Jesup, part the nineteenth, courthouse

the click the clack of high heels against marble floor echoed up through the stairwell and down the hallway love and rockets in any other world but this morning as all three heads turn ron johnson’s his momma’s his daddy’s their heads all turn at once they know it is their aunt betty and his lawyer the only woman lawyer in jesup aunt betty she plays bridge with her on wednesday evenings over at the country club

aunt betty wearing that purple dress suit matching little bitty perched on hat the outfit she’s been wearing to church this summer ron johnson he wonders like he always wonders just where in sam hill his aunt betty finds these things

probably the same place his attorney finds hers she miss wilma watkins a graduate of mercer university and mercer university law school over in macon back before otis redding back before duane allman maybe back when ray charles miss wilma watkins she who is all done up in this post retro marlo thomas that girl break loose be free in a man’s world bright blue with black trim and ron johnson he swears to god that same fucking hat that she that girl tossed to the wind on her tee eve show

and she carries a brief case and is listening to aunt betty go on about something she miss wilma she has a pensive look on her face she isn’t really saying anything and they walk up to the bench and ron johnson and his momma and his daddy they stand up to greet them and there’s the niceties the how do you do yes it’s warm out how’s your father miss wilma he’s fine thank you but listen

we need to talk

and there’s this scene change the music it changes maybe it had been changing all along just too subtly for ron johnson to notice but now there’s a harp moaning long and slow and the hooting of an owl

where’s the owl

it’s morning the sun it shines

fuck

how can it be so bright on such a day

and the camera it swings wide and slowly it pans circling the five of them as they come together they talk miss wilma she talks she’s talking to ron johnson’s daddy to ron johnson’s momma she’s telling them things judge’s decision judge’s offer she’s answering questions aunt betty she’s asking maybe she’s saying aunt betty she says

that’s it

ron johnson’s daddy he’s nodding his head

miss wilma she talks she answers questions but she’s looking at ron johnson but she is answering ron johnson’s momma’s question yes i know it’s just ron he’s eighteen sally well she’s seventeen yes i know no i don’t know why the judge is so upset well yes ok yes you’re right i guess i do know why the judge is so upset but

it’s georgia law

ron johnson hell he has always wanted to be a lawyer he has always wanted to be clarence darrow he has always been so fucking ready to inherit the wind to lift the sword of righteousness like scout’s daddy

yeah just like scout’s daddy mister atticus finch

an’ i asked her what and she said to jus' step on the chair yonder an' git that box down from on top of the chifforobe

she said she'd never kissed a grown man before an' she might as well kiss me she says for me to kiss her back

the camera it slowly spins mouths move tongues tatter eyes lift lips go to tight smiles the heads nod the shoulders shrug a tear runs down his momma’s cheek ron johnson’s daddy his face turns angry red

an angry red

grabbing his shotgun out of the closet red his momma trying to reason with him aubrey now aubrey the shell pumping into the chamber ron johnson he’s standing in the doorway shorts and tee shirt his face fresh from a good cry curious now earlier

that dog had coming running through the yard just when ron johnson all of four years old had coming bursting out the screen door wearing his brand new pee eff flyers soaring off the porch like the kid in the cartoon landing right in front of where that unlucky fucking dog was running scaring the hell out of both ron johnson and the mangy mutt that didn’t really belong in the neighborhood he belonged to one of the black boys who cut the grass

mangy mutt snapped at ron johnson getting him a piece of ron johnson’s ass cheek right when ron johnson’s daddy was pulling up into the driveway and ron johnson he kept running over toward his daddy the mangy mutt snapping at him running behind and ron johnson his daddy he stepped in front of that dog and yelled and that mangy mutt he high tailed it back the other direction with a yelp and a scream and ron johnson he grabbed his daddy’s leg and ron johnson his daddy picked him up and brought him inside ron johnson moaning and crying and sobbing like only his four year old self knew how and ron johnson his daddy he handed him to his momma and walked back to the bedroom and ron johnson his momma she put him down with a pat on the head and followed her husband and ron johnson he followed his momma

