Lee Johnson - Nitro Mountain

—

There was one time he and Leon were quiet together, a fall night after they had played at Misty’s. Jones was driving him back to his parents’ place when he noticed the moon. A full round ember. “Let’s stop and watch it,” he said.

“No matter to me,” Leon said.

Jones parked the van in the middle of the road on the Turkey Chunk bridge. They got out and sat on the railing.

The moon seemed to be sending out smoke. They sat there for a long time, Jones looking up, Leon looking down.

“You’re missing it all,” Jones said.

“It’s down there too,” Leon said. And when Jones looked down into the creek the light was pulsing off the water like mercury. A creek on fire in the moonlight. It felt dangerous to be sitting above it. And it was impossible to tell what Leon was thinking.

—

Larry goes into the kitchen and calls to Jones to go through the records and put something on. Larry’s got hundreds of LPs leaning in the same direction along a board mounted to the wall, bookended by old torpedo-shaped window weights made of solid lead. Jones takes down some records that Larry taught him with — the Stanleys, Bill Monroe, Blue Sky Boys, the Lilly Brothers, Flatt and Scruggs. He pulls black vinyl out of a Hylo Brown sleeve and studies its grooves.

“That’s a good one.” Larry points, sits down and dumps a few green buds into his palm from a plastic film container. “A little piece of the rain forest,” he says, then mixes it with some tobacco and rolls a spliff.

Jones puts on the record and they toke up, the sticky smoke curling into the air. Larry brings them more coffee, and Jones’s mind eases into a comfortable place he knows and likes.

After “Lost to a Stranger” Larry gets up and lifts the needle. “Doesn’t get better than that.”

“I know it,” Jones says. “I’d like to start doing that one myself.”

“But that’s the problem. It’s been done so many times, perfected to a point of imperfection. If you polish it any more you’ll wear a hole right through.” Larry’s stoned, on a roll. “All those songs? Antique furniture.”

The weed’s working on Jones too. “I hear you,” he says. “But that’s what I learned on. Hell, you taught me most of them.”

Larry holds up his left hand. “I didn’t teach you nothing. I just let you listen. You’re better now than I ever was.”

“Bull. I wouldn’t know the first thing if it wasn’t for those songs.”

“Then keep playing them. Just not onstage. They can’t carry you as far as you’re looking to go.”

“What makes you think you know how far I’m looking to go?”

“I’m not talking about you, Jones. I’m talking about your songs .”

“Well,” he says. “Maybe you’re smart.”

“Listen to this one.” Larry puts on a classic.

Jones nods along to Hank’s guitar chuck. He likes this song, but then there’s this line: It’s hard to know another’s lips will kiss you, and hold you close—. “Now see, listen, right there.” Jones points. “That line. There’s something wrong in it.”

“Sounds good to me,” Larry says, and right then Jones feels his gut drop: he’s gone past the only man who believes in him, who saw him through it all and still wants to. Listen to that verse. It’s good, but it’s a little off. Maybe Larry can’t help him with these bigger things anymore.

He waits for Larry to answer, then realizes he hasn’t even asked a question. “Well,” he says, taking a sip from the mug and holding it against his chest. “I think fire, when it’s hot enough, lets off a kind of release. Like there’s this lowness that opens.” He has no idea what he’s talking about.

“You need to get out of here for a little while, Jones. What’re you planning to do for money?”

“I don’t know. Haul trash. Sell blood.”

“Tell you what. I got a basement full of junk that I’ll pay you to make disappear. And then you need to get on the tour circuit.”

“Me and that van can work all kinds of trash magic.”

“Good, then,” Larry says. “We got a plan. Shit, I’m falling asleep here. I’ll see you in the morning.”

When Larry goes upstairs, Jones blows the candles out and lies on the couch, his mind racing over song ideas and all the different ways you can arrange a verse. He sees Nitro Mountain through the window. Barely visible, but there. A bump in the night with a little red light at the top. He’ll never get to sleep looking at that.

I was working the counter at Ball Breakers, making change for strangers. The weekly tournament happened twice a week and all the local sharks came out for it. And the wing specials. I was registering teams, assigning them tables and keeping track of who got beat and who went on. It was mostly boys. The winners were the worst, strutting over to ask if I saw this or that. “Could’ve won it with two simple draw shots but went for a kicker in the corner instead, and then a massé around the stripe — you catch that, sweet thing?”

I didn’t ever answer. They wanted me to smile. Wanted to get close. Asked what brought me here. Begged me for answers. I kept quiet, staying a riddle to them.

The bartender, Amanda — she believed in me. She said I could sleep on her couch until I found my own place. She was trying to help me out by putting up posters in her windowless bathroom, inspirational pictures paired with rock ’n’ roll quotes. A dolphin jumping out of the ocean: Break On Through to the Other Side! A kitten hanging from a tree branch: Don’t Let Me Down .

Maybe these things worked on normal people. I had no idea.

The couch I was sleeping on was huge and soft and so comfortable; on the wall across from it there was a flag-sized flatscreen. One night I tried turning it off and her Jack Russell straight up bit me. The TV stayed on the History Channel all night long because Amanda said Kernel liked watching war documentaries.

Amanda was the only person I liked talking to, and I still didn’t say much. I was used to being the kind of girl who couldn’t be by herself. Always had to have a guy there. Actually, I liked having at least two guys. One to run away from and one to run off with. But that seemed like a long time ago. I was a different person back then. I saw my new loneliness as a success. Or at least something to keep me out of trouble. But honestly, at night it was torture.

Sitting on the couch one morning, I pulled on my blue socks. My favorite pair that I promised to keep forever. I’d never told anybody about them, except for Leon. This was back in the early days before I got my truck and he was still driving me around. I don’t know why I treated him like I did, other than him being sweet, which I guess is reason enough if you think about it. Let’s try not to. Anyway, I told him about the socks, about Good Steve and what that man did to me. I could see it cut him. And when I saw that, I kept going deeper. Not to hurt him, just to see what he would do. He was the only one I ever told. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I trusted him.

I sat there on the couch staring at the socks on my feet, thinking about everything I put everybody through. I decided to wear them to work that night for a tournament.

A guy my age came to the register I was working and asked if I saw him out there. “Lost bad,” he said. Old country music cried over the house system, a nice change from satellite radio, which was mostly rap and loud-ass rock. I opened my hands to him, showing I had nothing to offer.

But I liked his broad shoulders and clean-shaved face. Low hairline above a packed brow. He was even cuter walking away. I checked him out from behind, something I hadn’t done in a while. Looked good in those Carhartts. He turned around and I did too, before I could tell if he’d caught me. The blood in my cheeks meant I was still alive.