Lee Johnson - Nitro Mountain

He ends on a big chord and lets it ring out, listening to all the other instruments inside his own as the volume fades and the overtones mix.

Then the man at the bar yells, “That ain’t yours, is it?”

“It is long as you like it.”

More people start showing up. Behind him, the dartboard that Larry turned into a clock reads ten after eight. They’re sitting around tables now, or in the corners or huddled around Tiff at the bar. Two hours to go.

The crowd keeps thickening — no thanks to his music, just the hour — and though most folks are talking over him, he knows a few out there are listening. Always will be. He rolls through half his set, playing most of his originals and a few favorite standards. He checks his watch and it’s time for a break. Let’s go walk around and see who’s here.

He’s wedging his pick between the strings when Larry steps up onto the stage. “Sounded good,” he says.

“Man, I need to apologize.”

“I wanted you around tonight to make sure you’re okay.” He’s not looking at Jones while he talks to him, and because of this Jones knows he’s for real. “And you’re drinking water. That’s good.”

Larry glances around the room and Jones can tell he’s thinking of something else.

“That boy,” Larry says. “Leon. That was his body up there.”

There’s nothing to say. It’s impossible. But why does Jones feel like he knew all along? Maybe there’s a song in it somewhere. But he ought to feel ashamed for even thinking like that.

“Get it done and get off,” Larry says. “No more messing around. Don’t take a break. You’re sleeping at my place tonight.”

“I still got to pay off my tab.”

“Shoot, I was just joking about that.”

“Tiff thought you were serious. She about dragged me over here.”

—

He follows Larry back to his house through the open country. With the far-off houses and the smell of Hickory Lake in the air, it should be a friendly night to be out in this warm valley, but he can’t stop thinking about Leon, about Arnett, about the truth of how people live around here, how such ugly shit happens in this beautiful place. This county, his home, no longer feels like home. And that makes him feel at home.

He parks in the driveway next to Larry’s Chevy and gets out of the van. The heat tonight, you can taste it. Wildflowers and black pepper. Countless miles of honeysuckle and kudzu vines twisting for life and strangling each other out at the same time.

“I should’ve grabbed some smokes on the way,” he says.

“I’ve got some stashed. Come on in. Let’s talk about your music, what you plan on doing with yourself. How the hell you’re going to get out there and out of here.”

In the kitchen, Larry pours two cups of coffee and hands one to Jones. “I’m talking about that heavier, darker stuff you’re playing. You know? Not them antiques you’re polishing but that low muck you like. Murder on my soul . Get it recorded. That song’s worth more than your whole demo. Is it yours?”

“No.”

“Bullshit. I can tell when you’re lying.”

“I wrote it. But.”

“But fuck . It’s yours. Deal with it.”

“Look,” Jones says. “If talking about that song helps keep your mind off what’s been going on around here, that’s cool with me.”

“I don’t think it’s too far removed from what’s going on around here. When you write it?”

“Recently.”

“Maybe last night? Because I swear, some of it really hits home.”

“No, before any of this stuff happened. Least before I heard about it.”

“God Lord Jesus and whoever the fuck else is up there working with him — well, this too shall pass, won’t it?” He drums his fingers against the coffee mug. “It’s a song that puts you in the flow. You’re at that age. Hold on to it as long as you can.” He opens a toolbox beneath the sink and takes out a yellow pack of American Spirits.

“I don’t know if that song’s good,” Jones says. “I started just singing and it came out from under what I was already writing.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. The flow. There’s an undercurrent.” Larry hands him a cigarette.

He never heard Larry talk the mystical talk before, but he knew he had it in him. Deep down, Jones is excited about the song too, how it might get better as he plays it out more. Plus he’s flattered to death. He keeps his face straight.

“You know, those Jaguars,” Larry says, “they’re about to hit the road, going places nobody goes.”

“Except for me.”

“Even you haven’t been there. These are big places. The Bluebird—”

“I been there. I played there.”

“One song for an open mic. I remember, I got you that gig. The Jags have a featured spot. Friday night. And their label just got them a bus.”

“Fuck all that shit. They’ll be paying it off the rest of their lives. Or no, they won’t, because they’ll burn out broke. I’m tired of running around all over the place. Right here is where my songs come from.”

“Don’t give me that Woody Guthrie squaktalk.”

“This’s all I really know, Larry. Sure, I could go to Nashville or L.A. or New York and hustle my ass off, but I wouldn’t get nothing done.”

“Nashville,” Larry says. “None of the others. I set up that show for the Jaguars and I’d be happy to put you on it. We got too much talent around here not to be sending it out. You’re some of it. Now that the coal’s gone, music’s our only damn export.” He turns around and looks out the kitchen window. “You like the Jags the other night?”

“I did. They’re vintage.”

“They’re smart, too. They won’t ever have to be sleeping in vans again. Guarantee you that.”

“Where all they going?”

“South, mostly. That Nashville show’s yours if you want it.”

“No, man. No chance.”

“I’m happy to put you on it. I’d love to get you out by yourself. Like you were tonight.”

“I’d rather be here.”

“Bars burning down, booze-dick cheating.” Larry holds his hands out like he’s weighing two meaningless things. “You know what, you’re right. It’s a little piece of heaven around here.” Larry looks at him until Jones looks down. “A boy died over this trifling bullshit. And you still like it here?”

“I’m sorry. But I do. You do too.”

“Shit,” Larry says. “Help yourself to more coffee and let’s just go into the living room. Bring them smokes.”

Larry lights the candles arranged on top of the cast-iron woodstove, and he and Jones sit down on the leather couch.

“I like those,” Jones says.

“That’s Sharon’s thing.”

Framed LPs of local bands that Larry’s booked and promoted are hung on the knotty pine walls like family photos. Jones recognizes some. Admires one or two.

Sharon comes floating halfway down the stairs in a pink tent-shaped nightgown. When she sees who else is here, she tells Larry, “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Be up soon.”

“Er or later,” she says.

She drifts back upstairs and Jones hears the bedroom door shut.

“So,” he says, “old dogs can learn new tricks.”

“I’m a lucky man.” Larry bows his head. “First love, music,” he says. “Second, that lady.”

A candle pops and a line of wax draws down its side. They put their feet up on the coffee table. Jones could never stand living in a nest like this. But it’s nice right now.

“You look worried,” Larry says. He’s sunk in the recliner section, a mug of coffee balanced on his belly.

“It’s nothing.”

“Jones. You couldn’t have stopped any of this.”

“That supposed to be good news?”