Raccoon Road

Raccoon Road

by: Jonathan Charles Stewart

Copyright © 2021 Jonathan Charles Stewart. All rights reserved.

It all started when the raccoons began showing up. I was four or five. It rained a lot back then. Now it never rains. We’ve ruined the atmosphere and there’s no one around anymore that cares anyway. Except for me and June, at least that’s what it feels like. June came over yesterday. We talked about her father and his pride and joy: Craneway Enterprises, the life-blood of all. Her dad is quite a character. June is a lot like him, just prettier. And soft. June and I go way back. We went to trainee space camp together; Craneway got us in. I really like June. I think if “marriage” was still a thing people did we might just do it. I’ve tried to convince her before but she says “it’s old fashioned” and that she’s “undecided.” She likes old-fashioned things, that’s what gets me. That’s why she likes me. I decided to give her the locket today. I’d been saving it up for the right moment and today the view out at the ridge proved to have it.

It’s raining today, what a lucky day. I’m at Craneway Café. Coffee stench fills the air and the industrial types are all here. The bacon and eggs are all lab grown now, to exact specifications. “Consistency is best” Craneway says, “Keep the consumers happy and knowing what they’ll always get and they’ll always come back happy knowing what they’ll get.” He says he got it from McDonald’s, from what I’ve seen in pictures I believe him. One day a few years ago I found a box of old junk, pictures and books and movies, actual physical ones, and took them to June. There was a film called “Easy Rider” that she liked the looks of, it reminded her of the freedom of our childhood. Two beatniks on motorbikes. I told her we would watch it somehow. Craneway said we needed a “VCR”, whatever that is I’ll figure it out.

I have to finish breakfast and get to work. It’s not all bad but it’s still a job. I’d rather just go sit under a tree with June and fish or something. My bloodline is from Arkansas, I think that’s why I feel that way. I’ve never been there, only heard stories, but it looks like a place I could spend eternity. Rolling hills, open pastures, mountains even, in this place called “The Ozarks.” I always thought that was a funny name. It’s out west past the Mississippi, I’ve read about it all in these dusty Mark Twain and William Faulkner books. I’ve always liked clever people, they’re just funny enough that it all makes sense and I believe them. Never trust someone that can’t make you laugh, or at least smile, or at least wonder, that’s what I always say.

I’m an “asset management technician” at Craneway’s, out on the farm. We have lots of raccoons, they’re the assets. Craneway is obsessed with them, he says they’re “the godhead breed.” I take care of them, feed them, bathe them, perform dental work on them, and make sure they’re all-in-all comfortable. Craneway always says “a comfortable raccoon is a docile raccoon and we sure as hell don’t want raccoons that aren’t docile.” Craneway always carries a shotgun around for exactly this reason, even though we haven’t had an outbreak since the Picadelli incident. Some of the wild ones we have to shackle now. I was real little back when it happened but I heard all of the stories from dad. It was apparently “a real horror show,” that’s what everyone says. The eye patch over Craneway’s left eye covers the hole in his head that was left by that rabid attack. Six men weren’t so lucky. He makes everyone else carry guns now too. I have an antique ivory inlayed Colt .45 that dad left me. I’ve never drawn it in action but have shot it plenty of times.

Mr. Craneway gave me the job out here, I’m sort of like his son now I guess. Him and dad were pals growing up and when I was a little kid my whole family died in a real tragic crash. I wasn’t with them because I had gotten sick and was left to spend the day at the farm. Mom and dad and Jack and Gil were all headed out on a drive to the countryside to see grandma. It was raining. I got some terrible cough of some sort that morning and just couldn’t go. The last thing dad says to me that morning when they left was “feel better son.” I’ll never forget those words. “Feel better son.” Mr. Craneway says it’s for the better I wasn’t with them because now I’m here to carry on the family name and follow in my father’s footsteps. Dad was a senior officer for Craneway back then. He knew a whole lot of stuff about a whole lot of stuff. His last placement before he died was overseeing all asset activity.

He was in charge when the Picadilly incident happened and he never forgave himself for it. “Six good men we lost” he said all the time. There would be nights he’d wake up from nightmares in a cold sweat and mom would have to calm him down and get him some Crane Juice. Everytime he’d pop up from a nightmare he’d always say “Six good men we lost!”. I remember it went on real bad for a few years, then they all died in the crash not long after. After that there was grandma still left, but she got real old and died about ten years ago, a part of “the sweep” as we affectionately refer to it. One day, they decided if you were over 90 or so you couldn’t be here anymore, and they convinced enough to gain the majority and that was that. Craneways says “it’s for the better.” What with population growth like it’s been in recent years he might be right, but I still miss grandma.

