The truth about Stan. All of it. Even the
grisly details about uncle Eustace. They always
say that its best to begin at the beginning, so that
would be the rain, and November and the dogs.

Stan was wired too tight. Too tight for
Walla Walla, too tight for Westward Hoe, and
definitely too tight for Cranbrook. Probably Stan was
wired too tight for anywhere, but no one would
tell him ‘cause he was wired so damn tight. I
always Imagined Stan getting on well in the
Everglades or the Florida swamp. That crazy energy
that surrounds rivers and river people. All
movement, eddies, and torrents. But Stan didn't live
on or even near a river...He lived in Cranbrook ‘til
the first of the month and now he was bound for
Quesnel.

Stan lived crazy and tight like those strange
‘69 Ford cars that you see every once in awhile.
Cars that look physically tired. They've done one too
many hits of acid and they've been awake too long.
Well, that was Stan in a nutshell: it seemed
sometimes that Stan had just been awake too
long...And that would explain his tightness.

And so, Quesnel. And gong to stay with
Uncle Eustace, and a little time to sort things out.
Bad things had happened in Cranbrook. Nothing you
couldn't hide from, but things that caught your eye
when you least expect it. So, now Eustace and the
sweet forestry job. And never be tight again.
Because it was just getting too hard, and every time
Stan got bailed out the situation was a little bit
worse and a little worse.

Uncle Eustace was a typical Old Man, of
the coot variety. He still to this day used
brylilcream. He would wander around his shabby
little house, his hair slicked back, wearing a
shabby tartan bathrobe. The bathrobe was belted
tight around Uncle E's ample belly, with a silk tie
from and old dragon kimono that Eustace had almost
burned to death in. Uncle Eustace had been fond of
many things in his life, at the time, scotch,
cigarettes, and pain killers. He mixed these three
passions with a little late night television, and the
‘silk' kimono turned into a wrapping of flame.
Eustace quit smoking, drinking and pain killers
after that. At least doing them all at once.
Anyways, the belt had survived, somewhat
miraculously, and had somehow migrated to the new
favored article of clothing.

g When the bus trundled into town, with a
surly, bus-worn Stan aboard, it was in the bathrobe
that Eustace sat as he awaited his nephew. Stan
came out of the bus station to see the beaten Toyota
Corolla that Eustace had describe as his, and
Eustace in the bathrobe, hunched close to the wheel,
drumming his fingers on the dash. Stan was a trifle
shaken. He had a lot riding on this new situation
and his uncle's appearance was a little
disconcerting. It suggested problems. Complications.
Strangeness. Why could things never be even
vaguely normal?

Stan took a deep breath and firmed his
resolve. Things would be fine. So the old guy had
some quirks, so what? It would be interesting to get
used to a new person. Bullshit, screamed a defense
mechanism from deep inside Stan. But the scream
was from too deep and there was just too much

riding on all this. Stan smiled, opened the car door,
and looked inside. = :

"You must be Uncle Eustace."

"I certainly am, pony-boy!”

Then, "Well, get in, pup, I don't bite!"

Stan got in.

Eustace lived in what could best be
described as a hovel, that sat perched on one of the
hill sides that enclosed Quesnel. It was built on a
perfectly square foundation, the house rising three
stories, giving the impression, what with the angle
of the hill and all, that the house was teetering and
about to fall over. Through the years, Eustace had
built various extensions onto the house. These were
plywood, fly-away affairs that seemed to support the
idea that the house was about to sink into rubble.
It appeared as if the dirty white vinyl siding had
vomited bits of interior out into it's environs. The
rest of the lot was taken up by old car parts,
hard-packed, bitter dirt, and the cage.

S

{
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nl

ee
By Kacey McDougal /:

7 /

The cage was the most disconcerting thing
about Uncle Eustace, the house, the yard, the whole
deal. The cage made Stan's skin crawl, made his
eyes get dry like small stones inside his head.
Later, Stan would blame everything on the cage,
blurting in a drunken slur, self-righteously
proclaiming, that everything.. that the whole
mess...had stemmed from this. This horrible
anomaly.

