Nitro Mountain

by Lee Clay Johnson

  “Feels like yesterday to me,” Jones says. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Eads and Terri—they bring it out in me.”

  “Then quit letting them stay with you.”

  “I know it. That’s what I did after you left. I kicked them both out and locked the doors. I’m going to make some changes in my life.”

  “So you came out to a Jags show?”

  “Changing don’t mean you gotta stop living, does it?”

  “You end up sleeping with those two?”

  “I thought about it. But only to hurt you. That’s the only thing I would’ve enjoyed in it. Then I realized you were gone, so it wouldn’t matter to you at all.”

  “It does matter. I don’t want to see that stuff happening to you.”

  Shane and Tiny Tina drop by the table, their secret bottle becomes no secret at all and Natalie’s starting to grab at Jones. Well, why not? One more round. He can taste her lipstick on the mouth of the bottle and then he’s draped around her middle and sweating onto her breasts. His face is numb. They’re dancing. He doesn’t notice much of the music anymore. She’s kicking him in the shins with her boots, telling him to hold her and swing her, and Jones can smell cigarettes in her hair and her body odor. That web of freckles spreading across the bridge of her nose. Her nipples poking through when she presses into him. He puts his arms around her and she pulls his hands back up around her waist and keeps kicking him until he starts moving to his own song, away from her and out the door.

  He sits down on the ground in the parking lot, pulls out his cigarettes and falls over. He lies there smoking, little bit of rain coming down.

  He hears shouting, props himself up on an elbow and sees two men swinging at each other, connecting every now and then. Oh, that’s nice, like the old days. It really is a beautiful thing.

  Natalie’s standing near the action. “Kick his ass!” she’s saying. “Kick his fucking ass!” Somebody pulls her back and drags her away. There’s his girl. No changing that.

  Cruiser lights strobe the trees and the building and the cars in the lot. A lady cop stands over Jones. “Are you okay, sir?”

  “Just sobering,” he says. “I’ll be fine. You wanna get married?”

  “Sure, just a sec.” She walks away to help make the arrest. By the time the fighting men are cuffed, they’re talking like brothers. Which they might be. The cops go inside and Jones hears the music stop, the drummer giving a final crash.

  Tiff comes out after a while. “Oh my God, there you are.” She crouches down and peers into Jones’s face. “Damn. All right, you’re sloshered.”

  “Where’d the music go?”

  “The Jags had to quit. The cops are really pissed and sent everybody home. They’re asking around about Misty’s and nobody’s saying nothing.”

  People are standing around, boots and shoes kicking around in the wet gravel. Jones lies there watching everything. The cops finally leave, and Tiff says, “Come on inside, before you get soaked.” She pulls him up, helps him get against the building where it’s dry, wipes his face, brushes him off. “Could’ve burned yourself too,” she says. The cigarette he’s smoking falls out of his mouth and she lights one of her menthols for him.

  Jones looks around at people smoking, drinking, laughing, crying, drinking, getting ready to go home. “Where’s Natalie?”

  “In worse shape than you, guaranteed. Long gone.”

  “Shit, man. I should’ve made sure she didn’t get like that.”

  “She ain’t your problem. Let her go. You’re enough for you to worry about.”

  A man tries pissing into the ditch and falls face-first into his own puddle. A couple leans against a truck, entangled. It’s a lonely feeling not to be the cause of this trouble. He misses coming out to parking lots after playing shows, smoking a cigarette and knowing he was to thank for all the mess. “You know that kid who used to play bass for me?” he says. “That’s who I’m worried about.”

  “You’re starting to act like Larry,” Tiff says.

  “That kid’s missing too. Except maybe he’s been found, I don’t know. Larry told me he saw Arnett burying somebody on East Ridge. He told the cops all about it.”

  “So that’s the deal,” she says. “Then I guess they’re sorting it out. There’s nothing you can do now except be glad you ain’t missing.”

