Stoner, Unincorporated

By Jay Royston

Stoner, Unincorporated is the story of the shooting of Kevin Carter, Bylaws Officer of the Township of Stoner in the heart of the Canadian Rocky Mountains. It is also the story of three men and two women lost in existential crisis of their own makings. It is a story of a town where the undercover narcotics officers outnumber the drug users by four to one. It is a story of love, of faith, of economics and of Bigfoot.

Jonathon Butter is a burnt out advertising man, Larry Butter (no relation) is on the run for a crime he committed but nobody else knows about. Ewan Isbister is running from a broken heart, as is the woman who did it, Katy Krandles. TJ Lidstrom is looking for a way out of Stoner but on her terms, nobody else's.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Royston
• Release date: Dec 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310155918

Jay Royston

40+ years old. 3 kids 2 dogs 1 wife 1 mortgage 1 blog 30 jobs 3 books 1 unreleased movie 5 yr volunteer firefighter 1 cancer scare 750K+ 'views' on various Internet articles

Book preview

PROLOGUE Canaries in Coal Mines…

During the height of the western industrial revolution, before workers organized themselves into a cohesive bureaucracy and became involved in the life expectancy and works of their fellow working men, there existed a safety practice used in the depths of coal mines throughout the world. This practice involved the placing of canaries, those small little yellow birds, in coal shafts at intermittent distances as a living air quality index meter. The birds, being of slight build and tiny respiratory systems were so susceptible to the escaping of noxious fumes that whenever the frequent inspection of the health of the canary revealed it to be deceased everyone was immediately removed out of the contaminated area. Thus the survival of entire coal working crews was determined by these little creatures.

A contemporary author of the 20th century compared the modern artist as society’s equivalency to the canary. To most of the working classes, artist is a dirty word. It reeks of welfare recipient, misuse of materials, and an overall lack of contribution to a hardworking society who work to provide the real necessities of life: food, shelter, clothing and death. Art is not a necessity for the average working person in today’s society.

I have a friend who hates the use of the word society. He thinks it is an overused, convenient word for the grouping together of people who have no reason to love, hate, or care for each other in the first place. He is a canary. I call him frequently, as he seems suicidal.

1) Argggggg…

The title of this chapter is also an apt description of the mental state of Jonathan Butter, who with that outcry at 10:45 AM, only 75 minutes from the summit of Hump Day, proclaimed he was finished in Vancouver’s advertising world.

He crushed his paper cup of water like it was exactly that and charged straight down Main Street, the cleverly insipid name for the main hallway of JJ & Morgan Enterprises' neighbourhood of creativity cubicles.

Hump Day, for those few not in the know, is a slang term for Wednesday and is used by radio DJ's entertaining corporate Monday to Friday nine-to-fivers stuck behind desks, inside cubicles or delivery trucks. Seeing as how Wednesday was the middle of their work week, or 'the hump', if everyone could just get past that day, the rest of week was all downhill until the weekend.

Of course, those nine-to-fivers would then have two days to prepare until they returned to their monotonous 9 to 5 day jobs after spending the weekend mowing lawns, playing parental figure, or just drinking themselves into oblivion before repeating the vicious cycle.

More simply, for most weekday warriors Hump Day is like reaching the middle of a forest and realizing there is no possible way to go deeper into the forest so theoretically no matter which way you went, you were making your way out of it. [1]

What's with that guy? asked Sammy Torrance, a soon-to-be former student intern mail clerk who unknowingly was promoted at that exact moment to Assistant to the Assistant of Creative Head of Marketing for Henry's Toothpaste.

Henry's was a major client of JJ & Morgan and who continually rejected all of Jonathan Butter's proposals for a new marketing image. This latest rejection was the fourth month in a row. Henry's stubbornness towards Jonathan Butter's ideas was the immediate cause of the subject's abrupt ending of his career like a sentence without a preposition.

Him? asked Frederick G. Rosewater, senior Vice President in Charge of Recruitment, possibly. Even he was unsure of his exact job title and specific responsibilities, having bluffed his way into the job many years ago when he was young and still excited about drinking and advertising.

