Side Trail
Cul
by Bill Miller
Copyright 2011
Synopsis: After energy went away, city boundaries became defined by streets and Culs. No one dared venture far beyond the end of the block. If they did, no telling what they might encounter. This is the strange tale of one such Cul.
The first thing that strikes you, the very first thing, is the smell, the awful stench. It hangs around the end of the street, over beyond the Whitehead's place by the only maple tree we've got left. Lurking. Then wham. It's got you. In your clothes, your hair, your ears, your pockets. It grabs.
Trouble with the smell is that even if you hike down to the highway it stays with you. It's in your nose so deeply. People don't take walks much anymore because of the smell. They just live with it like so many other things around here. Maybe you'll get used to it, maybe not. It doesn't really matter. Some do, some don't. Folks that don't get used to the smell, don't stay, with the exception of the Reverend St. Peter Bristle and Wanda.
They live in the yellow stone house which the Reverend St. Peter Bristle calls, "The House of God", but God's only home between 11 and noon Sundays and six to seven Wednesday evenings unless of course you happen to die or be born and then the reverend sends a note or something to whomever it is that the Reverend sends notes and God comes, on special call, and takes care of the paperwork or whatever it is that's necessary to get you in or out of heaven.
It. The Cul. It.
The Cul. That's short for Cul de Sac. The road we all live on is a Cul de Sac. That's foreign for some kind of circle. It's a quarter of a mile up to the circle and then you have to turn around and go back down. 1875 steps up. 1875 steps down. Up and back. Up and back. That's about all you can do in a Cul de Sac these days. Someone built an awful lot of Cul de Sac's a while ago. So you can go up and back. 1875 steps. They built this one in 1951. I'm not. sure what they were used for then. Now they make one hell of a town. Cul de Sac. We call it Cul,
The Sheriff Couter Jenkins liked the Cul. "The Cul and me get along just fine," the Sheriff would say, curling his lips in a big oval.. He said it's good for community relations and protection. No one's sure where Sheriff Couter Jenkins came from. But he arrived shortly after It happened and just before that awful smell began. He had a big gun and knew how to use it so he made himself Sheriff. Sheriff of the Cul. Badgeman. Once we had a hanging right in the center of the Cul. Hanging. And afterwards, everybody feeling good and all, we burned the remains of the Dillfry house. Burned it right in the center of the Cul. Center. I think that's where the smell goes on cold, damp nights when the fall fog is rolling in from the valley. If you're lucky, and the moon's just right, near dawn, you can walk out into the street, and you'll swear the smell's gone. But walk a little further down, and there, wrapped in the fog, It is again. Hiding right in the center of the Cul. Right there where we had the hanging and the bon fire. Right where we used to get stoned. There. Light up a joint, me and Charlie Whisper. And sometimes Fall Disdain, the deputy sheriff. Right there in the middle of the Cul where the smell hides. Before the hanging and the fire. Fire. Now we get stoned on the sidewalk over in front of Charlie Whisper's place on the hill far away from where the Cul is doing a 360 degree turn. We try to avoid the hanging place where the smell goes on fall nights. Sheriff Couter Jenkins told us someone else was marked for the center of the Cul. Deputy Disdain said it could be anyone of us. Especially little Mike.
Toke?
The Reverend St. Peter Bristle has lived in the Cul since before it was a Cul. His church sits at the entrance. He and Wanda don't come out much anymore. Now it isn't that the Reverend St. Peter Bristle doesn't like people. It's just that the Reverend St. Peter Bristle is 73, next March 1, and Wanda's 13. Thirteen. And the Reverend St. Peter Bristle figures that any moment could be his last and probably will be. The church, his place of worship and work, is open eleven to noon on Sunday and six P.M. to seven P.M.. on Wednesday. The rest of the time you're on your own. Years back, the Reverend St. Peter Bristle was a regular 9 to 5 minister. But that was before Wanda was born and before the Reverend made a fortune selling religious bubble gum cards. And that was before It happened. IT.
About six months after It happened, I think that was 2002, Wanda was born and was left on the Reverend St. Peter Bristle's doorstep. Nine o'clock sharp. The Reverend St. Peter Bristle's very punctual and in those days he ran a 9 to 5 shop. If you wanted to talk to God, it had better be between 9 and 5 according to the Reverend St. Peter Bristle. Nine o'clock sharp the Reverend St. Peter Bristle opened the big oak doors to the church and there was Wanda. Wanda. That was 13 years ago. The word around here lately is that they're almost engaged. Not many people in the Cul live to be 73 anymore. Or 13.
