Regan Wolfrom - Coyote

“You heard.”

“Yeah… we’ve all heard, Baptiste. I don’t think anyone was all that surprised, to be honest.”

“You weren’t there… those assholes were walking all over us.”

“It was stupid. What you did was stupid. So now instead of blaming me for knowing how to count maybe you should focus on some kind of plan to get some crops planted in the spring.”

“Yeah… I know.”

She smiled again. I didn’t deserve it, but it was nice to see. “So… a plan?”

“We’ll have to start searching. Graham thinks that we should be able to find electric motors in just about everything we need.”

“Just about?”

“It might be tough finding an electric combine. We don’t have enough diesel to run one.”

“But that’s for harvesting,” Sara said.

“Yeah.”

“So we don’t need it to get started. And if we can’t harvest with a machine, we’ll have to harvest by hand. We may need help from New Post, but trading away half the crop is better than letting it rot.”

“This is all assuming we find everything else we need.”

“I know… and assuming you guys don’t run into any marauders. I think you and Graham should start bringing someone else along with you.”

“I want Lisa to stay back… in case there’s trouble at the cottage.” And she was the only one who knew what the plan was if things went worst-case.

“I don’t mean Lisa,” Sara said.

“I’m not taking Matt. He’d end up shooting one of us before he hit a marauder.” Or he’d end up spending the whole time blubbering about how I don’t love him like a long lost idiot son.

“I don’t mean him, either. Maybe Justin… or Alain…”

“I don’t know about that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know… I trust Graham… I know what he’ll do… I can’t rely on those guys the same way.”

I’d once thought I could rely on Justin.

“Well you’re going to need to get used to them,” Sara said. “We’re stuck together for the foreseeable future.”

“I know what you’re saying… so does that mean that we’re no longer considering that first idea?”

“Which one?”

“Eating the Tremblays.”

“Let’s try our hand at fishing first.”

I leaned over for a kiss. She didn’t seem at all interested, but she still let me.

I like that about her.

So I have a theory about Will Ferrell… the actor from the Zoolander and Anchorman trilogies, not the guy in Nevada who opened fire on a busload of migrant workers. Ferrell’s better in an ensemble cast, rather than as a leading man; the stronger the other characters, the better Ferrell does. That’s why he’s remembered for movies where he isn’t the only star.

I used to talk about this kind of thing with guys I worked with, but now I don’t have anyone around me who’d watched a movie older than the moon base and the skinny glove fad. Sara won’t even watch movies, which is about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever come across. So I had two choices, to either watch the stuff that Ant and Kayla had collected, or show some of the classics to a new generation. Luckily, Fiona refuses to sit through most of Ant’s slash-and-slice flicks, so that leaves plenty of room for our ongoing Will Ferrell Film Festival.

Tonight was Zoolander 3 , where they shoehorned his Mugatu character into a plot about an award ceremony; I’ve always liked it better than the second one, but nothing beats the gas fight from the original or Hansel being so hot right now.

Fiona and Kayla joined me in the living room, and Matt was there, too, since I didn’t have a dog kennel to lock him into. I was glad to see that the girls were laughing about as much as I’d hoped. I have a theory that if I get those two laughing together often enough, they’ll start hating each other a little less, maybe even to the point of me not expecting their relationship to end in murder-suicide.

Then came the orgy scene.

“Isn’t that you, Kayla?” Fiona asked, pointing at the screen.

“Where?” I said.

Fiona got off the couch and stuck her finger at a red-haired woman in one of the hot tubs, pausing the movie.

“My hair is blond,” Kayla said. She already sounded unimpressed.

“Forget the hair,” Fiona said. “It’s the facial expression.”

“That does look like you,” Matt said.

I could see it, too. That scrunched up come-hither face Kayla makes that is significantly less sexy than her usual look, but hey… it’s Kayla, so it still kinda works.

“So I’m just a dumb slut who loves orgies,” Kayla said.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” I said. But none of them had seen Anchorman yet.

“It’s like I’ve got a fucking ‘S’ burned onto my forehead.”

“Super Kayla?” Matt said.

“Just because I used to dance. As if that makes me… what… a prostitute?”

“There’s nothing wrong with prostitutes,” I said.

“Fuck you, Baptiste. I’m not a prostitute. And you guys shouldn’t fucking treat me like one, alright?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know how to weld,” she said. “I know how to wire up a battery.”

“Okay… still… what are you talking about?”

“You don’t think I’m capable. You think that I’m just all ass and tits and good for nothing else.”

“I never said that, Kayla.”

“Well your girlfriend certainly has. I guess I’m not godly enough to contribute around here… unless I’m on my back.”

“That’s not fair,” Fiona said. “No one’s ever said that about you.”

“Just hear what you want to hear, then.”

Kayla stood up and left the room. I heard her stomp upstairs.

I looked over at Fiona.

She looked back at me.

“Do we just… let her go?” I asked.

“How should I know?” she said.

“I’ll handle it,” Matt said.

I decided not to stop him.

She yelled for a while, and after around twenty minutes he came back down.

“Can we take it back to the orgy scene?” he asked as he sat down beside Fiona.

“I’m fine with that,” I said.

But when I saw the red-headed hot tub Kayla the second time, it wasn’t funny. I felt bad. When someone tells you just how awful they’re being treated, you always hope that you’re not one of the bad guys being described.

But I was one of them; I wasn’t looking past the beautiful blond girl who used to tour the handful of hotels between Hearst and North Bay that had a floor for dancing. I wasn’t taking Kayla seriously.

And that wasn’t her fault at all.

Today is Friday, December 14th.

The Tremblays were late to the meeting today as usual. Unlike the Porters, who always come as a unit even when I ask them not to, when it comes to dealing with the rest of us the Tremblays are generally just Marc and Alain. Sometimes I forget they both have wives and kids back in the long and flat one-story cabin up near the beaver dam, or at least I forget until I remember Marc’s wife Suzanne and that sexy way she rolls her Rs. For whatever reason, the men are in charge over there, and though I don’t know their wives that well, I’m sure it couldn’t be any worse to put them or the coffeemaker in charge instead.

I think I’ve gone too far in the wrong direction sometimes, asking for consensus when I should have given orders. Based on the agreements Sara made, our cottage gets three votes, and the Porters and Tremblays get two apiece; I consider myself to have an unsaid veto, too, since there’s no way in hell I’d let the newcomers override us on something that matters.