He had witnessed Jonathan's angry departure and although unable to recall Jonathan’s name was quick to answer any personnel questions for he incorrectly believed it was vitally important to his job security he always have an answer to questions that didn’t directly involve clients.

Client questions he always referred to another department head. But an employee's sudden leaving and the immediate vacuum he left behind to be filled were his bread and butter of pretending to be in the know. So although he didn’t know who exactly Jonathan Butter was and his exact reason for leaving, he was quick to make something up to show it was on that particular individual and had nothing to do with JJ & Morgan and their great clients.

Someone must have finally showed him the pictures of his wife at the staff Christmas party, Frederick Rosewater lied, Banged all the guys from accounting, right on his desk. It was awesome. Reminded me of the seventies.

Wow, said Sammy Torrance, Poor guy. That’s awful.

Frederick G. Rosewater smiled as he apprised the stylish young man who appeared to have no idea of style, making him therefore quite stylish in his own way. Rosewater put one pudgy, blue-sleeved arm around the naive marketing intern’s shoulders and pulled him in.

Well my boy, you've got a lot to learn about advertising. Welcome to Creative Marketing.

<0>

Meanwhile, far away from the downtown office high rises, colourful street people and poignantly socially significant buskers, Jonathan regained his senses a couple kilometers up Cambie Street, near the 41st Avenue crossing.

Sadly, the same couldn't be said for his briefcase (still at office), his tie and Rolex wrist watch (trash can on Cambie and 3rd), his patent leather shoes (corner of Cambie and 20th), Giorgio Armani jacket (stuffed inside a planter on 23rd), Ralph Lauren button-down shirt (thrown at a bunch of people at a bus stop on 26th), genuine alligator skin belt (thrown at a BMW at the intersection of Cambie and 28th), and his pair of hip thrift store trousers (which with some difficulty had been removed and stuffed into a mailbox on 33rd).

It was the traffic light that finally stopped him. It was flashing red, an unusual occurrence which indicated a major traffic jam coming soon.

He was relieved he recognized the surroundings; he was only three blocks from his apartment. That was good as he realized he was quite naked but for his too-old yet insanely comfortable boxer briefs. And when Jonathan was naked it wasn’t a pretty sight, his very white belly already starting to fall over his belt line, a decade before its time.

He had two more quick thoughts. First, he needed to get out of the city. It was killing his soul. He also was never going to brush his teeth again. Henry’s toothpaste had destroyed any desire for him to care about his oral hygiene.

As Jonathan stared motionless at the blinking red light, a totem of impotent corporatized rage, a busload of urban public transit commuters stopped beside him. Typical of transit users, nobody acknowledged the slightly overweight prematurely balding man clad only in old boxer briefs and argyle socks on the sidewalk. Those who were looking out the bus windows at him maintained the same blank expressions, reacting as if this sight was a daily occurrence, a common defensive mechanism amongst city folks who long ago became numb to odd displays of such naked humanity in the city.

Jonathan’s attention moved from the flashing red light to the flight of a small anonymous bird. It was a bird which at another time would have delighted any avid bird-watcher as to its general rarity to be in such proximity to a large population base. The avid bird-watcher would also point out to anyone who listened that the large population base was the reason for the bird’s rarity.

But for Jonathan, whose knowledge of birds fell into only four categories; crows, pigeons, seagulls and others, the uniqueness of said bird went unnoticed.

Nor did he know the bird upon who he was transfixed upon was trying to locate its nest which was located in a long condemned house. Hours earlier, after a lengthy court battle, permission was finally received to tear it down, despite its obvious heritage appeal and history.

The construction crew did not care anything about the history of the house, nor of its inhabitants for it was Wednesday and they were just trying to get through Hump Day. The human squatters had been pushed out in the morning by the rumble of the excavators. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said of the multitude of stray cats that lived in the crawl space nor the variety of birds which roosted in the attic space. As a sad sub-story to this march of urban renewal and commercial progress, only one of the fourteen cats survived the destruction.

The predicament of the bird’s living situation overhead was lost on Jonathan Butter. He chose to believe the bird was a sign, a symbol of direction, as that was what he was wishing for. He decided, purely amateurishly, the bird was telling he must spread his wings and fly, fly far away to be free, to go wherever the winds took him. But to become as free as that bird, he needed to know the quickest way out of the city and also where he may have thrown his wallet.

