It was 1:06AM on a Tuesday night when I pulled into the Delaware Water Gap and first saw Cletus McKenzie. So I guess it was technically a Wednesday mornin’. If ya don’t know. Not that I know much either. But the Delaware Water Gap is like a rest stop. Pull right off the freeway. To a gravel lot surrounded by trees. No lightposts in the lot. A park ranger welcome center. That doesn’t look like it gets any more traffic durin’ the daylight hours than right now. Into the trees are the heads of trails into the Appalachian Mountains. And a dropped teddy bear.
If ya drive just past the welcome center. Is another decrepit lot. Remainders of what once was a wooden post fence. Barely visible from your fogged up headlights. Surrounded by trees. But no trail heads on this side. In the front corner of this lot is the bathroom. Two single person bathrooms in a brick hut. I was comin’ outta the right one. The only one that’s unlocked. No lights. Back illuminated faintly by the glow of the left bathroom. Light left on seepin’ through the misaligned door frame. Always locked. Even though there’s never another car.
Daylight savings was endin’. Or startin’ sometime soon. Fall back or whatever. The moon’s been extra bright lately. So that helped some. I was comin’ outta the pitch black bathroom of the Delaware Water Gap when I first saw Cletus McKenzie. He was comin’ outta the trees. Climbin’ over a diagonal piece of fence hangin’ to the ground. There was no wind or breeze. But the gentle rustle and crunch of leaves. Under the foot of someone who’s spent a lotta time off roadin’ the shoelace express. Had me thinkin’ it was a bobcat. Or black bear. Runnin’ into a wild animal in the woods might’ve been less dangerous.
“Got damn! I knew I’d have to hit a road eventually.” He takes off the worn ten gallon hat from his head. Swattin’ it against his denim jeans. The shimmer of sweat on his bald spot glistens in the twilight. “Didn’t think I’d wind up this far.” He looks around. Finally registers me. “Say kiddo!” He hollers. Steppin’ quickly towards me. “Where the hell are we right now?”
“Delaware Water Gap accordin’ to the sign. Lost GPS on my phone. So I could be anywhere right now for all I know.”
“Got DAMN! Knew I shouldn’ta gone bottle huntin’ without the compass.” He pauses. Takes a deep breath in through the nose. Holds. Exhales slowly through the mouth. Breathin’ like someone with a lotta experience tryin’ to calm themselves. “Well you sure are right kiddo. We could be anywhere.” He steps closer. The glow of the locked bathroom dimly lights the orange hairs over his lip. “But even when we’re lost. We’re always somewhere.”
He reaches into the stained chest pocket of his bright pink long sleeve shirt. Pulls out a bent up. Hand rolled cig. Lights it. “So what brings ya out here sonny boy? Lookin’ for antique bottles in the ground too?”
“Nah man.” Steppin’ closer to the driver’s door of the car. Usin’ the vehicle as a buffer between us. And hopin’ the passenger side door is locked. The driver’s side doesn’t lock from the outside anymore. “I’m supposed to be startin’ a job in Hope Valley. Helpin’ build aviaries for an exotic bird sanctuary.”
“Well what do ya know kiddo?” He grins. Ripples of smoke escapin’ through the gaps between his handful of gray teeth. Some still lookin’ like baby teeth that never fell out and got replaced. “I’m gonna be right along your route to the sanctuary. Why don’t ya gimme a lift so I don’t gotta throw up a thumb.” He spits out a glob of phlegm. Stained brown with nicotine.
“Listen man. No offense or anything. But I really should get to this job ASAP.”
“Oh nonsense kid!” He waves away my concerns. Approachin’ the vehicle. “Fuckin’ Jeff is runnin’ that job. And that sonuvabitch doesn’t give a shit. He’s got the crane operator smokin’ pot outta apples while droppin’ in the generator.” He takes a drag. Spits again. But no phlegm this time. “Besides. You’ll drop me off. Smoke some of this pot I just harvested. You can crash at the barn. Show up to the jobsite well rested.” Quickly addin’ after a short pause. “I can top off your gas tank for ya too before ya leave.”