Charlie Whisper lives up on the hill beyond the community vegetable garden. He and Temple have been there for a fearsome long time. They have one room, two cats, a cow, half a dozen chickens and an old goat named Screech. I'd say that's what the average family owns around the Cul. Maybe be the widower Yardley has a couple of horses and no cow but it all averages out. Nobody keeps track of the animals anyhow and you're liable as not to wake up to find the widower's cock on your bed. The widower doesn't get around much anymore but his cock does some traveling. The widower and his cock live on the hill next to Charlie Whisper and Temple.
He lives in a big, old, fake Plantation Colonial built in the 1980s, with phony white columns out front, a widow's walk, a complete electric kitchen, microwave toilets and an automatic garage door opener. Now the widower lives there with Doc. Fiddlestein. Charlie Whisper and Deputy Disdain hang out there most of the time when Charlie Whisper and I aren't fooling around.
The Doc is really a doctor. Well, sort of, He was once one of the most successful orthodontists in the area and that was his house on the hill beyond the community vegetable garden. But after It, Doc had to take in borders and turn his dental practice into a general Practice. GP. He took it real hard at first. I don't blame him really. Here he was, the Doc, in practice in the suburbs, running a twelve-chair clinic, wiring up the richest kids in the county. And wacko, now he's taking care of in-grown toenails in a swampy, smelly Cul de Sac. Not even a town. Doc talked of how he almost made it big in the franchise business. "I was ready to open the country's first fast tooth take-out service," the Doc told me once. "I was going to call it 'Tooth Town', and I had Minneapolis, Detroit and Salt Lake City signed on the bottom line." I've often wondered whatever happened to Salt Lake City. Now the Doc only works the Cul and has no aspirin so don't call him in the morning. Morning.
Wasn't always like this around the Cul. Habit, I call it the Cul. Before the war, the Cul was one of 247 Cul de Sacs built west of the city. They made a lot of these circles before the war. This was one. I don't know how many are left. Not one within two miles of here. That's about as far as I care to venture out looking for other Culs. Cul..There must be other Cul de Sacs somewhere. It's hard to think this Cul is the only one capable of supporting life. But don't take it from me. I've always been accused of being an isolationist. Isolationist. Don't ask how it happened.
I've never sorted it all out in my own mind and it bothers me to even think about It anymore. It happened that's all. Don't moralize, don't sympathize. It's not worth it. It won’t happen again. Not for a couple of thousand years. The energy stopped. No more gasoline, no more electricity, no more running water, no more bowling Thursday nights, no more TV. dinners. No more TV No food and the cities rebelled. War. Poor against rich. Black against white. Sub-division, against Cul. It's really a drag to talk
about. Drag.
But all of this really isn't very important When you consider what happened the day the tall, red-headed stranger came to the Cul. He stood in the middle sniffing the noonday air. His pockmarked nose swung left and right. Charlie Whisper saw him first and told me to duck behind the church sign where we had been playing scoot-ball. "What's he doing," I whispered to Charlie Whisper. "Quiet," Charlie hushed me.
We both looked at the man. Strangers weren't welcome, but he was a curious sight. We wanted as much time as possible to gaze at him before Sheriff Couter Jenkins put a bullet through his head.. No strangers need apply. Stay Away. Sheriff Couter Jenkins wouldn't even ask his name.
So we didn't run for the Sheriff. Not yet. Charlie and me. We stayed put and stared at the stranger. In hiding. The red-haired man filled his sinuses with the smell of our Cul. Different from his Cul., or byway, or wherever it was he was from. For a moment I thought he was going to puke but he was merely clearing his nostrils, using the ground for his hanky. Perhaps he was lost or on an expedition. Hunt. I remembered seeing something just like this on a Gunsmoke re-run when the television set worked. I told Charlie Whisper. Charlie told me my mind had been destroyed by acid. I nodded in agreement but really didn't believe it. I had seen it on television. Maybe Charlie didn't believe in TV But my memories were there and they were true.
I'd show: him an old TV Guide. After the stranger was dead. Shot. "He's wearing a gun," I pointed out to Charlie Whisper.
And he has a beard and long hair and a red bandanna to match his red hair," Charlie Whisper said he could see as good as me and probably better. "He'll not last much longer with or without his gun."
"Why'd he come here?", I asked Charlie.
He didn't answer, He just starred at the stranger who hadn't moved from the center of the Cul. His nose had stopped twitching. It'd make a good target for Sheriff Couter Jenkins I thought. If Charlie and me ran and fetched him or if he looked out his window in the nick of time, just like Matt Dillon. No matter, the stranger would leave the Cul, feet first. After Sheriff Couter Jenkins shot him. Perhaps he'd shoot him in the nose first. Nose.