He was briefly distracted by a grey cat who brushed against his leg. Like the bird and Jonathan, the cat was the lone survivor of a lost way of life in a progressively socially unconscious and detached, inhuman city.

Jonathan stared down into one eye that was still functional, the matted fur, tufts of what may at one time have been ears. He mistook the ugly cat for another symbol. He bent down and picked it up. The cat was surprisingly open to the idea, as cats tend to be at times when it is convenient for them.

He now had a cat and a plan. They were about to become birds of a feather. As marketing executives go, Jonathan was pretty bad at coming up with appropriate metaphors.

2) Three Days Later…

Hi, I'm calling about the room for rent? Sure, I’ll hold.

Jonathan had changed drastically in the last few days. He was now at a payphone located outside a hockey arena in the small village of Stoner, British Columbia.

British Columbia is in Canada and is much like a state in America. When people think of Vancouver, they think Canada [2]. Vancouver is to British Columbia what Toronto is to Canada.

Many people in Vancouver have never left Vancouver. To them, they forget there is more to British Columbia. It is a beautiful land full of small towns with funny names like Spuzzum, Vanderhoof, and Stoner. It is a province full of helpful locals, unfiltered running water, meaningful hellos and where people know someone who knows someone who knows how to do what you need to be done.

It is those small funny-sounding towns that feed the intellectual and cultural melting pot of the Canadian Pacific-Western metropolis with their youth and vitality.

Stoner, British Columbia could very well have been any small town in Idaho, Wyoming, or even California. Yet Stoner was as Canadian as they come, despite the adolescently humourous name. The prominent building was the hockey rink, followed closely by the liquor store and the local church. The car of choice was a pick-up truck. Everywhere there was the smell of wood and social health insurance. The town was surrounded by a motherly embrace of forested mountains and frigid mountain lakes, the skyline dotted by a few Canadian flags that adorned a couple of the local roofs, classically non-imposing in a Canadian way, gentle reminders that everyone in the vicinity were all connected to the bold red and white with a maple leaf in the middle.

At the arena’s phone booth, Jonathan Butter held a pen and paper in one hand. Under his arm was a local newspaper with a couple of inked circles in the ‘room for rent’ category. On top of the pay phone was a Styrofoam coffee-to-go, which he purchased in the arena’s concession. It was open despite nobody on the ice surface. The cool nip in the building whose primary flooring is ice is unforgettable and Jonathan found himself smiling of better, younger days when his parents actively encouraged him to join the community hockey league.

While he waited for someone to come to the phone, he viewed the surroundings. The arena was directly across from a grocery and liquor store, a perfect location for all ages and temperaments of hockey fans. The arena itself was old and would have already been considered a heritage building in many other cities. However, other than a simple plaque stating it was 9th oldest rink in all of Canada there was little to distinguish its history. The grocery store looked to be older than the hockey arena and the liquor store was a relative newcomer on the street, its décor suggesting it having been built immediately after World War 2.

As the sun peaked out from behind another cotton candy cloud, Jonathan watched a young woman with a baby carriage crossing the street. He noticed she didn't look both ways nor did she bother crossing at a designated corner.

This flagrant disregard with the big city pedestrian model was okay with the only truck on the road. It was occupied by a lone elderly man in a green John Deere hat and red Macintosh jacket. He waved the young mother across with a smile, to which the mother reciprocated.

Overhead a flock of Canadian Geese fly over in their famous V formation, gliding smoothly over this small town tableau. The clouds in the sky were decorative, not menacing, foreboding or distracting.

Flying slightly lower to the ground was a small bird. For those readers interested in such things and to make up for the thirteen dead cats mentioned earlier, it could have been the same bird Jonathan took for a symbol to leave the city.

Jonathan smiled at the sight of the bird. It was most definitely a sign he was doing the right thing. A woman’s voice came on the line.

Hello? she said.

Yes, I’m calling about the room for rent? I was hoping I could come take a look at it.

Sure.