Well that’s grass and gas. And with the current state of my credit card. I can’t pass up either for free. It’s quite a bit a ways to Hope Valley from here. And ya wonder how this baldin’ orange haired cowboy ended up out here bottle huntin’ in the first place. But all he says to explain himself is “Ed the Bottle Cop turned me onto this spot to find bottles.” He shoots a glob of phlegm out the car window. Tossin’ the end of the cigarette out with it. Unable to see the glob of spit splatter. But in the rearview. Watchin’ the embers of the cigarette shatter like shrapnel on the pavement behind you. “He also taught me to spit the cancer out after every drag of a smoke.”
“Superstitious guy?”
“Well. He beat cancer. Said if he hadn’t been spittin’ when he smoked he probably woulda been dead.”
You light a cig as he rambles. “Lotta people gettin’ cancer out here?”
“Well ain’t much else to do ‘round these parts besides get cancer and have a party.”
“Sometimes it seems like that’s all there is to do anywhere.”
He laughs out the window. Static cuttin’ in and out on the radio. CD player’s been actin’ up. The whip of the wind through the car windows dronin’ in the background. “I appreciate the ride man. Was gonna be rough findin’ my way back home. Spent the last bit of my money this mornin’ on a jar of peanut butter. And a bag of kratom.” He turns to face you. Sniffles. Wipin’ his battered nose. Crooked. Deviated septum. And resemblin’ the face of a Muscovy duck. “Name’s Cletus McKenzie by the way.” He wipes the glisten of snot from the back of his hand. Onto the deep blue of his jeans. Before extendin’ it to shake yours.
The car rumbles around the dirt road and craters of the property. Takin’ you up to the barn. Headlights barely illuminatin’ the world before you. The garage door of the barn is wide open. The sounds of the Jurassic Park theme echo from the open barn through the emptiness enclosed by the woods. The ultraviolet glow and sparks of welding flash and twinkle. Brother Igor stands over the steel frame. No welding mask. Eyes closed. Duct tape boot around the tongue of his sneakers. Wrapped in a black, fleece bathrobe.
Cletus hops outta the slowin’ car before it comes to a complete stop. Walks blindly to the radiating weld through the darkness. Doesn’t even stumble. I struggle. Too dark out here to even see what’s happenin’ right in front of you. “Praise be Brother Igor.” He pats the monk firmly on the back. Opens the eyes of his aged face. Sixty five rough years.
“Forgot to close my eyes quick enough that time.” He unties a hair tie. Blinkin’ and starin’ into space. His long straw hair unfolds like Rapunzel down his back. “It’s time for Fiddler on the Roof bitches!” He walks over to a cracked iPod Nano. The red metallic so scuffed and scraped it doesn’t shine. Somewhere buried in the library is that dreaded U2 album you could never remove. The monk probably saw it as his Catholic duty to buy the one whose proceeds went to the payroll of non-profit CEOs.
The iPod is wired into a 1940s Zenith radio. Dust so caked on, the tubes don’t even appear to glow. The fabric cut around the speaker wires. Tied into the back of the receiver. Routed to an assortment of mismatched speakers. Monitors. And subwoofers. The vocals crackle like an FDR public address. Brother Igor laughs with a jolt of adrenaline as he touches the two loose copper wires of the radio not connected to anything.
“We got a guest stayin’ with us tonight Brother Igor. And don’t go tryin’ to convert him or nothin’. Manifest destiny is over man.” Cletus waves me over to the spiral staircase. Right beside a pen full of tortoises. “Hope ya don’t mind livin’ with these blokes. You’ll be stayin’ in the loft above ‘em.” And he starts up the stairs. “And let me tell ya. Since you’re gonna be workin’ on a jobsite. You ain’t met a real bloke till ya meet a Boston construction worker.”
He digs a skeleton key outta his pocket. Jams it into the wood door. White paint crackin’ off it. The little wooden box of a loft is walled by plyboard from a roof job where a sunroof was goin’. Tagged “HOLE” in orange. There’s no windows cut to see into the barn. And no windows cut through the outside wall of the barn either. All the shelves and desk are made of untreated and unfinished wood.
A lamp with the base of an Edvard Munch type figure in prayer is the only light. A silver spoon glistens on the desk. Glistens where there isn’t white powder dusted over it. It’s not a decorative spoon. Or tea spoon. Or some shit. It’s a bit chipped around the cup of the spoon. But it’s a full sized dinner spoon. Edges adorned with embossings of flowers and vines. Engravings of roses on the end of the handle. “Stole my mee-maw’s silver before headin’ out here.” He mumbles to himself. Pickin’ up the spoon. Eyein’ his reflection. Adjusts the orange hairs above his lip. Then plunges it into a small wooden coffin. Open casket. Containin’ a dwindlin’ pile of blow. Snorts it up his massacred nostrils. Then stares into the casket with a look of disappointed contemplation.
