Dog Tired Hum Blues

Uncle Bob called from Selfridge Air Force Base, just north of Detroit. He needed my help moving my aunt and three cousins, driving his sixty-three Chevy, and getting all his furniture to Lubbock, Texas, in one piece. I jumped on a Greyhound bus and headed northeast. My family flew overhead to the southwest as I listened to the dog’s tires hum on the asphalt. My uncle and I packed up their household, and then we played poker and partied every night. I hustled pool, then decided to go fishing on Lake St. Clair. I saw guys fishing from wharves, but they seldom caught anything. Dudes would rent boats and row out from shore, and they seemed to catch plenty of fish of all types.

This long-haired guy, about my age, asked me if I wanted to fish. I said, sure. We split the cost of the boat, the rods and reels, and the bait. We took turns rowing, threw the anchor overboard, and started pulling in perch and bluegills. We had a bucketful, so we headed back to the dock. He asked if I smoked pot and rolled a pinner of some wicked shit. I was high for about three hours.

The next day, we met and had a cooler of beer and sandwiches. We rowed out and drank, he asked me if I wanted to try some orange sunshine. The day poured gold upon us, we smoked a doobie to try and come down. The water was a beautiful silver green. The sky was cobalt with puffy, cotton-like clouds floating untethered. The seagulls were squawking and swooping. We threw a few crusts of bread to them. Soon, we had five or six angry, hungry, large birds with sharp beaks and talons. We threw more bread, and soon we had fifty or sixty birds attacking us, dive bombing for food. It was like the Alfred Hitchcock movie, but we had no phone booth to hide in.

I started rowing like my life depended on it. The fellow I was with made matters worse by sword fighting with the two fishing poles against the livid seagulls. Finally, he threw the rods at the birds, the tackle boxes, the anchor, the ice cooler, and my shirt. I was severely pissed. The old man that rented the boats wanted to charge us for all the missing and damaged stuff. I agreed to pay my part. The other dude ran and jumped in his car and drove away. I went ahead and made things right. A few days later, I saw the guy. He told me he was going to get even with the rental man by dosing his coffee with LSD. I told him, you don’t want to do that.

I told my uncle about the situation, leaving out some parts of the story. I didn’t see the guy again until about a year later. My lady and I were in El Paso at a rock concert. Ten Years After and Santana were playing. Everyone was moving and grooving to the music. This one cat was completely off the beat; he looked like Michigan acid boy. He vanished before I could approach him.