Talking at the Woodpile by David Thompson

Author:David Thompson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Short Fiction
ISBN: 9781894759816
Publisher: Caitlin Press
Published: 2011-03-20T16:00:00+00:00

The Man Who Thought His Wife Was an Alien

Brian and Joshua worked together at Hughie Ford’s Chevrolet Automotive Garage in downtown Dawson City. Hughie and his brother Mordechai were more interested in placer mining on Dominion Creek and winters in Florida than running a garage. They left the running of the business to Brian, whom they trusted but supervised closely. People thought Mordechai was a silent business partner, but it was just that he rarely spoke.

“Show Joshua the ropes, Brian. Maybe he’ll be a mechanic someday,” Hughie yelled as he left the dim garage bay for the morning sunshine. Mordechai followed behind him and gave Brian the nod.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Brian yelled out after them. He turned to Joshua, who wore the same green coveralls as Brian, but two sizes taller. “I hate that nod Mordechai gives after everything Hughie says.”

I walked in on the tail end of the conversation, and Brian’s anger turned to a cheery, “Good morning, Tobias. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing fine,” I said, giving Joshua a nod.

I liked both men. Joshua was level-headed. He had a friendly smile and a calmness about him, but his dealings with the Rock Creek boys had proved he also had a resolve of steel for what was right.

Brian was a helpful, pleasant person—customers and friends agreed on that—but he also believed that aliens lived amongst us. Every day he made a clandestine scrutiny of Joshua’s features for any sign of alienness. As they talked, Brian scribbled notes in a grease-covered memo pad that he kept in his left shirt pocket. In his right shirt pocket he kept his memo pad for the garage, but it stayed fairly clean.

When Brian thought he’d discovered an alien, he gave a wink and a nod as an attempt to communicate, but a wink was as good as a nod to a blind horse.

Joshua failed the test.

“You’re not an alien,” Brian said, stuffing his notebook in his shirt pocket. He was disappointed; he was hoping to work with an alien.

“What?” Joshua asked.

“You’re not an alien. Go pump some gas,” Brian yelled over his shoulder as he walked into the dark, cluttered tool room to look for parts. Outside, a customer was honking impatiently.

“Okay, okay, thanks for letting me know that,” Joshua called after him. He had no clue that he had been struck off the alien list and saved from further annoying scrutiny.

Brian was a writer’s dream, since his wild imagination and scientific knowledge gave me fodder for enhancing the Yukon’s mystique. He was a great talker, and at times I pulled myself back from the brink of belief in his tales.

“Tobias, there are a few things you have to know about identifying and catching aliens. The first is that they have pointy ears.” Having said that, he froze slack-jawed and fixed his gaze on me. Seeing that this priceless bit of information had sunk in, he snapped his mouth shut and continued, “And they have different-coloured eyes, like malamutes, sometimes stutter and prefer colourful hair.

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