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Chapter 1: On the Way There
“It’s not my fault. I hit a dead zone and my phone lost the route.” Look out the open window. Ninety mile an hour winds mufflin’ the voice comin’ through the phone. A car sits on the side of the road. Silver hatchback. Partially in the cornfield along the highway. Cop leanin’ on the roof of the car. Talkin’ casually to the eighty year old woman in the driver seat. Probably the only thing to do for the lone sheriff of the boonies. Shit. The law probably don’t even recognize DUIs out here.
The Amish pass by on a horse drawn buggy. Remember back in the day when ya had to print out five pages of Mapquest directions for the family road trip? “Ya know it’d be a lot easier for me to follow these directions if you weren’t on the phone with me right now.” And she wonders why I stopped visiting. Can’t even take my time on a six hour drive to Cheboygan. “Mention my name in Cheboygan…” I can hear one Grandma sing through the dementia. While the other ridicules me as usual for not bein’ so concerned about punctuality. And the construct of time.
“I’m on the way there! I’m not tryin’ to blow off the family reunion this year.” Hang a left at the DIY billboard. Spray painted sheet stapled to some wooden poles. “Deport all Dems!” I don’t think the townfolk here would take too kindly to me passin’ through. Temp gauge on the dashboard runnin’ a bit higher than I’d like to see. Stuck in holiday traffic for an independence day I don’t even recognize. No AC. One window stuck half way. Hood strapped down with bungee cords. Still bouncin’ a bit in the wind. One headlight taped in place. Mud splattered pickup truck whizzes past in the opposite direction. Catch the embers of his cigarette scatter like burnin’ shrapnel across the highway.
“I told ya. I quit smoking.” The words come outta my lips weird. Tryin’ to light a Spirit. I don’t know why I got American Spirits. I never fucked with ‘em. Outta Camels at the gas station. And no way I’m goin’ to the family reunion without cigs. Lucky I don’t start drinkin’. Or doin’ blow again just to see ‘em. Got a chocolate bar. Chock full of psilocybin.
Fuckin’ needle keeps climbin’ the gauge. Little puffs of gray smoke leave my lips. Leavin’ the hood of the car. Mechanical noises from the CD player. The disc startin’ over. Bass notes rattlin’ the busted speakers. Tom Waits wailin’ about the Earth dyin’. Screamin’. “Onaway. The sign said Onaway. So however far away that is from Uncle Larry’s cottage. I gotta go though so I can find my route back.”
Smell the burnin’ oil. No sense throwin’ on the heat to take some off the engine at this point. Lost the fuckin’ road. My suspension hates these dirt roads. Always leadin’ to a fuckin’ dead end. Not even a warnin’ sign. Well. “Deport all Dems” was the warnin’ sign I guess. The dirt narrowin’ into a dirtbike trail. Not even wide enough for two cars on this road. Surrounded by trees. Would be a fifty trillion point turn to get out.
Shift it in reverse. Take it slow. Can barely make out a car comin’ in the distance. Obscured by dust clouds and rocks it kicks up. I know I passed a driveway I can turn around in. Cut the wheel and back it up. Numbers on the mailbox read 208. Let the car pass before I pull back out. Still not enough service to look up directions. Listen to the engine go silent. Every warnin’ light on the dash comes up. Fuckin’ overheated. That head gasket leak finally caught up to me.
Shit. That fuckin’ car. Of course it’s gotta pull into this driveway. If ya know anything about the boonies. It’s never get caught trespassin’. Little red car whippin’ up the driveway. Gravel crunchin’ as the tires bite into the dirt. Brakes squealin’ slightly. Dust clouds blendin’ with the smoke from my engine. Mercury logo on the grill catchin’ a glimmer of light through the dust. The car keeps runnin’ as I take the keys from mine. My headlights nervously makin’ eye contact with his. Waitin’ for the dust and smoke to clear. Am I safer in a broken down hooptie? Or outta the car and in the open field?
The door of the Mercury Cougar opens. Fuckin’ block of wood drilled into the door as a handle. Lanky figure steppin’ towards me. Arm raises to his head. The cherry of cigarette glows. Startin’ to break the dust. But addin’ a bit more smoke to the haze between us. “Is your car smokin’? Or is that just me?” The voice chuckles to himself. Slappin’ his knee. “Nah. But really man. I think your car overheated.”
“I noticed.” Slam my door behind me as I get out.
The slender figure moves towards me. “Welp…” He drags the cigarette. “Ya seem to be blockin’ my driveway. And I gotta get home.”
“Engine’s too hot. It’s not gonna start back up.”