The lady gave him an address and the directions from the arena. It would take him only ten minutes to walk there. He drank the last of his coffee, threw the Styrofoam cup into a garbage can and started walking.

<0>

The house address was close and easily identifiable. There was a large FIREWOOD FOR SALE sign painted on a plywood sheet in big red letters on the front lawn. Below the lettering was the number Jonathan had called.

The house itself appeared small from the outside. It was a simple one floor house, circa 1980. It was painted a light blue with slate roofing and it was protected by large pine trees surrounding it.

Unfortunately for the house’s own anonymity it sat on the edge of the 2-lane highway heading out of town. Across the highway was a mini-shopping plaza, anchored primarily by a nation-wide grocery store and gas station.

Quaint, but highly visible, Jonathan thought, Good location, high traffic volume, shopping mall across the street. Could use a fresher coat of paint. Maybe if- he stopped. Listing the pros and cons of an object had become an automatic thought process during his years at JJ & Morgan. It was a habit he was determined to break.

Bloodsuckers, thought Jonathan, Well, they will get no more of my soul. Wonder who the poor guy they got to replace me? Probably sucked some corporate cutthroat guy in from another agency. Offered him a big corporate package, I bet. Fine. Let them deal with Henry's Toothpaste, the soul-sucking bastards. As long as I have found serenity…hey, that’s a good name for a toothpaste…

He opened the small white picket fenced gate and walked up the overgrown path to the faded blue front door. He rang the doorbell. Inside he heard a dog barking, and from the sounds of it, it was a very big, unfriendly dog.

Jonathan dismissed this thought as being counter-productive and tried to think of something else. He wondered briefly where Grey Cat may be and if he should care more about the thing.

Jonathan felt guilty for feeling apathetic towards the tomcat since he adopted him. He found it tended to treat Jonathan with about as much respect as JJ & Morgan had and was just as dismissive.

Their short relationship in the city was such Jonathan didn’t think too much time thinking of it. He assumed after he fed the cat it would disappear as quickly as it appeared to do whatever it was that alley cats did. He would disappear from the city unobserved, just like the tomcat. It seemed like a very romantic notion to him.

Instead the cat didn’t leave. It was waiting for him outside his rented suite when he returned with his newly purchased second-hand ‘97 Jeep Cherokee and started packing it with his bare essentials. At some point when Jonathan wasn’t looking the cat jumped in and made a home for itself under the passenger seat.

Jonathan was many miles outside of the Big Van, filling up his gas tank when he discovered the unplanned hitchhiker. He spent the rest of the trip justifying not throwing the cat out. Grey Cat (as Jonathan could only refer to it as) was low maintenance and he did feel sorry for it. The cat’s rough appearance reminded him of how he felt inside; beat up and run down. The country lifestyle would do the both of them a lot of good. He bought some premium cat food at the next gas station, along with three different type of potato chips and something that tasted like flat Mountain Dew but was dangerously over the legal limit of caffeine for ‘that extra energy boost’.

<0>

Inside the house, the barking continued.

Shut up! yelled a small voice behind the door.

That dog is going to love me, thought the overly optimistic Jonathan. [3]

A small brown-haired boy wearing glasses and a pre-millennium Vancouver Canucks hockey jersey opened the door. Jonathan guessed him to be about eight.

Hi, is your mommy home? he asked.

Hold on, the boy glared. His tone of voice insinuated people asking him for his ‘mommy’ didn’t occur often.

MOM! the boy yelled and he turned and left Jonathan at the doorway. He could now see a large fire in the much-used fireplace and the largest Dalmatian he had ever seen. This dog wouldn’t ride a fire engine; it would be the one pulling it. It was lying on a black cushion in front of the fireplace. It looked comfortable yet offended to have been disturbed from a hard morning of napping.

Hi pup, smiled Jonathan, You’re a big one, aren’t ya?

The dog bared its fangs and a deep growl emitted from its throat.

No worries. I'll just wait here, he said.

Don't mind her, she's a cranky cuss, said a tiny middle-aged lady who appeared from the hallway. She still retained an image of her youth, despite the head of short, badly-dyed black hair. She was wearing blue jeans, a black top and a large necklace made of wooden beads. She held out her hand as she approached, which Jonathan shook firmly.

