Soothing the Savage Swamp Beast

by Zakary Mcgaha

  “Well, I guess you could say I just learned how to play it, but not how to make thoughts with it. I just knew where to put my fingers and chords and stuff, but that’s where it stopped. I knew other peoples’ music, and all the stuff I made wasn’t no count. I figured there wasn’t no new music to make.”

  Jensen nods, somewhat absorbing. Mostly not.

  The drive through his neighborhood is different. Somehow, being in an alien truck with someone he’s not terribly well acquainted with paints things with a new perspective. This new perspective is one of strangeness. It’s one of hope, it’s one of false happiness. I can tell this guy’s happy to have a young person like me in his life, and it makes him feel fatherly . . . but I bet the minute I go back home he’ll be sad knowin’ everything’s back to normal.

  The way Chad drives is funny. It’s cautious. He doesn’t go fast. It’s not at all the way Jensen’s dad drives.

  “So, you grew up here, didn’t you?” asks Jensen.

  “Born and raised. Cadesville’s a nice place to live. Since the college in the next county is so close, I stayed at home while I was goin’.”

  “What’d you get a degree in?”

  “Administration,” says Chad.

  Administration . . . how boring and lazy that sounds!

  Loves . . . they needs to be sent my way, because I’m feelin’ the need for some class-A loves right now, and if you can’t honor that, this author/reader relationship is over.

  Jensen shakes his head nervously . . . those thoughts. Are . . . are they his? He doesn’t know. It’s freaking him out. All of a sudden, there’s the need for affection. He’s never needed it before. Ever. Schmever.

  He looks out the window, up to the sky that’s starting to decrease in intensity. Twilight is upon them. The sky is a shade of purplish blue, strikingly relaxing.

  Mellow.

  A vision hits him, one of himself in a silver bullet trailer in the middle of the desert, and the sky’s just like this, except there are no trees blocking any of it. It’s all open, save for the large, rocky desert mountains off in the distance.

  Then he’s back in the truck, with Chad driving silently, yet the happiness is evident in the older gentleman’s face. His look is approving. He watches the ebb and flow of the small town traffic with an air of contentedness.

  The contentedness is rubbing off on Jensen. He wants to say so, but that’d be strange, so he doesn’t. He simply smiles, watches the sky and trees pass by on the way to the church.

  ***

  At the church, the contentedness is almost broken. The people he sees milling about aren’t the content type of people, they’re the social climbers. The old ladies look as if they belong in England or something. They’re wearing dresses, and they all smell like funerals. And the men, some of them wear suits, others polos. They seem masculine, not refined, which is what their clothes suggest.

  To keep the contentedness, Jensen disregards them. He thinks back to the twilight sky (and doesn’t take into account that it’s slowly darkening).

  ***

  The first time Jensen sees Junior Hicks, he’s surprised by the man’s charisma. He walks with confidence, with purpose. He’s the only dignified individual in the room (far more dignified than the weird, paranoid-looking preacher).

  Junior Hicks approaches and says, “Well, hey there, little boy. I take it you’re the one ole Chad wanted to bring along. Is this right, Chad?”

  Chad smiles and nods his head. “Sure is. I figured a little church would be the right thing for the young man. Plus, he gets to see a free concert.”

  Junior Hicks laughs. “Most people gotta pay, son. What made you get off easy?”

  Jensen blushes. Put on the fucking spot. “Uh . . . I don’t have any money.”

  Junior Hicks laughs yet again, pats Jensen’s shoulder, and says, “Not to worry, little man. You don’t need money to see this show. Take you a seat wherever you’d like. The preacher’s gonna do a little service before we start a-playin’.”

  Jensen nods, looks to Chad for an answer.

  “Sit over there, boy. I usually don’t see anyone there.” Chad is pointing to a darkened corner at the far edge of the room. When Jensen gets settled in, he’s directly behind three old ladies, and to his right are four old men with mustaches. They all look solemn. They speak in drawls.