The grease of his hair shines in the sunlight. Reachin’ into his pocket. Diggin’ out the handle of a switch. Clickin’ it open. Revealin’ the comb instead of a blade. Runs it over the slicked back wave of his brown hair. You can tell it ain’t hair gel holdin’ it in place. It’s the lack of a shower. But the shave looks pretty fresh. Black t-shirt wrapped tight around his scrawny chest. Pack of cigs rolled into his shirt sleeve. Tucked into a pair of painter's pants. White. Barely. But originally white. Under the various colored stains. Paint. Oil. Blood. Probably semen if it were under a black light. His belt missin’ some of the belt loops on his pants. Was this dude drivin’ barefoot? I always loved drivin’ barefoot. Somethin’ about actually bein’ able to feel the pedal with your flesh. Man meldin’ with machine. The automobile cyborg of Henry Ford’s wet dreams. “Guess we’re towin’ it.” He smiles. Slidin’ his browline sunglasses down his nose. Showin’ off beady little eyeballs. Lettin’ the smoke slither outta the gap in his front teeth. Stained brown the way mine were before I “quit” smokin’. That’s who he looks like. With that little slicked back curl of hair. Fuckin’ Alf. The nose with multiple breaks. Crooks. And bends. Pointy ears. The leather of his dirt stained skin.
“Wher-”
“MUD!” Cups his hands around his lips.
Hear the clink of somethin’ against an aluminum bat. A crack and shatter rings through the air. Not a ball. Not breakin’ glass. But breakin’ somethin’. Hearin’ the rustlin’ of grass behind me. A man runs over. In an awkward limp. Pigeon toed. Stops beside me. Rips a long, shudderin’ squeal from his ass. Like someone mufflin’ a banshee. Spit a bit as I burst out laughin’. “Did you just fart man?”
“It’s how I scare the weirdos away.” He grins. Covered in white face. “Yer cool man.”
“Mud.” He snaps to get the man’s focus back. “Do this gentleman a solid. Get the tow truck. And drag this hooptie towards the barn.”
“You got it!” Reachin’ in the pocket of his Carhart overalls. Strapped with one strap diagonal over his bare chest. Takes out a small animal skull. Tosses it up in the air. Strikin’ it with the aluminum baseball bat as gravity takes it. A crack and shatter rings through the air. Turnin’ to me with his fixed grin. “Keys?” He puts his hand out. Like if Igor were your valet. Gave him the keys without even thinkin’ about it.
Runs off. “That’s Mud with the aluminum baseball bat. He’s gonna tow your car to the barn. And we’ll get ‘er fixed up for ya boss. Ya know what’s her defect?”
“Head gasket leak.”
He whistles. “That’s gonna be a bitch and a half.” The roar of the tow truck pulls up on us. Loose metal on the side rattlin’. Barely riveted in place. You can hear Mud fuckin’ with the chains and the rear of my car. “But we’ll get some life back in ‘er. Nothin’ is ever really dead ya know?” He moves back towards his car. My car starts draggin’ away behind me. “Ain’t no one or no thing disposable in this world. It’s just gonna take some time. TLC. Voodoo. Elbow grease. And a vinyl copy of CCR’s 1970 masterpiece. Cosmo’s Factory.” He laughs to himself again. Not slappin’ his knee this time. “But mostly time. We can’t do any work till she cools down. So looks you’ll be stayin’ with us for a minute.”
“Stayin’ with you?”
He turns around as he gets back to the driver’s door of the Cougar. “Hell yeah brother! Yer just in time for the family reunion! Pig and whiskey this weekend. What more could a man want?”
“Wait a minute man.” Walk up on the car. He’s already back in the seat. Door closed. Window down. Computer speakers on the dash. Wired into the radio. A cassette in the deck. Playin’ “Lucifer” by the Seger System. Post hole digger in back. Floor littered with crumbled up textbooks and dirty coffee mugs. “You just invite a stranger to your family reunion?”
“A stranger’s just a friend you haven’t met yet.” He smiles. Lettin’ more smoke outta the gap in his teeth. Slides the sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Welcome to the Family!” Floors into the partially mowed field behind us. Doin’ donuts before settlin’ on a parkin’ spot off to the side of the barn.
Mud unhitchin’ my car from the truck at the front entrance of the barn. The door wide open. I can’t tell all the shit on the wall from here. Not that I know what any of the tools are really called. Or if they’re even tools. Or just wood and metal fashioned together to break shit. Painted in the red triangle space above the door frame. The head of a bunny. Like whatever his name is from Donnie Darko. But you can tell it was painted there long before that. Mangy, patchy clumps of gray fur. One ear bent. One ear with a bite mark outta it. Left eyeball. Bloodshot. Pinhole pupil. Right eye socket. Just an X. The lip line wavey along the snout like the Nirvana smile. But with two buck teeth stickin’ out. The whiskers giant antennas stickin’ out the front of the barn.
Chapter 4: Criterion Channel Type Pussy
Gray clouds blow from the exhaust of the little orange vehicle. Parked right beside the door to the A-frame home. Well. What I assume must be a home. But for all I know. These guys could be livin’ outta their cars. Just need the land for a good parking spot. Fuck paid parking just to sleep in the backseat. Shit. I wouldn’t even put it past these characters to sleep out in the fuckin’ field.
The door creaks on the rusty hinge. Gremlins always look like the type of shit a little kid would draw if ya asked ‘em to draw a car. The orange paint chippin’ and sunbleached on the hood. Hood slightly ajar on the car. Packaging tape coverin’ the gap between the frame and glass of the back window. Scrap metal drilled in place over the back windshield. “You ever get pulled over for that shit?”
