by Tom Hogan
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“So that I can stop worrying about you and let you start worrying about yourself.” He picked up the rag. “Remember the other night, when you were asking me about when I used to box? About the stare-downs fighters go through right before the first bell?”
She nodded. “I asked you if it was theatre—and if not, what you were looking for.”
“And I said you’re looking for what’s behind the eyes, what they’ll be like if they get you on the ropes.” He leaned forward until she could smell the beer on his breath. “There comes a point in almost every fight where you get hurt and need time to regroup. If the guy’s tired from the attack—or if he’s one of those pretty boys who likes to throw leather for effect but is afraid to leave himself vulnerable when he attacks—you get that time. But if he’s a closer…” he leaned even closer, “he finishes the job.”
“And you’re telling me all this because…?”
“I’m telling you that Josh is a closer. The folks down at the prison know it. The folks up here know it. Now you know it too.”
It was almost three. The bar was dark, the tables clean. Carol had switched to Coke. Her ashtray was full.
“How long have you been a reporter?”
“Technically, I’m a feature writer.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Reporters report what’s going on. We have to create our own news.”
“Give me an example.”
She nodded. “Okay. This story. Our magazine got a lead that Donna Fairchild had been seen down in San Tomas at a store, that she might even be living around here. If they had been sure about the lead, they would have sent a reporter because it would be news. Big news. But we’ve had these false leads before, so they send a freelancer like me. I’ve got two objectives—to see if there’s any truth to the rumor—and if there isn’t, then see if there’s another angle on Fairchild or another story altogether.” She raised her Coke. “Which is where your pal Josh comes in.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I mean, as a story.” He nodded towards his stumps. “C’mon.”
“You’re plucky. I don’t do plucky.”
“If you were going to interview me, how would you do it?”
“Are you a cooperative party or hostile?”
“Say I’m hostile.”
She opened her notebook. “Okay.” She fixed him with a hard gaze. “Who was your favorite Beatle?”
He gave the question some thought. “Ringo. He’d make a good bartender.”
“Okay. Then I’d ask you a more serious one, but not to do with you.”
“Like what?”
She thought for a moment. “Like how did the camp get its name? What are a bunch of white guys doing living in a place called Motown?”
He smiled. “You’re spelling it wrong. There’s an ‘e’ in it.” He took her pen, turned the notebook around and wrote, in all caps: ‘MOETOWN.’
She shrugged back at him.
“The Three Stooges was everyone’s favorite show down at the prison. He said that they all referred to the guards down there as ‘Moe’s’ because of the violence they inflicted. When the camp opened, one of the early guys there said what he liked most about being there was that everyone was his own Moe. The name stuck.”
She smiled. “See? I’m learning something here. More importantly, I’ve got you talking.” Her eyes shifted. “So how’d you lose your legs?”
CHAPTER 4
The Gimp sweats easily. Not a fat man’s constant glisten, but the honest sweat from steady wheeling. The sweat curls his thinning blonde hair, framing his moon face. His skin is a rich walnut with the beginnings of weathering. It is a deliberate tan, one based on his belief that a pale wheelchair-bound person is pitiful, and no one likes being served by someone they pity.
Over the years, Josh and Clark have helped him customize his accommodations—first the bar, then his upstairs quarters. Doorways are wider, sinks and shelves lower. The stairway has an escalator chair connecting business and residence; when The Gimp is upstairs, his downstairs chair sits empty at the foot of the stairs, its armrest hooked to the bottom baluster.
Despite his aversion to pity, The Gimp is not above playing the sympathy card when he needs to—especially with women new to the bar. The result is a routine so familiar, so successful, that it has acquired legend status among the mountain residents. It is known simply as ‘The Move.’
As The Gimp explained to Carol one night after closing, The Move is a necessity, given the competition from the men up at Moetown. Collectively, there is the edgy mystery of their criminal pasts. Then there are the men themselves. William, so homely and comfortable with himself that women warm to him immediately. Lucky, with his farmboy looks, forty years old and not looking a day over twenty-five. And Clark, with his mysterious, imposing silence—six-five with close-cropped blue-black hair and the strongest hands anyone has ever seen.
And then there’s Josh. Precisely because he doesn’t compete for the women’s attention—and is uncomfortable to the point of rudeness with any woman who shows the faintest interest in him—he is the ultimate conquest, and a prime force behind The Move.
The Move begins simply. The Gimp draws the woman into a conversation that grows gradually more serious, more soulful. He explains the insights that bartending yields, watching people in their unguarded states, seeing the fading light of regret in their eyes, the opportunities that have slipped away.
Then The Move shifts gears. While he acknowledges that he’ll never be as attractive to most women as ‘those other fellows like Josh or Lucky’, he’s not complaining, mind you. When you’re crippled—he never uses a euphemism—you learn to value the little things: sun on a mountain stream, the skip to a little girl’s step, the way music talks to the soul, not just to the legs. The Move, as William notes, doesn’t leave its prey much room for escape.
