Nitro Mountain

by Lee Clay Johnson

  I got a question, he whispered in the dark. You wanna be Mommy or Daddy?

  Who the fuck are you? Arnett said.

  Ray brought out a toothbrush of melted and sharpened plastic and sliced into Arnett’s cheek, releasing the warmth of fresh blood.

  Arnett saw that Ray’s face had pores the size of needle holes. The glass eye was looking at the ceiling.

  I ain’t got to answer a single one of your fucking questions, Arnett told him.

  But you will.

  When the man showed him the toothbrush again, Arnett sat up and pressed back against those cold painted cinderbricks and said, Okay, okay. The two men sat there like overgrown boys playing a bunk-bed game of house. On the flat foam mattress that softened nothing, Arnett’s hands were shaking. I’ll be Daddy, he said.

  Ray leaned toward him, grinned and said, Come here and suck Mommy’s dick.

  Arnett ain’t going back this time.

  He tells himself it’s not them behind him until he can’t anymore. That fucking Bronco’s right up his ass. Then the brightest damn lights hit him from behind and the pull-over lights are strobing and spinning and he can’t see a goddamn thing for all the steam in front of him and the wall of brightness behind him. What are they trying to do, make this situation more dangerous? Better not think of anything right now besides finding Jennifer and making sure she’s all right. Make sure she drank her water. Got to keep going straight. Don’t slow down. They’ll stop you if you slow down, and then what are you? A cell rat again. Mommy’s daddy.

  A full beer can under the gas pedal keeps getting in his way. Where’d that come from? Must’ve been thinking ahead somewhere back there. He lets his foot off, rolls the can toward him and takes it up. The car won’t go straight, or maybe it’s just him. He brakes for a banked turn ahead and sees faces up in the tree branches, Leon wearing a mask of himself, breath smoking through the mouth hole, Leon lying there on the ground with his arms out flat, Leon flying crookedly like some ungainly bat, Leon staring past everything and trying to understand the dent in his head.

  Arnett wipes his eyes and sees his mother in the barn stall, held to the cedar posts by ratchet straps. Deer leg hanging out of her like it was her third leg. Jack buried her in the ridge and Arnett watched him from the woods. Goddamn it. Jack came up to him with the leg. Bend over, son a mine. More weeping than he’s used to these days but he can’t help it. When he brakes again and looks behind him and sees the Bronco right there, it’s hard to believe any of this.

  The Bronco rams him and sends him skidding. He pounds his brakes and they hit him again. He lets go of the wheel, takes the crossbow from the passenger seat and holds it out his window. A shotgun blast shatters glass and sprays the back of his head with buckshot. He recovers from the reeling and steps on the gas, straddling the double yellow with the back of his neck burning. He can see the sky, full of holes, the violent stars, the guardrail, the moon a big puncture wound.

  Upside down. The smell of earth and leaves. Peaceful.

  He’s lying on the ceiling like a baby.

  Everything’s everywhere.

  Spots on his neck feel like flames when he touches them. Take care of them. Cover them.

  People in the leaves above him now, cops coming down. He can’t stop laughing. He’s bleeding. He’s in a gully, the solid, skinned tree trunks holding the car like an enormous skeleton hand reaching up from a lower world and gripping. Then there’s a flashlight, voices. They’re calling for him, asking if he can hear them. Light finds his face. Shoot me, motherfuckers. End this shit. He closes his eyes against the bright beams and voices are yelling to him and he’s still laughing, and then a dark hole opens up that he can look through and see everything else surrounding it, no more shouts now, only laughter, and his fingertips just can’t keep any of this inside him anymore.

  Jones is on the road with a full tank and a red Solo cup between his legs full of coffee from the hobo camp. Bulldozed hills on either side of the highway as he passes beneath I-81, the river of noise and metal.

  Two hours out of Ashland and his cell phone just went dead. No idea where that damn cigarette-lighter plug-in charger’s at. Probably accidentally threw it away at the gas station while he was trying to clean things out in here.