“If ya drive fast enough. Pigs won’t even see ya. Faster you drive. Less time on the road. Less chance gettin’ pulled over.” The woman extends her long legs from the car. Flared yoga pants. Elephants walkin’ around mandalas. Paisley intermixed. Gettin’ out with a smile. Strawberry frames holdin’ the lenses of her sunglasses over her eyes. Can make the tiny shape of a heart tattooed under her eye. Like a teardrop prison tat. Residue of varying colors from past makeup sticks to her face. None of her teeth touch. And you can tell a few of ‘em are still baby teeth. She kisses me on the cheek. “Jen Ehtalia.” She adjusts the tube top around her emaciated lookin’ ribcage. Daisy hangin’ from the metal in her navel. “Esteemed to meet ya love.” She holds her hand out for me. Like a femme fatale in a noir waitin’ for ya to kiss the back of her hand. It ain’t me babe.
I shake it delicately. Startin’ to tell her my name. But she turns away from me. Tooth hangin’ from a gold chain in her ear swingin’ in the wind with her hair. “Don’t you men believe in providin’ for a woman? Ain’t anybody gonna offer this dame a joint.”
Jerry slides into the doorway. Quickly emerging back out front. Joint in hand. He places the filter between her lips. Rippin’ a match from the book. Strikes it off his teeth. Holdin’ the flame to the flower as Jen takes a drag. “Pretty girl should never light her own joint…” She shotguns the hit back to him.
Jen turns back to the car. Bendin’ over behind the front seat to grab things from the back. Jerry wolfwhistles at her. Farfisa whimperin’ at her feet. Her hand reaches back. Rustlin’ the girl’s dirty hair. Couldn’t make those knots worse if she tried. “Put Your Head on My Shoulder” crackles outta the car stereo. Mardi Gras beads dangle from the mirror. Over a line of rubber duckies glued to the dash. A hippie. A sheep. And a firefighter. Can see the globs of excess adhesive stickin’ outta the base.
“I brought a buncha new records for you boys to play around with.” She pulls a tote bag from the backseat. Eight balls printed all over the sides. Ziplock imagery across the top. To look like a dime bag. Settin’ it on the ground beside her. Farfisa paws and sniffs through it. “I also got you boys this.” Leanin’ to the backseat again. Pullin’ out an odd lookin’, almost teardrop shaped board. Covered in buttons. “It’s an Omnichord. Bought it off one of the guys sellin’ junk from their trunks in the lot at the old abandoned Gibralatar’s Trade Center. You can make all kinds of interesting sounds.”
“Wait Jerry man. You guys make music?”
“I told ya. Me and Mud started a band together. Now it’s a good ol’ fashioned family band these days.” He smiles. Jen holds the joint to Farfisa’s nostril. Takin’ a drag through the nose before passin’ it to Jerry.
“And you boys can play with the new toys and your new little friend here once you bring the groceries in. Figured it’s probably been a while now since you three took a trip for groceries.”
“Mud’s been killin’ squirrels again Ma. So haven’t had much need to go to town for food. And Dr. Bob’s been synthesizin’ some artificial hunger killers.”
“Oh Jerry.” Jen smiles as his arm wraps around her waist. Handin’ the joint to Mud as the two walk inside. “I’ve told you before honey. Mini Thins and squirrel meat is not a diet…”
“Make yerself useful Cuz. Listen to Ma and help with the groceries.” Mud waves me over to the Gremlin.
“Well Jen’s got a lotta personality.” Mud hands me a paper bag. Handles already torn.
“What do ya mean?” Mud spits. Accidentally splattin’ the glob onto the side of the vehicle.
“Just captivating. One of those people that captures the focus of the whole room.”
“Criterion Channel kinda pussy. Jerry likes women like his cinema.” Mud slams the door. Leering over at me. Brow narrowed under his white face paint. “Visually unique and fairly unsettling.” He walks into the house. Laughin’ his ass off. I trail behind. Still vaguely confused.
First doorway takes you into an entrance room. Small desk littered with ash. M-80s. A few bugs crawlin’ around. Some burnt up pieces of foil next to a glass tube. Empty box of Bazooka Joe. One wall covered in coats. Ponchos. Even a ghillie suit. The other lined with bows. Crossbows. Bundles of arrows. Some fishin’ poles. Tackle box wide open on the ground. Off to the corner. Contents spilled across the cement ground.
Mud opens the front door to the house. Passin’ me the joint. “Is this a rotini noodle as a filter?”
“Yeah. It fuckin’ works too. Everybody almost always has a box of rotini in the pantry.”
Bugs flutter around the lights inside the house. Antlers and bone fashioned into chandeliers. Spirals whittled all over the sides of the fixtures. Line work creatin’ optical illusions. More ornate than any crystal you could imagine. Hall openin’ into a small kitchen. Mud sets the bag down with a thud on the counter. Grabbin’ a warm forty from beside the ashtray. Rim made from glued together human teeth. Three distinct smells hit your nostrils. Jeżynówka. Patchouli. And cat piss. There’s a used litter box under the shelves in the open pantry. “Do you guys even have a cat?”
“Nah. That’s Farfisa’s litter box.” Dr. Bob Oakley the Third tells me. Leavin’ the bathroom with a yellowed newspaper. Edges flake off the sides. Dated August 18, 1973.