“Nam. Where else?” He shrugged. “Actually, it was my fault. I had easy duty over there and I blew it. I’d lettered in two sports in college—football and wrestling—so the boot camp guys pulled me off the meat wagon and penciled me in for QC.” He anticipated her question. “Quartermaster Corps. Ask any lifer—they’ll tell you the guys in QC run the show. Everything that matters—the supplies, the stores, even the gyms. They made me a boxer, part of their service competitions.” He smiled. “QC also runs all the betting pools.”
“Were you any good?”
“Sixteen and oh my first year, second-ranked in the Pacific region. I could have seen the whole damn war from the inside of a gym if I hadn’t fucked up.”
“What’d you do?”
“Got a little cocky with my undefeated status, figured I was untouchable. So I broke training and headed into Saigon for a little unsanctioned R&R. Some guy recognized me and challenged me to step outside. I dropped him with one punch.” He smiled ruefully. “Turned out he was an MP.”
“Tough luck. Or poor judgment.”
“Tell me about it. Next thing I know I’m just another grunt on a plane to the Mekong Delta.” He shook his head. “Turns out it was just a trick by the CO to scare me. Spend a week in the front lines, but keep me out of the line of fire. Those were his instructions, anyway. Scare the shit out of me and watch me come crawling back.” He smiled slightly. “Which I would have done, believe me.”
He swapped out Carol’s ashtray. “Trouble is, the message never got delivered. So they put me out on patrol.” He looked out the window. “Two days later, I’m walking lead on a perimeter patrol and I step on something. I feel it shift beneath me, then I hear this soft crunching sound and the ground just seems to scream.” His eyes grew erratic. “I felt the metal shred my leg, then I felt the air rush in and rub my bone. I woke up two weeks later in Saigon. My legs are still out there
somewhere in the bushes.”
He stayed in the dark of his Portland bedroom for over a year, rebuffing visitors with a raging silence. His face grew chalky white, his bony fingers could wrap easily around his forearms. He spent his days chain-smoking, watching television and masturbating in small gratitude at what the land mine had left behind.
“If my mom hadn’t committed me to the VA, I’d still be back in that room. For the first six weeks I pouted and did the absolute minimum. But that place eventually beats the self-pity out of you, first off with the guys far worse off than you, and second, with the guys who get better and leave.”
“What kind of treatment did you receive?”
“A mix of therapy and practical stuff. How to work the chair, to take care of your own hygiene, things like that. Then the group sessions help you get ready for life ‘out there.’”
Get ready for the eyes, one counselor warned. They stare at you, then dart away when you catch them staring. Especially the girls your own age—they’ll get to you the most. Watch out for the trophy hunters, another warned, the ones who make friends with you way too fast. They’re the ones who want you for a trophy friend, to show you off at parties and out in public.
“So for graduation I cashed in the pile of disability checks that I’d let accumulate on my dresser at my mom’s and I bought an old phone company van.” He nodded over his shoulder at the parking lot. “The guys at the VA helped me convert it over to hand throttle and brake. Then we installed a hydraulic life for the back doors and customized the side and driver doors so I could hoist myself in without hydraulics. I built out the interior with cabinets, a small refrigerator, a toilet, and seats that folded out into a bed. Then I hit the road. Which is how I met Josh. And how I wound up owning this place.”
CHAPTER 5
The gun-metal pickup—a Ford flatbed—cleared the incline and stopped in front of the locked gate, the back tires resting on gravel, the front on the driveway’s tamped clay. Two large cypress flanked the aluminum and wood gate. The driver got out, leaving the door ajar, and walked over to the mailbox. He lowered the partially raised flag, reached in and extracted a bundle of magazines and letters held together by two large rubber bands.
He slid the rubber bands off, wrapped them around his wrist and walked over to the gate, thumbing through the letters as he went. He bent slightly, lifted the combination lock and rotated it with his free hand. As he pulled down sharply on the lock, the gate swung back noiselessly on large, well-oiled hinges.
Thirty yards up the dirt road, hidden by a thick grove of juniper, Carol watched the driver lean against the fence and browse the mail. Tucking the pile under his arm, he opened a letter and scanned its multiple pages.
Carol raised her camera and brought the man into focus. He was almost six feet tall, with close-cropped coffee curls and the beginnings of a beard. His nose was a long, precise line of bone that hooked slightly. Contrasting the hard nose and cheek lines were the eyes—a warm brown roofed with heavy lashes—and soft, almost feminine lips. She snapped a dozen shots, adjusting the aperture halfway through to compensate for the harsh noon light.
Shouldering the camera, she crept back up the line of bushes until she was around the bend. Then she stepped out of the bushes onto the road. Unclipping the canteen from her belt, she splashed some water on her face, poured some down her front, soaking her shirt. The rest she poured out onto the dirt.
She stood in the road for almost a minute, gathering herself, then started down the road at a brisk pace. As she reached the road’s curve, she reached into her fanny pack and turned on the miniature tape recorder.
The man had finished his reading and was walking back to the truck as she approached. He nodded at her and reached for his door.
