by Ken Kesey
A person might almost think they were one and the same. . . .
On the slope Hank smoked in patient silence beside his father while he heard the dissonant squeak of Joe Ben's little radio draw closer through the dripping firs. (The old man still stood leaned up against the log, working his jaw in thought; his white hair was plastered to his bony skull now and hung streaming from the back of his head, sort of like wet cobwebs. "Steeper land like that over yonder," he kept mumbling. "Hm. Yeah. Over there like that. We can get half again the cutting. Uhuh. I bet we can. . . ."
I was a little awed by the change that had come over the old coon; it seemed that the cast had broken to reveal a younger and at the same time more mature person. I watched old Henry appraise the land and announce which trees we was gonna cut, how, in what order, and so forth . . . and I got to feeling like I was seeing a once-familiar but almost-forgotten man. I mean . . . this wasn't the old yarn-spinning, bullshitting character that had been thundering damn near unnoticed through the house and the local bars for the last six months. Not the noisy joke of a year before either. No, I realized gradually, this is the boomer I used to follow on cruising walks twenty years before, the calm, stubborn, confident rock of a man who had taught me how to tie a bowline with one hand and how to place a dutchman block in an undercut so's the tree would fall so cunthair perfect that he could put a stake where he aimed for it to fall, then by god drive that stake into the ground with the trunk!
I kept still, looking at him. Like I was scared if I said something this phantom might disappear. And as Henry talked--haltingly, yet deliberate and certain all the same--I felt myself commence to relax. Like I'd had a couple quarts of beer. I let my lungs pull deep and easy and felt a kind of repose, almost like sleep, go running through me. It felt good. It was the first time, I realized, that I'd felt relaxed in--oh, Christ, except for last night with Viv rubbing my back--in what seemed years and years. Hot damn, I figured; the old old Henry is back; let him hold the handles a spell while I take a breather.
So I didn't say anything until Joby was almost there. I let him carry on for a while with his instructions before I reminded him that that slope me and Joby'd been working was exactly the one he'd pointed out for us to work that morning. "Remember?" I grinned at him. "You said just down from that outcropping?"
"That's all right, that's all right," he says, not the least concerned, and went on to say, "But I said that account of this place was safest. An' that was this morning. We ain't got time for that, not no more, not now. Down yonder she'll be a little trickier, but we can fall half again the bastards we can fall up here. Anyhow I'll tell you when Joe gets up here. Now hush and let me think a minute."
So I hushed and let him think, wondering how long it had been since I'd been able to do that . . .)
I left the school and playground and spent most of the rest of that lonely morn over dreary cups of drugstore coffee brought me by a dour Grissom who seemed to hold me solely responsible for his lack of business. During this time I revised and revamped my demon-teammate theory--improving on symbolism, sharpening the effect, stretching it to cover all possible woes. . . . I could stretch it far beyond grammar school. All through prep school I avoided that playground, all through college I had stayed safely in the classroom, secure behind a bastion of books, and played no base at all on the field outside. Not first or second, not third. Certainly not home. Secure but homeless. Homeless even in the town of my home-town team, with no base to play. No arms in all the wet world to enfold me, no armchair by the cozy fire to hold me. And, now, on top of it all, I was deserted, deserted at the hospital, left to the merciless hoofs of galloping pneumonia, by my own pitiless father. Oh, Father, Father, where can you be . . . ?
("Gettin' drownt," I tell Hank. "Out in the weather thisaway, I should of brung more better gear." I lean my bum hip against the log again to take the weight offn the cast and I take me a little knit cap from my pocket and pull it on. It ain't gonna keep my head dry none, but it'll soak up enough rain to keep it from running into my eyes. Joe Ben, he comes scrambling up the hill practically on all fours, looking like some kinda animal scared outa the ground. "What's up? What's up?" He looks from Hank to me, then settles himself on the log and looks down the direction we're looking. He's itching to pieces to know what's up but he knows he'll get told when I'm ready to tell him, so he don't ask again.