  —

  Yellow. That’s what Jones sees right now. Streaks of sunlight on the wall. He’s crashed out on Tiff’s couch, cocaine still beating through his brain. She shared some with him and Shane and Tiny Tina behind the bar after the Jaguars packed up and everybody went home. One minute he’d been on his back in the parking lot, then the next Tiff was helping him inside while he was crying and carrying on about Leon, and before he knew it he was bent over behind the bar, sniffing lines across the scratched chrome of the cooler. And now here. Pain in his bones. Too tired to even give himself hell about it. Just close your eyes again and sleep it off. But he can’t.

  Natalie. Goddamn. Jones, who do you really love? And is it possible to make it stop?

  There’s a loud explosion in his sleep and he jumps awake to all the yellow gone.

  “You’re talking a whole lot,” Tiff says.

  “Was I? I was. What day is it?”

  “Sunday. Sounded like you were dreaming.”

  “Just thinking.”

  “About me, I hope.”

  “I was fishing. Fishing with the boys and catching largemouth. They’d hit the spinner and go dancing across the water. And then something way too big was bending my rod into the water, and I couldn’t let go. We were casting off Larry’s old pontoon.”

  She kneels down next to him, eye level. “You been sleeping all day.” Her hand wipes sweat off his forehead. “C’mon, I’ll make you some coffee.”

  “It ain’t but morning.”

  She makes a buzzer noise with her mouth. “Wrong again. I got to go into work pretty soon.”

  “Guess I’ll be heading out, then, if I can just rest a while longer. That damn coke screwed me all up. Where the hell you get that stuff from, anyway?”

  “You need to come over to the Hickory with me.”

  “How come?”

  “You got a tab to settle up on, big boy.”

  “Aw, shit. Let me just pay you and you can take it over. I thought you said I didn’t owe you nothing.”

  “You didn’t, until you about drained the keg. Larry’s called me five times now. Says not to let you leave without settling up.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Jones drops a leg off the couch. “This is crazy.” Even the carpet beneath his foot feels like sandpaper. “People dying and shit burning, and Larry’s worried about a few beers? What do I owe him?”

  “Seventy-five.”

  “Can’t pay it. Won’t.”

  “He knows. Says he’ll let you play it off.”

  Blue sky through the picture window above the TV. “Did he say he’d be around?”

  “No, didn’t happen to.”

  “All right, then. Let me give you a lift over.”

  Driving to the Hickory, he’s still rubbing the sleep and drugs out of his eyes. All that shit going down last night, and what was he doing? Getting fucked up, just like he promised himself he wouldn’t. And then you went and got too fucked up to even help the man who’s helped you so many times. But what should you have done? Nothing, except not get so fucked up. All right, let’s play this one off.

  —

  Nothing’s as sad as the sound of happy hour ending.

  Jones taps the vocal mic to see if it’s coming through the PA. Two black-carpeted Peavey cabinets on either side of the stage. Fifteen-inch Black Widow speakers with a horn in each. This is Larry’s investment and it sounds good. The highs are clear and the bottom’s low—like the water last night in his dream. He taps again. “Can you hear me in the back?” he says. “One more time, are you getting it in the rear?”

  One of the two men still at the bar laughs, and
Jones ducks his head to see if he can make out who it is. Light glints through the pint of amber ale in front of the man.

  “Good to know I’m not the only one,” Jones says.

  Larry comes onto the stage wearing unironed slacks, a white shirt and a loosened tie. “Watch your mouth, Jones,” he says. “Kind of place you think this is?”

  “After last night, I got no idea.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been cleaning up the remains. Heard you were in unique form.”

  “Not that unique. It’s good to see you, Larry.”

  “You too. Glad to have you. You heard about Misty’s? Arnett must’ve purely lost his mind.”

  “That’s what Tiff said. Have you heard anything about Jennifer? She okay?”

  “All I know is they caught Arnett last night. Ran him right off Buzzard Hollow Road.”

  “And he’s still alive?”