  Holding to the limit in the right lane, he leans over, pops open the glove box and takes out the state road map with phone numbers scrawled in the margins. He used to have all these memorized, before he got a cell. He glances every other second from the map to the road to the map. He hits a pothole and hot coffee spills into his crotch. He swerves as he tries to scoot back from the warmth that’s already soaking through his fly. At least it doesn’t burn. And when he looks back at the map, there’s what he was hoping for, the Hickory’s phone number. He needs to check on how Larry’s doing.

  Signs for Bordon begin popping up and he stops at a gas station’s pay phone.

  On the third ring, a lady answers and tells him Larry’s taking the next couple days off.

  “Now, who’s this?”

  “Tiff.”

  “Hey, girl. It’s Jones. How you doing? Y’all got anybody playing tonight?”

  “Yeah, the Jaguars.”

  “Right on. Can I get an opening slot? I’ll take tips. A beer. A floor to crash on. Or nothing.”

  “Jones,” she says. “Of course, there’s always a slot for you. That’s what slots are for.”

  “Thanks for that, Tiff.”

  “You show up at six and we can squeak you in.”

  Bless Tiff, man. This isn’t the first time she’s hooked him up with a walk-in appointment. Problem now will be avoiding her after-hours special.

  Now he’s got a couple hours to kill. The day’s been good so far. Since he left the camp it’s been nothing but the hum of road noise with the sun angled and strong, turning the mountains purple and orange. Behind him it looks like an evening thunderstorm. He tried the radio once and found only a classic-rock station doing an Eagles marathon. That one line, Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy. How could the sound of wheels ever make anybody crazy? What’ll drive you crazy is the sound of wheels not rolling.

  —

  When he finally pulls into the Hickory’s lot, half his ass is asleep and cramped. He gets out and kicks the air. A lot more cars here than usual, even for the Jaguars. There’s Kit’s green Geo, and Chris’s blue work truck’s hidden in the far corner to avoid being spotted by enemies—wife, boss, kids. Thunder rumbles beyond the mountains to the east over in Bordon. He leaves his van right there in plain sight since he’s not hiding. The setting sun’s lighting up the thunderheads and everything’s got that sugared look to it.

  Inside, cigarette smoke hangs above the bar and Kit’s in the back throwing darts. Chris is lounging by himself at a table, waiting for the music. He doesn’t really care for the rest of the crowd. Tiff’s got heavy metal blasting so loud over the sound system that Jones doesn’t even notice who he’s walking past until somebody yells his name.

  He turns around and there’s Shane and Tiny Tina. Shane’s sitting on the barstool with his legs crossed and Tina’s straddling his top knee, moving back and forth like she’s on a penny-pony ride. He knows them from Misty’s. Never seen them here before.

  “Jones!” she says.

  “Young!” Shane says.

  “Y’all? What in the world?”

  “You won’t believe it. It was awesome. We’re over at Misty’s and Turner comes in and starts losing his shit. Nobody knows what he’s talking about. Code red this, code red that. We’re all like, ‘What the fuck’s a code red?’ He’s swinging a crossbow around. I’m ducking. Shane’s running.”

  “A fucking crossbow, man!” Shane says.

  “He even kicked Bob out. You should’ve seen it. Bob about wrecked his car peeling outta there. He must’ve thought it was another bust.”

  “It’s true,” Shane says. “Mr. T’s got that place on lockdown. There’s going to be a lot of folks here to
night, between the Jaguars playing and Misty’s being closed.”

  Sounds to Jones like shit’s really going down. But hell, a packed house? This could make him more than just gas money. “So how’s life?” he says.

  “Same,” Tina says, rocking her head to the metal.

  “I swear,” Shane says. “Give her what she wants and she still keeps bitching.”

  “All I want you to give me is beer,” she says. “A beer. Just one more.”

  “And then another one,” Shane says. “Soon as you make some money, I will buy you one.”

  “You know I can’t work.” She holds up her hand, pulls down her sleeve and shows Jones a gash running down her wrist. Sutures like badly drawn railroad tracks hold the cut closed. “I’m not even supposed to be moving right now,” she says. “Living, even. I’m supposed to be dead. Or laid flat in some hospital bed about to kick it. And he wants me to work?”

  “You done it to yourself,” Shane says. “Getting all depressed and shit. Get happy for once. Do that for me.”

