Mom once told me after an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, ‘Son, you don’t meet nice girls at bus stations.’ Two years ago, met a woman at a Greyhound Terminal with the same first name. Mother died, but a new Irene continues to give me advice — some of it’s good? 

“Jason, you want a shortcut, eh? I know one that bypasses the Canadian border station you need to avoid.” 

Shaking my head, I said, “Babe, that’s crazy. I’m no longer pushing boxes and crates around. I’m Assistant Road Manager for the great Entrenched and Embedded blues band. Besides, it’s wicked cold out there.” 

Although, the road still has its draw. . .  I roll over, kiss her, and whistle, “Good night, Irene.” She shakes her head. Our last evening at the Ritz. 

In the morning, I’ll be gone. 

~ 

With the wind at my backside, I whistle the blues through the wild white birch. I stumble through darkness, descending a long, rocky hill. A tumble that could change a man’s life forever. I’m pissed off. A lot of bread at stake here.  

Pain becomes almost unbearable. The weight of the bag on my upper back shifts, forcing me to drop it again. I massage my shoulder. Once stabbed there by Joe The Rat over a pool game. He wanted to kill me for a while. Not the first. 

Anyway, I’m huge in winter gear. Out here, size matters.  

There’s a rustling noise behind me. I slide a hand in my bag and pull out a folding shovel. 

There’s a wolf over there. Love dogs, but this bastard is different. A weak howl, warning a pack, belongs to this lone critter.  

These animals are half as big as those described by hunters. Old-timers at Moose Lodge can really spin a yarn. ‘Whistler, what kind of gun ya bringing, eh?’ I raised my mighty fist to show him my protection. 

‘Ya need a cannon to take down a two hundred and fifty pound canine. Bring a couple of rabbits back. We’ll cook up a stew. Fresh kill, eh? Stories around these days about rotten rabbit carcasses.’ 

The long-hair grey with jaundiced eyes and matching teeth closes in on me. I think it’s in poor health. Old-timers always say, ‘It is a good idea to maintain a stare. They’ll chicken out.’ It’s a bad idea to have one in your face, too.  

I pick up the backpack, and hold it overhead to appear more menacing. The wolf trudges over to a tree, staggers as it lifts its leg, and mark its territory. 

“I was here first.” Pissed off, I slam the backpack to the ground. I flip it the bird. Raising my sore arms, I swing the lightweight shovel in figure eights and make myself look crazy. Easy for me to do. 

“Get outta here, ya bastard. Leave me alone. Just passing through.” 

“Ahh-Whooo!”  

I raise my fist. It turns and heads to the road. Good choice Alphie. She’ll be back with companions. Blood in the urine confirms it’s a female, and an adult who lifts her leg is an Alpha. She’s a bad mother. . . 

 

I hobble around, setting up a defensive perimeter in front of a wall behind me. A thirty by thirty-foot sheet of sheer anchor gray granite to my backside. Plenty of fuel, as I spread branches in a semi-circle in front of the wall. I built a center campfire, too.  

A pack fast-moves-it in my direction. Are they always in a lousy mood? Don’t mess with them, Whistler. You’re just passing through. Nothing more frightening than one of these dogs at sixty klicks chasing down a caribou.  

I wave my shovel. Surprise, Alphie tries to charge. The rest follow. I think the devil got to her, or rotten rabbit meat from last week’s unusual heat wave. Parrying forward and then in reverse . . . holding back, I swing weakly. I miss. “Fuck you!” She limps away. Others cheer or sing, not sure which. Those dogs are not supposed to behave like that. Somethings about these critters I don’t understand. 

“Ahh-Whooo!”  

The oncoming of a yellow moon. 

 I’m screwed. Slide my hand into the bag for lighter fluid, and limp round the circle to light the arc of burnables. 

The pack sniffs and creeps towards me, searching for a space to enter. Why are their eyes much brighter and clearer than that of the alpha? They wait for their sickly leader, who passes out like a hibernating Kodiak bear. Jockeying, they seek an opening.  

I throw another log on the fire and add the remaining branches. Can’t escape. Almost out of fuel. Hope they leave soon. Do wolves get bored? 