“Oh shut it Bobert!” Jen yells from the living room couch. “Farfisa shits in the woods. Like a bear. Or the Pope!”
The whole family laughs. Hear the Doc’s nostrils sniff aggressively over the rustlin’ of grocery bags. Jerry yellin’ at the feral girl diggin’ through the bag I left on the ground. Bogart the joint a bit. Helpin’ Mud put the groceries away. Oakley’s one pupil goes wide as he catches in his view. Joint in my lip. The man hoots and hollers like a gorilla. Reachin’ out. Fingers dance in the air. Tappin’ my shoulder as I pass it to him. Takes a long, aggressive pull. Exhalin’ with an almost orgasmic sigh of relief. “Sorry mate. I saw the grass and went full on primal.” He passes the stick back to me. Tumblin’ as Jerry hits in the back of the knee with a rubber mallet.
“First rule of smokin’ dope is no fiending. You know that Uncle.”
“So you guys gonna put some of these records on or what?” Mud yells to Jerry. Pullin’ the stack of musty cardboard sleeves from the tote.
“You got an ashtray somewhere?” Ask. Tryin’ to make out anything recognizable in the mess across the tables and counters.
“You can ash on the floor. Ash is the cleanest thing on Earth. All the parasites burned away.” The tell tale sign you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be. Cigs inside. Ash on the floor.
“Thank you doll.” Jen says as I hand her the joint. Pickin’ up a horse skull from the table beside the plastic wrapped couch. The jaw opens from a metal bar shoved through the two pieces. “Would you like a piece of candy?” The mouth filled with Lifesavers. Frooties. And those little strawberry candies your grandma keeps in her purse.
Decline the offer as I hear the needle of the turntable meet the vinyl. But the sound comes out in a jumbled mess. The family sittin’ around the room. Eyes closed as I look at the turntable spinnin’ backwards. “Guys. You know it’s playin’ backwards?”
“No shit sherlock.” Dr. Bob yells. Spread eagle on the floor.
“I tinkered with it to do that.” Jerry says quietly. Layin’ in Jen’s lap.
“See. This one time. Me and Jerry were robotrippin’ in high school. So we started playin’ records backwards. And we found the secret message backmasked into the Wall.”
“These messages gotta mean somethin’ Sid. But we can’t unlock the secret gospel in the backwards world of rock n’ roll until we find all the messages.” Jerry explains nonchalantly. “Maybe it’s the Illuminati. Maybe it’s the global elite. Right Wing Pigeons from Outer Space. Hell! For all we know it could be the Scientol-” The rotini noodle placed in his lips cuts off his buildin’ rant. “But there are secrets out there Sid. Hidden in the grooves of records. You just gotta know how to look to uncover ‘em.”
“Like how Paul is dead?” Jerry’s arm lowers off the side of the couch. Holdin’ the joint to Farfisa’s nostril.
“Paul is dead?! Why didn’t anybody tell me?” Jen. Somewhat alarmed by the truth I reveal to ‘em. But eyes still closed. Garbled mess of sound fillin’ everyone’s ears. “Yoko was always my favorite Beatle anyways…”
Light chuckles fill throughout the room. Even Farfisa seems to make some sort of sound of amusement. She paces around the room. Sniffin’ at the heads listenin’ to gobbledygook comin’ from their speakers. The coffee table covered in a stack of Civil War books. One on weapons. One on flags and uniforms. Battles. Big coffee table books. Lots of pictures. Little text. Mostly information about the Confederacy. One book sits off to the side. With a bookmark in it. A biography of Stonewall Jackson.
The bookshelf stands beside the TV. Why even bother buyin’ a smart TV if ya don’t believe in wifi? Got the shit rigged with rabbit ear antennas in the back. Jerry must tinker a lot. There’s no shelves in the wooden frame of the bookshelf. Taller than me. Stuffed to the brim with all sorts of media. Stacks of books. VHS tapes. DVDs. Cassettes. Shit. They even got a stack of laserdiscs leanin’ against the damn thing. Some spines so cracked ya can’t make out a title of the books. A copy of the Quran. In Arabic. Sits next to a Crackup at the Raceriots.
Grab the copy of Abbie Hoffman’s Steal this Book. A receipt tucked into the pages. Paid with a credit card. At a Barnes & Nobles in the suburbs of metro Detroit. “Who actually paid for a copy of Steal this Book?”
“I did!” Jerry raises his hand from the couch. “Kept the proof of purchase too. Just in case anybody questions it.”
“Why?”
Jerry stands up. Comin’ outta the backward trance of rock n’ roll music. “We’re free thinkers in this house Sid.” He steps close to me. “No dirty fuckin’ hippie is gonna pull my strings. Use me like a puppet. So I said. ‘I’m buyin’ this book. And I’m buyin’ it from a corporate chain too. Use a credit card so the paper trail is there forever.’”
“Jerry Mahoney’s a real boy!” Dr. Bob yells from the floor. Before Jerry steps on his gut.
“What record did you put on anyways Jerry?”
Farfisa comes crawlin’ between us. Holdin’ the empty sleeve to CCR’s 1970 masterpiece Cosmo’s Factory in her mouth. Pawin’ at Jerry’s legs. She spits the stained sleeve missin’ portions of the artwork on the floor. “Bye-ball!”
