We live in Thunder Bay. A small town with narrow, weather-beaten roads. Broken concrete, sunken cobblestones, crumbling asphalt. Streets, avenues, trails. And bridges. All of them leading to, from, and across Lake Huron, The Thunder Bay River, and their streams. Along these roads stand two-hundred year old houses with peeling paint, broken shingles, and wooden floors that creak and sigh. Our people watch the world pass by through large tired windows. Dirty glass panes that have been melting slowly. Invisibly over time. So that they've become thicker at the bottom than at the top. A lot like the people living in these houses. Shuffling their heavy feet. Taking for granted the solid foundations beneath them.

Thunder Bay feels safe. Too safe. Never had a murder. Don't have much crime. We are quiet folks, living quiet lives in a lakeshore town. Once, we were loggers. Now, we work in the steel mill. The paper plant. On the boats, or in the quarry. But some of us don't work at all. We get by on unemployment, social security, hand-outs, and the land.

The Thunder Bay River brings ships in and sends ships out. Lake Huron rises and falls. Works with the river moving people, goods, our lives, as best it can. Those things it cannot handle, it sinks and the deep cold water, consumes.

Besides shipwrecks, the only time Thunder Bay has made any headlines was when Newsweek listed it as one of the top ten places to live. If you're an alcoholic. But I'm not sure we're all drunks. I think our headlining has to do with the churches we've forgotten. The gods we've lost. The lives we've taken for granted. And the way we've given up on love. We don't know what runs deep because we've never plunged into it. There's no need to drop an anchor and go diving when you're drifting in the shallows, happy to be floating over a bottom you can see.

Me, Jake and Kali, meet up day after day to drink at Sammy's Bar. Five dollar pitchers from ten to midnight. Pearl Jam, The Doors, and Janis Joplin on the jukebox. There are other artists, but we don't care. We know what we like. And we like where we are. In a ratty old booth. Drinking Summit Pale Ale.

"Suckers are runnin' in Polack Creek," Jake says. Elbows on the table. Both hands on his beer.

Kali’s playing with her hair. Smelling good, like she's just showered.

"Jake, why do you say it like that?" she asks.

"Like what?"

"Why do you have to call it Polack?"

She takes a long drink. Lights a cigarette.

"I call it Polack because Polack is its goddamned name."

Kali sucks hard at the cigarette. Blows smoke with fury.

"And that too," she says. "You and all your goddamns. Ignorance. That’s what it is."

I’ve been waiting for this. For Kali to introduce us to the knowledge she's gaining from attending OGCC. Oak Grove Community College. Since we’ve broken apart, she's been driving to Oak Grove City. Two hours there and two hours back. Once a week. To learn all she can about life. The good and bad. The right and wrong.

"Jake, Polack is a derogatory term."

Jake looks at me. Slowly shakes his head in disgust. He knows as well as I that we’ve always called it Polack Creek because that’s what the sign’s always said. POLACK CREEK, in big block letters. Carved into a thick wooden board that’s been stuck in the ground near the culvert since we were kids.

"Kali," I say,"Don't go off on Jake. We're not here for anything, but this."

I raise my glass for a toast.

Kali smiles.

"And what is this, Aden?"

She raises her glass, pleased to have pulled me in.

"This is us. Friends in a booth. Drinking."

"Ah yes. Once again, the boys drowning sorrows."

"I'm not a boy," Jake says. "And I’m not drowning sorrows. I’m a feel-good man."

Kali’s smile fades. She lowers her glass to the table. Moves it around in big, wet circles. She turns to face me. But our eyes do not meet. I’ve become accustomed to this. It is part of my punishment. For leaving her. She looks through me toward the jukebox. Blows smoke plumes toward the dirty ceiling tiles.

Jake’s brewing something. I can see it in the smirk he has, as he raises his glass and encourages us to do the same.

"A toast," he says. "A most serious toast."

He and I tap glasses. Kali crosses her arms.

"To Polacks!" he shouts.

"To ignorant Poles everywhere!" I add.

We drink the beer quickly. Race to the bottom. Slam the glasses onto the table simultaneously.

Kali leans toward Jake. Her hair brushes the table.

"Jake, you do realize that you’re a Polack, don’t you?"

"Sure, I do!" he says, beaming.

"Jake is the finest goddamned Polack I know!" I say, as the beer hits my belly, washes into my blood and begins its run.

Jake winks at me.

"You’re not so bad yourself," he says. "But there’ll be no more Polacks and no more goddamns." He shakes his finger at the dirty ceiling tiles. "Let’s not forget. The big man is watching."

I top off their glasses and fill mine.

"Jake and God got a lot in common," I say.

Kali snubs the cigarette butt in the ashtray. Twirls her fingers in her hair.

"How’s that?" she asks.

"Carpenters!" Jake shouts. "We’re both carpenters!"

Jake is a carpenter. In fact, he's so good at it that instead of going to college after high school, or taking over his old man's shoe store, he's become the town's best woodworker. He’s done well enough to build a workshop, buy a van, fill it with wood and tools, and drive around as Thunder Bay’s very own Woodwork on Wheels.

"To Jake and God!" I say, raising my glass. "Creators both!"

We wait for Kali to raise hers, but she snubs us.

"It’s a shame," Jake says. "Nobody giving a shit about god no more. A damned shame. Who puts all the suckers in Polack Creek? Who brings us to Sammy’s every night? And who gets us home? God, that’s who. But people don’t care about God. They got distractions. Television and movies. Clothes and cars. Goddamned people. Everyone’s losing god..." He stops suddenly. Takes a deep breath. Grabs the pitcher and tops our glasses. We are quiet for a time. Jake sits smiling into the round flickering light above our booth. Kali lights another cigarette. Twirls and twirls her hair.

chapter two

I'm sipping beer. Breathing dirty air, but feeling good. One pitcher into the night, Eddie Vedder sings that he’s still Alive, and I'm glancing at a blonde who's playing pool. Her hair is straight and shoulder length. Her body is slender, but full of shape and curve. Her cheeks are dimpled when she smiles, and she's smiling a lot. Twice so far, I think she's smiled at me.

"That dame's a scorcher," Jake says, his attention moving from booth light to blonde.

Kali takes a long drag. Exhales slowly through her nose.

"A dame? Dammit, Jake, you're sick. Sick and disappointing."

I take my eyes off the blonde and chime in.

"Jake's not sick. He’s just gone from looking at one light to another."

Jake nods toward the blonde.

"And, Miss Kali, I think you forget one crucial, all-encompassing detail."

"What’s that?"

"That it’s the big carpenter upstairs that’s created that little angel."

He laughs and drinks. Water beads trickle and drip from his glass. Kali stares at me so that finally, our eyes meet.

They are dark, chocolate pools. Moments shared. Secrets known. They are sorrow and pity. Desire and resentment. Memory and loss. She is the place I once belonged. A faint breath of deja-vu that stirs everything inside of me so that there’s nothing I can do but break away.

I stand. Dig into my pockets for change.

"What are you doing?" Kali asks.

"Going to the jukebox."

Jake tops our glasses. Empties the pitcher. Kali takes it from him. Rises. Glides away to the bar. Wispy smoke follows her.

"Any requests?" I shout after her.

Over her shoulder, she flips me the bird.