“You stole your grandma’s wedding silverware?”
“Just one spoon. I had been takin’ care of her through the beginnin’ of the dementia. And forgot my spoon the last day I saw her. Figured she wouldn’t even remember it was there.”
He takes another spoonful to even out the nostrils. The roar of a dirtbike can be heard. The flyin’ of rocks and gravel approachin’. Drop my bag by the bed and home welded frame. Followin’ Cletus back down the spiral stairs. Past the tortoises. Back to the open garage door where Brother Igor stands. Listenin’ to showtunes. While the ten year old hops off his dirtbike and into the barn. “In the words of the late great Benjamin Franklin…” Brother Igor says. Stirrin’ a pot. “Soup time!”
“Little Randolph Milton! Don’tcha know it’s a school night?!” Cletus yells to the kid. Brother Igor spins a crusty, metal ladle in the pot over an electric burner sittin’ on the table of a rusted metal sheer. The spoon used for smeltin’ lead. Ladles out a scoop into a bowl and hands it to you. There’s hardly any liquid. Onions. Potatoes. Peppers. And clumps of minced garlic not even mixed in. The whole shells of clams sit slightly popped open from the boil.
He hands you a caviar spoon. “It’s New England clam chowder. But without the chowder.” He turns back to the pot to fix more bowls. “A guest should always experience local cuisine when in town.”
“Don’tcha know it’s daylight savin’s or whatever Mr. McKenzie.” Little Randolph Milton walks past the makeshift image of a farmer. Droppin’ an orange prescription bottle on the table. Hittin’ a vape he claims to be hot dog water flavored.
“Lemme get ya yer beer kiddo.” The fridge opens to barely any white left on the inside. Caked with spilled condiments and drinks. Mold. And whatever other microbes can survive a refrigerated climate. An amber bottle hides on the butter shelf. Labeled as “banana DNA.” The Coors Light foams a bit as the ten year old cracks it open. The mountains shimmer in blue despite the fridge feelin’ warmer than the barn air.
Cletus grabs the orange bottle. Rippin’ the label off. The kid too young to understand how not to incriminate himself in a felony. He pops one of the muted yellows into his mouth. Drops one in Brother Igor’s mouth. And one in my hand. Before followin’ Little Randolph Milton outfront. Puttin’ a headlight round the kid’s head as he finishes the beer. Before doin’ donuts in the gravel lot and drivin’ up mounds of concrete rubble.
“What’s this?” Asks Brother Igor as he sits on the couch missin’ cushions with his soup.
“Communion…” He slurps the stew with a grin and a wink. “Vitamins… Hair. Skin. And nails. Don’t take more than three…” He slurps again. Then grins. “I’m just messin’ around kid. It’s Focalin. Tough findin’ drugs when you’re isolated on a barn. Cletus caught Little Randolph trespassin’ with his dirtbike one night. One thing led to another. Now he gives the kid a beer in exchange for the prescription he doesn’t take.” He takes another slurp. “Ya know. It’s a good thing when ya think about it. He’s helpin’ keep kids outta the hands of Big Pharma.”
“How long have you known Cletus?”
“Well. Can’t say too long. He wandered onto the property himself. Said it was too dark and couldn’t see the world around him anymore. He looked like he was tryin’ to get away from it all. Told him he could live in the cabin as long he found a way we could help pay for the property. If ya got a barn. Ya got make money outta it somehow.”
“So this is your property?”
“Yeah. I settled out here after my wild youth. Hired a coyote to smuggle me in from Belgium. Fell in with this radical religious group. Catholics with Autism. Next thing I know. I was in the middle of one of those teenage clubs. One of those ones that don’t serve any alcohol. On the verge of a mental breakdown. Or maybe in the middle of one. Why else would ya end up leafletin’ about salvation in a teenage club?
“Anyways. I had drained the bank account of the religious anarchists. Found this old barn once owned by a furry street artist.” The sleeve of his robe sags as he motions to the wall above him. Wire wolf heads. Pink, cartoon wolves with six triple D tits. A pizza box top painted “your parents are disappointed in you.” “And thought this is the perfect place for growth. Planted a wheat field. Got a garden. Cletus grew us some cannabis this season.” He motions to the wire mesh cage. Stalks of pot plants hang curin’ off the grids.
