Fiction

 
Photo: Stephen Matera
Location: Lassen Volcanic National Park

The Kneissl Kid:
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The Kneissl Kid - Chapter 3
The third act in the ongoing saga of Buck Avery, maybe the best there ever was.
By VICTOR SMITH

November 7th

I wake up and wonder where I am, something that is certainly not new to me. A drifter has to get used to this feeling in a hurry. Looking up from the floor, I miss my own wallpaper and, especially, the deep softness of my new bed. The floor is level and hard as the Bonneville salt flats, nothing like the deep furrow of my own mattress. A "safety bed," my mother would call it; couldn't fall out of it if you had to.

I shudder as a half-baked memory of last night begins to rise, allowing a first guess at why I am here. Andrea—I think that's her name—lies snoring in the bed pretty much fully clothed, and it all starts coming back. Splayed out and sleeping like this, it's easy to imagine her hard-scrabble history, but I also think I see a happy ending in there somewhere, with somebody, just not me, hopefully. I'm feeling pulled in two directions: lucky at avoiding an obsessive and unnecessary entanglement, but drawn somehow to the pain and weakness of this aging babe of the barstool. Lying there with her face relaxed in sleep, she looks the fallen angel, but another five or so years older than my first guess back in the dimness of the Troubadour.

I look around and see the uni leaning safely in the corner next to the door. I can probably get up and out without waking her, but I wonder whether this is the right approach, whether she might be thinking of hurting herself or something. So I decide to wake her up first. I stumble up from the floor and smell the sickening sweetness of Schnapps as I tuck in my shirt. Andrea snuffles loudly and half-turns to the wall in her sleep. I pick up my trench and gently shake her shoulder to check on her, to say goodbye. She opens crusty eyes and stares up at me for a long moment without thought or recognition.

Buck, Buck Avery, I say.

"I know, Hon," she says, staring without expression.

Thanks, I say, I've got to get going.

"I'm sorry," she says.

I fidget around with my coat buttons, shuffle my feet, and continue, Well, I'll probably see you around, not going anywhere fast around here.

"Yeah," she says, coughing twice. "Me neither."

I turn to go. I pick up the uni and bounce it twice on its cushy balloon tire.

"Buck," she calls hoarsely as I open the door, "I'd sure love to do something with that dick of yours someday."

Maybe someday, I answer, my shoulders shuddering under the trench as I close the door behind me. Maybe someday.

I pull my pocket watch which tells me it's almost 7:00. I straddle the uni and take to the street to avoid the fine coating of last night's snow that has stuck to the sidewalk. It's much colder this morning, and I button my trench to the throat as I pump my way toward Sam's. I pocket both hands, though I know from a couple of falls a few years back that this is not a safe thing to do.

Sam's is empty except for two deer jackers sitting at the counter, drinking coffee and talking in whispers. They are both in full camo and tell Sam that they are up from New Jersey scouting before the season opens. I know better, because I saw the scoped rifles lying on the back seat of the Camaro out front, the smear of blood they forgot to wipe off the rear bumper. I take my regular booth and wait to see if Marie is working this morning. My heart almost breaks through my wool shirt as I see her curvy butt bang backwards through the swinging kitchen doors. She is carrying two plates of scrambled eggs and sausage, looking around for the right table. I wink large, but she doesn't see me.

But soon Marie slides into the booth across from me and slumps forward in exaggerated exhaustion, her forehead on her crossed arms.

"Jesus," she says as I gently raise her head and wave my hand in front of her face. "What a fucking night."

I'll say, I say, without elaboration.

"I go to bed around 10:00 for a change," she continues, "and I get these strange, strange dreams that just won't stop. There's this guy in all of them, and he's got this wicked bulge in his bilge, if you get my drift."

I do, I say, leaning forward with genuine interest, I do.

"So, I'm trying to get at this guy, as you might imagine," she continues, "and he's playing this hard-to-get shit, turning away from me every time I make a move."

Yes, go on, I say.

"So, this goes on and on, I wake up a couple times, but it comes back each time. Then I finally go back to sleep. And an hour later, here I am."

Must have been me, I say, shivering all over despite the big gas heater next to the booth.

