After a long night on the roads through northern Wisconsin and central Canada, red eyed from moose watch and the juxtaposition of headlights to wooded darkness, he reached the rain soaked Indian town of Red Lake to gather supplies before flying into the bush for an annual civilization relief spell.
The bush planes were grounded for 24 due to heavy rains, and this forced them to hunker down to card playing and beer drinking in the local joint. He could think of worse things but the anticipation delay of the cabin was wearing on him. Then again, there was the French Canadian waitress that stood and sang brightly against her quiet and reclusive Indian counterparts. Filling beers without counting and keeping the men festive was all part of the craft. But this was less a manipulation and more her joyful nature.
At times she would sit in his lap with her long toned arm wrapped around his shoulder as she played his poker hand, often successfully, smiling and laughing and calling each gent by their consciously remembered birth name, while he just leaned back in awe at her graceful confidence. There was no anticipation or expectation of anything more than this moment.
Until the tavern door flung open and the Indian kid said the storm had passed and the plane was ready to fly. Cash on the table and packs gathered up, they hustled out the door. At the threshold, he looked back to see her leaning against the bar rail with her arms crossed. He sort of shrugged his shoulders for a moment and she waved her hand forward as if to say “go man, do what you came to do.” He turned and headed for the plane that would take him away from such distractions and offer the perfect clarity he needed.
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