  “Apparently a tree caught him. Lucky he didn’t roll.”

  “We’d be better off if he had.”

  “I know that’s right.”

  The man at the bar gives a two-fingered whistle. “Let’s go! Let’s hear it!”

  Jones leans into the mic. “Don’t make me send the bossman down after you.”

  Larry pats Jones on the back. “I’ll let you get to it. We can talk later.”

  One mic is aimed at Jones’s guitar, a little ahead of the soundhole, and the other at his mouth—the other soundhole, Natalie used to say. He’s still shaky from last night and hopes that doesn’t translate into the music. He wants to sound good for Tiff, whatever she’s worth, and for Larry, except Larry’s busy. Maybe it’s just his own self he’s nervous about.

  He plays through the form of one of his older originals, “Kudzu Vine,” and the dude at the bar starts clapping.

  Jones remembers the chords okay. The words, though. He hasn’t played this song in probably a year. He quits playing and says, “Just checking the levels,” then leans over and pulls the lyrics to the new song from his back pocket. The paper’s barely holding together and he tapes it to the mic stand. He reads through the lyrics. Yes. But let’s do it right.

  “Could I get some water?” he says into the mic. “Water with lots of lemon. A thousand glasses, please.”

  When it comes, the water’s just what he needed, bringing him a little closer back to the world of the living. To warm up his throat he sings a couple by Hank, an Ernest Tubb, an early Haggard, and ends with his favorite Lefty: I can’t stand to see a good man go to waste…

  All right. Now he’s ready to go into his own stuff.

  He flatpicks a lead into the new song, and this time it’s more than just seeing the words on the paper; it’s diving down and living in them:

  If I had my way I’d leave here tomorrow

  Hitch up a ride and ride on down to Mexico

  But there’s just one thing I gotta do

  And I don’t want murder on my soul

  The melody slides off the strings without him thinking about it. The sound system works nice for what he’s doing; you can hear the boom in his strum.

  Some folks say there’s two roads to follow

  One leads to glory and the other down below

  I tell you right now I see only one way

  And if I stay here it’s my grave

  He leans back for another solo but doesn’t take it, just chugs, and behind his rhythm, he can hear the old band.

  Sometimes at night I wake up in your arms

  Sometimes I feel your fingers on my skin

  Every single night I wake up dreaming

  Thinking where you are and who you’re with

  I don’t want murder on my soul

  I don’t want murder on my soul

  Just one thing I gotta do

  And I don’t want murder on my soul

  He ends on a big chord and lets it ring out, listening to all the other instruments inside his own as the volume fades and the overtones mix.

  Then the man at the bar yells, “That ain’t yours, is it?”

  “It is long as you like it.”

  More people start showing up. Behind him, the dartboard that Larry turned into a clock reads ten after eight. They’re sitting around tables now, or in the corners or huddled around Tiff at the bar. Two hours to go.

  The crowd keeps thickening—no thanks to his music, just the hour—and though most folks are talking over him, he knows a few out there are listening. Always will be. He rolls through half his set, playing most of his originals and a few favorite standards. He checks his watch and it’s time for a break. Let’s go walk around and see who’s here.

  He’s wedging his pick between the strings when Larry steps up onto the stage. “Sounded good,” he says.

  “Man, I need to apologize.”

  “I wanted you around tonight to make sure you’re okay.” He’s not looking at Jones while he talks to him, and because of this Jones knows he’s for real. “And you’re drinking water. That’s good.”

  Larry glances around the room and Jones can tell he’s thinking of something else.

  “That boy,” Larry says. “Leon. That was his body up there.”

  There’s nothing to say. It’s impossible. But why does Jones feel like he knew all along? Maybe there’s a song in it somewhere. But he ought to feel ashamed for even thinking like that.

  “Get it done and get off,” Larry says. “No more messing around. Don’t take a break. You’re sleeping at my place tonight.”

  “I still got to pay off my tab.”

  “Shoot, I was just joking about that.”