Nestled like an amorphous cancer,
partially dug into the side of the hill was an
enclosure. It contained eight dobermann pinschers,
lean and mad. They were scarred, all of them, and
their teeth hung crookedly in black gums. They
roved around the enclosure always moving, always
stalking, their hungry eyes small and dark. They
calculated. When Stan came close to the cage, he
felt as if he had been sized up. He could feel a
tension building in the air, see it’s physical
manifestation in the knotting shoulders of the dogs.
They began to circle in the confines of the space,
then to boil, the growling beginning like a low
rumble, almost unfelt, almost unnoticed. Stan stood
mesmerized. At some times in his life, he'd had the
sense to get the hell out of such situations, at
others (like now) he'd been engrossed by the
blackness of a violence about to take place. His
head began to spin and suddenly in a rage, a
torrent, an eddy, the dogs were screaming, throwing
themselves against the fence, howling something akin
to pain, teeth gnashing and flashing. Stan was
jerked to his senses by a spray of saliva on his
face and the sound of the wooden fence posts
straining to maintain a load that was almost too
much. Stan iled, his eyes tearing, the barks and
yowls stabbing the styrofoam of his mind, squeaking
as that knife was drawn out and again plunged
home.

Inside, Uncle Eustace was cackling,
wheezing, saying over and over to himself,

~ "YOU MET THE BOYS, YOU MET THE BOYS, HOLY

SHIT, YOU MET THE BOYS!"
Stan sat down and held his head in his
hands. Things were not looking up.

2.

” Tom Thompson came paddling past,

I'm pretty sure it was him.

And he spoke so softly in accordance

To the coming of the dim.

He said, ‘Bring on a brand new

renaissance,

Because I think I'm ready,

I've been shaking all night long,

Now my hands are steady.”

--Gordon Downie

The rain had been coming down hard since
Stan arrived. It came down with a violence, and it
drummed on the poorly built roof of Eustace's
house. It crooned, It moaned. Groans would turn
into growls, and Stan's insides would turn to cold
water. Then he felt as if his intestines were
tightening, as if they were filled with hardening
expanding concrete. It would be fine if he could
sleep. Somehow the sound of the rain on that roof
was a sound which would creep into Stan's psyche
and consume him. It would keep him awake into
the night and tell him stories of his own suffering.
Only as the night ripened and fell from the tree
would Stan drift into a fitful rest. Maybe it was
the particular vibrations of that particular density of
rain on Eustace'’s very particular roof that affected
Stan so. Perhaps Stan was just wired too tight.

&

‘The truth about Stan. All of it. Even the
arisly details about uncle Eustace. They always
say that its best to begin at the beginning, so that
would be the rain, and November and the dogs.

Stan was wired too tight. Too tight for
Walla Walla, too tight for Westward Hoe, and
efinitely too tight for Cranbrook. Probably Stan was
wired two tight for anywhere, but no one would
tell him ‘cause he was wired so damn tight. 1
always Imagined Stan getting on well in the
Everglades or the Florida swamp. That crazy energy
that surrounds rivers and river people. All
movement, eddies, and torrents. But Stan didn't live
fon or even near a river...He lived in Cranbrook ‘til
the first of the month and now he was bound for
Quesnel

Stan lived crazy and tight like those strange
“69 Ford cars that you see every once in awhile.
Cars that look physically tired. They've done one to9
many hits of acid and they've been awake too long.
Well, that was Stan in a nutshell: it seemed
sometimes that Stan had just been awake too
long...And that would explain his tightness.

‘And so, Quesnel. And gong to stay with
Uncle Eustace, and a little time to sort things out
Bad things had happened in Cranbrook. Nothing you
couldn't hide from, but things that caught your eye
when you least expect it So, now Eustace and the
sweet forestry job. And never be tight again.
Because it was just getting too hard, and every time
Stan got bailed out the situation was a little bit
worse and a little worse,

Uncle Eustace was a typical Old Man, of
the coot variety. He still to this day used
brylleream He would wander around his shabby
little house, his hair slicked back, wearing a
shabby tartan bathrobe. The bathrobe was belted
tight around Uncle E's ample belly, with a silk tie
from and old dragon kimono that Eustace had almost
‘burned to death in. Uncle Eustace had been fond of
‘many things in his life, at the time, scotch,
cigarettes, and pain Killers. He mixed these three
passions with a litle late night television, and the
‘silk’ kimono turned into a wrapping of flame.
Eustace quit smoking, drinking and pain killers
after that. At least doing them all at once
‘Anyways, the belt had survived, somewhat
miraculously, and had somehow migrated to the new
favored article of clothing.