“Daylight savin’s does a wonder on a kid.” Cletus picks a bud off the dried plants. Crumbles it in his fingers over the table saw. Rolls up a joint and offers you the first hit. “Lemme ask ya kiddo.” Cletus watches over you. A can of explodin’ spray insulation hangs on the wall above his head. Like a naturally created work of modern art. The orange bubbles like a brain boiled over easy. “You got experience in buildin’ shit? Since you’re workin’ this aviary job and all.”
“Nah man. Not really. A friend of mine got the contract and called me out to help. Figured I could use some gettin’ away from it all.”
“Lookin’ out that door right there.” He points to the emptiness outside the barn. Can’t make out the figure. But can hear the roar of Little Randolph Milton on his dirtbike. Somewhere out in that abyss of the night. “Can’t see for shit in front of yer face. Nothin’ makes ya feel more in the void. And ya can’t get more away from it all than that.” He smiles. Pinches the joint outta your fingers. “So lemme ask ya kid. Since ya don’t know about this stuff. When ya look at the walls of this barn. What do ya see?”
He drags silently. Givin’ you time to absorb the array of chargin’ batteries. The hiss of the air hose hooked up to a nail gun. Shelves of oozin’ paint cans and crusted aerosol bottles. “Do ya see a buncha tools? Or a buncha shit to get on?” And then ya really start to think about it. Openin’ your lips to say somethin’. But Cletus McKenzie hands the joint back. Placin’ it just before your lips. “Cause when I first got out here. It was just a buncha shit to get on. Paint thinner. Glues. Hell. There’s even some freon layin’ around here somewhere. And that stainless steel polish is supposed to be a good trip. From what I’ve heard.”
“If ya had asked me that a few years ago. That probably woulda been all I could see.”
He looks at ya while you speak. But doesn’t seem to register anything. “So that’s why I wanted to be out here originally. I was. And still am. A cowboy longin’ for anything. Then Brother Igor said I had to figure some shit out. And figured there had to be a way to make some money outta this barn.” He grabs a post office box full of plastic squares with holes drilled through them. “Bits and parts son. That’s what we’re doin’ here. Turnin’ pieces into bits. Then those bits into parts. I handle the plastic. Brother Igor handles the galvanized steel. Cause that zinc does a number to the lungs. And he’s got less time left than I do.”
“Only thing to do round these parts is get cancer…” The monk slurps his stew in the corner.
“So now I’m away from it all. Growin’ out here with Brother Igor. Makin’ bits into parts. And let me tell ya sonny boy.” His lips curl dementedly to show his rottin’ teeth. “There’s somethin’ to be said about makin’ somethin’. Seein’ somethin’ build and grow before your very eyes. Knowin’ you made those bits. And now you are a part of somethin’ outside yourself.”
Pinches the joint back from my lips. Mid drag. No warnin’. Drags solemnly. Lookin’ out into the emptiness outside the barn. “It’s quite a healin’ thing. After spendin’ so much time breakin’ shit. Not knowin’ how to fix any of it.”
“So you call this healing? Bein’ alone.”
“I ain’t alone kiddo. I got Brother Igor. I got Little Randolph Milton.” He takes a long drag. Burnin’ the resin coated, gummed paper slowly. “Like I said. It feels better not breakin’ things apart and lettin’ people down. Sometimes the best way to avoid disappointment is detachin’ yourself. Nobody to be let down when the pressure gets to ya. Nobody to nag ya when ya wanna ride around on the John Deere and seed in the middle of the night.”
“You call that growth man? Sure. Ya grew some weed. But seems like ya can’t tell healin’ from hedonism.”
“Well got damn kiddo!” He tosses the joint to the concrete floor. The embers scatter on contact. “What do ya think you’re doin’ skippin’ town for a month? Callin’ it a job. Gettin’ high in the woods with your friends.” Cletus McKenzie struggles to fish another bent up cigarette from his tattered chest pocket. “Some nerve ya got kid after all this hospitality.”
He walks off outta the barn. “Moon’s been brighter tonight. At least it helps ya see a bit in front of you. Even if it’s just a few inches ahead.” Cletus McKenzie walks back into the darkness. The glow of his cigarette fadin’ slowly into the empty void outside.