"Well sir." I pat my old cap into place and spit. "We got to finish our cuttin'," I tell them, "an' finish it today." Just like that. Hank and Joe Ben light up cigarettes and wait to see what it's all about. I say, "It's full moon, an' a poor time for it. I bet this mornin' was a good minus-one-five or minus-two tide. Real low. When we left the house this mornin' the river shoulda been low enough to show barnacles on the pilings, ain't that so? With a tide so low? Huh? But did we see any barnacles? Or did anybody look . . . ?" I look right at Hank. "Did you check the marker at the house this mornin' against the tide chart?" He shakes his head. I spit and look disgusted at him. Joe says, "What's it mean, anyway?" "What it means," I tell them, "is the game is all, is jick, jack, joker, and the game for Evenwrite and Draeger an' that bunch of goddam feather-beddin' so-slists is eg-zactly what it means! Unless we really get in high gear. What it means . . . is there must be damn heavy rain up country; there's more water comin' out'n the upper branches'n anybody figured. We're in for maybe one sonofabitch of a flood!
Not tonight, probably, no, I doubt it tonight. Unless she really cuts loose a storm. And she could, but let's say not. Let's say it keeps on like it's goin'. By tomorrow or the next day nobody'll be able to hang onto a boom of logs, not us nor WP. So we got to deliver before it crests. Now. Let's say, oh, say, it's about ten-thirty now, so that means eleven, twelve, one, two . . . so let's say we get two of the bastards an hour, pushin' it, two of these. . . ." I take me a look up one of the firs standing there. She's a good one. Like they used to be. "At seventeen board feet, times two, times--what did I figure? five hours' cuttin'?--times five hours, say six hours; we can have Andy to stay up all night at the mill with a boat and spotlight watchin' for the late-comers . . . yeah, we can do that. So. Anyhow. Figuring six real highballin' hours of cutting, nothin' goes wrong, we--let's see now . . . hum . . ."
The old man talked on, darting the brown tip of his tongue over his lips and occasionally pausing to spit, speaking more to himself than to the others. Hank finished his cigarette and lit another, nodding now and then as he listened (content to let the old guy call the shots and run the show. Damned content, to be honest with you.
Henry kept rambling on. After telling Joe and me all the details and outlining to us all the dangers and doubts, he finally got around to allowing, "But, yessir, we can hack it," like I knew he would. "With even a little margin, if we hump our tails. 'N' then tomorrow we got to rent a tug an' ran the booms down to Wakonda Pacific, quicker the better. Not wait for Thanksgivin'. Get 'em off our hands before we lose 'em. Well . . . be tight, but we can whup it."
"You bet!" Joe said. "Oh yeah!" Business like this was right up Joby's alley.
"So . . . ?" the old man said, talking straight ahead. "What do you say?"
I knew it was me he was asking. "Be tough," I tell him, "with Orland and Layton and the others buffaloed by Evenwrite and the rest of the town. I mean, it'll be tough making a drive on that high a river, with that many booms and us so shorthanded. . . ."
"I know it'll be tough, goddammit! That ain't what I asked. . . ."
"Hey!" Joby snaps his fingers: "I know: we can get some of the Wakonda Pacific foremen!" He's excited and chomping at the bit. "See, they got to help us, don't you see? They don't want to lose their winter millwork. With Mama Olson's tug, and some of them WP bosses, we'll be pretty as you please, right in the good Lord's warm little fist."
"We'll take that jump," the old man says, pushing himself up from the log, "when it comes up. Right now I'm sayin' can we cut our quota today? All of it. Just us three?"
"Sure! Sure we can, oh yeah, ther
e ain't nothing--"
"I was askin' you, Hank. . . ."
I knew he was. I squinted through the blue film of cigarette smoke, out across the fern and salal and blackberry, through the brute black straight trunks of those trees down to the river, trying to ask myself, Can we or can't we? But I didn't know; I just couldn't tell. The three of us he said. Meaning two and one old man. Two tired jacks and one old crippled man. It's crazy, and I said to myself, and I knew I should say Nothing doing to the old man, say it's too risky, forget it, flick it. . . .
