Jesup, part the second

ron's momma waits for him at the top of the steps on the wide white marble veranda ron lifting one foot after another the bleached snowy stone reflecting heavy and dull on this morning echoing a flat note

this somber morning

this morning that has taken forever to get going this morning set in the middle of this fucking swamp of time that they have circled circumnavigated circumscribed circle jerked about all summer

ron would just as soon shoot his wad get on with it

ron all of eighteen not far from nineteen having finished up his freshman courses at emory university that fine establishment of higher learning nestled away in a halcyon-laced fuzzy forest green shire in the middle of modern atlanta finished up a couple months back a lifetime ago well after planting season around about in june not an exceptional year his professors not proclaiming his academic prowess not declaring him a bastion of pedagogic future

he has not yet found his place in the sun has not unleashed his passion for learning within those hallowed halls

ron johnson who had been known to run naked through the corridors of dobbs hall bong in hand acid on his brain a brown farmer's tan contrasting against pasty pale skin reddish pubic hairs freckly puss

he ron johnson no he had not yet found his path ron johnson who once walked into the dorm one night

he and his friend hoss

the pupils of their eyes wide open and bouncing glimmering flickering oh so slightly in the overhead incandescence

walked into the dorm up the stairs to find chrono kevin eddie sitting idly in their room an album cover sitting on the bed double album unfolded a number of seeds sitting in the crack of the fold some loose shake and bud decorating peter frampton's blondish tresses projecting him further into some sort of three dimensional jesus wearing the crown of thorns

chrono bong in hand he says looking up he says click click clicking his bic he says hey click click clicking his bic he says taking a moment to gurgle up some smoky salvation he says hey want to play a little twenty one we're about to put on the album

twenty one being the number of minutes a certain lou reed song would steal from the clock start to finish twenty one also being the number of bong hits one was expected to complete to execute before that last audible downbeat of said lou reed song

ron and hoss they answered with a deafening nervous silence looking from chrono to kevin to eddie glancing and grinning at them at each other

ron and hoss they stood in the doorway shivering two days of freshman growth on their faces faded black swashes of grease or ash or dirt streaking cheek throat hands clothes kevin saying what the fuck happened to you where the fuck you been they shuffling they rubbing their hands together on their pants into their pockets then together again ron he saying

wiping a sleeve across beneath his nose sniffling back a phlegmy run for the border

he saying

we hopped a train

eyes wide eyebrows raised lighter poised above the bowl

don't you know we were walking back from dinner just having scarfed down a couple of dagwoods feeling good feeling nice and full and happy lighting up a jay when some sort of premonition came over us like we had been thinking about it the whole time don't you know like we were cassidy and kerouac with an ethereal plan with a command from elijah here comes this freight train slowing down as it rounded the bend coming into campus down near the old depot this rust colored box car cries out to us with its big yellow letters declaring

goldkist

might as well have been the yellow neon out front of the plaza theater tempered by a bottle of codeine or a handful of disco biscuits either obtained with a doctored up fake scrip next door at plaza drug

its big sliding door already open like an invitation to my cousin's sweet sixteen spread her legs party we thought we'd just jump on go a couple of miles down the track then hop off catch the next one coming this way get back to campus all in a couple of hours next thing we know we're rushing through the countryside cold air streaming through the slats the smell of ratshit catshit hoboshit gagging and choking us as we traveled through the night the train not stopping until we're well into alabama

and ain't neither one of us too comfortable that far down in alabama

got so cold in that fucking train me and hoss we hugged each other grabbed hold to each other like two midtown fags if i had had a knife i would have slit him open and crawled inside i would have got all call of the wild with his big ol' loving self

goddamn train so loud rambling down through those woods and fields we screamed at the top of our lungs couldn't hear a thing couldn't hear ourselves think just the clackety clack and squealing of metal on metal the whistling of the wind

for hours and hours forever it seemed

stumbling out into the frosty dawn when the fucking shit stained slave ship finally slowed to a squealing crawl smack dab in the middle of a bunch of tracks all coming together in the dull morning light we had no idea where we were trying to figure out from whence we came trying to figure out which track led back to atlanta

the only hint that we were in alabama the glimpse of an empty bama state patrol car parked fifty yards away over by some depot looking shack

a slim stream of smoke or steam sliding out of and up from a rusted pipe snaking out of nailed to its ashen wooden side

an old nigra man wearing two sunday coats a brown felt bowler and boots with no strings came out between two trains we asked him we said hands tucked deep into our pockets shoulders hunched up around our ears we said excuse me we said hey can you tell us which train goes back to atlanta we said hey

which way is home

he stopped he looked around he looked at us he looked at the direction from where we walked he rubbed his chin in that well let me just take out my trig book i'm sure

the answer is right there

in front of me

he didn't say a word he thought a minute he shrugged he started walking again

he stopped he pointed

at the train we'd just departed then he walked on his way never having said a word we got back into our goldkist cruise liner and hunkered down

that was yesterday we just got back

chrono he shrugging he flicking his bic he fellating the bong he looking up saying his words flowing into and out of a cloud of ganjaesque concern he saying

whoa welcome home

ron and hoss they each taking a turn on the bong before wandering out of the room and down the hallway the stench of rodent feces hobo piss dinty moore lingering behind perhaps permanently on chrono's comforter on the faux hippie tapestry that hung in the doorway