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Last Frontier

Franklin Street skitters, unpaved: past doorways; most, entrances of saloons. It angles off the business district to piers and landings.. Then disappears later, on a Pacific inlet. Where the mud flats begin. stretches no one can travel. Every bar has its moonglow; some strictly Native, others White. Northern Lights, Red Dog, The Arctic Tap. In November, a freezing rain splashes outside. Rain, all the time.

Juneau was built on the wrong side of a mountain range.

Hard by the sea, 30 miles of roads connect Juneau. But they’re going nowhere. You need to take a ferry to the Alcan Highway to leave. When you’re ready to leave, that is.

Everyday I took my aimless hikes. By tumbledown shacks. They line every street to the outskirts of town.

Alone, I passed by Indians. They nodded, or they glared. No one here feels morose about rainfall. Because by late September, it’s all snowflakes. At times, though, hail in big pellets. It stays like that right up to May.

I buy beer and cigarettes in The Arctic. I’m known there by recognition if not by name.Gus the barman wheels on the floor. To his cash box, where dime pinups and snapshots festoon a mirror.

He asks daily if I’ve found work. Daily, I tell him no. I decided a while back not to tell him. I’m not looking. But I don’t mind talking. Sooner or later, I cut off his blue stream of words.

I’ve never been someone to say exactly what they think.

And what’s with Gus? A haggard Swede in a T-shirt, combat veteran of the Marshall Islands. We spoke the first day I got here. He gave pointers, tips and advice. Ins and outs of Juneau Alaska. I could barely listen. But in some way he had my respect.

What my intentions were – that probably crossed his mind. They’ve changed everyday since I left Seattle. I came here to bust out; make a break: escape. But I never meant to settle down. What I meant was to return to Monica if I could. Or hope she’d come back to me.

That one intention I didn’t want to sell short.

When I first got here, the days were growing longer into perpetual night.. I had about 6 months pay in my pocket from a loading dock at the Pike Street Market. In Seattle, where I met Monica. At first glance, she seemed benevolent and wise. Possessed of wisdom that comes from world weary views. But there were gaps, fissures you’d come across. She claims to know what’s on your mind- since she has psychic power. A link to the supernatural. She claims to know the difference in the things you say, from what you’re thinking.

As for myself, I am a creature of habit. I smoke, drink, and eat red meat. I wake up in the morning and drift to sleep each night.

It was too early to strike out for the Arctic. Last night, I took notice of a blue tattoo scripted on one of Gus’s forearms. Just one word: Sherry. That I hadn’t noticed.

A local crowd liked to socialize in the lobby at the Scandinavian Hotel. They sipped booze while playing complex games of chess.

I got a room here when I first landed off a ship from Seattle. It was run by a large family of Tlinglit Indians, who really had no clue about English.The oldest daughter took the lead, walking back and forth through a blanket. She spoke broken English though broken teeth. A voice both lilting and guttural. I learned not to ask this smooth faced girl too many questions. She didn’t know how to answer them. She would laugh, then shrug, wave me away with both hands. The blanket hung in the doorway. In a mottled gray.To separate living quarters from lobby.

Every week, I tapped the bell (they even had a bell). Money exchanged hands. Washington Crossing the Delaware (you know the one) hangs on the far wall.

At that moment none of the crowd was in the lobby. I cracked open the quart top and fiddled around with the radio.

Why’d I ever get mixed up with Monica? Like, even in the first place? I didn’t like to feel a waning desire. Hers, or mine.And what about all those halfasses back home. Whatever were they after?

Swiveling around, I took a look at George Washington again. Just to make sure he was still in his frame.

A rust colored pickup pulled up across the street. Charles was here, one of the lobby regulars. A gimp-legged little guy with a bushy beard. He didn’t stay at the old hotel, but he knew one and all. He wasn’t an Alaskan, another out of state type like me. Charles was from Northern Cal, he wound up in Juneau after weed got legal. He was a well established ton dealer. They said he had a lot of money. But he dressed like he was down and out.

He sat across from me and started to set up his chessboard. Without looking up, he asked, ‘How’s it going?’ I said, ‘It’s going.’ He finally narrowed his eyes with curiosity. ‘You know if the old lady catches you with that open bottle, this time she’s gonna evict you.’

I didn’t respond. One of his legs took a jump. He’d messed them up in a car crash.

‘Are you playing, or no?’ He sighed and pushed out the queen’s pawn. After several moves he began bad mouthing Kimbro. An Indian guy upstairs.. One of his small-time customers. He’d seen Kimbro cuffed and whisked out from one of the bars by the State Police. The charge, said Charles, was grave robbery. Mutilation of a corpse. This made sense to me. Kimbro always seemed despondent. He was from a Tlinglit village far in the interior.

Juneau must be The Big City.

Charles toyed with his white bishop. ‘Keep your distance from him. He’s no damn good.’

‘Thanks for the information,’ I told him, and resigned from the chess game. I capped the bottle and went upstairs. Opening my room, I noticed the orange coil glow on the hotplate. I’d left it on again. I lay down in the dark.

I tried not to think about Monica. What a dangerous person. How much did I know about her anyway? If I knew more, I was sure I’d love her less. Drifting to sleep in the afternoon, I thought I heard her talking. ‘Your misfit , pissant, the devil lies in wait. But soon mine will show up.’ Then she asked me if I paid rent here, and how. I became confused and mumbled about the light bill. I woke up startled. I knew then for certain. I’d clear out of Juneau soon. This hokum about getting her to join me won’t work. I’d get my old job at the Pike Street Market.

I didn’t feel a thing. It was dark, but that meant nothing at all. Could be night or day. The gas lamps along the piers glittered.

I was not quite young in life and had done nothing to speak of. I thought about Kimbro down the hall, with his found collection of rings and neckties taken from coffins.

I had a laugh and turned over. Back to sleep.

About the artist

Michael Igoe, city boy, Chicago now Boston. Works appear in journals and anthologies at amazon.com, lulu.com, barnesandnoble.com. National Library of Poetry (Owing Mills MD) Editor’s Choice For 1997. Best of the Net Nomination 2023. Instagram:: igoe590
Twitter(X):: MichaelIgoe5
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