But some way he didn't seem like an old crippled man to me then. It wasn't like I was standing there talking with the wild and woolly town character any more, but with some fierce young jack who had just walked up out of the years ready to spit on his palms and take over again. I looked at him, waiting there. What could I tell him? If he says we can whip it, all right, maybe he knows, let him take over. "I'm askin' you, boy. . . ." Because all I know is that the only way you can keep this jack from out of the past from trying to whip it was with a club and a rope, so I say all right. "All right, Henry, let's try it." You probably know more about this kind of logging than me and Joby put together. So all right, head out. You run it. I'm tired rassling it. I got other things on my mind. You take it. Me, just turn me on and aim me. That's how I'd like it, anyhow. I'm tired, but I'll work. If you take over. If you just turn me on and aim me it's fine and dandy with this boy . . .)
After Grissom had the effrontery to ask me to pay for the magazine I spilled coffee on, I decided to go mope elsewhere. I crossed the street and entered the Sea Breeze Cafe and Grill, the very apotheosis of short-order America: two waitresses in wilted uniforms chatting at the cash register; lipstick stain on coffee mugs; bleak array of candy; insomniac flies waiting out the rain; a plastic penful of doughnuts; and, on the wall above the Coca-Cola calendar, the methodical creaking creep of a bent second hand across a Dr. Pepper clock . . . the perfect place for a man to sit and commune with nature.
I climbed onto one of the leatherette stools, ordered coffee, and purchased freedom for one of the penned-up doughnuts. The shortest of the waitresses brought my order, took my money, made my change, and returned to the cash register to play her accordion of neck to her bored companion . . . never really acknowledging my presence to herself. I ate the doughnut and reiterated my woes with fresh coffee, trying not to think ahead, trying not to ask myself, What am I waiting for? The second hand creaked a meaningless dirge. An ancient refrigerator complained in the cluttered kitchen, and the second hand cranked out a dreary fare of short-order time--tepid seconds, stale minutes, the drab diet that He Who Hesitates must always be satisfied with . . .
As the rain quickened on the slopes the three men set about work. Hank jerked the starter rope on his saw and wondered why the saw should feel so feather-light ( just take it over and it's dandy with me. . . .) when his arms felt so heavy. Henry walked the length of the log, looking for a place to set a check, and wished he'd brought a plastic bag or some damn thing to wrap around his cast so's it wouldn't soak up water and weigh him down even worse than ordinary. On the other hand Joe Ben, leaping back downhill to the log he had been working on when interrupted by Hank's whistle, felt as though the mud caking his boots was actually becoming lighter. He felt even more nimble and buoyant than usual. Everything was going fine. He'd been worried over something earlier that morning--can't even remember now--but everything was turning out just the way he liked it: old Henry's dramatic arrival, the news of the tides, the planning in terse, muted voices, that brass-band feeling rising among them, beating out we got to make that first down, we got to, and you block for me, Joby, and I'll tear 'em apart! Yeah boy! That brassy beat of high-school idealism and determination that he liked best of all: beating out we got, got to, got to! over and over until the words became we will, we will, we will!--and when I put my hand on the log and vault over it I feel like if I don't hold back I'll just sail right off in the sky--the log's ready to go--it was ready when Hank whistled--all the dickens needs now's a good shove to get it over the rock it's hung against. Let's see here . . .
Joe circled the end of the log and looked at the jack. It was screwed out to its maximum length, with one end anchored against a rock and the other biting into the bark of the log. To unscrew it meant that the log would fall back a few inches while he anchored the jack against another rock. "Bug that," he said aloud, laughing, and told himself, "Don't give a inch!" He wedged his compact little body in on top of the jack, with his shoulders against the rock and his boots against the log. I give a yeah-h-h shove be thou you dickens cast into the uh uh sea! Yeah! She teeters over the rock, rolls against a stump picking up speed, spins off the stump, and slides straight as an arrow whew down the hill to within a bare half-yard of the river! Good deal, I'd say. "Hey . . ." Joe stood up and shouted over his shoulder at Hank and old Henry, watching him. "See that? Oh man; no sense messin' around, the way I see it. Now, you fellas want me to kick that one downhill and save you the effort?"
Laughing, he skidded down the slope with the jack light under his arm and his boots flying. And the little transistor bumping and squeaking against his neck . . .
I know you love me
An' happy we could be
If some folks would leave us alone. . . .