Reaching into the bag gives me an idea of how to keep the fires burning. Tah dah, fifty thousand US dollars’ worth of high grade marijuana bricks. Down payment for that house, I promised Irene Ryan, X-Canadian Mountie, former Miss Saskatoon honorable mention, and the girl with those unescapable owl like eyes I fell in love with at the bus station. The one who keeps whispering the ‘M’ word in my ears, even though she’s not here. 

Taking one brick, I shred and toss it into the center fire. Sitting close, inhaling, holding, exhaling.  

I wonder why these creatures came for me? Plenty of game. A no-man’s land between borders. Off limits to hunters. White rabbits everywhere. More, since I lit the fire.  

At peace now, I don't want to hurt puppies or bunnies, but it might boil down to me or them. If I bring Irene a bunny would she love me more? 

As flames diminish, I wrap branches into a torch. Two approach, while another, on its back, howls and scratches at the moon. 

Instead of torch-jabbing, I say, “Nice puppy.” Tap my new pistol . . . take a shot at the big dipper. Maybe I got it wrong. Should I have tried the gun as an earlier intervention?   

Fire’s going out, getting cold, and there’s no music. The wolves flinch after hearing the shot and its echoes, sit back on their haunches and listen to me whistling Warren Zs, Werewolves of London. Slowly I slide a blues harp from the inside pocket of my old navy blue peacoat. I begin to blow. They like it! I stick out the backside of my hand. “Easy mates.”  

The alpha is still unconscious. Two members stay and comfort her. 

“Ahh-Whooo!”  

Another adult pack member sings and sniffs. I keep whistling and playing the harp. It keeps sniffing. Others enter the circle. Several cute pups sing along. Two lay on the ground, sniffing the smoldering campfire. Who’d believe, I’m jammin’ with wolves? 

 

Six grand up in smoke. On the bright side, still have maybe forty-five thousand dollars’ worth of quality weed for a one-stop-delivery. Sorry, Irene. If I get out of here, I’ll teach music at the middle school and build that picket fence, too. No BS.  

Up shit creek . . . no paddle . . . can’t jump out the window. Not in the projects anymore, Whistler. Will there be a tomorrow? “Somebody save me!” 

Sun’s rising. Six fat white bunnies, hopping down the trail. Alphie passes on the hunt. Eating rotten rabbit carcasses as opposed to fresh kill can make you pretty sick. Last week’s unexpected heat wave didn’t help. Three adult companions and the pups stay with her. At least, the foam around her mouth has disappeared. 

The rest of the pack rise for the chase. I whisper, “You guys take care of your mom. My Mom was a fighter too.” They don’t even turn to say goodbye. They hear me whistling. Still, I flee . . . catlike though, in reverse. 

“Ahh-Whooo!” 

Those weird wolves of Canada. 

~ 

“Meet me in Boston. A dozen years since I’ve been home.” 

“If you sing, not whistle, Good Night Irene, eh.” 

“I will. Been putting it off for a while. Love ya.” I exit the phone both. 

She’s happy to see me at the Greyhound Bus station. She knows I’ll be the lead singer in a one-man-band at our wedding reception on The Cape. 

 

~ 

Holding baby I in her arms, I go out the swinging gate of a fixer-upper on Cape Cod with a brush and a bucket of Picket Fence Semi-Gloss, whistling Pete Seeger’s If I Had a Hammer. Bugsy and little Alphie follow me. “ah-woo.” 

Sorry Mom, you can meet nice girls at bus stations.

Before Don Robishaw stopped working he was a Sailor, Peace Corps Volunteer, bartender, world traveler, college professor, circus roustabout, refugee camp worker, and most recently ran educational programs for homeless shelters. He’s the author of the chapbook, ‘Just Willie Please,’ OJA&L, 2021.‘ Multiple works have appeared in the following: Drunk Monkeys, Literary Heist, OJA&L, Crack-the-Spine, FFM, and Rye Whiskey Review, among other venues.

Leslie Moore is a printmaker, poet, and animal lover. She is the author of What Rough Beasts: Poems/Prints (Littoral Books, 2021) and winner of the 2018 Maine Literary Award for Short Nonfiction. She has published poems and essays in journals, newspapers, and anthologies. Her art may be found in book illustrations, private collections, and at the Local Color Gallery in Belfast, Maine, and the New Leaf Gallery in Keene, New Hampshire.