Lee Johnson - Nitro Mountain

“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