It was like seeing an old friend broken down with years of hard living. Those of you who spent wasted untold hours of your brief life watching the Dope City Canucks this year will know what I mean. Especially those of you who spend $6.75 a beer at their home games. The old friend was Sonja's aunt's cabin deep in the slick rain forest of the mountains in the misty sky above the city of timber dreams.
Sonja's aunt is nearing her 90th birthday, her husband, who built the cabin, long dead. Her children, once promising young, target shooting Christians, have squandered their lives on cheap heroin and expensive Canucks' tickets. They took no interest in the cedar refuge painstakingly built without the aid of contractors or modern technology.
As we approached we could see the wind had blown away strips of the roof. Inside the floors were wet and mossy. The fireplace, constructed of tons of river rock and cement carried to the remote mountain location on horseback is now too a mossy green.
When we got back I phoned Sonja's dad to let him know the fate of the cabin he had once tried to buy so as to hand it to his children in one piece one day. "Those assholes!" he told me. "How could they let something so beautiful and sturdy rot like that?"
One fuck of a long time ago I bought Sonja a gold heart necklace with a little diamond in it for her birthday. I gave it to her in that cabin. She smiled sweet when I gave it to her and said, "Beer you are best motherfucking boyfriend a girl could ask for."
I put a couple of pieces of wood on the fire, cracked open a beer, sparked up a submarine joint and said, "You got that right babe," as we sunk deeper into the defeated springs of the dusty old couch.
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