How to get goosed.

While living in Vancouver, a friend of mine from back home was crashing on my couch.  He was between jobs and I was on between making films.  He wasn’t pulling in any dough and welfare wouldn’t help out either.  I had just enough money from my last cheque to feed myself but watching him day after day, watching me eat, was getting to me.  So I had to start giving him some of my food.  And a guy doesn’t get full doing that.  So I told him we need to find a way to get more grub. 

It was April and the geese and ducks were starting to show up in Stanley Park, swimming around the ponds where people fed them bread crumbs.  The Canada Geese were pretty fat and I could see one of them in a roaster with some spuds and onions.  So I made a plan to kill us a fat goose.  The next day we took the bus downtown.  I brought along my slingshot and a bag of marbles I bought at the dollar store.  When one got in range, I would shoot it with my slingshot and Lawrence would snare it with a long pole we’d brought along and pull it in. 

We hid in a bush and I called a fat honker over.  He came swimming by, feeding along the way with his head under water.  I pulled my slingshot back as far as it would go.  When he lifted his head, I closed one eye and aimed for his head.  I let the marble go and I nailed him dead on.  He slumped over and Lawrence snagged it and pulled it to shore with a long pole we’d found.  An old lady was taking a picture of the goose and she gasped in horror when she saw us stuff him in the gunny sack.  We tried to walk away like nothing was wrong but she was following us telling us that what we’d done was illegal and that she was going to the authorities.  So we ran.  We stole a bag of potatoes from a nearyby store and jumped back on the bus.  I was telling Lawrence about the best way to stuff a goose when all of a sudden the gunny sack started moving around on the floor by our feet.  All I could say was “What the…” before that goose stuck his head out of the gunny sack and let out a big honk.  His eye was swollen shut.  I must have only knocked it out because it sure wasn’t dead.  I started blaming Lawrence for not wringing his neck.  The goose wiggled out of the gunny sack and tried to get out the window.  He was huge and his wing span must have been at least four feet wide.  It was rush hour and the bus was full.  He hit the window and flopped back onto a woman’s back.  She was shrieking while I tried to grab it.  The goose pecked my private part and took flight toward the front of the bus.  It hit the front windshield and landed in the driver’s lap.  He slammed on the brakes and we ended up in a pile by his feet.  The goose took a big crap in some old guys head and flew back toward the back of the bus, slapping us with his wings as he flew.  Just as it was about the hit the back window, an old lady swung her purse and knocked the it to the floor.  I jumped on the goose while Lawrence got the gunnysack and we stuffed it back in there. 

We jumped off the bus and bee-lined it down the alley with the goose still alive in the gunny sack.  When I figured we were safe, I took it out and rung it’s neck.  We were still about sixty blocks from my place and I was starving.  I sure as heck wasn’t jumping back on the bus in case they knew about us.  And we didn’t have any money for a cab.  There was a Chinese restaurant across the street.  I had an idea. 

I went and offered the guy to trade the goose for two dinners.  He took it and felt the weight.  Then he said he’d  take it but he made us pluck and gut it first.  We were in the downtown eastside where a lot of street people live and we were getting quite the crowd around us.  I gave the gizzard to this guy who was wiped on heroin.  He just sat there examining it for half an hour.  When we were done I gave it to the owner.  I had the number three, sweet and sour chicken balls and chicken chow mein, and Lawrence had the number four, dry garlic ribs and chicken fried rice.  He still calls me and asks me if I have any more geese for sale.


About inuvik61

Filmmaker, apprentice bluesman. columnist, father, husband, master, and champion to all those who missed their boats.
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