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**Fiction**
When I found out that two of my best gay buds were getting married, I knew I had to get them something unique. There was going to be 300 guests at the wedding, each bearing gifts of toasters, food processors, juicers, and throw pillows. I wanted my gift to stand out. Knowing they were both avid outdoorsmen and proud of their Canadian heritage, I thought I would buy them a canoe.
They already had canoes. Six in fact. But what they did not have was a traditional Native American handmade canoe. If for nothing else, the beautiful craftsman ship and simple artistry would make my gift a centerpiece for their lodge. I looked into it and found a reserve in a neighboring town which had a canoe dealer. I left immediately.
It was about an hour drive in the hot summer sun. I drove with the removable roof off my Jeep and hit the highway. Listening to some cheesy 80's rock, my drive was quick. I pulled into the small town and found it terribly quiet. Not much activity on the main street, downtown. A few cozy coffee shops with outdoor patios, an antique dealer, a lonely guitar player on the street corner. I decided to stop and ask the guitar player for directions to the reserve. The guitar player was boyishly handsome but also fairly dumbfounded. My initial attraction was lost almost as soon as he opened his mouth.
I followed the questionable directions until I finally found the reserve tucked away in a wooded area on the other side of the river which flowed through the downtown. Many of the homes here were small and some in various states of disrepair. My stomach turned as I thought of how we and our government treat our First Nation people. I drove slowly through a neighborhood which was littered with bicycles and childrens' toys. Finally, a woman spotted me from her lawn and approached my Jeep.
She looked at me with a warm grin and sarcastically asked, "Are you lost?"
"No. Yes. Not totally," I replied, "I'm looking to buy a canoe. I understand that there is a craftsman around here somewhere?"
The woman smiled, "Oh! Yes there is. You're almost there. Turn left at the end of this street, down down eight or nine houses and turn right. It's a big blue barn. You can't miss it."
"Thank you," I shook the kind woman's hand and went on my way. Her answer was much more understandable than the spaced guitarist in town. Before I could sing along to the chorus of Paradise City, I was there.
The front yard was full of tree stumps and tire tracks. The large blue barn stood proudly next to a simple single story bungalow. A mock canoe was attached to the front of the barn with the word, Aroostook, painted across it. I got out of my Jeep and walked up the driveway. A short, aboriginal man came out of the barn to greet me. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a dirty beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked tired and aged. I’d guess him to be about 60 years old.
“You must be Devon,” he greeted sincerely, “Here to take a look at some canoes?”
I nodded, “Yes sir,” I shook his hand as well. The politician in me can’t help myself.
“Any idea how big you want it?” he asked.
“Big enough for two people and some camping supplies,” I answered, looking around the yard. There was sawdust, tools, and piles of lumber. This family must have been a very hard working and industrious family.
“For you and a friend? Or for you and a girl?” the man asked with a devilish chuckle. His eyes glimmered as he remembered his own youth and his canoe trips with the ladies.
“For two friends of mine actually,” I laughed, “They are getting married.”
The man shook his head in a somber fashion, “Then we will have to make a drop hatch in the bottom for him to get rid of her!” he joked. His boisterous laugh could be heard for miles.
I didn’t feel the urge to correct him and tell him it was two men. I laughed with him and followed him into the barn. The barn was full of beautiful birch bark canoes in varied states of completion. Soft Earth tones adorned the vessels, assisted by lavish aboriginal symbols and painting. Small, long, wide, each canoe was so beautiful and so different from the others.
“This is my workshop, my showroom, the reason my hands are so coarse now!” he laughed and showed me his calloused hands, “I touch my wife and screams like I took the cheese grater to her,” he chuckled. “So I only touch when she changes the channel…” he added.
“Is my uncle bothering you?” another man stood up from behind a canoe on a long work bench. He was much closer to my own age then the friendly owner. He had thick, black hair to his shoulders, dark piercing eyes, and a warm tanned complexion. He was not wearing a shirt, and revealed his chiseled, smooth body like the David. “I build these things and he scares the customers out of here before they can appreciate them.” He motioned to the canoe he was working on.
“Not at all,” I paused, stunned by his good looks, “He’s a funny man.” I pat the short man on the shoulder and stepped closer to the work bench. “This is a beautiful piece,” I spoke meaning the carpenter but insinuating the canoe.
He smiled, “Yeah. She’ll be done in a few weeks. We have to let the Spruce juice dry, then we waterproof her with some more modern methods.” He bent over and picked up his dirty blue tee shirt. He didn’t put it on but tucked it into his belt and carried it on his waist. Then he winked at me secretly, “Can I show you around?”