Hi, I'm Jonathan. I'm the one who called about the room.

Hi, she said neutrally, looking him up and down and possibly through.

Grrrrrrrr… continued the opinion from the cushion.

I'm Ellie Steeples, she continued, That growling hunk of dog is Spotty for obvious reasons as you can see.

Hi, Spotty, said Jonathan, smiling again at the Dalmatian.

The dog continued growling, slightly louder.

Spotty! That’s enough. Be good now! snapped Ellie.

Spotty moved her attention from Jonathan to Ellie and decided to take the wiser, more comfortable route of being good by wagging her tail while silently baring her fangs at Jonathan when Ellie wasn’t looking.

In the back of Jonathan’s mind his self-preservation instinct suggested it would not be a good idea to mention Grey Cat, petting the dog or quietly coming up behind it anytime in the near future.

Let me show you the room first, said Ellie, patting Spotty on the head as she passed by, then we can talk.

Jonathan took a wider berth around the dog as he followed Ellie through a large, overly yellow kitchen. It gave him the impression of being inside a fluorescent highlighter. At the kitchen table there were two boys – the one who opened the door and another larger, blonde-haired boy. Both were doing school work, two cups of hot chocolate and a platter of cookies in front of them.

This is Bryan, he’s in grade seven, she pointed to the larger of the two, who was engrossed in what looked to be a mathematics textbook, and this little guy is Bobby, he’s in grade ten.

She ruffled the hair of the smaller child whom had answered the door. Jonathan understood the boy’s hostile manner now, as the boy was quite small for his age, a fact he inadvertently emphasized when he asked if his mommy was at home.

Hi, guys, said Jonathan.

Hi, the two mumbled, not looking up.

Ellie beckoned for him to follow her through the kitchen into the back porch. At the back of the porch was a basement door, a flight of cement stairs leading down.

They descended the staircase which opened into a laundry room. It was sparsely decorated with a decade old washer/dryer set, a large cement wash basin, a refrigerator older than Jonathan and a cheap wooden bookshelf containing old paint, household cleaners and other nameless chemicals. In the far corner of the laundry room partially hidden by the refrigerator was another door. Ellie pushed it open to reveal a small bedroom. It had wall to wall carpeting, one small window, a television, desk and chair, a closet and a bed. It reminded Jonathan of his grandparents’ guest room.

He laughed. This is exactly what he was looking for, a secluded little spot where he could rest his head; a home base to rejuvenate his life and find meaning again.

I'll take it, he said, It is perfect.

Ellie frowned. Her mind refused to acknowledge Jonathan’s quick acceptance until after she proceeded to give the speech she gave to every person who ever inquired about the room and summarily never heard from again. She plowed on, mentioning the fridge outside the doorway was still in working order, showing him the sole eggplant in it, and which he was free to use. [4]

She turned on another light switch. It illuminated the other part of the basement which was primarily bare cement floors and a wooden skeletal frame. In the middle of the room was a toilet on a six inch pedestal. She shrugged at the sight.

Sorry but there’s your toilet. As you can see, the bathroom is under construction but it is slow going as Jeff has been doing it when he can. There will be a sink and shower but until then you can use the main bathroom upstairs.

To Jonathan the state of the open bathroom made no difference. This was going to be his home. He was in Stoner, and this seemed as good a place as any to change his complete life. He was ready to close the deal.

Well, Ellie, he said, that’s not a problem. It looks great. I’d like to move in as soon as possible. I can pay you cash first and last month's rent right now, if you'd like.

Uh… she said, staring at the large wad of bills he took out of his pocket.

Jonathan mistook her hesitation for stranger danger apprehension. He tried to rectify this by telling her a little about himself.

Sorry, he said, Look at me, just barging right in as if I already live here. You don’t even know me. I just moved here from Vancouver where I worked as -, he paused. He didn’t want to admit he was once in the seventh busiest advertising firm in all of Western Canada. It could lead to questions and he wanted to distance himself from that life of Hades. He was here to start over. For that he needed a different life, a different career; something exotic, yet boring, nothing likely to involve answering a lot of questions.