and watched in the doorway as his momma looked up at his daddy her hands lightly touching his arm that held the shotgun she saying please aubrey

and the angry red it drained from ron johnson’s daddy’s face it slowly went back to his ruddy tanned puss with the afternoon shadow and he pumped the shell out of the gun and put them both back into the closet closed the door and his momma she took ron johnson’s hand led him back to the bathroom to look him over

teeth didn’t go through his shorts

and ron johnson his daddy’s face turns an angry red and his eyes they glare down and through at miss wilma he’s not looking at miss wilma he’s looking through miss wilma he’s looking through miss wilma and on into his dark place and his arms are crossed and tight and ron johnson his momma with the tear running down her cheek places her hand on his daddy’s arm

the one closest to her

lightly

and ron johnson his daddy he looks down and ron johnson his momma she looks up she gently she softly tops him from the bottom the blood it drains it slowly drains his face it slowly goes back to that tanned ruddy stoicism he puts the shotgun back in the closet

and the music it’s not there and the owl he’s gone and the voices they fade and the silence numbs him slowly suffocates ron johnson

he can’t breathe but he’s breathing fine he’s underwater and he can’t breathe and he’s breathing fine

and floating about are choices two choices weaving into one ear out the other bits leaving his mouth his mother his father his lawyer and for once his aunt betty she ain’t saying nothing she his aunt betty she’s just looking at him his father ron johnson his daddy he saying ron

son

there is no choice you just gotta go

his lawyer trying to lay it out all facts and figures she saying the judge no it’s not judge hopkins but you have to know that he is not a stranger to judge hopkins the judge he says you can either take three years in reidsville or you can join the army go down to the local induction center and join the army that’s three years too

or we can try to go to trial

and ron johnson the only bits really coming out of his mouth from his stomach deep down in his stomach burning a path up his esophagus his throat acidic verbiage of whoa whoa whoa bubbling up tres gravelly coarse river sand suspended sickly sour right behind the back of his tongue

the roman soldiers they gave him wine to drink mingled with gall and after tasting it he was unwilling to drink

and ron johnson his lawyer miss wilma she put a piece of paper on the bench there was a red ex at the bottom she gave ron johnson a pen and he leaned over

pen in hand

the paper it blurred it wiggled in the air like a gilligan island dream scene and ron johnson his eyes they watered heavy tears forming

but he did not blink

he did not blink and the tears they stayed until the dusty air floated by and took them away

and he took a deep breath and he signed his name his adult name right next to the red ex ronald samuel johnson

Jesup, part the eighteenth, army men

and here is ron johnson his momma his daddy they’re walking down the corridor to visit with saint peter himself perched up on his barstool hunched over his scrivener's desk his beard tinged on the edges with splotches of blue black ink dripped shaken splattered a bottle of bourbon cork removed sitting half empty next to the thick large ledger from which he manages the fates of all those who enter who approach who come crawling in on fraying threads of hope never mind that he is

a love supreme

he is old he may forget to forgive us this day our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us

don’t you know by and by the bible beckons to ron johnson

it whispers the pages flutter softly in the breeze that seeps through the cracked window sills begs through and wraps itself around the ceiling fan that spins it round and round and round till it disperses sprinkles down to deep breaths desperate for the slight movement the slight disturbance to the stillness that suffocates

ron johnson he breathes deeply from beneath the white cotton sheet opens himself up to god

he resists at first but the bitch just overcomes overwhelms

and he simply rolls over takes her down from his bookshelf it's up there with all the other books he has he takes it down he likes the feel of the pages the way they flitter fly float paper so thin sometimes he thinks he could

as a last resort

in desperate times

jesus would understand don't you know

as a last resort he might

tear out a page from one of the lesser books maybe revelations or jeremiah roll himself a joint inhale some ink of the holy well kind green bud laced with peace love understanding and grace

and fire
and brimstone
and signs of the devil

a compass of things to come

yeah sometimes he thumbs through the bible this little bible the new king james version he goes straight for the gospels he digs the gospels he digs them most

