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Authors: Dana Stabenow
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twenty-seven miles away from Niniltna, which put it exactly nine feet, three inches outside the Niniltna Native Association’s tribal jurisdiction. A road of sorts, following the west bank of the Kanuyaq River, connected the two. It was a road created and maintained from the wear and tear of truck tires and snow-machine treads. Any other road with that much traffic would have qualified for federal matching funds.
The bar was a low, sprawling place built of the inevitable plywood and two-by-fours flown in piece by prohibitively expensive piece, strapped to the struts of a Super Cub whose young pilot paid off the loan on his plane with that job. A satellite dish hung precariously from the eaves. There was a shack for the generator, another for the water tank whose contents Bernie pumped out of the Kanuyaq each fall, and the house in which Bernie and his wife, Enid, born a Shugak, and seven children lived and from which Bernie fled nightly into the Roadhouse. A half dozen tiny cabins, where Bernie put his children to work as soon as they were tall enough to change sheets on a bed, were rented out year-round to the stray tourists and Demetri Totemoff’s hunting parties.
Unfinished wooden steps climbed up to the front door. Inside, the building was one cavernous square fifty feet on a side, with exposed beams that patrons occasionally swung from, depending on how late the hour and when Bernie cut them off. A bar with stools and a brass foot rail ran down the left side of the room, with a mirror and racks of dusty bottles of exotic liqueurs in back of it. There was a large television hanging from one corner of the ceiling, with tall men chasing a basketball across the screen. Tables and chairs, video games and a jukebox with selections guaranteed to be not more than five years old filled up the rest of the room. There were two restrooms, with functional toilets, and homesteaders for miles around came just to remember how it felt not to have to hang it out in the cold with the mosquitoes snapping at your ass in the summer and the dogs doing the same thing in the winter. On New Year’s Eve and on the Fourth of July the bar stayed open until five, three hours past its usual closing time, and on such occasions Bernie had been known to bring in live entertainment from as far away as Tok.
The room hadn’t been swamped out in memory of man, and it smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke and vomit. Behind the bar was Bernie, tall, dark and skinny, with a calm face and a hairline that was marching inexorably up the crown of his head. The remainder was clipped back into a ponytail, a defiant reminder of those halcyon days when he had been more hippy and less yuppy and much, much younger.
It was noisy that night, like every other night. Mutt saw Bernie and bounded across the room to jump up with her two front paws on the bar.
“Hey, no dogs allowed in—Oh, it’s you, Mutt,” Bernie said. “Hold on a minute.” He turned and plucked a package of beef jerky off a stand and ripped it open. He tossed a chunk to Mutt, who caught it neatly in her teeth. Bernie looked between her ears and said, “Hey, Kate.” Stretching out a thin, wiry hand, he added, “It’s been a while.”
“Not long enough,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it warmly.
He gave an exaggerated wince and examined his hand tenderly. “You been splitting too many logs, Kate.”
“You haven’t been practicing your slam dunks, Bernie.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Coke,” she said.
“Damn,” he said, reaching for a tall glass, “you’re bad for business, Kate. I never make any money off you.”
“You do when you charge a buck and a half for a Coke,” she said, digging in her pocket.
He waved her money away and leaned on the bar, his arms folded in front of him. She sipped her Coke and looked around. The smoke obscured her vision, and the bass from the jukebox was powerful enough to bounce her right off her stool. The talk was necessarily
The bar was a low, sprawling place built of the inevitable plywood and two-by-fours flown in piece by prohibitively expensive piece, strapped to the struts of a Super Cub whose young pilot paid off the loan on his plane with that job. A satellite dish hung precariously from the eaves. There was a shack for the generator, another for the water tank whose contents Bernie pumped out of the Kanuyaq each fall, and the house in which Bernie and his wife, Enid, born a Shugak, and seven children lived and from which Bernie fled nightly into the Roadhouse. A half dozen tiny cabins, where Bernie put his children to work as soon as they were tall enough to change sheets on a bed, were rented out year-round to the stray tourists and Demetri Totemoff’s hunting parties.
Unfinished wooden steps climbed up to the front door. Inside, the building was one cavernous square fifty feet on a side, with exposed beams that patrons occasionally swung from, depending on how late the hour and when Bernie cut them off. A bar with stools and a brass foot rail ran down the left side of the room, with a mirror and racks of dusty bottles of exotic liqueurs in back of it. There was a large television hanging from one corner of the ceiling, with tall men chasing a basketball across the screen. Tables and chairs, video games and a jukebox with selections guaranteed to be not more than five years old filled up the rest of the room. There were two restrooms, with functional toilets, and homesteaders for miles around came just to remember how it felt not to have to hang it out in the cold with the mosquitoes snapping at your ass in the summer and the dogs doing the same thing in the winter. On New Year’s Eve and on the Fourth of July the bar stayed open until five, three hours past its usual closing time, and on such occasions Bernie had been known to bring in live entertainment from as far away as Tok.
The room hadn’t been swamped out in memory of man, and it smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke and vomit. Behind the bar was Bernie, tall, dark and skinny, with a calm face and a hairline that was marching inexorably up the crown of his head. The remainder was clipped back into a ponytail, a defiant reminder of those halcyon days when he had been more hippy and less yuppy and much, much younger.
It was noisy that night, like every other night. Mutt saw Bernie and bounded across the room to jump up with her two front paws on the bar.
“Hey, no dogs allowed in—Oh, it’s you, Mutt,” Bernie said. “Hold on a minute.” He turned and plucked a package of beef jerky off a stand and ripped it open. He tossed a chunk to Mutt, who caught it neatly in her teeth. Bernie looked between her ears and said, “Hey, Kate.” Stretching out a thin, wiry hand, he added, “It’s been a while.”
“Not long enough,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it warmly.
He gave an exaggerated wince and examined his hand tenderly. “You been splitting too many logs, Kate.”
“You haven’t been practicing your slam dunks, Bernie.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Coke,” she said.
“Damn,” he said, reaching for a tall glass, “you’re bad for business, Kate. I never make any money off you.”
“You do when you charge a buck and a half for a Coke,” she said, digging in her pocket.
He waved her money away and leaned on the bar, his arms folded in front of him. She sipped her Coke and looked around. The smoke obscured her vision, and the bass from the jukebox was powerful enough to bounce her right off her stool. The talk was necessarily
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