  The preacher’s service is beyond lame, Jensen tunes most of it out. It’s all about how Jesus loves you, how he never changes his mind on anything and knows all there is to know so you don’t have to worry, because the way you’re living right now (if you’re living Jesus’ set way in the Bible) is probably the right way, considering Jesus did it, and he wasn’t wrong.

  “And now, for the part you folks been waitin’ for. Let’s give it up to Hicks Galore: Southern PRIDE!”

  Each band member (including Chad, which is just odd to think about) nods their thanks to the preacher on their way to the stage.

  Junior Hicks stands, violin (aka fiddle) in hand, behind an already set up mic. He speaks: “Well, folks, now that you all are already in the mood for praisin’ the Lord and all his glory, and recognizing Jesus as the savior of your sins, we can all sing together in this song of ours that’s the most popular. Shucks, most of you all probably know it better than I do!”

  The four men next to Jensen laugh and whisper quietly amongst themselves: “It’s true!”

  “You all know what song I’m talkin’ about. I’m talkin’ about ‘Shout Yee-Haw to the Lord’!”

  “YEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAAAAAW!” yell the members of the church.

  Then the music starts.

  To be continued . . .

  CHAPTER 13

  Back to Working

  Aldert’s drive to work is one of the most energetic EVER. He tunes in to a radio station that plays some heavy, energized rock. Everything from soulful singing amongst crunching guitars to monotoned yelling amongst boring guitars amidst killer drumbeats.

  His head bobs forwards and back, forwards and back, and so on. “I can’t believe I’ve never explored this side of me,” he says. Needless to say, this side needs energy. And a ton of it. He needs some FUEL! Some heavy-metal! Some righteousness!

  And now here he is, parking at work, emerging from his truck, looking like a stud. His newfound muscularity is immediately noticeable to the factory workers who’re standing around, chatting before their shifts.

  One of these fellows is the forklift driver/owner of the truck with the dog and slime.

  He’s shocked, to say the least. He says, “Damn, you’re lookin’ different, man.” This guy is an older redneck, although he hasn’t necessarily matured cognitively since dropping out of high school. As a rule of thumb, all the guys standing around have a thing against their coworkers who went to college and got degrees that permitted them to do something other than line work.

  “This is what living a dutiful life can do for you boys,” says Aldert in an even, masculine tone.

  “Hmph,” says the forklift driver before he spits a wad of tobacco on the ground near his boots.

  Aldert says no more and makes his way inside.

  “That’s one cocky asshole,” says the forklift driver when Aldert’s out of sight. “I’m gonna have to take him down a peg or two.”

  ***

  Aldert has been on the factory floor many times today, and every time he was there, he saw the forklift driver . . . and he looked at him. He glared at him. The more he thinks of it, the more he realizes the maniacal redneck laughter meshes perfectly with the redneck’s talking voice.

  “You’re going down,” mouths Aldert one time.

  He then goes away.

  And the forklift driver looks shaken.

  CHAPTER 12

  Continued . . .

  Jensen doesn’t like the music, but he likes the feel. The feel of being accepted by these people. Of being loved by them. Of being part of a collective that doesn’t jive with the normal society, but yet, nevertheless, of course, wit
hout doubt, undeniably, exists within normal society (but still always on the outside, although appearing to be on the inside, not letting on to people who exist comfortably on the inside).

  It makes him feel special. It makes him feel like, soon, he’s going to be doing what has to be done. In his life. For the things he wants to accomplish during this brief period of existence, this flash of existence, this thing that is so small, yet is still the biggest thing EVER (relative to Jensen and all those around him).

  When Chad’s driving him home, Jensen stares into the darkness, lost in some type of reverie that is too strange for this author (Zakary S. McGaha) to adequately describe, for he is only human, and no matter how cool humans think they are, they’re still trapped within themselves and will never really think the way another human being thinks, even if they create other human beings in fictionalized dream realms, the humans will still just be extensions of the author. If the author then says, “Well, hey, I can make someone who is completely different than me by making someone who is the COMPLETE OPPOSITE of me,” that character will still just be an extension of the author, because the path to that character’s creation (although the character is the exact opposite of the author) still leads, inarguably, back to the author. In other words, Diet Coke owes its creation to regular Coke.