All righty now--I screw the jack short again and wedge it under the log and twist! He watched the butt of it bite the juicy bark. The wooden screw of the implement lengthened out with his cranking. The log rolled a few feet, paused--this time she pitches crashing through shredding fern blackberry vines and into the river. Yes sir, all righty, there! He picked up his jack, slung it across his shoulder by the strap, and swarmed up the hill on all fours--who-so-ever!--snorting and whooping as he came, like a water spider fleeing to high ground. His face was scratched and red when he reached the second log, where Hank worked the saw. "Hankus, ain't you finished bucking this thing yet? Henry, it looks like me'n you have to carry our load an' then some to make up for this loafer!"
Then vaulted over the log, the mud on his boots turning to wings: and whosoever shall not doubt in his heart, he will, by golly, he will . . . !
In her shack Indian Jenny hummed over an astrologer's chart that was patterned mysteriously with glass rings interlacing! Lee sipped coffee at the Sea Breeze. At the house Viv finished up the last of the dishes and wondered what to start on next. With Jan and the kids staying at the new place, there's not so much rush. And it's nice to set my own pace. I enjoy Jan and the kids here, and I'll miss them when they move into the other place, but it's nice to be here and set my own pace. Boy oh boy, is it quiet just here alone . . .
Standing in the center of the big living room, watching the river, feeling distracted and flushed, anxious almost . . . like I'm expecting something to happen. One of the kids to holler, I guess. I know what'll calm me down; take a nice long hot soak in the tub. Aren't you the Miss Lazy Britches? But gee, is it still and quiet . . .
Hank wiped his nose on the wet cuff of his sweat shirt sticking from his poncho, then grabbed the saw again and dug into the trunk of the tree before him, feeling the relaxation of labor, of simple uncomplicated labor, run through his body like a warm liquid. . . . (Like a sleep, sort of. More relaxing than some sleeps a guy could name. I never minded work so much. I could of got along right well just doing a plain eight-to-five with the bull telling what to do and where to do it. If he had been a decent bull and fairly reasonable about that what and where. Yes I could of. . . .) Everything was going pretty good. The logs fell good and the wind stayed down. Henry helped where he was able, picking the trees, figuring the troughs, arranging the screwjacks in place, using his experience instead of bones he knew were brittle as chalk . . . wheezing, spitting, thinking a man can whup it, even he don't have nothin' but knowhow left, even his legs like butter and his arms and hands like cracking glass and he don't have nothin' but his knowhow left--he can still help whup it! Downhill Joe Ben paced off twenty-five steps and cut through his log
, feeling the screaming vibration of the chain saw tingle up his arms and accumulate in his back muscles like a charge of electrical power . . . building, yeah, rising oh yeah and a little more and I'll just grab this log up and bust it over my knee! Watch if I don't. . . .
On the counter of the Sea Breeze Cafe and Grill was a selection box for our youth's music. To pass the wait (I told myself I was waiting for my father to show up at the Snag across the street) I took a survey of what Young America was singing these days. Let's see . . . we've got Terry Keller "Coming with Summer"--very neat--a "Stranger on the Shore" called--s'help me--Mister Acker Bilk. Earl Grant "Swinging Gently"; Sam Cook "Twistin' the Night Away"; Kingston Trio "Jane Jane Janing" . . . Brothers Four . . . Highwaymen (singing "Bird-man of Alcatraz," a ballad, based on the movie, that is based on the book, that is based on the life of a lifer who has probably never even heard of the Highwaymen . . .) the Skyliners . . . Joey Dee and the Starlighters . . . Pete Hanly doing "Dardanella" (how did that slip in?), Clyde McSomebody asking "Let's Forget about the Past" . . . and currently number one, at least in the Sea Breeze Cafe and Grill, a waitress with three pounds of nose under thirty ounces of powder accompanying herself on a tub of dishes while she sings "Why Hang Around?"
I muttered in my coffee cup. "Because I'm waiting for my daddy to come get me." Which convinced no one. . . .
The hillside rang with the tight whine of cutting; the sound of work in the woods was like insects in the walls. Numb clubs of feet registered the blow against the cold earth only by the pained jarring in the bones. Henry dragged a screwjack to a new log. Joe Ben sang along with his radio: