The Ozette Raccoon Incident, pt. 2

After what seemed like forever, the roar of surf announced that we were getting close to the beach. As we rounded a final corner, the bushes gave way to a clearing that held a battered, 3-sided storm shelter. Huddled inside was Theo, futilely trying to smoke a wet cigarette and warm himself over the pitiful output of a candle lantern. He was miserable, freezing cold, and forlorn, and I will never forget the way his face lit up when he saw his friends suddenly emerge from the storm bearing gifts of food, booze, and dope. (Later, of course, this would devolve into bitterness and paranoia.)

We were almost as glad to see Theo as he was us, and amazed once again by his ingenuity. Despite the bedraggled condition of its resident, the shelter was as cozy as you could like considering the circumstances. Using a complex system of tensioning ropes, he had suspended a tarp just below the ceiling, which caught rain leaking through the log roof and funneled it to the back of the shelter where it drained to the outside. Another tarp lined the floor, and a neat sleeping area was set up in the corner.

After shedding packs and wet clothes, we sat to admire Theo's handiwork and smoke a bowl, then got to work completing renovations. Within an hour we had engineered a warm, dry palace of sloth. The interior was heavily shadowed, lit only by the fitful glow of candle lanterns swinging from ceiling ropes, hazy with pot smoke and humidity. The overall effect was inviting, intoxicating, and sinister - a backwoods opium den, and as we were about to discover, a gilded prison.

Ravenous from the hike, we dug into our provisions for the week. With great fanfare, Theo produced a large black plastic garbage sack and opened it in the center of the room. Inside were exactly 50 packs of genuine Carl Buddig lunch "meat," a kaleidoscopic array of smoked chopped sliced pressed by-products in every conceivable flavor, including several that never should have been conceived. We were so hungry that it actually seemed like a treat, especially when paired with sourdough rolls and a brick of aged white cheddar.

Though we didn't realize it at the time, this unholy, bowel-blocking triumvirate was to be our main source of sustenance for the week, and a clear contributor to the degenerate behavior to follow.

Truthfully, the blame for most of what happened can be lain squarely at the feet of Carl Buddig. Carl Buddig, with his hate for humanity and his shiny cellophane packages of greasy, bowel-destroying offal. There was so much of the stuff that we began playing games with it. Vasky took to folding the entire contents of a package in thirds, compressing it with dirty hands, and cramming it into his mouth. "Meat Bar!" he sprayed through half-chewed mouthfuls of Buddig, giggling madly, launching a fine mist of greasy saliva into the already foul atmosphere. Attempts to curtail this assualt on decency were met with agressive indifference.

Inevitably, single slices were soon being thrown at each other, with a minor uproar caused whenever an errant throw landed on somebody's pillow. The situation was degenerating rapidly.

Horribly, this was just the tip of the iceberg compared to what Carl Buddig had planned for us.

to be continued

¶ Tuesday, August 24, 2004