‘ ‘When the bus trundled into town, with a
surly, bus-worn Stan aboard, it was in the bathrobe
that Eustace sat as he awaited his nephew. Stan
‘came out of the bus station to see the beaten Toyota
Corolla that Eustace had describe as his, and
Eustace in the bathrobe, hunched close to the wheel
drumming his fingers on the dash. Stan was a trifle
shaken. He had a lot riding on this new situation
and his uncle's appearance was a little

disconcerting. It suggested problems. Complications.
Strangeness. Why could things never be even
vaguely normal?

Stan took a deep breath and firmed his
resolve. Things would be fine. So the old guy had
some quirks, so what? It would be interesting to get
used to a new person. Bullshit, screamed a defense
‘mechanism from deep inside Stan. But the scream
‘was from too deep and there was just too much
riding on all this. Stan smiled, opened the car door,
‘and looked inside.

"You must be Uncle Eustace.”

I certainly am, pony-boy!”

‘Then, "Well, get in, pup, 1 don't bite!”

Stan got in.

Eustace lived in what could best be
described as a hovel, that sat perched on one of the
hill sides that enclosed Quesnel. It was built on a
perfectly square foundation, the house rising three
stories, giving the impression, what with the angle
‘of the hill and all, that the house was teetering and
about to fall over. Through the years, Eustace had
built various extensions onto the house, These were
plywood, fly-away affairs that seemed 0 support the
idea that the house was about to sink into rubble.
It appeared as if the dirty white vinyl siding had
vomited bits of interior out into it's environs. The
rest of the lot was taken up by old car parts,
hard-packed, bitter dirt, and the cage.

The cage was the most disconcerting thing
about Uncle Eustace, the house, the yard, the whole
deal. The cage made Stan's skin crawl, made his
eyes get dry like small stones inside his head
Later, Stan would blame everything on the cage
blurting in a drunken slur. self-righteously
proclaiming, that everything.. that the whole
rmess...had stemmed from this. This horrible
‘anomaly

Nestled like an amorphous cancer,
partially dug into the side of the hill was an
enclosure. It contained eight doberman pinschers,
lean and mad. They were scarred, all of them, and
their teeth hung crookedly in black gums. They
roved around the enclosure always moving, always
stalking, their hungry eyes small and dark. They
calculated. When Stan came close 10 the cage, he
felt as if he had been sized up. He could feel a
tension building in the air, see it's physical
‘manifestation in the knotting shoulders of the dogs.
They began to circle in the confines of the space,
then to boil, the growling beginning like a low
rumble, almost unfelt, almost unnoticed. Stan stood
mesmerized. At some times in his life, he'd had the
sense to get the hell out of such situations, at
‘others (like now) he'd been engrossed by the
blackness of a violence about 0 take place. His
hhead began to spin and suddenly in a rage, a
torrent, an eddy, the dogs were screaming, throwing
themselves against the fence, howling. something akin
to pain, teeth gnashing and flashing. Stan was
jerked to his senses by a spray of saliva on his
face and the sound of the wooden fence posts
straining to euintain a Joad that was almost 100
‘much. Stan sled, his eyes tearing, the barks and
yowls stabbing the styrofoam of his mind, squeaking
as that knife was drawn out and again plunged
home.

Inside, Unele Eustace was cackling
wheezing, saying over and over to himself,
"YOU MET THE BOYS, YOU MET THE BOYS, HOLY
SHIT, YOU MET THE BOYS!"

Stan sat dovn and held his head in his
hands. Things were not looking up

2

Tom Thompson came paddling past

Tim preuy sure it was him

‘And he spoke so softly. in accordance

To the coming of the dim.

He said, ‘Bring on a brand new

Because I think T'm ready,

I've been shaking all night long,

Now my hands are steady.”

“Gordon Downie

The rain had been coming down hard since
Stan arrived. It came down with a violence, and it
drummed on the poorly built roof of Eustace’s
house. It crooned, It moaned. Groans would turn
into growls, and Stan's insides would turn to cold
water. Then he felt as if his intestines were
tightening, as if they were filled with hardening
expanding concrete. It would be fine if he could
sleep. Somehow the sound of the rain on that roof
was a sound which would creep into Stan's psyche
and consume him. It would keep him awake into
the night and tell him stories of his own suffering
Only as the night ripened and fell from the tree
‘would Stan drift into a fitful rest. Maybe it was
the particular vibrations of that particular density of
rain on Eustace's very particular roof that affected
Stan so. Perhaps Stan was just wired too tight