“I thought you said she couldn’t speak?”
“Don’t talk much. All she can say is bible.” He scratches behind her ear. Holdin’ the sleeve up to me. With his big eerie grin. “Looks like we’re one step closer to gettin’ yer car fixed here Sid.”
Chapter 6: The Unabomber’s Vacation Home
Wake up in the morning to the bang of clanging pans. And someone cursin’ in the kitchen. Pack of almost empty Marlboro Reds on the counter. Fuckin’ bum one. Old Yellow snorin’ on the floor. Crinkle of plastic on the couch as Baby Bevins rolls over in her sleep. Black rings of makeup still around her eyes. Stains left on the pillow and blanket from that and her lipstick.
“Ya want coffee Cousin?” Mud asks. Boilin’ a pot of water.
“I’ll take some.”
He drops a spoonful of loose grounds into two mugs. Pourin’ the bubblin’ liquid in the mug. Steam escapes over his cup readin’ “don’t talk to me until I’ve had my morning kratom.” He hands me the one that says “#1 Dad.” “Mornin’ walk?” He sips the mug.
“Sure.” I take a sip. Lookin’ at the thick sludge at the bottom.
He grabs a bottle of 153 proof. Label reads “Diesel.” Pours a shot in his mug. “I just gotta brush my teeth.”
Standin’ outside the doorway to the bathroom waitin’ for him. Uncle Dr. Bob Oakley the Third is asleep in the tub. Like he said. Dick in the shampoo bottle. Bacon stuck to the pea colored tile. Half eaten Baby Ruth in his chest pocket. Gas mask over his nose hooked up to a nitrous tank. “It helps with his snorin’.” Mud explains. Without question. A half crushed up pill sits on the toilet seat. Partially snorted line next to a silly straw. “I don’t know why he’s always snortin’ his dilaudid off the toilet seat. Says it reminds him of finals week freshman year at college.” A copy of Mad magazine dated August 18, 1973 sits in the rack next to the toilet. Next to a copy of the Anarchist Cookbook.
Mud opens the medicine cabinet. Grabbin’ a cig from the pack of Newports on the bottom shelf. He sparks it. “Ready?”
“Don’t ya gotta brush your teeth?”
“What do ya think the Newport is for? That just brushed. Clean feelin’.” He smiles as he turns around. Slippin’ a pill bottle from the cabinet in his pocket. Spillin’ some coffee on his t-shirt. It says “I’m Finna be Stable Soon.” Grabs an old Winchester rifle propped against the door. Barrel sawed off.
Walk across the field. One foot turnin’ inwards with every near limp of his step. Headphones around his neck play just audible enough for me to hear what’s comin’ from the mixtape in his Walkman. “Roam” by the B-52s. He whistles along. Which calls Farfisa over. Runnin’ on all fours. Mud scratches behind her ear as we stop in the tall grass and weeds. “First we gotta feed the ducks in the swamp.”
Walkin’ up alongside a large garden. Mud looks over the slope to a muddy bog. Cattails growin’ tall. A frog hops out. Chasin’ after a dragonfly with oil slicked coloring. “I didn’t know dragonflies could even come in that color…” I watch amazed as the bugs land delicately on Mud’s shoulders. Undisturbed by the movements of the man in caked and crackin’ white face paint.
“You a city boy for real ain’t ya?”
“Yeah. I think it’d be nice to get away and live out here like this. But I just think I’d get bored.”
“Ya look like ya had a strenuous childhood…” Mud takes the pill bottle outta his pockets. Openin’ it as he watches Farfisa lick from the sludge drowin’ out the dirt at the bottom of the crater we stand over. The oversized “FRANKIE SAY RELAX” t-shirt saggin’ in the swamp.
“What makes ya say that?”
“Well. Why else would ya join a stranger’s family reunion? People with happy families don’t drift like that.” Pours a handful of yellow rectangles into his hand. Takin’ one out. He chews it like a piece of candy. The distinct shape of school busses. As the kids used to call ‘em. Yellow Xanax bars. “It’s ok now though. Ya don’t gotta roam or feel disposable anymore. Unlike the chicks. You can live up here once ya join the family. No girls allowed in the boys club.”
He tosses the handful of pills towards the swamp below. Farfisa takes one. Spittin’ it out almost immediately. I always fuckin’ hated the taste of those things too. The ducks come swarmin’ to the water. Scarin’ off the feral girl. Mud tosses another handful. The birds scarfin’ down the little yellow pills. “Yeah. About joinin’ the family…”
“Ducks are fed. Come on. I’ll show ya the Family Tree.” Followin’ him to the other end of the garden. “It’s just up the top of Tiger Mountain.” Takes me up the small hill. Lookin’ over the swamp and garden. The ducks scarfin’ down the bars. Farfisa watchin’ them curiously. I think you can see the dick and balls Oakley mowed into the lawn in the distance from up here.
We stand beside a decrepit tree. One branch cracked. Still connected. But touchin’ the ground. Not a single leaf. The numbers “212” spray painted on one side. The words “the Hand” tagged on the other. “This is your family tree?” Twirl the noose hangin’ from another branch of the tree. Just high enough from the ground to keep a grown man’s feet from reachin’.