"In your dreams," she says. "Start with some coffee this morning?"

Sh...sure, I say, as she slides out of the booth with her pad. I watch the curve of her calves with a brand new sense of wonder as she trots back to the counter to get the carafe. I grab for a napkin and my girlie pen. Oh, Marie!

With a full stomach, I begin another day of the rest of my life. The brisk air is full of the future, telling me I've made all the right choices in coming here. I look up over Sam's roof and see that they have begun to make snow on the upper reaches of the mountain's north face, the muffled sound of compressed air and water like music to my ears. Two weeks and I'll be skiing again. All I need is a job and a pass, preferably a job that comes with a pass. But my prospects at the mountain are pretty slim at this point and I certainly don't plan on cutting my hair anytime soon.

I could try my hand at bartending again, I suppose. Got fired from the last job in Utica, but that's another story. Up here they don't know about those details, and I'm certainly not talking. Trip over one bottle, spill one tray of drinks; who gets fired for that anymore? I don't know a thing about sports, except skiing. I never watch a world series or football, couldn't tell you who plays what. What good's a bartender who can't spout that drivel. I'm too ornery to wait tables. Somebody asks me how's the Beef Wellington, what am I supposed to say? It's on the menu, isn't it? Would we do that if it sucked? I don't know.

I decide to make some rounds over the next couple of days, to see if anybody has a decent job they need done the right way. I ride down the street to Huntington Hardware, figuring I can sell nuts and bolts, paint, and rat poison as well as the next guy. No dice; he just keeps staring at me, nodding his head as I tell him I can sell anything that ever got made, maybe even nails on speculation. I laugh and look down at the rows of little bins running down the aisle. I scoop up a handful of fasteners and say, Wanna screw? I got nuts. Crack me up. I laugh again and tell him I can sell anything he's got, just try me. He glances down at the uni, back up at me, back down at the uni. I'm thinking that if he'd just pay a little more attention to what I'm saying, if he could just keep his mind focused, he'd mayb...be something, Ave, I'd always hoped. But I think it's time to leave no...no dice. I guess it's just as well. So I leave quietly.

I check out the Mortar and Pestle. A good prospect, I'm thinking, since they only have one pharmacist back behind the counter and I've had comparable work experience. But I guess he doesn't understand the whole thing about how much fun it would be to answer the phone, Mortar and Pestilence, may I help you? Just cracks me up every time I think about it.

"I'm afraid we don't have any openings at this time," he says. I'm afraid we don't have any openings, I repeat back to him, aping his tight-ass attitude and diction. He says nothing, just looks at me funny and I kind of know I don't have a job here; not today, not any day. I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I say, All I can say is...six deep breaths now, Ave. Don't do anything you mi...ight have a real nice opening for you, sir. And he picks up the phone, but I leave, still tall and proud.

I ask about a position cooking short-order at the Klondike, but the day barmaid doesn't seem to do the hiring. All they have is an after-hours, part-time job pushing broom and doing various slop-bucket work until some guy gets back from Utah or somewhere. Excuse me, but the Kneissl Kid does not do slop-bucket work. With no bites here either, I pull up a stool and order a beer instead. Then two, three more. At 12:30 or so I leave to continue my job search, maybe get a little lunch somewhere.

I ride down Tuttle Street to get back to Main where most of the action is. I pass the Little Indian Ski Shop and make a mental note to stop in after lunch. Halfway up the next block the patrol car pulls up alongside and cruises next to me, same speed, with Dudley Dooright looking right at me. I salute. He picks up his microphone and this booming loudspeaker right next to my ear tells me to please pull to the side of the road. Totally unnecessary.

Dudley Dooright steps out with his flashlight even though it's just past noon. "Good afternoon," he says. "Never seen one of these in town before."

Never got stopped on one before, either, I say, looking him over. He is tall and gaunt, muscular and ramrod-straight, cheeks hollowed from sucking on the cigarettes I can smell on his gray uniform. He has no hair visible around the underside of his Smokey the Bear hat. He is a local constable, according to the seal on the side of the beat-up sedan. The loudspeaker and flashing lights are bolted on a gutter-mounted wooden canoe rack. His name tag says Cotterly, and he has a gun. Cop, I figure.