I am a coder, like for web pages and stuff.

He didn’t realize Ellie wasn’t feeling suspicious or threatened by this marshmallow-esque, non-intimidating man who showed up on her doorstep with sad eyes and a smile that reminded her of lonely Christmas mornings and rum-filled pastries. She simply didn't think anybody would ever want to live in a half-finished basement suite with an exposed toilet at the price they were asking. In the last two weeks three other renters verified her opinion by never hearing from them again after they left. There were a lot of rooms to rent in Stoner, some of them above ground and with a private bathroom.

To Ellie, Jonathon was way too happy with the room. Plus, he hadn't met her husband yet who admittedly may also have something to do with the lack of willing renters. She forgot whatever it was she was thinking about when she saw Jonathan pull out a wad of hundred dollar bills.

Well, she smiled the smile of someone who realized she was only a word away from solving some of her most pressing financial problems, all right. What the hell, you can meet Jeff later.

Jonathan held out the first and last month’s rent in cash. Ellie snatched it away from him before he changed his mind. Jonathan knew she would take it. It was another lesson he learned during his time at JJ & Morgan; people who are actually seeing money tend to be more agreeable than those who aren't.

You are free to move in anytime, Ellie moved to the staircase, holding tightly to the fistful of hundreds. If you need anything, let me know.

Sounds great, I will move in tomorrow, he said, Uh, keys?

We don’t have keys. The back door is always open and Spotty will be inside if we leave. Don’t worry about her, once she gets used to you, she’s just a big puppy dog.

Okay... said Jonathan, not really believing it.

We eat at six if you are interested. Otherwise, we prefer you finish cooking by eight o’clock. If you need to shower, do it before nine. In the morning, I take the kids to school at eight and then I go to work. So the bathroom is yours anytime after that. Jeff is usually home unless he’s out getting wood.

She paused and tilted her head as she went through her own mental checklist of what else to say. She smiled again. Jonathon noticed she could use some teeth whitener.

Welcome to the Steeples household, Jonathan. I hope you enjoy your time in Stoner.

And with that he followed her back upstairs, the money grasped tightly in her fist.

3) Grey Cat and the New Place…

That evening Jonathan was writing in his journal of these most recent events. He was feeling quite good; he had remained true to his plan of not having a plan and to go where the wind took him. The only reason why he decided on the town of Stoner was because he thought it sounded funny when he passed a highway sign that told him he was only 27 kms away.

Curiosity got the best of him. He decided he needed to see this juvenile-sounding town for himself. He took the designated exit off the main highway and followed the road through the winding mountains, the colours of the trees playing music in his soul.

The town was small and pretty in that mountain-town way he came to expect from movie screens. He drove down the main street and parked in front of a café called Rosie’s. He went in, ordered a BLT sandwich and while people-watching out the window he knew this was the place he wanted to re-invent himself.

He explored the art shops and back streets populated by heritage houses. Everywhere he went he felt at peace. Time meant nothing here to these mountains and somehow he felt it trickled into the homes and the people. There was nobody rushing anywhere.

He spend two nights in a pet-friendly hotel before calling Ellie and now, here he was; a resident of Stoner, BC.

Yep, he said to nobody as he walked back from Ellie’s, I made it. Tomorrow, I'll do a little more sightseeing of my new hometown of Stoner, British Columbia.

A thought crossed his mind that he should have mentioned he might have a cat to Ellie, although he didn’t think Grey Cat technically was comfortable with the concept of ownership. Besides, he hadn’t seen the cat since he checked in at the hostel. He should have checked the cat’s dinner dish he left under a corner of the hostel’s dumpster. At least it would be an indication the cat was still alive.

Grey Cat was in his Jeep, curled up in his usual spot. Although the vehicle wasn’t in Jon’s life two weeks ago, it now carried everything he felt important enough to take from the city, and the cat.

The Jeep proved dependable on the mountain passes, plenty of power to pass slow-moving logging trucks and senior citizens. It was non-descript and simple, just like the life he was looking for. It was the kind of truck nobody in the city would want to steal. He considered giving it a name but even he had limits.

He couldn’t wait for it to snow so he could