“First thing Dr. Bob Oakley Senior planted on this here land. He got the soil down there prepared for farmin’. But he didn’t have much of a green thumb. Probably why this tree is so dead too.” Mud twirls a beehive hangin’ overhead. “The tree decides who can hang with the family. And who can’t.”
“What do ya mean?” Look at bits of rope tied to the tree. Ripped at the edge hangin’ down.
“That was Baby Bevins’ rope. The irony is. If yer rope don’t hang. Ya get to live on as a part of the family. Join the band. All that jazz.”
He starts walkin’ down the hill. Passin’ the garden. Groundhog and skunk carcasses decompose in the field next to piles of rat poison. And jugs of engine coolant. Which is supposed to taste as pretty as it looks. Top half cut off to form a drinkin’ bowl outta the bottom. In the dirt grows weed plants. Cacti. Opium poppies. Mushrooms growin’ in piles of shit. And a handful of other plants, herbs, and roots that must serve as the raw material for psychoactive substances.
A shot from the rifle rings out. “Damn Autumn Olives.” Mud spits at the plant. Riddled with bullet holes. “Fuckin’ invasive species tryin’ to get into our garden.”
“I don’t think ya had to shoot it though. It’s just a plant.”
“I’m doin’ the damn thing a favor. Don’t ya know death is the highest level of consciousness Sid?” He pulls a case of Zyn from his pocket. Hands me one as he gums two. The shit gives me the hiccups almost immediately. “It’s in death that our energy leaves our tormented body to join the universal cosmos of bein’. That’s why we get high. Gettin’ high is bringin’ ya one step closer to death. Which is why it’s such an enlightening state of mind. A truly religious experience. Jerry taught me while we were trippin’ on Dramamine one time. An army of rats runnin’ through the lawn. Meltin’ walls made of terracotta.”
Mud walks us from the grass. Straight into the woods. Casually mentions to watch out for poison ivy and oak. The branches snaggin’ on my loose pajamas. I was expectin’ a casual stroll along a trail. Not shovin’ through overgrowth. “That was the same day Jerry and I started the band. We were kicked outta school as subculture dangers. It was a way for us to harmonize our confusion into the void. Preservin’ our existential dread permanently in this universe headin’ towards the dead end ocomin’ impendin’ doom.” He spits in the dirt as we approach a pyramid of TVs outside an abandoned shack in the woods. “And that sure beats throwin’ all yer money away on pull tabs at the bar.”
“So what’s the name of your band?”
“The Somebodys!” He smiles excitedly. As if I’m the first one to ever take him seriously.
Mud takes aim with his rifle. Pointed at the stack of TVs. All busted and scratched. Some missin’ screens. Shattered glass all over the ground. He takes a shot at the stack. Puttin’ a hole through a power button. “I hate the TV man…” He shoots again. The echo of the explosion rings in the silence. “If Dick Cheney shot ya in the woods and nobody was around to see… Would it still make a sound?” He laughs. Watchin’ the plastic frames of the outdated machines split into pieces.
“Doesn’t the guy in that cabin get annoyed by you doin’ this so close?”
“Oh that? That’s the Unabomber’s vacation home. See. That’s how Dr. Bob Oakley Senior first got into squattin’. Saint Ted had just skipped a few grades and got into Harvard. Right about the time Oakley first started playin’ house with his experiments. The two dug each other pretty quick. Saint Ted used to summer here sometimes. Yer bound to go nuts eventually if ya never get a change of scene. Livin’ alone in the woods for so long can really do somethin’ to a man’s mind.”
He takes another shot at the TVs. Farfisa comes up behind us. Growlin’ as she cowers behind Mud’s legs. She looks at the porch of the buildin’ the family found her in. Watchin’ a turkey pace slowly along it. Catchin’ Mud’s eye too. He drops the rifle to the ground. Puts a finger to his lip. Lookin’ back at me as he creeps forward. But if this man shootin’ TV sets in the woods didn’t scare off the bird. I’m sure the crackin’ of twigs and leaves isn’t gonna do much.
Faintly from the headphones I hear the girl’s voice “Three little birds sat on my window…” Mud moves carefully forward. Farfisa on guard behind him as they approach the porch. The chorus drops. “Girl put your records on…” He lunges onto the porch. Walkman falls to the ground. Still playin’. “Tell me your favorite song…” The turkey flaps and charges into Mud’s stomach. Grunts as the bird tries to get around the injured man. Hand wraps the legs of the bird. “You go ahead let your hair down…” Other hand around the neck. Farfisa howls and yelps with excitement. Jumpin’ around me as I pick up the Walkman. “Sapphire faded jeans…” Mud kneels down with the bird in his hands. Wings flap slower and slower. “I hope you get your dreams…”
Mud stands triumphantly. Holdin’ up the rather small turkey. Now lifeless. “Just go ahead let your hair down…” “Jerry told me ya wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Does this look like a fuckin’ fly?” Mud smiles. “I didn’t shoot it. Fair fight.” Carryin’ the bird at his side. “We’ll BBQ this up real good with ‘em piggies.” He squeals. Imitating the dead piglets hangin’ in the Meat Closet.