"So, what brings you up here to Huntington?" he asks.

Same thing that brought you here, sir, I say.

"I was born here," he says, looking irritated now.

Like I said, I say, same thing. Life, change. Life brings me up here. I swing my arm around to indicate the vast expanse of vibrant beauty looming above and beyond the sleepy little village, and Officer Cotterly flinches like I just tried to slap him or something. He holds his flashlight up over his shoulder, nonchalantly scratching at a spot just behind his right ear, but I know all about nonchalance, and I can see he's holding it like that so he can whack me with it. I jump back quickly and trip over the uni, dancing a little to keep from falling.

"Are you okay?" asks Officer Cotterly. "Anything I should know about?"

I think for a second or so, wondering why this is happening to me. I wonder what he needs to know about. Maybe you should know that I'm the Kneissl Kid? I say, half-asking, half-telling. He looks surprised at this, which doesn't really surprise me since it happens to a lot of people the first time they meet the Kid. And they generally remember the day it happens.

"Can you fly?" he asks, looking genuinely interested now.

Can the Pope shit in the Vatican? 'Scuse my French, I say, puffing up my chest in pride. I'm thinking he must have heard of me before.

"Have any ID?" he asks, shoving the flashlight under an armpit to leave both hands free.

Buck, Buck Avery, I say, extending my shaking hand. Officer Cotterly flinches again and I stand here with my hand out. Don't have any ID on me, sir, but you definitely won't need any to figure out who I am once the snow flies.

He walks around to the driver side of the car and opens the door, leaning around the front of the windshield to ask me if I could "Just stay right there for a minute, okay?" He gets in and keys the microphone. I can't hear what he's saying, but he seems to be telling somebody the news. Here, right here in Huntington, would you believe?

I'm standing here, just like he asked, listening to the snow guns up on the north ridge. Won't be long now, I'm thinking. I'll be flying, swooping, doing my little chop-hops down the steeps. They'll all know who I am real soon now. I take out my girlie pen and a napkin to kill time, using the roof of a parked car as a desk.

Officer Cotterly gets out and comes back around, no flashlight this time. "What's that?" he asks. I show him the pen, shaking it, smiling.

"Are you on any medications?" he asks.

Do I look sick to you? I ask, always answering questions with questions. Healthy as a horse, I say, You just take a little ride up that hill in a couple weeks, you'll see if I look sick or not.

"Mr. Avery, do you have a job?" he asks.

Not yet, I say, I am a man of means at the moment, but I may choose to secure something in the future. He looks me over slowly from head to toe.

"Do you have a place to live?" he asks.

I am temporarily lodged at Hedwig's, I say, gesturing down the street. Officer Cotterly flinches again. But, I say, only until I find a suitable home to purchase.

Officer Cotterly shakes his head and slowly walks back around the patrol car. He stops and looks over the roof at me, just behind the canoe rack. "How long have you been drinking, Mr. Avery?"

Buck, I say, You can call me Buck. Mr. Avery is my father. He asks again, and his skinny face does not smile. Since Labor Day, I say, adding, 1967, maybe?



November 10th

Sure, the bed sags, and the wallpaper is more appropriate for a child of seven. But it's under a roof, and that's all that really matters. I lie here waking up in stages after a long night at the Klondike; smelling Hedwig's stewing cabbage, listening to the toilet flush, watching floaters slowly cross the ceiling until I blink and send them skittering. I hear the two young men down the hall in Number One arguing over something, probably money.

I reach blindly to the right, pawing at the nightstand for my Kerouac. I open it to the Huntington Pass brochure separating page 123 from 124. As I insert the brochure between two back pages I realize that I'm too hung over for heavy reading. I also notice the banner across the top of the brochure announcing the rates for the coming year:
 

Another wave of nausea washes over me, along with the passing thought that I have no job and no prospects, I have a lot less money than I arrived with, and I don't know what day it is. Without a job, I never seem to worry about what day it is. But today something is chewing at me, something is telling me that I have to figure it out.

I put the book back on the nightstand and rock myself up and out of my safety bed. I stretch and yawn, twice, then pull on the same jeans and wool shirt I wore yesterday and the day before. I stare across my stuff, organized in rows and columns on the nightstand, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I smile and salute the bearded face surrounded by the shaggy mane of hair I have not yet grown out to my full satisfaction. A scar arches across my forehead from running into some barbed wire at age nine. I sometimes tell people it's from fencing, which is not a lie. My upper lip curls like I'm sneering, which looks like I'm doing it on purpose, but is actually from putting a tooth through it falling out of my highchair when I was five, maybe six. My chin has a dimple which is just a dimple. I'm missing only one tooth which doesn't show unless I yawn. I wink large at the image looking back at me, and I get caught in another big yawn.

My morning begins with a lurch toward the door that bangs the nightstand up against the wall, knocking my big jar of coins to the floor.

"Too much noise," Hedwig howls from the kitchen below.

Criminy, I say, This sucks, and I get down on my hands and knees to scoop up the loose change and shards of glass. I pile the poor little pennies along with the nickels, dimes, and proud quarters in the middle of my sagging bed, dropping pieces of glass into the wastebasket as I go along. Looking around for a container, I find nothing and figure that I can leave the change on the bed until I scavenge an empty can or something.

I head out, skipping down the stairs, out the front door. I head for Sam's because that's where I go when I really need coffee, like this morning. It's getting cold, and there's a trace of snow on the lawns, on the windshields of parked cars.

Marie waves as I enter and I make my way to the back booth. My heart does jumping jacks again like it does every time I come in. Oh, Marie! Sam glances up from the grill and looks back to his work without any recognition. Marie slides into the booth across from me and flips through the pages of her order pad. She leans over on one elbow, as always, looking beat like she's already worked a double or two.

"Coffee to start?" she asks.

You got beer? I ask.

Marie rolls her eyes like she does every day when I ask, and slides slowly out. "You're an idiot," she says, and I can't argue with her about that, not today.

I order a bacon and fried egg on a hard roll. When it comes, Marie slides in again, the other booths empty for the moment, at least.

"You get Veteran's Day off?" she asks, rolling her eyes, knowing the answer.

Yeah, actually, I say. You?

"Yeah, right," she says. "Other peoples' days off are my worst goddam nightmares around here."

Well, you let me know when you do get one, I say, I'll teach you how to ski.

"I need to ski like I need another tit," she says, and I wonder where it would go and whether I might get a chance to peek at it some day. The front of her shirt puckers between the buttons, but it faces away from me today, toward the window. No help.

When is Veteran's Day, anyway? I ask, trying to keep her here in the booth a bit longer.

"Tomorrow," she says. "All day." She rubs her eyes with both fists and slides out.

I finish my breakfast and leave a real nice tip, like I always do when Marie is involved. I get a carton of coffee to go from Sam at the counter and wave it at Marie as I leave. As I open the door, I notice the calendar on the wall to its left.

What's today's date? I yell over to Sam.

"The 10th," Marie responds, "That's November, remember? Day before Veteran's Day?" Sam continues scraping the grill.

Holy shit! 'Scuse my French, I yell, banging hard against the doorframe in my haste to get out. I hear Sam ask Marie, "So, what's with him?" But Marie doesn't know; she doesn't ski yet.


With the brochure in front of me on the bed, I first sort the coins into piles, then begin to count them. All my paper money lies off to the side of the pile on the bed: $152, much of it in singles. Every cent I have is here in front of me: my foreseeable future laid out on a sagging, lumpy mattress in a little room with cowboy-and-Indian wallpaper. I'm not sure how I got to this point, but I'm sure that this is where I want to be. Right here, right now.

I count the change beginning with the pile of quarters. Twenty-one dollars and seventy-five cents. I count out another twelve dollars and thirty cents in dimes. I count fifty-three nickels, and check by counting again. A flush of excitement rolls over me and I count out thirty pennies, leaving a dozen or so on the mattress. I'm so excited that I can hardly breathe!

As I spin down Main Street, the pockets of my pants bulging and my signature trench coat swinging back and forth with the jingling weight, I think about all that the coming winter will bring. A fine snow continues to fall. I turn at the bridge, coins jingling, watching my breath come out in little puffs as I part the cold air on my way up the hill to the lodge.

