Philipp Meyer - American Rust

“Do I know you?” he said to Poe.

“Probably not.”

“How would I know you?”

Poe shrugged.

“He used to play ball,” said Isaac. “He was tight end for the Buell Eagles.”

Poe gave Isaac a look.

The man noticed Poe's football jacket draped near the stove. He said: “I remember that. I used to change oil at Jones Chevy and we'd watch the games after work. Thought you'd be outta here. College ball or somethin.”

“Nah,” Poe said.

“You were good,” Murray said. “That wasn't that long ago.”

Poe didn't say anything.

“It's alright. Otto over there was Golden Gloves in his younger days. Coulda gone pro but—”

“I was in the army,” said Otto. He was the tall Swede. Most of the people in the Valley were ethnic in some way or other: Poles, Swedes, Serbs, Germans, Irish. Except for Isaac's people, who were Scottish, and Poe's, who had been here so long no one knew what they were.

“Otto is on leave from the VA.” Murray tapped his head.

“Fuckin Murray,” Otto said.

Isaac glanced over but Otto had gone quiet and was staring at the ground. As for the other man, he was dark and Hispanic- looking and a little smaller than Poe, he had a tattoo on his neck that said jesús in bubble letters. All three of the men were much larger than Isaac; the Swede, it now appeared, was close to seven feet.

“You're lucky it was us come in,” said the Hispanic one. “They got some real lunatics around here.”

“Jesús,” said Murray. “Stop being such a fuckin Mexican.”

“Murray might want to shut his mouth,” said Jesús.

Otto, the Swede, added: “Pretty soon it's a fuckin convention in here.”

“These two ain't like that, they're locals.”

The room seemed dark and small and the Swede picked up a long piece of lumber and rammed the end noisily into the stove. Isaac wondered how he'd get Poe to leave. The embers popped and shot across the floor and by the shadows on the wall all five men looked like sitting apes. This won't get any better, Isaac thought. Jesús jerked something from his pocket and Isaac flinched and Jesús burst out laughing. It was just a bottle of whiskey.

“I gotta take a piss,” Isaac said. He didn't have to piss; he wanted to leave and he looked at Poe but Poe didn't get it.

“Go on,” Poe said.

“Those two usually piss together,” said Jesús.

Isaac waited but Poe stayed where he was, staring at both Jesús and the Swede, he noticed Poe's jacket sitting there on the floor along with his backpack. Poe was in a definite mood, thinking he was indestructible. Isaac picked up the backpack, he could not afford to lose anything inside it, he held it by a strap and felt everyone watching him. He didn't know how to tell Poe to bring his coat. Finally he went out alone.

It was nearly dark and the storm had broken temporarily, though more clouds were coming in — across the meadow he could see the trees swaying by the river. He wondered again how he'd get Poe to come out. Thinks it's still school. No consequences. As for the field, it was full of scrap metal, tall grass grown up around piles of train parts, huge engine blocks, wheels, driveshafts and gears. A handful of bats were cutting and darting over the piles of rusted steel.

There was a patch of high clouds in the bloodorange light and he watched until the sun faded completely. He didn't know whether to go back and get Poe or if Poe would come out on his own. Poe was always doing these things. He'd nearly gone to jail for beating up a kid from Donora, he was still on probation for it. He can't resist a fight, not something you understand. Probably it's not his fault. Probably you can't be as big as him without having some kind of robot mentality.

Suddenly there were raised voices from inside the building, then shouting and banging around. Isaac tightened the straps on his pack and picked an escape route across the field and waited for Poe to come running. But Poe did not appear. Keep waiting, he told himself, just sit tight. The shouting and noises stopped. Isaac waited a while longer. Maybe it's okay. No, something is wrong. You have to go back in.

His hands were shaking but he took the money from his pocket and stuffed it deep inside his backpack and then quickly hid the pack under a piece of sheet metal. This is fine. The kid's got this under control. Don't go in empty- handed. He saw a short length of iron pipe but it would just get taken away from him. Underneath the other scrap — he reached his hand carefully through the stack of rusted metal to where a dozen or so industrial ball bearings were scattered in the dirt. He picked one up. It was the size of a baseball, or larger, cold and very heavy. Maybe too heavy. He wondered if there was something else. No, there's no time. Get in there. Don't use that same door.

After coming quietly through the back door he could see what was happening. Murray was laid out on the ground. The Mexican was standing behind Poe holding something to Poe's neck; his other hand was down Poe's crotch. Poe had both hands in the air like he was telling the man to calm down. They were standing in the light from the fire with their backs to him. Isaac was in the dark, invisible to others.

“Otto,” the Mexican shouted. “I ain't got all fuckin day.”

“Your little buddy ain't outside,” said a voice. “He must of already took off.”

The Swede came back from the other side of the building with his face shining in the firelight, grinning at Poe like he was happy to see him. Isaac found his grip on the bearing, felt how heavy it was, five pounds, six pounds, he rocked to his back leg and threw as hard as he could; he threw so hard he felt the muscles in his shoulder tear. The bearing disappeared in the darkness and there was a loud crack as it hit the Swede in the center of the head, just at the top of his nose. The Swede seemed frozen in place and then his knees went loose and he seemed to fall straight down, a building collapsing on itself.

Poe broke loose and went running out the door; Isaac stood frozen for a second, watching the man he'd hit, the hands and feet were twitching slightly. Go, he thought. Murray was still lying on the ground but Jesús was now kneeling over the Swede, talking to him, touching his face, though Isaac already knew — knew from how heavy the bearing was, knew from how hard he'd thrown it.

— —

They could barely make out the train tracks in the darkness. It was raining again. Isaac's hands and face were slick with mud and his shoes were heavy with it and he was soaked through but from sweat or rain he didn't know.

You need your pack, he thought. No, you can't go back there. How bad is that guy hurt? That thing was really heavy, your arm hurts just from throwing it. You shouldn't have hit him in the face.

Up ahead, they could see the lights from Buell; they were getting close. Poe turned suddenly and began to make his way through the brush toward the river.

“I need to wash myself,” he told Isaac.

“Wait till you get home.”

“He touched me right on the skin.”

“Wait till you're home,” Isaac repeated. His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else. “That water won't clean it anyway.”

The rain was turning into sleet and Poe was wearing only his T-shirt. Soon he'll be hypothermic, Isaac thought. Neither of you are thinking straight, but he's in worse shape — give him your coat.

He took off his coat and handed it over to Poe. After hesitating, Poe tried to put it on, though it was too small. He handed it back.

Isaac heard himself say: “We should run so you can get warm.”

They jogged for a while but it was too slippery. Poe went down twice in the mud, he was in bad shape, and they decided to walk again. Isaac could not stop thinking about the man lying there, it had looked like blood coming down his face but it could have been the light, or anything. All I did was knock him out, he told himself, but he was pretty sure that wasn't true.