A bugle blows powerfully from the cabin. Bein’ ran through a wah and delay pedal. Farfisa takes off for the cabin. Mud droppin’ his prize bird in the dirt. Reclaimin’ his rifle enthusiastically. “Happy Fourth Brother! Ready for the Revolution?”
“I forgot it was the fourth. I don’t really recognize the fourth.”
“What are ya? Some sorta commie?”
“Anarchist…”
“Now you a leftist? Or you just got daddy issues?” He laughs and starts back towards the house. Slowly. “Hope ya believe in the Second Amendment at least Sid. Cause we’re at war now. Ya gonna celebrate the Fourth with us this year.”
“What’s goin’-” Pellets whiz towards us. Shatter and ricochet off the windows of the Unabomber’s vacation home. “Fuck! What was that?”
“Gel blaster. Better take cover. We the ones gettin’ screwed this year.” Mud throws me on the ground. Smashin’ a worm with the palm of my hand. Back smears the mushrooms growin’ off the side of the log he has us take cover behind. “To celebrate the Fourth every year. We start the mornin’ with a gunfight.” The gel beads whizz overhead. Explodin’ as they make contact with the wood. The sound of air bein’ compressed to fire the things from the plastic toys gets closer and closer. “We better hope someone decides to play Benedict Arnold this year Sid. Or we’re screwed.”
Chapter 11: Fucked Up Brady Bunch Laugh Track
Watch the steam cloud above Baby Bevins as the hot water flushes the dishes of soap bubbles. Sit at the kitchen table. Smokin’ a cig. Old Yellow at my feet. Someone in the other room puts some music on. The disaster of noise fills the room. Clubbin’ of double drums. Mud grooves with the low end of the Butthole Surfers track. “So we goin’ to Leroy’s Mama’s?” Jen asks Jerry sweetly. Wraps her arms around his shoulders lovingly.
“You been workin’ on your photography girlie?”
She winks. Headin’ for the bedroom. Knockin’ a grumble outta Dr. Bob Oakley the Third. Bumpin’ shoulders as he leaves a flushin’ toilet. He takes a seat across the table from me. Stretchin’ the elastic of his eyepatch to relieve some pressure around his skull. He takes a cig from the table. “Should I start prepping this shit for us Jerry?” The Doctor calls to the man over his shoulder. Rattles a translucent orange bottle. Label ripped off.
Jerry nods. “May as well if we’re goin’ out tonight…”
Jen rushes back into the kitchen with a binder. “Lots of Polaroids.” She smiles to him. Plastic photo sleeves crinkle as he flips page after page of photographs. Held outta eyesight of everyone else in the room.
“Aye! If we goin’ out. I wanna change this piercin’ finally.” Mud hollers from the other room. Droppin’ the empty forty to the carpet. Farfisa pullin’ her hand away before it gets crushed. He lifts his tattered shirt. Showin’ off the glowin’ red skin of his belly button around the metal shoved through his flesh. “Think it’s been in long enough.”
Dr. Bob Oakley the Third pours the white ovals from the bottle. Let’s ‘em scatter freely along the table. The fine, black text reads “alza 36.” “Leroy will definitely be interested in this!” Jerry grins to Jen. “He’s been outta stock of you for a while now. One of his bestsellers!” Jen blushes.
Mud stands in the other room. Holdin’ his shirt up with his chin. One hand holdin’ the bottom of the piercin’. Two fingers of the other hand. Holdin’ the screw top of the metal. Pinchin’ it hard. Tryin’ to get some leverage to turn the threads. Watch his chest huff and puff. Each time his hand not gettin’ anything to budge. Tries twistin’ the metal hangin’ in his naval instead. Still can’t get the thing to turn. Face gettin’ red with frustration. “How many of these should I prep Jerry?”
“Count me out.” Mr. Marilyn laughs. Passin’ through the kitchen. Tries to lend Mud a hand. Mud bickers with him. Unintelligibly. Doesn’t like the guy. Doesn’t want his hands that close to his body. Doesn’t need his help. But can’t say he isn’t strugglin’.
“At least ten.” Jerry snaps the binder closed. “Make sure Sid gets some.” Jerry walks to the other room. Tellin’ Mr. Marilyn to take a step back. Without makin’ as obvious as Mud that Mud doesn’t like the guy much.
“What are we doin’?”
“Methylphenidate.” Uncle Dr. Bob doesn’t look up at me as he counts his magic beans. Takin’ a dingy Swiss army knife from his inner pocket. He makes an incision into the white wax outer layer of the capsule. Strippin’ the pills sensually. One by one. Pilin’ the white clothing he removes. Pauses to roll his one eye up to look at me. Still hunched over the table. “Twenty two percent of the active ingredient is in that coating. For that instantaneous release.”
He laughs a bit to himself. Mud groans in the other room. Watchin’ him over Oakley’s shoulder. The rushin’ water shuts off. Baby Bevins takes the cig from my lips. Giggles as she watches Jerry get on his knees. Back to us. Eyes level with Mud’s belt buckle. Wigglin’ and jerkin’ slightly as he tries forcin’ the round topper to spin. “Goddamn Brother! How much puss did you let crust on this shit?”