the gospels sugar that's where it's at

the water to wine the loving of whores the raising of the dead the beatitudes

ah the beatitudes so simple so lovely

ron johnson he scratches his balls scratches his head asks himself where did we leave them behind under what burning bush did we sweep them away how did we go from blessed be the peacemakers to onward christian soldiers

ron johnson he don't understand it

he just wonders where else there is to go what else is there to do except maybe wrap barbed wire about his waist put rocks in his shoes lash himself in the darkness of his room at night oh to know the pain of jesus ron johnson he used to love him so where is she now

come to me jesus let me tell you let me tell you how i feel let me tell you about the stories i love the most

ron johnson he loves that one story that walking on the water thing it makes ron johnson a bit jealous a bit envious in that little kid wanting to have super powers that desire to wiggle his nose and make shit happen he wants that make it hap'n cap'n feeling yeah he wishes he could walk on water slip and slide and saunter and two step across the aquifer hip hop hydroponically have the water tickle his toes like the plushest green lawn on a springtime south georgia morning

blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see god

amen bless us all jesus

amen bless us all south georgia

aw lawdy lawdy way down in south georgia

water water everywhere
not a drop to drink
soil so rich beneath our feet
all we do is sink

blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom

ron johnson today this day walking before the judge he is indeed poor in spirit

ron johnson he sits on the bench outside the courtroom him momma on his left his daddy on his right he leans his head back he closes his eyes

oh sally what you do

oh sally where is your kingdom is this your kingdom

ron johnson his aunt betty his momma’s sister she who half raised him when his momma was working over at the hospital his aunt betty they were waiting for his aunt betty to come join them in the courtroom

for moral support for financial support

blessed are the poor in spirit

and she his aunt betty this is her kingdom he knows it’s her kingdom she rules her kingdom down here in this little part of south georgia where jesup is the county seat stuck right here in the middle of the county a confederate soldier a sentry standing guard in the middle of the town square protecting the citizenry from the angry hordes swarming from the north

and she ain't gonna have no blessings happen unless it come through her and this glorious morning

and there is aunt betty long ago she stands at the bottom of the stairs hands on her hips those broad hips those hips plumply plentiful soft and round motherly and matronly sporting a white apron an off-white apron exhibiting a long ago coffee stain a stain brown and splotchy and looking like a rippling rorschach test imagined by some early times sipping driver to be a dead armadillo splattered battered betwixt and about the yellow lines on the back road to the coast not far from the wayne county line run over seventy two times by thirty six cars all in a line on a tuesday morning funeral procession out to the family cemetery

she aunt betty she stands at the bottom of the stairs hands on her hips looking up at ron johnson he’s at the top of the stairs he’s holding a big old cardboard box he’s got a crossman pump action pellet gun and a bolt action twenty two rifle slung over his shoulder cousin jimmy he's standing behind him he's holding a double barrel twenty gauge shotgun and a satchel full of shells and pellets and packs of matches and a big can of lighter fluid

it's a july morning

of ron johnson’s twelfth summer jimmy he's had four more than ron

she ron’s aunt betty his cousin jimmy’s mom she stands at the bottom of the stairs hands on her hips looking up at them she's blocking their way they have no choice but to listen to what she has to say

she ron’s aunt betty she always got something to say the only time ron ain't seen his aunt betty talking she be sleeping in that big old brass bed holding court in the morning hours or in that big old fluffy chaise with the tee vee section of the newspaper folded in her lap the lip stick stained coffee cup on the table next to the lamp

his aunt betty ron johnson’s aunt betty she stands at the bottom of the stairs her hands on her hips she says taking a deep breath that causes her to shiver just a little bit a shiver and shake from her toes to her upper lip her fatty fabric rolling in that undulating way like the fans do at the football stadium standing up sitting down doing the wave she says taking that deep breath drawn from the depths of her pre-diabetic state

she says

standing at the bottom of the stairs her hands on her hips she says james robert where in the sam hill do you think you're going

ron johnson he’s holding a box a big ol box bigger than his twelve year old arms can manage a roman candle poking its tubular presence out into the world sniffing the air like a puppy crawling out from beneath the bed after peeing on mom's new persian rug its wet little nose sniffing for safety looking for love