  “Why don’t I buy you both a beer,” Jones says.

  Tina’s fingernails tap up and down the stitches. “My baby,” she says to the gash. “I’ll never let nobody hurt you or touch you.”

  “Jones wants to buy us a beer,” Shane says.

  “Two,” Tina says.

  “Anybody back there serving?” Jones says. “I talked with Tiff earlier. She told me to come by. They’re letting me open.”

  “I seen some chick around doing something,” Shane says.

  “Jones,” Chris calls. “You on tonight? Hell yeah, bud. Play that one about my ex.”

  “We’ve had this conversation, Christopher,” he says. “It ain’t about her.”

  He takes down the rest of his pint and his bottom lip comes up over his mustache, sucking beer foam from the hair. “Yes it is.”

  Tiff steps out from the kitchen with her mouth wide in amazement, like she’s never seen this room before. She and Jones lock eyes. Her face is covered in powdery makeup—or maybe it’s just that her skin is so pale when framed by her dyed-black hair. He hasn’t seen her in a while. Be good to catch up. Go to the bar.

  “What would you like?” she says. She doesn’t quite look at him.

  “Whatever’s coldest.”

  “That’d be me,” she says.

  “Second coldest, then.”

  She opens the corner cooler. “Where you sleeping tonight?”

  “Wherever. Probably in my van.”

  “Will y’all quit bragging about all this sleep stuff?” Tina says. “I swear, I’ve been awake for three years.” She holds out two thumbs and a pinkie. “Look at me. I am fabulous.”

  Tiff pops the top of a Busch and sets it in front of Jones. “You’re sleeping with me tonight,” she says.

  “Thanks.” He swigs. “But I’d like to keep my options open.” He lays down two bucks. “And what’s with all this heavy metal shit you got playing?”

  “There’s the Jones I love.”

  “What you also love: Larry doesn’t allow smoking in here. You know that.”

  “This is the best crowd he’s ever had,” she says. “I’m doing what I want tonight.”

  “Well then, let me buy these kids something?”

  “Whatever they want,” she says. “Y’all want a pitcher?”

  “A pitcher!” Tina cries.

  “We’ll take a pitcher,” Jones says. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Take a pitcher,” Tina says. “It’ll last longer.”

  Shane pours the first pint for Tina and that quiets her down. When it’s gone he tries pouring her another one but she’s fallen asleep, her face buried in her crossed arms on the counter. She’s murmuring, her dream world made audible.

  “That was easy,” Shane says.

  “I think it’s messing with the pills I took,” she says, jerking her head up.

  —

  Good and easy, man. After that nap, today had been so good and easy. The company of those friendly bums. Coffee made with water from the ground. Sometimes it’s all good and easy. Nothing you can say about it but that.

  Tonight was starting to feel just as good, but deep down, deeper than where the beer can go, Jones knows it isn’t. He’s sitting on the same stool with Tiff across from him, the place packed and roaring, sweating bodies pulsing against him. It’s crazy to see the Misty’s folks in here. Larry ought to check out this scene. Or maybe not. He’d be losing his shit, trying to keep everybody in line.

  The Jags are onstage tuning. Jones passed up his chance to open, thinking he saw Natalie out there in the crowd somewhere. He decided to keep his head down and concentrate on what Tiff was bringing him. Now he’s kind of drunk from all that concentrating and doesn’t feel up to battling this crowd. Might as well just roll with it. The Jaguars don’t need an opener anyway.

  The wall phone rings. Tiff’s the only one working and she holds up a finger at a man calling for a draft. “You’ll learn to wait.” The bright light from the kitchen surrounds her silhouette as she leans in the doorframe with the phone to her head. Her fingers pull at the pocket of her jeans while she listens. The barroom is dark compared to the kitchen, and something about how she’s leaning between these two realms strikes Jones as true.

  He takes out the piece of paper he’s been writing that new song on from his jacket pocket and unfolds it on the bar. He picks up Tiff’s pen and jots down a new line: Some folks say there’s two roads to follow. He works out some other lines after it. He looks the lyrics over and rewrites them entirely on the backside of the paper, then reads them again. Sings them silently to himself, making chord shapes with his left hand between his legs.