"You're kidding," says Mrs. Kistler, eyeing the pile I have laid before her.

Count it, I say, It's exact, I don't need any change.

"Jesus Christ," she mutters as she counts first the bills, then the coins starting with the quarters. She writes the totals in a column on a piece of paper, then adds them up, penciling in the remains, or whatever they call them, at the top of each column.

"One-hundred eighty-nine dollars," she says, finally. "I've never seen anything like this before."

It's money, I say, Good as anybody else's.

She shakes her head and shoves a pass application and a pencil across the table. I fill it out quickly and shove it back well before she has the money sorted and into her coin box.

"Buck?" she asks, looking at my application.

I think we've been through this before, I say, That's my name. Don't wear it out.

"We need your given name for the pass, same as on your license or social security card," she continues, looking at me as if I'm a criminal or something.

My name is Buck, I say, Want me to spell it?

Mrs. Kistler rolls her eyes and leans forward on the table, her forearms perfectly parallel around my application between us.

"May I see your license, please?," she asks.

No, I say, without elaboration.

"Well," she says, "And, why not?"

Don't have one, I reply smugly, Don't need one to drive what I drive.

"Do you own a wallet, Mr. Avery?" she asks, beginning to get on my nerves.

I do, I say.

"Well then," she continues, "the only way you get a pass is to show me some identification."

I'm getting aggravated, but I need to hold it together until I have the pass in hand, my ticket to a winter of unspeakable bliss. So I reach slowly toward my back pocket, never taking my eyes off hers for an instant, without changing my expression, wondering if she might be thinking I'm maybe reaching for a gun or something. I gently fold my fingers over the wallet and slip it carefully out of my pocket, my eyes focused, silently and with as little movement as possible. With my eyes still glued to hers, I move slowly, ever so slowly, and then I just whip my hand around and slap the wallet loudly on the table between us. She jumps as if I've stuck her in the ass with a hatpin. Her chair slides back as she sits up real straight, her eyes get all big and she holds onto the edg...Jesus, Ave, you really need to think these thi...

This oughta do it, I say, opening the wallet and extracting a dog-eared social security card.

"Averell H. Avery," she reads. "Okay, now we're getting somewhere."

Buck, I say, feeling like my face might be going a little red, and I'd also appreciate it if you could type in The Kneissl Kid below my picture on the pass.

"The what?" she asks, shaking her head.

The Kneissl Kid, you haven't heard of me? I ask.

"Well, no," she says, shuffling her papers and the application into a pile. "The best I can do is give you a pass in the same name as your social security card. Do you still want it?"

Do Popes shit in the Vatican? 'scuse my French, I ask, figuring that they probably do.

"Please, Mr. Avery," she says.

She walks away from the table, motioning for me to follow. She stands me up next to a trail map on the wall and lines me up in the viewfinder of a huge Polaroid camera. She snaps the shutter and walks back into the office with the camera. I see blue dots until she returns with the photo.

"This okay?" she asks.

Well, no, I say, I seem to look a little disheveled. I run my fingers through my hair and scratch my beard out a little fuller. Can you try again?

She takes another, and quite a while later she returns with a card, inlaid in plastic, with a little lanyard attached. I look it over, pleased that my large wink was perfectly timed with the flash on this one. Great! I say.

"Read the back," she says, "and make sure you understand the rules."

I grab it out of her hand, look at the picture of myself, all shit-eating grin and one eye closed, and I slip the lanyard around my neck.

Thanks, I say, I'll read it cover to cover when I get home.

I sit on the bed leaning against the wall, wondering what comes next, and just when that might be. I finish counting, but know that it really isn't necessary. I have something like a dollar and thirty-one cents, nearly all of it in pennies.

I have five more days before another week's rent is due, and I'm already getting a little hungry smelling the cabbage cooking. But, I say to myself, grinning probably like the kid who once enjoyed this wallpaper, I have a Huntington pass!


Will Buck get evicted from Hedwig's? What secret is Sam hiding? Why does sitting in a bathroom stall for 15 minutes get you kicked out of a bar? Tune in next time...


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