hell ain’t everyone

several strings of firecrackers flowing up and out bunches of bottle rockets all rubber banded together like stalks of broccoli at the piggly wiggly the rattle rattle shake shake of plastic army men tanks cannons and assorted replicas of violent childhood dreams hundreds of grey and green soldiers posed in positions varied and vericose

each step carefully taken down toward auntie gestapo

she who imprisons and tortures her children with saccharin permissiveness with blissful ignorance with what she don't know can't harm her position within the community can't take away her seat at the bridge table can't embarrass her with idle gossip poolside at the club who tortures them with the blessed sanctity of deep down not really giving a shit because she can't because she lost the battle years ago because the south georgia seventies swept over her in a tsunami she can't get used to that offers no possibility of solace

and ron johnson he walks timidly down the steps toward aunt betty as timidly as jimmy is cocky the son who long ago learned to shine on mom and dad a cornfed eddie haskel taken to shuck and jive well before it had ever drifted out of the hood and down to a grand greasy haired wiggerdom of country fried meth addicts

slowly ron johnson he turns walking timidly down the steps step by step inch by inch sliding past aunt betty mumbling good morning aunt betty she looking down at him tsk tsk'ing saying you eat breakfast ronnie yes ma'am aunt betty she watching him slide on by looking over her shoulder tsk tsk'ing saying what'd you have cereal and milk she saying she looking at him walk on out toward the kitchen she saying you clean up yes ma'am aunt betty

she has all the mannerisms of the negro mammy who stands in front of the stupid helpless tom the cat stands in front of him her arms crossed the end of a rolling pin gripped by one hand an aunt jemima kerchief about her hair a black high heeled pump tap tapping on the formica floor whacks that stupid cat with the rolling pin right there on afternoon cartoons tom and jerry every afternoon that cat gets the shit beat out of it

ron johnson he’s waiting for her to whack jimmy on the back of the head if not with the missing rolling pin with at least the palm of her hand as he saunters on by too cocky for a swagger saunters on by she still demanding just where in the sam hill do you think you're going jimmy he turns still walking backward clutching the satchel with exasperation and a shrug he says with all the sullenness and meanness that a sixteen year old can muster for his mother

we're going to the quarry we're going to set up all these army men and tanks and things and we're going to blow the hell out of them and shoot the shit out of them and then we might light them on fire

and ron’s aunt betty she says red faced she says i'm sure your father will have something to say about this

and jimmy he's sure he will too but that's many hours from now he cannot let the future rule his present rule his presence

and ron he’s waiting outside when jimmy comes storming out onto the back porch the screen door slam slam slamming behind him its squeaky spring wheezing into silence

between the smacks
between the smacks
between the smacks

they tear out of the drive in jimmy’s sixty six impala ess ess the three ninety six the holly six fifty the hooker headers the thrush dual exhaust

and the chrome

oh baby all that chrome

ron johnson he thinks oh lord let’s testify ron johnson he wants to testify

he wants to roll around on the pulpit the preacher putting his hand to his forehead he wants to feel the spirit flow through him he wants to speak his word he wants to chant his word he wants to echo his word speak in tongue to all his creatures

ron johnson he wants his world walls to be solid he wants them to be firm and supportive lawdy lawdy ron johnson he thinks lord don’t let me down send me a message i just want to testify all i want all i need is some sort of sign

a confederate flag painted on the trunk of the impala a confederate flag dangling from his key chain a confederate flag wrapped around their hearts them white folk they got to cling to something the whole world wobbles and george wallace he done been shot

blessed are they who mourn for they shall be comforted

they drive up to the quarry by way of a long dirt road signs at the turnoff stating declaring that it the dirt road it's county maintained the tires spin slightly as they leave the tar and gravel land on the hard pack dirt they leave a trail of dust in their wake

they are two of the four horsemen there are four hundred more beneath the hood

twenty minutes later they pull up to the massive clay pit rolling slowly over bump and bowl the slow rumble of the three quarter crane cam rolling rolling like an idling ski boat

