piggy wiggly,” Lionel resorted to his drunk singing, his puritan shirt now unbuttoned to reveal a hairless, freckled chest. Pouting his lips, Lionel thrust his hips forward, gaggling like a turkey. “Impress you, dress you, impress you, dress you!” he sang, pointing at the large turkey man he had so carefully prepared. He had drank an entire bottle of whiskey and a twelve pack of Mickey’s malt liquor, and he only vaguely recalled shaving Cliff Thigpen’s entire body before working on his own, malt liquor having the impact of a sledge hammer on most weekend drunks. But, he felt, somehow, his message was finally coming across.

Roached, calm now, having taken a hit off of his pipe, sleuthed out the rest of the mystery. “Let me get this right Lionel, let me just see…You wanted to be a “real” Marty, like you wanted to feel totally included in our little gang, our group of college graduates…and you figured the best way to do this was to offer us a gigantic turkey gizzard?”

Dancing spastically, his neon lime green shorts ripping nicely up his crotch, Lionel pointed to his nose over and over, indicating that Roached had indeed, gotten it ‘right on the nose.’

The three Marties burst out laughing, even as, with a dreadful sigh and a conflagration of gas, the turkey man Cliff Thigpen expired, too much heat, too much blood loss, too…dry.

Lionel stopped his prancing and dancing, unprepared for their laughter. “Stuffy puffy?” he asked.

“You stupid hick town idiot, people don’t have gizzards!” the Marties laughed, humiliating the cook, who should have known his food better.

“Do you mean we drove all of this way for nothing?” said Pepper.

“I wouldn’t say for nothing,” said Roached.

“True,” said Chaz. “I’ve had white meat, dark meat…but I ain’t never had no…red headed meat!”

The neon lime green shorts turned to run, turned to escape into the jungle of the Greater Hayward Recreational Area, but, the buckles on his puritanical pilgrim boots got caught one into the other, tripping him. Looking up, Lionel saw a Canadian whiskey bottle come for his face.

“Better red than dead,” said Pepper, meaning it.

After a prayer of Thanksgiving, they drank the whiskey, the malt liquor, ate the turkey, ate the cardinal in the neon green shorts.

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

The three college classmates pulled into the newer gas station. It was one of those new, Safe Haven stores they had heard so much about. Roached filled up the gas tank of the Seville and the other two headed into the store, wanting to see one firsthand. It wasn’t strange to them that one had been built in Hayward seeing as Hayward was such popular tourist destination, though not the one it had once been in a previous lifetime.

A kindly, tall man nodded at them as they walked past. He was working behind the counter. His blue eyes shone with gentle greeting, his whimsical mouth seemed to say, “Isn’t life the funniest punch line of all?” He blinked at them and then resumed wiping down his eternal counter.

Calling out to them, Murray said, “We got some leftover turkey still, it’s carved and has a nice cranberry sauce on the sandwich. Half price.”

“Mister,” said Pepper, “You couldn’t pay me to eat more turkey right about now,” and he meant it. It had taken them three days to finish both Lionel and Cliff. Thank goodness there had been no potatoes or dinner rolls!

“Well then kind gentleman,” said Murray, ever the trickster. “Could I offer you any…cardinal?”

 

 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

END