  Jensen sleeps happily that night, and so does Chad.

  CHAPTER 14

  Fateful Impressions

  “I hate that kid. I hate that kid. I hate that kid.”

  Vogel hates Jensen, enough said. In her eyes, he’s some kind of do-no-gooder who’s constantly getting by because, for whatever reason, people keep sticking up for him (never mind that she stuck up for him before).

  The sticking up for him should have ended with everyone when he got that damn boner in class. Really? A boner? What kind of weird, Neanderthal-like, barbaric, redneck, hoodlum-ass vandalizer does something like that? It’s sinking to a new low. A perfectly sensible, pretty, young, smart girl had to get her hopes and dreams of living safely in the world DASHED by seeing such a sight, a sight that will, no doubt, haunt her for the rest of her life.

  “I can’t believe that fucker Chad, in all his good-for-nothing, God-fearing glory, had to switch sides and stick up for that little pervert! Ugh! Just because I don’t buy into his religion. IDIOT.”

  She sits in her happy chair and produces her book, her book from Intentionally Anonymous. And she begins reading. He’s talking of silent corruption; underneath the guise of good, god-fearing folk, an evilness is bred which goes unnoticed (due to the holier-than-thou guise, of course). That’s what’s happened here, that’s what’s happened.

  Fucker.

  Chad and all his good Southern charm, it’s just a mask. Behind him is evil, because, of course, he stuck up for Jensen. Who does something like that? Who goes from loving the lord to feeling sympathy for a little hellion with a woody?

  ***

  Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy.

  That’s going on in Jensen’s mind as he thinks of the blush. The pretty blush. No, that girl didn’t hate him, sure she didn’t. Because she blushed. If she hated him, she wouldn’t have blushed. Things work out for the best, after all.

  But why? Why does Mrs. Vogel hate him so? She used to really like him. She used to think he had untapped potential that he was hiding behind his smart-ass façade. Something about him was worthy, something about him was cool.

  But no, now she thinks he’s bad because something he can’t help happened to him.

  But maybe something good will come of it all? Maybe . . . something beautiful?

  That girl. What’s her name? Amy. Yeah, Amy something. She’s really funny, every now and then. But mostly, she’s quiet, she studiously studies what’s given to her and makes some of the best grades in the class.

  The next day at school, he talks to her. He says, “I’m sorry you had to see that. I mean, it just kind of happened. It probably freaked you out.”

  She does the laugh/smile/blush and says, “No, I know what goes on inside boys’ heads . . . and their pants. I have two older brothers. I’ve seen ’em with those things sticking out before. Also, my dog’s a boy. He gets those from time to time.”

  Instantly, Jensen has another one.

  ***

  The rest of the day, Jensen is thinking about how good going to church made him feel. About how nice/neat/mystical that bearded man with the fiddle was.

  Junior Hicks? Yeah, that was his name. Cool fellow. He had some kind of radiance. Some kind of something awesome about him. Whatever it was, it made him stick out from the crowd. It made him the most individualistic of the bunch.

  Still, though, that’s not saying much. It’s a small Baptist church for crying out loud! All the people there are taught not to be individualistic, they’re taught not to think outside the steady stream of world/body-hatred constantly being poured down their gullets.

  With people that sheep-like . . . is it possible to profit off them? To sell them what they want? To get up on a stage and sing the exact song they wanna hear? Sure . . . it’s fool proof. But . . . does that make Junior Hicks a trickster? A conman? A phony? A fraud? Probably . . . but he’s a smart, cool one.

  Jensen ponders the possibility of being like that someday. Of being someone special. Someone dumb fucks shell out dough for. Mmm . . . the feeling would be sweet. Sweet like honey-coated chocolate bars dipped in marzipan and set to cool in the fridge. Add chocolate kisses on top.

  At the end of the school day, Jensen finds Chad and says: “I really liked your show last night.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear, little fella.”

  “Um, Chad . . . how much money do you make doing music?”