bada bada
bada bada
bada bada

they lug the boxes out ron johnson jimmy they spend a couple of hours setting up the army men arranging the little plastic figures along battle lines in and amongst the rocks and twigs and holes and mounds of dirt jimmy has the green guys from these here united states of america ron johnson he’s the grey the nasty nazis he is representing all that is reprehensible and wrong

it's a dangerous world out there beyond jesup their town cousin jimmy telling ron it don't matter all hell is going to break loose anyway

and so it is and so it will be

ron johnson he set up his artillery along a canyon wall he places a tank battalion moving in across a dusty plain he positions forward snipers embedded in the woods he employs armored carriers and troops moving in from a shadowy flank jimmy he has the high ground he's dug in sort of a guns of navaronne in reverse

there is the calm before the storm there is a silence before the battle

they start with the pellet gun each taking turns picking off a man here a man there a man there are probably five hundred men maybe more they bore of the painfully slow death the one at a time the tick the tock of the executioner's clock ain't nobody going to win this way they begin tossing firecrackers one at a time getting some satisfaction when one lands amidst a group of soldiers in front of a tank alongside a troop carrier

jimmy tosses an em eighty leaving a crater the size of a texas grapefruit ron he buries one at the bottom of jimmy’s fortress lighting the fuse watching part of his wall crumble

too bad they don't make the plastic filled with red goo they want carnage the more they kill the more they want to kill

they twist up several firecrackers and don't even bother with turns throwing them randomly about when they think about it shooting wildly with pellet gun and twenty two jimmy aims a roman candle and lays waste to ron johnson’s front line ron johnson he throws a barrage of bottle rockets at jimmy’s cliff

lo and the walls a'come a'tumblin' down

the smell of gunpowder stings the eyes a tear flows down ron’s cheek he gasps to catch his breath he pauses

between the smacks
between the smacks
between the smacks

blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy

ron johnson he puts down his pellet gun he tosses aside his box of matches jimmy he looks at his little cousin ron he says hey we're not finished we're not done ron johnson he says hey i'm done ron johnson he kicks back he takes a seat on his haunches looking staring wheezing coughing jimmy he says hey we're not finished jimmy he's older he's wiser he whispers his own words of wisdom to ron in the darkness of his room at night

jimmy he ain't done

jimmy he takes the lighter fluid he sprays it all over the battle field soaks the clay soaks the plastic men soaks the tanks and cannons and accoutrements of warfare strewn about them he runs a liquid trail back to where ron johnson sits he stands in front of ron and ron johnson he didn't notice then but now walking down the courthouse hallway now walking through those big doors in ron johnson’s memories when he looks back in that looking glass

when he stares at his soul between breaths of an acid trip he sees them now the little horns those pointy curvy little horns poking up from beneath his shaggy seventies south georgia hair

jimmy he grins he grimaces he tosses a match between ron’s legs

the quick poof of a flame licks ron’s balls

and shoots back down toward the battlefield engulfs the men ron he thinks he hears them scream he knows that now today in the early mornings that time between darkness and sunrise when dreams weigh heavy so heavy he can't wake up he hears them scream

they melt slowly they melt

the gaseous fumes mixing with the hot july day it's all hazy like when clint eastwood wanders out of the desert to begin yet another spaghetti western the good the bad the ugly

they watch for a little while five seconds thirty seconds a couple of minutes some ground cover it catches fire smokes smolders hisses pops ron johnson gets up walks over to the twenty gauge leaning against the car

pump it once aims and pulls the trigger

a holy cacophony reverberates through the canyon through the quarry the number seven bird shot devastating the hillside bits and parts of plastic and mud and clay and dead flora explode and rain down upon them

he pumps it again aims and pulls the trigger

this time the explosion not as loud perhaps they’re half deaf from the first another wave of humanity disintegrates before their eyes another slice of the earth pulverized

blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be satisfied

ron johnson he hungers he thirsts he yearns for righteousness he opens his eyes he looks over at his momma he looks up at his daddy he whispers believe me lord trust me jesus just show me a sign and i will testify

where else they gonna go what else they gonna do except maybe wrap barbed wire about their waist put rocks in their shoes lash themselves in the darkness of their room at night oh to know the pain of jesus ron johnson he do love him so where is she now