I turned to the greeter who had crossed his arms over his chest, looking at me with the face that let me know he had just had his epiphany. He just realized I was gay. He smiled and motioned at me to go on, “I have to check the kitchen anyway,” he said, “If I leave my wife alone too long she threatens to leave home.” He turned and left.
“Do you canoe often?” the attractive carpenter asked me with his deep toned voice.
“I have never actually canoed,” I admitted, “I don’t know how to swim.”
“Then don’t fall out,” he laughed. He shared his uncle’s sense of humor. “Would you like to give it a try sometime?”
I tore my eyes away from his handsome face and looked at a long canoe overhead, “Yeah. Definitely.”
“Are you in a rush today?” he asked.
I looked at him, surprised. “Are you trying to get me to buy a second canoe?”
He shrugged nervously, “No. Actually, I was asking you out.”
I just froze.
His eyes widened, he looked panicked, “You’re not gay?! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…”
By reaction, I raised a hand and placed it on his solid arm, “No! I am! I was just taken back!”
Calming quickly he retorted, “You are gay?”
“Yes,” I laughed and put my hands in my pockets, “Gay as Elton John’s fannypack.”
He offered his hand to shake mine, “My name is Carlo. Carlo Aroostook.”
“Devon Michael,” I shook his strong hand, impressed by his strength. “Carlo? Isn’t that Spanish or Italian?”
He smiled, “My aunt married an Italian and I got named after him. You didn’t expect my name to be Little Bear or something did you?” He smiled from ear to ear and brushed his hair back out of his face.
I grinned nervously, “I thought it might be something about a Fox,”
He looked at me, puzzled, and then grinned back, “Leave the jokes to my Uncle, ok?”
Embarrassed, I turned away and pointed at a finished canoe, “That one looks amazing!”
Carlo puffed out his chest. “I built that one myself when I was 22 years old. It was my first, by myself. Uncle Gerry usually puts a lot into each one himself, but that one is my baby.”
“It’s amazing. Big enough for two?” I asked.
Carlo laughed, “Not unless you want to sit between my legs. Let me get a better one from storage and I’ll take you out on the lake. It’s pretty shallow, so even if you fall in I can save you.”
“I’ll wait here!” I felt my heart beating hard as he walked away. He had an incredible body and seemed very sweet too. This was becoming the best shopping trip I had ever made.
To be continued.
When I found out that two of my best gay buds were getting married, I knew I had to get them something unique. There was going to be 300 guests at the wedding, each bearing gifts of toasters, food processors, juicers, and throw pillows. I wanted my gift to stand out. Knowing they were both avid outdoorsmen and proud of their Canadian heritage, I thought I would buy them a canoe.
They already had canoes. Six in fact. But what they did not have was a traditional Native American handmade canoe. If for nothing else, the beautiful craftsman ship and simple artistry would make my gift a centerpiece for their lodge. I looked into it and found a reserve in a neighboring town which had a canoe dealer. I left immediately.
It was about an hour drive in the hot summer sun. I drove with the removable roof off my Jeep and hit the highway. Listening to some cheesy 80's rock, my drive was quick. I pulled into the small town and found it terribly quiet. Not much activity on the main street, downtown. A few cozy coffee shops with outdoor patios, an antique dealer, a lonely guitar player on the street corner. I decided to stop and ask the guitar player for directions to the reserve. The guitar player was boyishly handsome but also fairly dumbfounded. My initial attraction was lost almost as soon as he opened his mouth.
I followed the questionable directions until I finally found the reserve tucked away in a wooded area on the other side of the river which flowed through the downtown. Many of the homes here were small and some in various states of disrepair. My stomach turned as I thought of how we and our government treat our First Nation people. I drove slowly through a neighborhood which was littered with bicycles and childrens' toys. Finally, a woman spotted me from her lawn and approached my Jeep.
She looked at me with a warm grin and sarcastically asked, "Are you lost?"
"No. Yes. Not totally," I replied, "I'm looking to buy a canoe. I understand that there is a craftsman around here somewhere?"
The woman smiled, "Oh! Yes there is. You're almost there. Turn left at the end of this street, down down eight or nine houses and turn right. It's a big blue barn. You can't miss it."
"Thank you," I shook the kind woman's hand and went on my way. Her answer was much more understandable than the spaced guitarist in town. Before I could sing along to the chorus of Paradise City, I was there.
The front yard was full of tree stumps and tire tracks. The large blue barn stood proudly next to a simple single story bungalow. A mock canoe was attached to the front of the barn with the word, Aroostook, painted across it. I got out of my Jeep and walked up the driveway. A short, aboriginal man came out of the barn to greet me. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a dirty beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked tired and aged. I’d guess him to be about 60 years old.
