Percival Everett - Damned If I Do

“I know.” Austin studied his balled-up fist. “I would prefer if you didn’t hit me,” Austin said, starting to fall back a step, plotting a path through the tables to daylight.

Myron showed a rotten tooth in the side of his smile. He then pulled his fist back and let go with a lumbering swing. Austin moved with the blow, catching just a bit of its sting, and remained standing. Chairs squawked as people made room.

“Yeahbutt!” the bartender shouted. “I told you about fighting in here.” He picked up the phone. “Now I’m calling the sheriff.”

Myron wasn’t listening however. He had reloaded and was launching another fist. Austin stepped inside this time and latched onto the big man’s torso. He had his arms and legs wrapped around Myron and was completely off the floor. Myron pounded his back.

“Get him off me,” Myron slurred. “Off me.”

“The sheriff is on his way, Yeahbutt.”

Austin felt the man’s body sagging and so he clamped down harder, squeezing for all he was worth. Dwight was dancing around them. “Dwight, what the hell are you doing?!” Austin shouted.

“He looks like he’s about to go,” Dwight said.

Then Myron was sinking to his knees. Austin relaxed his grip, found the floor with his feet, and stepped away. The big man fell like a tree onto his face.

The bartender leaned over the bar to look. “You boys need to get that mountain out of here before the sheriff comes. That son of a bitch will happily lock all three of you up.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Austin said.

“Don’t matter a mouse’s tit to the sheriff.”

“Shit, okay,” Dwight said. “I say we leave him.”

Austin considered Delores Rainey. She was a nasty old lady, but still, this was her brother. “Grab a leg.” Dwight started to complain. “Shut up and grab his other leg.”

They dragged Myron past people who had gone back to their eating and drinking, through the front door, and into the bright parking lot. They stopped, leaning over, hands on knees, panting.

“This guy weighs a ton,” Dwight said.

Myron stirred, muttered, “Yeah, but.”

“Come on, let’s get him into the back of the truck,” Austin said. They each got under an arm and pushed and hoisted and wished the man over the wall into the bed.

Dwight had his hat off and was fanning himself. “Have mercy,” he said. “I feel like my chest is gonna pop.”

“Don’t have a heart attack on me now.” Austin started around the truck. “Get in. We’ll stop down the road a piece and give the horse some more hay.”

In the truck, Dwight said, “You know, he’s right. You are black.”

“Funny man.”

As they rolled away from the tavern, the sheriff’s rig pulled in.

A couple of miles out of Trinidad, Austin pulled off the freeway into a rest area with, notably, “no facilities.” They got out and looked down at Myron from either side of the bed. He was still out, though he had managed to shift his body into a more comfortable-looking position. He snorted and twitched.

“At least he ain’t dead,” Dwight said.

“I reckon,” Austin said. He walked back to the trailer and pulled the pin out of the back door. “I’ll walk this boy around a bit while you muck out.”

“Fair enough,” Dwight said.

Austin backed the horse out of the trailer and led him off the gravel and down a short dirt path, let him nibble at what little grass there was. He looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly five. With any luck they might still make Cimarron by nightfall. He walked the horse back to Dwight, who was putting away the silage fork. They loaded the horse and stepped toward the cab. They stopped at their doors and backed up to look into the bed. Myron was not there.

“Did you see him move?” Austin asked.

“Nope.”

“Shit.”

“I say leave him,” Dwight said.

“We can’t leave him out here. Something bad will happen. A bear will find him or something.”

“That’s the bear’s problem,” Dwight said. “Listen, you’re the one he wants to hit.”

Austin looked toward the highway, then over at the steep downward slope. “He can’t have gone far.”

“He won’t be hard to spot anyway.”

“You go that way,” Austin pointed south to a thicket. “Maybe he had to pee.” While Dwight walked off toward the trees, Austin moved to the slope and looked down at the trickle of a creek. He let his eyes follow the stream south a ways, then spotted Myron trying to pull himself up the opposite side of the arroyo. “Good god.” Myron would frantically climb a couple of feet then slide down, his front and face now covered with dirt. Austin called for Dwight and started down.

Dwight made it to the drop-off and said, “Good god.”

“This guy is more than just drunk!” Austin yelled back.

Myron finally rolled over on his back and stared at the sky, heaving great breaths that filled his huge torso like a balloon.

Austin sloshed through the stream to stand over the man. “What the hell are you on?”

“Everything,” Myron said.

“Well, you need to give it up.”

“Yeah, but it helps me cope.”

Dwight caught up to Austin. “Is he dead?”

“Maybe,” Myron said. The big man looked at Austin. “Your name Austin?”

“Yep.”

“Your woman left you?”

Austin looked at Dwight. “What the hell is going on? This is starting to piss me off.”

“So, a few people know your business. Big deal.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you ain’t got any business.” Austin looked back at the hill. “Myron, we can’t drag you back up. Do you think you can walk?”

“I’ll try.” Myron was sounding a little more coherent.

Myron did try. He pushed and grabbed onto the knotty, woody shrubs and pulled, Austin and Dwight behind him, shoving at his hind end. Then he would slip and and there was nothing either of the smaller men could do to stop him. Then they’d start over. By the time they reached the top, Austin’s watch told him it was six o’clock and the light was already changing. All three were exhausted. Myron got up and began to pace in a circle.

“Look at him,” Dwight said. “He’s got sleeping sickness. I saw a wildebeest on television do the same thing.”

“Let’s get going.” Austin got up and steered Myron to the truck. They put him in the cab next to the passenger-side window. The three were wedged in tightly, Myron barely fitting his knees under the glove box.

On a 6 percent downgrade, Myron sat up abruptly, said, “I gotta vomit,” and proceeded to open the door. Dwight made some unintelligible noise of terror, while Austin applied the trailer brake, then the truck’s brakes. He tried to keep the rig straight while he glanced over at Dwight, stretched to his limit across the big man’s body. Dwight’s leg came up and his boot nearly hit Austin in the head. He grabbed Dwight briefly by his belt, then put both hands back on the wheel. The door clicked shut again and Myron threw up down between the door and seat, then turned to put some on Dwight.

“Godalmighty,” Dwight said.

Austin got the truck stopped and off on the shoulder. He just sat where he was behind the wheel and closed his eyes for a second. He looked up as Dwight kicked open the door, then pushed Myron out onto ground. Austin got out and came around, standing well clear of both men.

“Look at me,” Dwight said.

“You’re a mess.” Then Austin regarded his truck.

Myron was on his hands and knees, throwing up again.

“You could have gotten us killed,” Austin said.

“Yeah, but I was sick.”

Dwight peeled off his shirt and stood with his arms held away from his body. “Smells like shit.”