Welcome to The Longhouse

Leah Myers

 

The gas station is one of the first things you see when you enter Blyn, Washington from the east. A sign welcomes you in using the official name: The Longhouse Market and Deli. This suggests that the building exists beyond the meager shell of “gas station.” It does, but still the label stays. Its front is adorned with tribal carvings of bears holding fish, representing a story of the Jamestown S’Klallam Tribe, who built this place on their purchased land. The story is of two bear brothers, and their generosity towards humanity, providing fish for those who were hungry. Everyone that works in the building has heard the story. None can remember it exactly. If you ask, many will feed what lines they can, working up images of bear men as merchants and fish as currency. The employees deliver these lines of what the story could be with a pressured smile to satiate the tourist’s curiosity, praying they don’t push deeper.

The Deli portion of the store closes at 10:00 p.m., releasing its workers into the night. The Market never closes. Nothing will shut its doors. The Longhouse is open through all holidays, bad weather, and ever desperate plead from employees. Once, during a snowstorm, an overnight cashier who had little experience driving on ice-slicked roads attempted to call out. The manager for the night dutifully went to pick her up in his own car and delivered her to the time clock. The hours must be filled; a body must be at the register. There are always cameras watching.

During the day, the store seems like any other. People buzz to and from aisles, grabbing candy and beef jerky. Sunlight streams in through every window and illuminates the log facades that hide the air conditioning vents. The deli employees smile in a nearly genuine way and take orders for custom sandwiches. They are always busy and their food is famed to be delicious. There is always too long of a line to wait and see. A giant, square chandelier hangs in the center of the store. On each side is a traditional carving of a wolf; if you stand below it and look up there is a carving of the Sun. No one can explain why, except that it is beautiful.

Sometimes, during the summer season, the mountain that the Longhouse backs into may catch fire. The pine trees’ smoke can be seen from the flammable gas pumps below. During these moments customer after customer asks if the employees know about the fire. There are signs posted stating that the employees know about it, everyone talks about it; still they ask. The employees assure them that everything is fine. When the customer is out of earshot, they turn to one another and add a tally to a paper titled “asked about the fire.” The page fills up quickly.

If you go at the right time, you may be served by a man named Vinny. Everyone that has been to the Longhouse more than once seems to know Vinny. He has silver hair pulled back into a small ponytail; he smells like the cheapest brand of cigarettes sold at the Longhouse. If you tell him where you’re from, he will have been there and thinks it is the best place he has ever been. He says he is former military. He says he is immune to all snake venom. If everything Vinny said were true, he would have to be at least two-hundred and forty-eight years old to have experienced it all. He winks too much and laughs too loud; he tells every woman to smile.

The building changes at night.

Instead of the array of cashiers, there is a single body at the register during these hours. This employee will likely seem disinterested in you beyond the required greeting; they must reserve their energy for the truly strange customers that are bound to come as the night grows deeper. You should hope to be out before these customers arrive. Without the hum of people, the store’s shape becomes clear. It is bigger than it seems on the outside, with three defined sections. To the right is the deli counter. Its case, once heated and filled with fried foods and side dishes, stands cold and empty at night. There are sandwiches wrapped tight in cellophane, but they look limp and bland. The magic of the sandwiches disappears alongside the daylight. There are tables with chairs not quite pushed in, as if something is sitting in them, despite the empty air. A voice you don’t remember hearing assures you that there is coffee in the pots. It is unclear where the voice came from.

The vices are housed on the left side of the store, behind a meager area of produce and cheese. Aisles and aisles of liquor gleam in the carefully placed spotlights. A display is set up in place of an aisle, showcasing the rye whiskey or flavored vodka that says you want buy it, even if you do not drink. A walk-in humidor fills with steam, keeping the cigars inside from losing their appeal. It is all on sale. It is all subject to reduced taxes. It is all tempting. More cameras blink, watching.

Two security guards appear. Tribal members refer to the security team as wolves; it is apt. They protect their station the way wolves do. They circle the perimeter with steady paces, keeping watchful eyes on newcomers and standing close to the younger employees when they sense that danger is near, seen or unseen. They pay no customers mind, unless the cashier tells them to. Instead they talk amongst themselves. You may overhear parts of their conversation, if you are quiet enough. Patrol. Lights turned on. Door opened. No one there. Footsteps fall fast down the aisle. You move out of the person’s way and the sound stops. No one will be there. Choosing not to think about it is the best course of action. Whenever someone walks away from the liquor section the bottles will rattle. One might fall off the shelf. The employees often complain about this spirit; it is a costly one. It is better to not turn around at all.

The back and final third of the store calls to the hungry and thirsty. The middle aisle is chips, and chips, and chips, and craft beer. On the left aisle all you can see is soda. On the right aisle all you can see is soda. The back wall is filled with cheap beer. You are thirsty but these will not calm your scratched throat. You feel as though water must be sold here but it is nowhere to be seen.

A different employee finds you; his name is Gary. He has worked at the Longhouse as long as the building has stood. He has thin wire glasses, and a sweater vest. He is always cold and yet always volunteers to fill the coolers. He waits patiently, sensing a lack of direction.

You may ask Gary anything about the store and he will have an answer. The price is listening to one story per question. If you ask Gary where the water is, he will show you. He will also tell you about The Thing That Mimics Fred. The Thing That Mimics Fred is an entity that lives in the Longhouse; Gary guesses it is a demon. This possible demon has learned to sound exactly like one of the overnight employees, Fred. Gary will tell you that everyone that works the night shift has heard Fred angrily shout for them from across the store. Fred is never there. In some cases, Fred was not even working that day. It may seem absurd, but Gary’s face is sincere and his voice is level when he tells this story. He does not care whether people believe the truth or not. He will point out the water, a single cooler that is easy to overlook among the dozens.

Eventually everyone must leave. This late in the night, there is only an empty register up front. All of the cameras seem to be angled directly on you, waiting. There is no bell. Gary will have disappeared. The security guards will have disappeared. The employee that greeted you will have disappeared. Just before the water is left behind entirely, a looming figure appears. He towers over most humans. He seems angry at humanity’s entire existence. His nametag reads “Fred.”

Fred says nothing. He does not ask how customers are, or if they need anything else. He takes far too long to scan the barcode and give a total. Fred is a man that has refused to serve customers simply because of how they spoke. Fred has thrown out more men and women than anyone else in the history of the Longhouse, a record he is not aware he holds. Fred has only been known to like one employee. He merely tolerates the rest. It is easy to understand why a demon would mimic his shout. You could ask him about The Thing That Mimics Fred. He will just walk away.

The automatic doors open back into the night. It is often unclear how much time has passed. Figures scurry just beyond the reach of the fluorescent lights. They can do no harm if you make it to your car in a reasonable amount of time. The smell of Sequim Bay rolls over the building from the other side of the highway. It is cold and salty and ancient. It is hard to tell if the light at this hour is the moon or the first lights of day. Many journeys must continue deeper into the peninsula. The Longhouse Market and Deli has one last message for its customers, carved into the back of the sign that greeted them:

Thanks for stopping by.

 

Leah Myers is a Native American writer with roots in Georgia, Arizona, and Washington, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction at the University of New Orleans. Her work has previously appeared in Spillers No.7 and RED INK: International Journal. Leah is a member of the Jamestown S’Klallam Tribe and can be found on both Instagram and Twitter under @n8v_wordsmith.