Float Planes to Steel Elevators
Viggo knew quite a bit about float planes. He knew about their sound coming
into play and bringing togetherness to the site. It could come from any direction
really and land appropriately, on many occasions having to circle to push away
turbulence. If it was raining the pilot had a bigger smile. And much of all this he
learned from his youth.
One guy always brought a little extra. U sually some more beans and really old
can openers of the sort; he was more of a curiosity to the group. A different
wa rrior and he became an avid participate in capture the flag.
That summer especially, Viggo learned about berries, snake berries, snakes,
and how to set a snare. If you caught a rabbit you were up a rank, but of course
you had to watch the other guy c lean it. Becoming accustomed to this you heard
stories, most spun into some family tree, and some pricked you instantaneously.
You’d remember the words used.
His place now north of the city, below road level, and built into the bank brought
visitors like the chimes, he said. They never startled the fish.
Once after a heavy rain the mud and silt darkened the river. There were much
less jumps. He usually sharpened his knives with the attention they required.
And how weather worked, the misty phase came next. Along with shoveling
away any sludge and throwing buckets of fresh water to clean up the outside
walls. Revealing the fir timbers as natural as they stacked, holding up part of the
roof that only few that drove by could see.
Every ninth day he’d fetch his parcel that was always padded to prevent
breakage. He had mail and electrical devices in almost every drop -off. Stu,
under his false name, lived a mediocre existence in a growing section of town.
Up at the landfill, Viggo lost track of time. A sensual utopia you just had to
realize. Beyond the black bear encounters there was a calm urgency; finding
treasures, wondering simply. In all this packaged energy a collection of many
prints. Pictures of gatherings, in albums, struck him most. If he found copper
he’d take it back, or small gears that weren’t chipped.
The area had a controlled burn, and the wind wasn’t strong enough to spread
it. Twice a week the maintenance guy came with his truck, sprayed a special fuel
over what was smoldering. He knew of Viggo, and they kept their relationship
at that distance.
No one comes back on exactly the same schedule, he said. There had to be a
sense of spirit. Perhaps he was a hunter, the timid type. Approaching his work
with a weight of responsibility. In this area it was give and take, and it was
difficult to actually infer details. He often had an aimless, disheveled look,
matching the surroundings.