“You ain’t supposed to remove it for some time.”
“Ever hear of saline?” Mr. Marilyn says from the crinklin’ plastic couch under his ass.
“Don’t ya got smoothies to make Mr. Clean.” Mud yelps. Echoin’ the smack of Jerry’s palm on his chest.
“Fuckin’ lay down Mud. I need better leverage.”
Jerry drags a beanbag chair across the floor. Mud collapses into the already semi-flattened blob. Spittin’ a few beans from a tear in the side. “So what are the Polaroids?” I ask Jen. Baby Bevins returns the cig to my lips.
“Let’s just say Leroy sells my art.” She winks at me with a flirtatious smile. Jerry purrs. Lookin’ over his shoulder to us. Crouched over Mud.
“Pornography ain’t the same thing as erotic art.” Mr. Marilyn tosses two pennies into the kitchen at us as he speaks.
“Open your mouth.” Baby Bevins tilts my head back with one hand. Takes the cigarette with the other. Tucks it in her lips. Fingers the white pile of wax. Lettin’ the coating stick on her fingertip. Read the fine black text comin’ towards me one last time. “Alza 36.” Her finger dips down my lower gum. Saliva turns the wax pill coating to a gooey paste. Stuck to the inside of my lip. She giggles at the disgust in my face. “Ya can’t wash it down with any water. Straight no chaser.”
“Jerry! I’ll hold the base. Just grab that fucker and twist it as hard as you can.” Mud yells from the floor. Jerry gruntin’ to get the threadin’ to pop. Mud groans. Jerry pressin’ into his body to hold him still on the ground.
“This isn’t fuckin’ working.” He stands in defeat. Wavin’ his arms.
Oakley sits with an array of tri-colored ovals. Wrapped in a thin skinned membrane to hold the innards of the drug together. He takes his blade. Slicin’ off the brown half. “Push layer to create the extended release. Expands to release the drug slowly into your system.” His blade points out the two other colors. Still encased in the indestructible skin membrane.
“So who’s buyin’ those Polaroids?”
“Not you…” Jerry slaps his knee. Walkin’ away from Mud. Rollin’ around the floor. Tryin’ to get the metal outta his body. “Hang tight Mud. I got an idea!” Jerry’s words trail off as he exits the house.
“Leroy’s Mama’s is an adult entertainment store.” Baby Bevins giggles. Still holdin’ my forehead back with one hand. Lookin’ up at her as she drops the half of the pill with amphetamine in it down my throat. “This has been how to abuse Concerta with Dr. Bob Oakley the Third.” She giggles as she doses herself with speed.
Jen tries delicately to get the metal outta Mud’s stomach. “You’re sellin’ nude Polaroids to a porn shop?”
“The Amish need somethin’ to jerk off to…” Mr. Marilyn’s answer even gets Mud laughin’. Leans backwards toward his enemy on the couch for a high five.
“Stop squirmin’ kiddo!” Jen holds Mud down. Dr. Bob Oakley the Third still slices and dices away at the prescription drugs. He’s probably still got an old script pad sittin’ around here somewhere.
The noise builds from the speakers. Mud’s groans gettin’ louder. Bugs swarmin’ the room. Jerry bolts through the doors with a pair of pliers in his hand. “Alright! Mud! Don’t fuckin’ move Brother!” He crouches down beside the man in a panic. Baby Bevins puts the cigarette back in my lips. “Ma! Pin him down. I don’t wanna hurt the boy.” Jerry snaps to Mr. Marilyn. “Get over here and hold that bit danglin’ outta his belly button. As tight as you fuckin’ can! Don’t let that fucker move on ya. No matter how sweaty your fingertips get.”
“See. We use the money Leroy spends on Jen’s photography for band expenses.” Dr. Bob Oakley the Third gums some of the wax coating himself. Mud groans angrily as the mid-life crisis skinhead approaches his naval. Feelin’ like I’m in some sorta fucked up Brady Bunch episode. Stuck in the split between the A and B plots. Cue the laugh track. “Recording gear. Spotify subscriptions. She takes the money when she gets up here. Then when she goes back down to civilization can manage and run all the band doings.”
Jerry pinches the round topper with the jagged teeth of the pliers. Not needle nose. Thick ends grip the tiny gauged metal. Veins bulge in Jerry’s hand. Grippin’ the exposed metal handles of the pliers against his flesh. Palm flat on Mud’s chest. “Ready!” He begins to count down. Me and Baby Bevins watch over Oakley’s shoulder. Still movin’ around in the corner of our view as he converts extended release substances into instant release. A night of continuous redosing. Mud cries from the other room. Harmonizin’ with Jerry’s groans as he pushes on the metal. Finally gettin’ the thread to budge. Leavin’ a tiny rust streak on Mud’s stomach. But avoidin’ pinchin’ him at all as he spins the belly button piercing loose.
“I think I got some jewelry you can borrow sweetie.” Jen says. Helpin’ the outta breath man up from the beanbag. He grabs some speed off the table as Jen walks him to her bedroom to check out the jewelry box. Before the family night on the town.