Craneway has named all of the raccoons, even though we have over 4,000 of them now. There’s a giant logbook that we have to keep track of them all in. We log when they were born or arrived, when they last ate, when they last slept, if they’ve had any incidents with humans or other raccoons, if they’ve ever spoken, etc. I can tell you this, I’m not so sure they like living in captivity, even with as large a space as we’re giving them. I feel like it’s only a matter of time before they all go in together strategically planning and take us all out. It wouldn’t take much, they’re very smart you know.

I’ve been having real bad headaches lately, I think it’s something in the feed. There haven’t been any new odors but we changed our mixture recently “to ensure proper growth and procure longevity” as Mr. Craneway put it. I make whiskey in my spare time and it helps with the headaches. This latest batch has quite the sting. I rarely get risky with the stuff I make, consistency being the goal (I learned that from Craneway) but with this last batch I was feeling a bit bored with everything and it got a little out of hand. That said, I think it’s the best whiskey I’ve made. I’m taking a bottle to Mr. Craneway.

Knock knock. It took a minute.

“Ah, sorry my boy, I was deep in trance.”

He did that sometimes.

“I’ve got you a bottle of my latest batch.”

“Well hot damn I’ve been waiting for a new batch.”

“I think this is the best I’ve made.”

Mr. Craneway snatched the bottle out of my hand.

“Come in, sit.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out an old bowie, the one he always used, popped the top and sniffed the whiskey.

“Good god son, what’s in this stuff?”

He poured two glasses and handed one to me. We chomped them down, he nearly gasped.

“You’ve outdone yourself son! How much of this do you have?”

“Five bottles.”

He snorted down more.

“We’ll need much more - slap a label on it and sell it premium.”

He sloshed his around and downed another.

“We can get five-hundred a bottle for this!”

Craneway stumbled back to his seat. I saw this as an opportunity and crept closer, lingering.

“What do you think of June and I being married?”

Mr. Craneway sat there and stared, puffing his cigar.

“Why would you want to do a silly thing like that?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“A little neurosis is healthy for all of us.”

Mr. Craneway got quiet, took another sip.

“Son, here’s the thing to understand. Sometimes, there are things that are beyond our control, things we don’t understand that we seek to understand, those things, are the things we must forget, for if we seek to understand them we will end up old angry men in cabins cooking up whiskey batches and fishing all day. Do you see?”

“But Mr. Craneway that’s what I do.”

He nodded.

“I know son. You must let your brain rest and allow for those of us that are your superior to concern ourselves with matters that are not your concern.”

I turned to leave, stopped near the door. I had a head full of whiskey and decided to ask:

“I understand what you’re saying, but I will ask you again now: what are these raccoons all about?”

Mr. Craneway stared into his glass, and then looked into my eyes.

“In due time you will know.”

I took that for what it was and left, knowing that I may never know the shot. I’d entered with my newfound prize of a best selling whiskey and left with a mind made up to marry June and one day head west.

I went out for a walk in the woods today to clear my head. I walked a bit deeper into the forest than usual, taking a toke at my pipe all the while, and then came upon a ridge I had studied once before, the one overlooking our waterfall. I walked right up to the ridge, the drop below about five-hundred feet, and steadied my thoughts. I thought about dad, about days gone by, and about the future, where it would all go, where June and I would end up, and if any of it mattered at all. I sat down, legs dangling off the edge. I didn’t have a care in the world, and then I heard a sound: the hoot of an owl awakening during day.

She talked and I listened, unsure of what she was saying. I hooted back. She flew up and sat on the ridge beside me, those bright, big, brown eyes staring back. The heart-shaped locket she wore shined in the bright beaming sun. She blinked, and we shared a thought, almost a dream, together. The dream was timeless, maybe long ago, or maybe tomorrow, and four horsemen, knights, were whisking around as if combat were their only form of business. They rode together across a field and then came to the waterfall. The horses and their minds sat in tracks, and they all looked up to the falls together to observe the glory that came in its power. They sat in silence, water crashing, glancing and nodding, as if understanding something no one else knew. They turned and looked across the water up to the ridge, and stared at me and the owl. As the sun shone brighter and neared us faster they took up their horses and crossed the creek. I looked back to the owl sitting beside me. The hope I found in those quiet, soothing eyes brought me peace as the sun overtook us, pushing and pulling us to the ground below. I forgot about the raccoons and simply dreamt of June.