John McManus - Born on a Train - 13 Stories

We should deliver it, said Isaac.

They’re gonna be sorry they ever hired me, said Jearold.

I bet they’re already sorry, said Isaac.

Jearold looked at him and laughed and punched him gently on the shoulder. Hell, he said, grinning, I bet you’re right. He was drunk. Diesel showed up, like always. You wanna go on a drive? Jearold asked him.

I just drove, Diesel said. I don’t wanna drive no more.

You ain’t gonna drive, said Jearold, you’ll just get drove.

They loaded the car with whiskey and a six-pack of Pabst and a Gerber jar of Diesel’s marijuana. It had held squash once; the label was half — peeled off, and Diesel put it in the glove box and said, Where we goen?

That’s for my boy to find out, said Jearold. He gave the cell phone to Isaac with a piece of paper with a phone number on it. Get us some directions, he said. Get em from Harlan.

What’s Harlan? said Isaac.

It’s a place.

What else do I say?

Tell him we got his dog, said Jearold. Tell him today’s his lucky day.

Why can’t you do it? said Isaac.

I got some shit to do. Don’t bother me.

Jearold went out to the backyard as Isaac dialed the number. He’d never called another area code before. Diesel watched him dial. Isaac didn’t see why Jearold couldn’t make the call himself. The man on the other end of the line grunted when he answered, and Isaac introduced himself. I’m with Delta Airlines, he said, afraid his voice sounded too high and childish for the man to believe him. Don’t hang up, he said, we’ve got your dog. I need directions from Harlan.

Harlan, the man barked.

The phone was on speaker; Isaac didn’t know how to turn it off. Diesel stood behind him and poured whiskey into a glass over ice and listened. Yeah, said Isaac, Harlan. He hoped it was a real place, not a name his father had created to make a fool out of him.

You know where five lights is? the man said.

I don’t know what you mean, said Isaac.

Red lights, he said.

Uh-huh, Isaac said.

You turn at them five lights, the man said.

Which way? Isaac asked.

At that corner there, the man said. Isaac watched his father through a break in the curtains; he was leaning over in the yard, lifting something. They’s three turns, the man was saying. You turn at the first one. It’s all gravel like.

Okay, Isaac said when the man paused.

Look for the pink toilet.

I don’t know what you mean, Isaac said.

They’s some shit on the left, the man said. Mine’s got the biggest flag.

Big flag, Isaac wrote.

You be good to my dog, the man said.

We will, said Isaac.

Play him my radio show.

What’s that?

I got that highway ministry, the man said. They play it every night.

Okay, Isaac said, I will, although he had no idea what the man meant. He wrote the directions down neatly on a paper napkin and gave them to his father, who had the dog carrier in his hand. He put it in the car. The Labrador was locked in Isaac’s bedroom now, because they needed the bathroom.

You got the shit? Jearold said to Diesel.

Yeah.

All of it?

Where are we going? Diesel asked.

Let’s just do some now.

Diesel pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and poured about a tablespoon of powder on the dirty countertop. He cut chunks up with a potato-crusted butter knife as Jearold swigged a beer. This thing ain’t shit, Diesel said and threw the knife at the sink. Isaac flinched as it clattered to the floor. Diesel split the powder up into four lines with his long, uneven fingernail and reached for his wallet, which was empty. Jearold turned his pockets inside out. They both turned to look at Isaac.

Hey kid, said Jearold.

What?

Gimme that dollar.

I don’t have any money, said Isaac.

Don’t lie to me.

I’m not lying, Isaac said, but then he remembered the tip from the man in North Carolina. He went to the bathroom and fetched the wadded dollar from the pocket of his dirty jeans. Jearold mashed it flat on the counter several times before he rolled it up, and they snorted two lines apiece through it, and Diesel watched Isaac the whole time through the edge of his eye.

Kid shouldn’t watch us do this, he said.

Jearold shrugged and rubbed his nose.

They got that dare thing now, where you rat out your parents.

You ain’t nobody’s parents, Jearold said.

You are, Diesel said.

He ain’t gonna remember none of it, said Jearold. Eventually, I mean.

Why not? said Diesel. He ain’t drunk.

Of course he ain’t drunk, said Jearold. He don’t drink.

Then why won’t he remember it?

Cause he’s seven years old.

Isaac didn’t understand where they were going if they weren’t taking the dog. He sat between his father and Diesel in the front bench seat and meant to ask about it as soon as they finished smoking pot, but he was tired and fell right to sleep. Diesel was blowing smoke back at the dog carrier. Go fetch, he said, pointing at it.

Fetch what? said Jearold.

You’re always so concerned with what, Diesel said. Roll over, he told the dog carrier. Isaac felt like his head was rolling as they sped up Montvale Road around the curves. He liked closing his eyes in cars; it was comforting to have a conversation to fall asleep to. Maybe the man just wanted his empty carrier; maybe it had the wrong dog in it. Isaac knew there were still a lot of things he didn’t understand.

How was jail? Diesel was saying when Isaac awoke.

I met some good guys there, Jearold said. I wouldn’t mind hangen out with them again.

You just might get to, Diesel said.

Isaac drifted into sleep again and didn’t dream at all; he woke back up from a solid slab of black. The clock on the dashboard said he’d slept an hour, and he didn’t know the road he saw outside the car but there were signs. They shot through Tazewell, beating every red light. Jearold and Diesel were smoking again. They laughed so hard that Jearold could barely drive. I hate how coke always makes you feel like you have to shit, said Jearold. They went through the tunnel at the state line and raced through Middlesboro, and Jearold stopped in the middle of nowhere to piss. Isaac got out too, so he could stretch. It was so dark he couldn’t even see his shoelaces. He didn’t know who was pushing whom against the car until he heard Jearold say to Diesel, You think I’m strong enough to kick your ass?

Fuck you, you fuck.

Fight me, Jearold said with his hand pressed up against Diesel’s chest. I need to practice.

You can’t fight, said Diesel. You’ve got to drive.

Isaac couldn’t see their faces yet, but he could see their eyes, and he couldn’t tell what they reflected. Do me like you want me dead, said Jearold.

Maybe I do want you dead, said Diesel.

I’ll fight the dog, said Jearold.

What dog? said Diesel.

Jearold pointed up at a hill. This is Kentucky, he said. They fight dogs here all the time.

That’s with other dogs, said Diesel.

How would you know? said Jearold. You ain’t done it. He opened the car’s back door. Here boy, he said, here boy. Isaac didn’t understand what was going on until he saw Rocks’s bones inside the carrier. They lay curled up and motionless, but Diesel got so scared he laughed out loud. He kicked a hole in the dirt with his boot.

That ain’t no dog, he said.

That’s as much dog as anybody’s gonna get.

Ain’t any need to fight that dog.

I done it already, Jearold said. I won. He grunted and pointed out at the land. Suddenly Isaac could see their switchback and the craggy rocks that stretched downhill below their car, and it made his stomach sick to see how sharp the slope was. It was one-thirty in the morning. They had fifty more miles of mountains to drive.