  “Tiff thought you were serious. She about dragged me over here.”

  —

  He follows Larry back to his house through the open country. With the far-off houses and the smell of Hickory Lake in the air, it should be a friendly night to be out in this warm valley, but he can’t stop thinking about Leon, about Arnett, about the truth of how people live around here, how such ugly shit happens in this beautiful place. This county, his home, no longer feels like home. And that makes him feel at home.

  He parks in the driveway next to Larry’s Chevy and gets out of the van. The heat tonight, you can taste it. Wildflowers and black pepper. Countless miles of honeysuckle and kudzu vines twisting for life and strangling each other out at the same time.

  “I should’ve grabbed some smokes on the way,” he says.

  “I’ve got some stashed. Come on in. Let’s talk about your music, what you plan on doing with yourself. How the hell you’re going to get out there and out of here.”

  In the kitchen, Larry pours two cups of coffee and hands one to Jones. “I’m talking about that heavier, darker stuff you’re playing. You know? Not them antiques you’re polishing but that low muck you like. Murder on my soul. Get it recorded. That song’s worth more than your whole demo. Is it yours?”

  “No.”

  “Bullshit. I can tell when you’re lying.”

  “I wrote it. But.”

  “But fuck. It’s yours. Deal with it.”

  “Look,” Jones says. “If talking about that song helps keep your mind off what’s been going on around here, that’s cool with me.”

  “I don’t think it’s too far removed from what’s going on around here. When you write it?”

  “Recently.”

  “Maybe last night? Because I swear, some of it really hits home.”

  “No, before any of this stuff happened. Least before I heard about it.”

  “God Lord Jesus and whoever the fuck else is up there working with him—well, this too shall pass, won’t it?” He drums his fingers against the coffee mug. “It’s a song that puts you in the flow. You’re at that age. Hold on to it as long as you can.” He opens a toolbox beneath the sink and takes out a yellow pack of American Spirits.

  “I don’t know if that song’s good,” Jones says. “I started just singing and it came out from under what I was already writing.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. The flow. Ther
e’s an undercurrent.” Larry hands him a cigarette.

  He never heard Larry talk the mystical talk before, but he knew he had it in him. Deep down, Jones is excited about the song too, how it might get better as he plays it out more. Plus he’s flattered to death. He keeps his face straight.

  “You know, those Jaguars,” Larry says, “they’re about to hit the road, going places nobody goes.”

  “Except for me.”

  “Even you haven’t been there. These are big places. The Bluebird—”

  “I been there. I played there.”

  “One song for an open mic. I remember, I got you that gig. The Jags have a featured spot. Friday night. And their label just got them a bus.”

  “Fuck all that shit. They’ll be paying it off the rest of their lives. Or no, they won’t, because they’ll burn out broke. I’m tired of running around all over the place. Right here is where my songs come from.”

  “Don’t give me that Woody Guthrie squaktalk.”

  “This’s all I really know, Larry. Sure, I could go to Nashville or L.A. or New York and hustle my ass off, but I wouldn’t get nothing done.”

  “Nashville,” Larry says. “None of the others. I set up that show for the Jaguars and I’d be happy to put you on it. We got too much talent around here not to be sending it out. You’re some of it. Now that the coal’s gone, music’s our only damn export.” He turns around and looks out the kitchen window. “You like the Jags the other night?”

  “I did. They’re vintage.”

  “They’re smart, too. They won’t ever have to be sleeping in vans again. Guarantee you that.”

  “Where all they going?”

  “South, mostly. That Nashville show’s yours if you want it.”

  “No, man. No chance.”

  “I’m happy to put you on it. I’d love to get you out by yourself. Like you were tonight.”

  “I’d rather be here.”

  “Bars burning down, booze-dick cheating.” Larry holds his hands out like he’s weighing two meaningless things. “You know what, you’re right. It’s a little piece of heaven around here.” Larry looks at him until Jones looks down. “A boy died over this trifling bullshit. And you still like it here?”