brother ambrose

        Greendozer could barely chew or swallow whenever he dined in public.
        A victim of exaggerated notoriety, he sat with his back to a corner, feeling likeWild Bill Hickock in Deadwood. Aces and eights.
         It was a case of guilt by association. Eco-terrorism in the States had escalated to fire-bombing logging trucks. Earth Liberation had carried the fight to a grim extreme. How quaint Edward Abbey's Monkey-Wrench Gang now seemed. No more merry pranks. A new ethic had arisen. Agents of destruction let everybody know they weren't fooling around.
         And who was the best known eco-terrorist here-abouts?
         "You have only yourself to thank," Maxine chortled. He bristled, so she added,  "I'm proud of you, Hank."
         They were sitting for brunch at the Totem Pole Lodge diner, a bustling venue fondly called Frenchy's Moosecall.  It was Sunday and the place was packed tighter than canned salmon.
          Word was out that a Yank eco-terrorist on the lam from the FBI was hiding out in British Columbia. He had been a Green Party candidate for United States president before changing his name to Tre Arrow. Naturally the media descended upon Greendozer's corner of the woods and began pestering him with stupid questions. Hoping they could bait him into saying something he would regret.
         His celebrity was tarnished.
         He fell into bitter retreat.
        


                                                                                   *


         Two flap-doodles barged in. They demanded an American-style meal, beginning with the coffee. Henri DuBois perked a splendid French Roast. Robust and fragrant, it would jolt you awake like a clap of thunder. Fifty cents, refill included. If that wasn't American enough, you could damn well go to Starbucks and pay three dollars!
         The first Yank had a weak chin hidden by a sandy ZZ Top beard. He wore a greasy deer-stalker cap. One gulp of coffee and he bleated, "Shit fuck! This stuff is bitter!"
         "Ad cream, Bo," the second Yank advised. Snap-button shirt with cowboy piping. Beer belly. Male pattern baldness accented by an obscene ponytail.
         DuBoise broke a house rule. He sidled up to Greendozer, now nibbling at a cheddar-and-chives omelet. "Those pigeons need their wings clipped. Eh?"
         "I'm no expert on ornithology, Henri."
         "Eh?"
         "I mean, don't involve me."
         DuBoise went away.
         Rapping a knuckle on the Formica counter, the first Yank called, "Hey, Frenchy, we're ready to order!"
         DuBois under his breath: "Merde."
         "What's in the sausage?" quizzed the second Yank. "I'm particular when it comes to homemade."
         From the doorway: "Minced oxen balls. Low sodium, of course."
         The Yanks dropped their jaws in disbelief. That 60's poster of Laughing Jesus came to Greendozer's mind. Yet the man standing there was more of an apparation of Abe Lincoln, rail-splitter from Illinois, with kindness of mien, scourged by troubled eyes.
         Maxine was thinking of Tab Hunter.
         He wore a rose paisey tunic  with droopy fluted sleaves and corduroy bellbottoms the color of cedar bark. In one hand he held a sheep-crook and in the other a leather-bound Bible.
         "Who the fuck are you?" asked Deer-stalker.
         "My name is Brother Ambrose, friend."
         "Eh?" DuBois.
         With two giant steps the preacher took the vacant stool-seat next to Deer-stalker. "Mind if I join you?"
         Aghast. Shaken even. "Uh no. I guess Canada's a free country too."
         Beaming like a lighthouse. "Yes, it is."
         Greendozer whispered to Maxine. "Natural-born peacemaker."