  “Well, it’s not a livin’ or anything . . . least not yet. Well, I take that back. It is a livin’ if you’re a man with simple, and I mean SIMPLE, needs. Like Junior. He doesn’t have a job. He lives in a shack out near the Holy Snake Swamp. No electricity. No runnin’ water. No nothin’. And he gets by just fine. Well, I forgot to mention he has a van.”

  “Do you think . . . you could teach me how to get into music?”

  “Well, sure I could. I think you’d like it. Gettin’ into music ain’t nothin’ hard. What is it you’d like to do? Would you like to sing, play an instrument, what?”

  “I’d . . . I’d like to do what Junior does.”

  “You’d like to do what Junior does! Well hell, wouldn’t we all?”

  “Huh?”

  Chad closes his eyes, squeezes the bridge of his nose, and his face is starting to get all red. He’s looking like someone who’s accidentally sprinkled rat poison powder on their fries instead of garlic powder. He says: “I mean, to do something like that, it takes bein’ . . . a certain type of person. Not many people are like Junior.”

  “So you’re sayin’ I can’t be like Junior because I’m not good enough?”

  “No, boy . . . I just . . . I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m sayin’. It’s . . . it’s been a hard day. I’m sorry if I seem kinda like a grump. I don’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” says Jensen as he’s leaving the school.

  ***

  Chad goes home, thinking things that don’t make sense. He goes through his problems. He goes through what’s wrong.

  “I flat out told a kid not to chase my dreams,” he says to himself. “I flat out told him that Junior is something he’s not, a god. You . . . ” He slaps himself in the head. “You better not be headin’ down that road again.”

  CHAPTER 15

  That Road

  I

  “I know I’m good. I know I’m real good. I ain’t gonna let no one tell me I can’t do what I KNOW I can! Everyone in them big cities think they’re so much better at . . . at art than us simple, god fearin’ folk in the country. But I’m here to tell ’em, they only make art for themselves. They don’t think about us, they don’t give a rat’s keester about us!
Well, I’ll do what I know I need to do. I’ll make art for me. I’ll make art for MY people!”

  Chad says this in the mirror, and he’s young. Younger than he was when he encountered Jensen, younger than he was when Jensen asked him if he (Jensen) could ever aspire to be like his (Chad’s) hero.

  Well, right now, Chad doesn’t know Junior Hicks. Chad doesn’t know anyone who figures into the later story. The only person he knows is himself . . . barely. He thinks he knows himself. Maybe he does somewhat, but nothing is ever set in stone. Things can change; one slip up and a strong person can tumble down into weakness. It’s happened before.

  Chad doesn’t know it yet, but it’s bound to happen to him.

  But right now, all he knows is that he’s discouraged, that he’s getting dressed for his new job at the elementary school he attended as a child, and that he’s feeling his college education in administration was nothing but a big fat cocksucking pussylicking titmunching nutcrunching duckfucking cluckclucking assball waste of money.

  He should have risked it. He should have said, “Fuck college. I’m going to go do ART. I’m going to play bluegrass and get paid big money for it.” Still though, it’s not too bad. This is most likely where he would reside had he forgone college and got big in music. Only difference is he’d be living in a much bigger, nicer house. Something like a mansion. A mansion out by one of the swamps. Or something on Cadesville’s Atlantic-side beach. He can see it now, a cozy cabin, right on the ocean. Sweet.

  Too bad he didn’t risk it. Now he must prepare himself for monotony, boredom, and being generally unfulfilled. Blah.

  Blah blah blah blah.

  If only there was a way to get big around here. Sure, he could try to play some bluegrass gigs by himself, but you really need a band for that sort of thing. It’s hard to go out on your own and get noticed. For whatever reason, when it comes to bluegrass, people think four or five heads are better than one (which so isn’t true).

  On his way to work, he passes a building he used to frequent quite a bit as a youngster: Dan the Music Fan’s Musical Instrument Mart. He used to go in there and get strings for his catalogue-ordered banjo. Picks, too. Everything he needed to take care of his precious sound-maker.