James Kunstler - World Made by Hand

“I suppose you can guess whose turn it is now,” Wayne said, stalking over my way. I was numb all over. I couldn’t feel my hands or feet. My pulse pounded so loudly, I thought the top of my skull might blow off. “Yeah, that’s the bad news,” Wayne said. “It is your turn. The good news is, I ain’t going to make you ride Old Mary. I thought to myself, maybe I should fetch a claw hammer and take it to his hands, you know, bust ’em up so bad he’d never hold a knife and fork again, let alone a freakin’ musical instrument. But got-dammit, I like you too much. For all the got-damned trouble you cause me, Fiddler Joe, I like the way you play that thing and I don’t want to hurt you because we need all the got-damn good music we have around here-and besides, you ain’t as mouthy as your compadre here. So I’m not going to hurt you. Physically. But I do want to give you a lesson that you ain’t likely to soon forget. And if I do see your ass up this way again, I promise I will ream it out good and got-damned well next time plus break every last one of your golden fingers. Let’s see that bucket, boys.”

Wayne’s factotums brought up a big white joint-compound bucket and set it down between where Wayne stood and where I sat. It reeked.

“What I got here is a generous dip of outhouse slops,” Wayne said. The crowd cheered and applauded. “You still have nice bathrooms down in the Grove, I hear. Town water an’ all. Well, things are a little more nitty-gritty up here, you know. All that heat we’ve been getting has worked this stuff pretty ripe. I can hardly stand it myself. I thought this might be a nice way to make an impression on you about overstepping your jurisdictional lines and at the same time offer a little memento from us to take back home with you. Or all over you, I should say. Anyway, here she comes. I’m sorry we couldn’t serve it up fresh and warm for you. Bodie, Pinky, get ’er done.”

Wayne stepped back gingerly where nothing would splash on him and let the other two do the pouring. It took two of them to hoist the heavy bucket above my head.

“Take her nice and easy, boys. Let him enjoy the flow of it.”

The stuff ran down into my shirt and pants and over my eyes and lips, liquids, solids, and all the stuff in between. After a while, it just felt cold splashing over me. Finally, the two men turned the bucket over my head and left it there. I could hear the crowd yell its approval before I shook it off and heard it bounce across the stage. I struggled not to inhale or ingest any of the filth that was dripping off my face.

“Whooooo-weeeee,” if you aren’t the very lily of the dell,” Wayne said. “Okay, everybody, that’s the end of tonight’s feature presentation. The show’s over. Thanks for coming and let’s keep up that artistic community spirit. Anybody wants a musical instrument, we got all kinds over to the general. Guitars up the ying-yang. Tubas. Clarinet. Whatever. Just come by and put in for it. Those of you who would like to sign up to perform in next Tuesday night’s show, go see Brenda at my place. She’s always there at suppertime between sundown and full dark. For Pete’s sake, you Zito boys, learn another song or two. And practice, practice, practice! Get some gotdamn discipline, why don’t you. Goodnight everybody.”

There was a final smattering of applause. The filth still dripped off my ears and chin. I tried to spit out what was on my lips without getting any inside my mouth. I barely noticed that Wayne had cut my bonds until he said, “Go help your compadre, Fiddler. Get him up and get gone before I change my mind and kill you both.”

Once I realized my hands were free, I desperately tried to wipe the stuff off my face. By now, they opened the top of the stocks on the wheel and Loren had slumped off into a heap below. I knelt down beside him on the wheel.

“It’s me, Loren. Can you hear me?”

He squeezed his eyes and nodded, and then yielded to a spasm.

“I think they’re letting us go.”

“It hurts real bad,” Loren said. His voice was a croak.

“Try to get up. I’ll take you back.”

I reached under his armpits and jerked him to his feet as though he were a two-hundred-pound barbell.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said.

“Can you walk?”

He limped two steps with my assistance.

“I… think something’s… torn up inside,” he said.

“Put more of your weight on me.”

Wayne had left the amphitheater. A few of his people still milled around, both onstage and off in the seats. They simply ignored us. Several men were mopping up the spot where my chair had been. Loren took tiny shuffling steps, grimacing, and contorting his head to the side in pain.

We struggled down the three stage steps, then off to the side of the amphitheater, uphill through the dust and weeds toward the village gate. Stragglers stood still and stared as we passed by. A few registered looks of disgust. One of the few young children there spit at us. A woman stepped forward and held out a raggedy T-shirt full of holes. I took it and wiped as much of the filth off my face as possible, though my hair was still full of it. When we got up to the gate I had to stop and throw up. But then we passed under the rampant motorcycle and onto the road, and I actually believed they had let us go for real.

Loren was in a lot of pain as we made our way down the road. He groaned continually and now and again cried out and cursed. I propped him up as best I could, but he stumbled several times. He said he could feel blood running down his legs. It seemed to take forever to get to the old bridge over Black Creek. We agreed to stop there. A path well trodden by fishermen led from the road down to the bank. The moon, now clear of the treetops, cast enough light to see by. I helped Loren down the path. The stream had a gravel bed, and there was a little beach beside a pool on the upstream side of the bridge. I left Loren there so he could drink some water while I went to wash the filth off myself downstream. The creek was no more than knee deep and quite chilly. I scrubbed as much as I could without soap and soaked my head, but the stench stayed with me. Then I went back to help Loren wash off. Finally I helped him struggle out of the water.

“I can’t walk… the rest of the way,” he said. He was breathing in gasps. “You’re going to have to… send somebody up to get me in a… a wagon or something. Let’s not even… argue about it.”

“All right. Hold still a moment.”

I hitched up a leg of his pants. The moonlight did not pick up color very well, but I could see a rivulet of something darker than water run down his leg.

“How am I… doing?”

“I think you’re still bleeding some.”

“I think so too. Before you go… get me a good stick. For the coyotes.”

“All right.”

I found him something like a war club. He said he didn’t want to sit, it hurt too much, so I helped him creep over to a clump of alders he could hold onto and sort of lean on. I assured him I’d be back soon and left him there by the bridge in the moonlight. I doubted anyone from Karptown would come looking for us again. They’d had all the fun and excitement they needed.

It had been a long time since I ran any distance, but I jogged most of the way back to town. Much of it was downhill. I went directly to the high school and banged on the door at the front entrance, which was locked, naturally. I knew they ran regular watches around the building. In a little while, one of the brothers appeared. I didn’t know this one’s name, but he seemed to recognize me. He let me in. I asked him to get Joseph. He went directly. Two minutes later, Joseph strode down the hallway, lifting a suspender into place, with Elam right behind buttoning his shirt as he walked. I told them what had happened to Loren and me up at Karptown. Joseph said Brother Jobe had left him with instructions to help if I called upon him. I told him to get somebody over to Doctor Copeland’s, tell him to have his wife prepare for surgery, have her fetch Bobbie Deland over to assist, and for Jerry to report here to the school with his wagon as soon as possible, to get Loren down.