Carol slowed. “Hotter than I’d planned on.” She gestured at the soaked plaid shirt. “Certainly didn’t need this.”
“It’s July.”
“Ah. Local knowledge.”
The man turned away, hiding a smile, and opened the truck door. “Enjoy the rest of your hike.”
Carol closed the distance and placed a hand on the truck door. She shook the empty canteen. “I went through this a bit quick. Mind if I come up and fill it up?”
The man looked at the canteen. “Doesn’t look like you planned your hike very well.”
Carol lost her smile for a moment, then recovered. “Right.” She extended her hand. “I’m Carol, by the way.”
The man ignored the hand. “Hello.”
“And you are…”
“You know who I am.”
“Which means you know who I am?”
“And why you’re here. Now please leave.”
“Look, Josh…can I call you Josh? I don’t like to make mistakes, so do yourself a favor and talk to me before I file.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Look, I’m going to write this thing anyway, but you can make sure I get it right.”
His mouth bit into a tight smile. “Does that line ever work?”
“Sometimes. I gather this isn’t one of them?”
“No. Now please leave.” He put his hands behind his back, as if standing at parade rest. “But before you do, I need the film in your camera.”
“Not a chance.”
“I’m afraid I have to insist.”
Carol looked down the road. “Well, since you asked so nicely, I won’t tell you to go fuck yourself. I’ll just say no.”
A short-bladed fishing knife appeared suddenly in his hand. The sun glinted harshly off the razor blade as it slashed at her with two precise, darting strokes. Carol gasped and stepped back, her hands feeling for wounds. As she did so, the camera fell from its severed straps and dropped into his free hand.
He slid the knife back into the sheath behind his back, then turned the camera over and removed the film. Exposing it, he said, “I’ll reimburse you for this,” and handed the camera back to her.
Her breathing coming quickly through her open mouth, Carol backed away, stopping as Josh’s hand wrapped tightly around her wrist. “I’ll also need the tape from your recorder.”
CHAPTER 6
“I stayed around Portland for the first three weeks. Went to McDonalds, the movies, shopping, things like that. Just to get my sea legs, so to speak.” He looked up at Carol for reaction, but she just shook her head. “Huh. That usually gets a laugh. Shows that I’m plucky.” She rolled her wrist for him to continue.
“After a few months, I headed south, moseyed down the coast. Got to San Tomas and liked what I saw. Sat for a few days on the pier, did some fishing, and got the feel for the place. Then I thought I’d check out the mountains. I drove up 18, turned onto one of those lumber roads, and drove ‘til it petered out. Pulled the van into a space under a large oak and settled in. And that’s how I met Josh. Turns out I was camping on his land.”
“How long was this after he bought the camp?” When The Gimp looked at her suspiciously, she shrugged. “Just trying to get a timeline here. Nothing more.”
“Four or five months.”
“So how did this Lennon and McCartney meeting take place?”
He refilled her glass. “Actually, I saw Josh before he saw me. I’d been there a coupla days and planned to stay a few more. The logging roads were good for getting me back in shape. And after my workouts I’d just sit out next to the van and read through the different vocational and Chamber of Commerce stuff I’d assembled. Trying to figure out what I was going to do next and where I was going to do it.”
Carol put her notebook in her purse. “So you met him…”
“I saw him the second afternoon I was there, I was sitting next to the van reading, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Up on the far hillside, above the line of spruces, some kind of animal scrambling up this steep hillside. I’m thinking it’s an antelope, so I grab my binoculars. And I’m stunned to see it’s
some guy, dressed only in running shorts and shoes, just attacking this face. I mean attacking it. Using this high-knee action that reminded me of my football days. I ached just watching him.”
He took a sip and let his tongue troll his upper lip. “He’d get to the top, put his hands on his knees, looking like he was going to toss his cookies. But then he’d straighten up, head back down the hill and do it all over again.”
“And that was Josh?”
He nodded. “Next day, he was at it again, so I wheeled over and waited in this grove at the bottom of the hill and watched. Shit, I’ve never seen anyone punish themselves like that without a coach around. Finally, on his fifth trip down the face, I wheeled myself out of the shade and said hello.”
“You look like you could use a beer,” The Gimp said.
The runner had his back to him, preparing to ascend the hill. He turned, almost in slow motion, his eyes taking in the wheelchair, then settling on The Gimp’s face. There was nothing rude in the eyes, but nothing welcoming.
The Gimp closed the gap between them with a single flick of his wrists. “I’m Ken Sanderson,” he said, extending his hand.
The man leaned forward, the sweat from his forehead dropping on the hands as they shook. “Josh Clements.”
“What about that beer? When you’re finished. I’ve got a cooler in my van. I’m parked in a clearing about half a…”
“I know where you are.” He gestured at the chair. “Thirty minutes enough time for you to get back?”
“Plenty. It’s mostly downhill.”
Josh nodded, then turned back to the hill.
“What were your first impressions?”
“That he was in great shape. He had those long, ropy muscles you only see on athletes and abs that you normally only see on blacks. And that he was—maybe not rude, but definitely private.”