Lee Johnson - Nitro Mountain

We lived against a forest of cedar and pine that peaked to a point of beech trees the color of bone. The other side of the hill sloped down into maples, oaks and hickory. I wandered along the fence line and watched the sun toss flakes of gold into the sky. The pain in my arm and side had faded. A pack of hounds in the distance. I worried that my life had ended, and then that it hadn’t.

—

The reason I decided to play the bass was because I’d heard everybody was always looking for bass players. Apparently that had changed. There was even a cover band in town that admitted they didn’t have a bass, and said no, they didn’t want one.

I called the shelter and asked if they needed anyone to cover shifts. They asked where I’d been, and why I’d missed my last few mornings. When I told them, they said, “Okay. We’ve been worried. Don’t come back.”

“But I need you,” I said.

“We’re open every day,” the lady said. “You’re welcome here to wash your clothes, take a shower, eat a meal.” Her name was Alisha. I’d heard her use her phone voice before, but I never thought it would be directed at me.

Mom was starting to get on my case about the electricity I was pulling in my room, and I kept promising her I’d figure something out. One cold Saturday I took a one-handed bike ride over to Durty Misty’s. I had bassman-for-hire flyers in my backpack. The only thing between our house and the bar was the Foodville and the Joy Imperial gas station. I wobbled into the parking lot there to tape a flyer up in their window.

Somebody must’ve been watching me, because when I set my bike against the front wall the door opened for a couple seconds, bells swinging from the inside handle. I followed a woman to the counter. Little jewels and studs stuck into the ass of her jeans. She turned around and I recognized her face from high school. “Rachel?” I said.

“It’s you,” she said. “You! Um. What’s your name again?”

“It’s Leon.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I knew that.”

“But you didn’t.”

The smell of burning dust on the space heater in the corner filled the room. She sat behind the register. “So this is how you reignite old friendships?” she said. “You kick it off by getting pissed about something?”

“I’m just. I don’t know. It’s been.” I motioned to my cast.

“I see that,” she said. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I saved a bunch of people’s lives. Not worth talking about right now. It’s all in the past. Well, okay, not really the past. But, you know, nothing important.”

Coolers lined the walls of the small room, enclosing shelves of bagged chips and a maze of candy racks. She shook her head and threw a strand of hair out of her face. “What’s wrong with you?” she said.

“Look, I got some flyers here. I need work. Hey, I saw the sign out there. Y’all’re hiring?”

“You don’t want to work here,” she said.

“It’s not about wanting to.”

“They pay me to sit here and push buttons. What are the flyers for?”

“I can push buttons.”

“They’re paying minimum wage.” She sat back down and pulled at her breast pocket. “Anyway,” she said, catching my eyes on her chest, “you’d be distracted.”

“Maybe you’re right.” I went to leave.

“Wait,” she said. “Aren’t you going to ask me out?”

“Will you say yes?”

“Maybe.”

“Rachel,” I said.

I pushed the door open with my foot, making the bells bang around, and she said, “We’re not allowed to put up flyers anymore. It’s like the lost dog capital of the world around here.”

“They’re flyers for me. Bass player looking for band.”

“So you’re the lost dog,” she said. “Try Misty’s.”

It was too early for them to be open when I got there, but I knocked on the door a few times anyway. The black-painted metal had a peephole in the middle. I didn’t knock again. From my backpack I took a flyer and looked for a spot on the wall where all the rain-stained show posters hung. I slapped my advertisement up and pinned it in there, then walked away and turned around to see how it looked. But I kept noticing the peephole — bright, and then dark, and then bright again, like the door was winking.

—

The next Friday, everybody but me was out partying. I was in the kitchen doing dishes, scrubbing taco beef off plates. My cast was still on and I had trouble holding things while I scrubbed them with my good hand. I didn’t bother with much rinsing, just stacked them with suds sliding down all over. The doorbell rang and from the couch Mom called, “Come in, come in, whoever you are.” She was feeling good because I was finally doing something.

I knew who it was the minute he cleared his throat. Jones Young. Guitar player and singer. He wasn’t a lot older than me but he came across as an elder. A big deal in the bluegrass and old-school country scene. He was respected by purists who wouldn’t give me the time of day; I was just some overgrown kid playing loud music for girls. Jones knew all the standards and was a great rhythm player. Fiddlers liked him because he kept good time and rarely took solos. Banjo players liked him because he always brought the booze. One of the things that made him different from everybody else was that he liked me.

He also wrote his own songs, stuff that actually made you think. When he wanted to get rowdy, he’d put an outlaw country-rock band together that he called Jones & the Young Divorcés. That band was how we knew each other. He used me for bass. It was also how I met Jennifer.

I peeked into the living room and saw him standing there. He held a smoking cigarette toward our storm door like it hadn’t closed behind him. “Missus Carol,” he was saying, laying it on thick. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How ever are you? You look wonderful. By any chance is Leon around?”

“Oh, he’s in there,” she said, “busy acting busy.”

“How you, Jones?” I said, wiping my hand across the lap of my pants.

“Whoa, dude. What the hell happened to your arm?”

“You should see the other guy,” I said.

Mom sang a word: “Buhuhullsheeeeit.”

Jones shook his head and laughed, blowing smoke out his nose. He wore a denim jacket over a pearl-snap shirt tucked into worn-out jeans. Polished cowboy boots. “Damn,” he said. “I was gonna ask you—”

“It still works,” I said. “See?” I played some air bass for him.

Mom told him I’d been practicing along to the tape. “You wouldn’t believe it,” she said.

“What? That he’s practicing?”

“Thing is,” I said, “I’ve only got that little amp.”

“Good,” he said. “You can use it as a monitor. It’s got a direct out, right? We can mic it and run it through the house mains.” The show was tonight, his regular bassist had backed out after double-booking and we were on in an hour. “If you don’t mind me taking your dishwasher,” Jones said to my mom.

“They’ll still be dirty when he gets back.”

I ran to my room, holding my arm to make sure I didn’t knock it against anything.

—

I’d barely gotten the bass strap over my shoulder when the drummer clicked us into “Always Late.” I stumbled my way behind them up to the 4, this stupid little two-hit they liked to do, and as soon as I dropped back into the 1, I found the pocket and for the first time in a long while I knew what I was meant to be doing.

It didn’t feel like my arm was broken at all. I moved around the fingerboard like I was healed, and maybe I was, just for now. The place was packed and people were dancing. I looked to Jerry, the drummer, his arms crossed as he held a tight shuffle on the high hat and snare, his head pointing upward with his mouth open like he was trying to catch a stream of fresh water falling from the sky. I looked to Matt, the lead guitarist, thrusting into the back of his Telecaster when he bent strings. Jones was turned to us with his ear to the floor, checking to hear if the engine we’d cranked up was firing on all cylinders.