“You must be Devon,” he greeted sincerely, “Here to take a look at some canoes?”
I nodded, “Yes sir,” I shook his hand as well. The politician in me can’t help myself.
“Any idea how big you want it?” he asked.
“Big enough for two people and some camping supplies,” I answered, looking around the yard. There was sawdust, tools, and piles of lumber. This family must have been a very hard working and industrious family.
“For you and a friend? Or for you and a girl?” the man asked with a devilish chuckle. His eyes glimmered as he remembered his own youth and his canoe trips with the ladies.
“For two friends of mine actually,” I laughed, “They are getting married.”
The man shook his head in a somber fashion, “Then we will have to make a drop hatch in the bottom for him to get rid of her!” he joked. His boisterous laugh could be heard for miles.
I didn’t feel the urge to correct him and tell him it was two men. I laughed with him and followed him into the barn. The barn was full of beautiful birch bark canoes in varied states of completion. Soft Earth tones adorned the vessels, assisted by lavish aboriginal symbols and painting. Small, long, wide, each canoe was so beautiful and so different from the others.
“This is my workshop, my showroom, the reason my hands are so coarse now!” he laughed and showed me his calloused hands, “I touch my wife and screams like I took the cheese grater to her,” he chuckled. “So I only touch when she changes the channel…” he added.
“Is my uncle bothering you?” another man stood up from behind a canoe on a long work bench. He was much closer to my own age then the friendly owner. He had thick, black hair to his shoulders, dark piercing eyes, and a warm tanned complexion. He was not wearing a shirt, and revealed his chiseled, smooth body like the David. “I build these things and he scares the customers out of here before they can appreciate them.” He motioned to the canoe he was working on.
“Not at all,” I paused, stunned by his good looks, “He’s a funny man.” I pat the short man on the shoulder and stepped closer to the work bench. “This is a beautiful piece,” I spoke meaning the carpenter but insinuating the canoe.
He smiled, “Yeah. She’ll be done in a few weeks. We have to let the Spruce juice dry, then we waterproof her with some more modern methods.” He bent over and picked up his dirty blue tee shirt. He didn’t put it on but tucked it into his belt and carried it on his waist. Then he winked at me secretly, “Can I show you around?”
I turned to the greeter who had crossed his arms over his chest, looking at me with the face that let me know he had just had his epiphany. He just realized I was gay. He smiled and motioned at me to go on, “I have to check the kitchen anyway,” he said, “If I leave my wife alone too long she threatens to leave home.” He turned and left.
“Do you canoe often?” the attractive carpenter asked me with his deep toned voice.
“I have never actually canoed,” I admitted, “I don’t know how to swim.”
“Then don’t fall out,” he laughed. He shared his uncle’s sense of humor. “Would you like to give it a try sometime?”
I tore my eyes away from his handsome face and looked at a long canoe overhead, “Yeah. Definitely.”
“Are you in a rush today?” he asked.
I looked at him, surprised. “Are you trying to get me to buy a second canoe?”
He shrugged nervously, “No. Actually, I was asking you out.”
I just froze.
His eyes widened, he looked panicked, “You’re not gay?! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…”
By reaction, I raised a hand and placed it on his solid arm, “No! I am! I was just taken back!”
Calming quickly he retorted, “You are gay?”
“Yes,” I laughed and put my hands in my pockets, “Gay as Elton John’s fannypack.”
He offered his hand to shake mine, “My name is Carlo. Carlo Aroostook.”
“Devon Michael,” I shook his strong hand, impressed by his strength. “Carlo? Isn’t that Spanish or Italian?”
He smiled, “My aunt married an Italian and I got named after him. You didn’t expect my name to be Little Bear or something did you?” He smiled from ear to ear and brushed his hair back out of his face.
I grinned nervously, “I thought it might be something about a Fox,”
He looked at me, puzzled, and then grinned back, “Leave the jokes to my Uncle, ok?”
Embarrassed, I turned away and pointed at a finished canoe, “That one looks amazing!”
Carlo puffed out his chest. “I built that one myself when I was 22 years old. It was my first, by myself. Uncle Gerry usually puts a lot into each one himself, but that one is my baby.”
“It’s amazing. Big enough for two?” I asked.
Carlo laughed, “Not unless you want to sit between my legs. Let me get a better one from storage and I’ll take you out on the lake. It’s pretty shallow, so even if you fall in I can save you.”
“I’ll wait here!” I felt my heart beating hard as he walked away. He had an incredible body and seemed very sweet too. This was becoming the best shopping trip I had ever made.
To be continued.
Keep going.