  Looks like he’s finished the thing. It’s done.

  Tiff comes back and touches his arm. “Listen to me,” she says. “There’s a fire over at Misty’s.”

  He laughs. “What? Like, fire as in burning?”

  “As in burning to the ground.”

  Jones backs away from her as if she’d just insulted him. He snatches up the paper and puts it in his pocket. Whatever’s happening now, don’t let anybody take that song from you.

  “And they think that guy Arnett’s behind it. You know, that dude that used to work there?”

  Jennifer had mentioned some strange business between her and him and Leon. He’d brushed it off as the usual backstabbing bullshit. At worst, somebody’d get his ass kicked. But he can tell this is different. “Is Larry all right?”

  “He’s fine,” she says. “He’s with the cops. Sounds like he was a witness to some sort of shit. He asked me if that guy Bob was here.”

  “I haven’t seen him. If I do…”

  “Yeah, I told him no. He also wanted to know if you were here. I said no.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, I don’t want nothing to do with this. I didn’t do nothing. And I ain’t about to get questioned on it.”

  “I got this real bad feeling,” she says. “Larry kept asking had I seen Arnett. You hear what they found today?”

  “No. What?”

  “That girl,” she says. “The one that’s been missing?”

  “Okay.”

  “They found her car. In the parking lot of that old Wal-Mart.”

  “Where the bus station’s at?”

  “They been looking for her for months. And now there’s her car. Just, there it is. Sat there without anybody noticing.”

  “Well, let the cops solve the damn thing,” Jones says. “I’m just drinking.”

  People are three deep at the bar. “Who’s serving in here?” somebody shouts.

  “I got to get to work,” she says. “Don’t leave. Please. That Arnett scares the honest hell out of me. And Larry told me to make sure you was safe, if you came around.”

  “I ain’t going anywhere.”

  The Jaguars. Tight denim, western wear, greased hair, busted cowboy boots. Their banner hanging crooked behind them. The singer with a beat-up sunburst hollowbody hanging from a rhinestone
strap with clusters of stones missing. He bites open a bottle with a bent tooth and spits the cap into the crowd while the other musicians vamp. “Thank y’all much for taking the time,” he says into the mic. “We’ll start with one of our own. We hope you fuck off.”

  Jones likes that they’re not starting things off with a cover. And right then the pedal steel slides in and the drums click them into time, the bass thumping and everybody yelling. The nice quiet Hickory transforming into dangerous Durty Misty’s. He feels blessed to the bones to be here seeing it all, hearing it all, drinking it all. Everything that’s going down tonight makes the music that much more real.

  Each time Tiff checks on him there’s a freshly frosted pint glass full of yellow beer in front of him, and what’s he supposed to do, say no? He hadn’t planned on drinking tonight but now the cold brew’s turning warm in his stomach and this chicken-dance honky-tonking onstage isn’t helping any, except it is. All the pickers are younger than Jones. Good thing he didn’t do that opening set.

  He keeps getting pushed against the bar by all these drunks and smokers and dancers. Larry wouldn’t stand for it. But it takes him out of his head, so he doesn’t have to think about Leon or Misty’s or that poor girl or whatever the hell else. Shane appears out of the wall of bodies, opens his jacket and offers Jones a drink of whiskey from a collapsing plastic fifth stuffed into his sleeve.

  Tiff, with her pinwheeling green eyes under those chopped black bangs, is pouring him another pitcher and telling him to turn around. When he does, Natalie’s right in his face.

  “Let’s go.” She grabs his glass from the bar and dumps it down her throat, then hooks a finger in his belt and leads him to a table where they have a good view of the stage. He leans into her ear and says, “Look at your hair.” He doesn’t realize until now how drunk he is.

  “It’s called Car-Wash Crimson,” she says, fluffing it. “Don’t be worrying about me, watch them boys up there.”

  Cool, so nothing’s wrong, just friendly exes hanging out.

  He studies the bassist thumping out hand patterns. He’s heard about this guy. One of the original Bristol Boys. Man plucks the strings like his hands are floating. Jones shares the pitcher with Natalie until it’s gone. “I’m sorry about this morning,” she says. “I been feeling bad about that all day.”