“One day soon I’ll get this doohickey fixed.” Brother Igor mumbles to himself. Or maybe to you. If you’re listenin’. “Found this thing at an antique store. Knew right away I needed to get it.” He holds it up to the light. Lovingly and hopeful. But doesn’t show you the metal object clearly. “If I get this old lamp switch fixed. We could use it to light anything we dream.”
I woke up on the couch without any cushions to the grunts of the tortoises beside me. The wire hangs severed from the iPod Nano. Lifeless on the drill press. The speakers hum with the pulse of power runnin’ through ‘em. But the absence of soundwaves. The barn door left wide open. And guessin’ by the sunlight. And temperature. It musta been early afternoon. But who’s to say really? At some point last night. Daylight savings started. Or ended. We fell back or whatever. Even this late into the afternoon. The time change still feels disorienting. But maybe that’s just the Focalin pushin’ your sleep cycle back so far.
Step outside in the daylight. Little Randolph Milton is on the roof of the barn. No ladder in sight to explain how he got up there. Drops a shotgun shell into a decorative cannon. Smacks it with a mallet to scatter the birdshot over the field. The roar doesn’t even wake Brother Igor. Asleep in a sawdust covered desk chair. Soup stains on his black, fleece robe. Weldin’ mask rests on the top of his skull. The blast doesn’t even cause him to skip a beat in the sermon he sleeptalks. “And even if thou can’t see through the night… There is still a chance to create light… And grow…”
Across from the barn. A raven hops around in front of the wheat field. His wing fractured. As the tall strands blow in the breeze. Crooks his head at the female legs of a mannequin growin’ outta the grass. Pecks at the eye socket of the faded and chipped eye shadow of the woman’s lifeless head on the ground. Her face weathered and cracked from the elements.
A stonewall wraps like a serpent behind the wheat field. A structure built ages ago to denote this land was a place for growth. The rocks are crumblin’. Chunks missin’. “Ain’t it cool?!” Little Randolph Milton hollers down from the sheets of corrugated metal flappin’ in the wind on the roof of the barn. “That people could build somethin’ like that. And it frickin’ lasts!” He rips a drag from the hot dog water vape. “Livin’ in the tiniest state can make ya feel so small in the grand scheme of things. It’s nice to be reminded we can leave a mark on the world.”
To the left of the wheat field. Opposite the direction of the breeze. Homemade gravestones sit. “Brother Igor told me there’s so many personal gravesites all over cause the separation of church and state way back when. They let ya bury a body anywhere ya liked!” Faintly. Brother Igor’s sleeptalk sermon trails out from the barn. “May there be more than cancer in this soil… Amen…”
Walk on down to the cabin. A beach bucket full of bones hangs off the porch light. And inside sits Cletus McKenzie. On a twin sized mattress. In the same clothes from last night. Hangin’ in the closet is a seemingly endless supply of bright pink long sleeve shirts. With chest pockets. All facin’ the same way. And on the same white plastic clothes hangers. A shelf full of neatly folded. Deep blue denim Levi’s. “Ya join the army lookin’ for some direction. And all ya get is a closet full of the same outfit.” He takes a bite outta a Pop Tart. Held in the shimmerin’ foil.
Let me tell ya folks. There ain’t nothin’ sadder than a grown man. Sittin’ on a twin sized mattress. In the middle of the floor. Eatin’ a cold. Unfrosted. Pop Tart. Bums the hell outta ya so much ya don’t even leave without sayin’ ‘thank you.’ Or at least a fuckin’ ‘goodbye.’
Now I’ve never been one to enjoy the fall. But when you’re drivin’ down the meanderin’ roads of Rhode Island. Followin’ the aimless winds and curves. Untraceable even by the GPS. With absolutely no idea where ya are. Or where the road is takin’ ya next. The trees tend to look rather beautiful. The oranges. The reds and yellows. The rustle of the leaves in the wind. When you’ve been in the dark for too long. And haven’t been able to see even an inch in front of your face. The world around ya looks so much clearer. So much more beautiful and real. Even if ya don’t know where the fuck you are. Or where you’ve been. You know you’re at least somewhere. As long as you keep goin’ forward. And that’s better than settlin’ for the comfort of the void. Hoppin’ around in one place. Like a raven with a fractured wing.