At least he wouldn't smell the Cul as he died. I told Charlie Whisper my thoughts. He didn't laugh. I held me sides. Stitches. But I didn't laugh out loud. I didn't want the stranger to hear or see us. He had a big gun on his belt. I knew he'd shoot us before we got past the Reverend Peter Bristle's church or Wanda. If he saw us. The stranger hadn't moved. He just looked up toward the end of the Cul. He wore Nike running shoes and Sassoon Jeans. The Sassoon label hung by a thread like the stranger's life. Sassoon. I hadn't thought those jeans would last this long. I knew the stranger wouldn't last much longer. Not in our Cul. Once someone told Sheriff Couter Jenkins or Deputy Disdain. I wondered why he was here. Maybe we should ask him a few questions I thought aloud. Nobody talked to anyone outside of the Cul. Doc Fiddlestein said this was because God didn't want us to start over. We had made such a mess the first time. "Leave well enough alone," the Reverend Peter Bristle added each time the conversation came around to him again.
Wanda only said, "How sweet the sound." She loved the Reverend Peter Bristle. She didn't know why. Heaven.
How or why the stranger saw us isn't clear. I don't know if it was me or Charlie Whisper who drew his attention.. Both of us froze as the stranger's eyes fixed on our faces. He pivoted on his Nike's and stared hard at us.
The Cul, we felt, had turned on us. Us. "Hey you boys," the stranger shouted. Boys? Charlie Whisper was 43 and I'd just had my 40th birthday bash. A milestone. A party in the Cul. But I couldn't think of birthdays. Not at a time like this. "You, boys down there," he said again. "Behind the sign. You boys."
Words have a way of echoing when you're scared and hiding under a church sign in a Cul de Sac. Beneath the sign of the Reverend Peter Bristle. Below where Wanda had spray painted her name. The stranger stood silently amongst us. Charlie Whisper thought he was going to shoot us. Kill us with the Colt .45 on his hip. I hoped he'd shoot Charlie Whisper first. But I didn't say so. Not out loud. Not then as the stranger stood looking down at us. Charlie Whisper rose from his knee until he was standing. Five foot three inches. I followed. We were both dead, I just knew it. I hoped it would end quickly. Lead bullets. I wondered how'd they'd feel.
Nice day," said Charlie Whisper as a peace offering.
"What's that awful smell," said the man with red hair.
"Are you going to shoot us?" I blurted hoping out.
Sheriff and his deputy were on their way. "What do you want?" said Charlie Whisper.
“First I want to know what that awful smell is," said the stranger. "Then I want to know if this is the Cul of Sheriff Couter?"
“Then you're going to shoot us," my tongue wouldn't stay still.
”I'm here to take the Sheriff back alive or maybe dead," the stranger said quoting an old Marty Robbins song. Charlie Whisper looked at me. I held back a giggle. Back where? Don't giggle, I pleaded with myself. As the man spoke, Sheriff Couter Jenkins appeared not 20 yards from the stranger who still stood at the center of the Cul. "Big Red," cried the Sheriff Couter Jenkins. "Been a long time."
"Not long enough," said the Sheriff.
"Too long, if yon ask me,"
"Let's get this over with," said Sheriff Jenkins, Charlie Whisper and I watched. It was over in a moment. Folks came to look from all sorts of places in the Cul. There before them was the body of the Sheriff laying stiff on the ground. Sheriff Couter Jenkins.
Shot through the heart. He was just a little too old and a little too slow. I remembered a song of my youth telling me there'd always be a faster gun.
The stranger who we now called "Big Red!" put his smoking Colt .45 back on his hip.
“Got any women?" asked Big Red.
“Some good sheep," answered Charlie Whisper.
“Had enough sheep, good and bad alike," he replied. "Maybe the next Cul." Charlie Whisper and I were relieved. Relieved. Alive and relieved
The stranger then tied a hemp rope around the dead sheriff's legs, and like a calf who's been roped in a rodeo, dragged him 1875 feet down and out of the Cul. We all noticed it at the same time. Time. The smell was gone.
Well now things haven't changed much around the Cul. Wanda picked up the Sheriff's revolver the day of the incident with the stranger, so I guess she's officially sheriff. Charlie Whisper and me are planning an expedition. Maybe track down Big Red. Doc's opening an evening clinic and the Reverend St. Peter Bristle's trying to keep Wanda happy. Happy.
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