ron johnson he opens his eyes he looks over at his momma he looks up at his daddy he whispers come to me jesus let me tell you let me tell you how i feel let me tell you about the stories i love the most

that one story that one part he loves that walking on the water thing it makes him a bit jealous a bit envious in that little kid wanting to have super powers that desire to wiggle his nose and make shit happen he wants that make it hap'n cap'n feeling yeah he wishes he could walk on water slip and slide and saunter and two step across the aquifer hip hop hydroponically have the water tickle his toes like the plushest green lawn on a springtime south georgia morning

blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

their job their duty done they pick up the empty shells they leave the dead on the field of battle they pack their guns and they head on home

bada bada
bada bada
bada bada

a dusty trail in their wake

ron johnson he looks back he whispers oh lord oh lawdy help me to walk on water jesus help us all

jesup, part the seventeenth, screen doors

and ron johnson he stands at the doorway the paint peeling from the doorjamb in little spidery lines intricately mapped here there everywhere across down the wood a bas relief of lake sinclair and what some might call the foothills thereabouts a geographical representation of all the possibilities of all the roads trails paths routes out of jesup out of this place but

to where to where to where

maybe merely simply a medical textbook sketching of the various blue veins plotted charted engraved on the calves of his great aunt louise on saturday morning that one morning that she doesn't have on her thick nylons that one morning of the week she pads around the kitchen in her slippers and bathrobe serving up grits and eggs and bacon and biscuits to great uncle chic sitting there at the kitchen table adjusting his teeth the expectant drool limiting the bond a little slipping a little sliding

hell it's just grits

and ron johnson he scratches a bit on the screen door peering through hands cupped over eyes his nose scored just a bit by the wire mesh perhaps a couple of them just a little bit frayed jabbing stabbing his nostrils a little touche from her daddy the sun rising up into the late morning sky shining behind him creating patches of grey and black in front of him

and there she is on the other side of the screen that oh so thin veneer that separates them that keeps them apart that allows that oh so close that oh sweet jesus that sweet sweet summer morning smell to arise from those hippie chick fuzzy wuzzy armpits exposed beneath the white wife beater that more likely than not is branded with ron's name rank and serial number in black permanent ink where the tag should be where mister hanes normally leaves his mark her hands clasped above her head those little cupfuls of joy and pleasure and nourishment pushing up through the cotton tiny twin mounts of vesuvius declaring their intent their purpose their mission to burst into life she oh me oh my miz sally she stretched out in her full sepia glory in the family room lazy boy at full tilt recline literally wriggling in what ron hopes prays is anticipation the television dancing silently mary ann and ginger dancing on a bamboo and palm frond stage gilligan and the skipper wide eyed and jaw dropped hands in their pockets hips hula hooping they got spurs that jingle that jangle

they all got wood that twirls around like a compass lost on the north pole

ron he scratches on the screen he whispers hey sally hey girl come on now let me in ron he raps taps rat-a-tats lightly on the wood it gives it bounces slaps against the door frame miz sally her eyes sashay over to ron's silhouette pressed against the screen slowly she smiles that wide wild welcoming hello that turns ron's knees to jello that sends a shaky leg shiver from hip to ankle and back up his spine

weebles wobble but they don't fall down

and sally she motions sends smoke signals says hey sailor slide on in slide on over come on over here lemme have a look lemme have a long one come on come on in and ron he opens the door is welcomed by the long moan and groan of the screen door springs

natural paranoia twists his gaze over his shoulder toward whence he came

an empty whiskey bottle maybe old crow maybe old granddad sits atop the partial fence that attaches to the garage set there like some blindfolded prisoner awaiting execution set there awaiting its bullet that one bullet that will separate it from itself

and desire that bubbling bubbling boiling trouble that stirs that shakes that transmits tremors of elastic electricity little yo-yo’s of ecstatic energy up and down up and down up and down his spine down and out his big toe burning a hole in the door jam as he crosses it

the bottle it just sits there like a knot on a dog’s dick left behind on the fence post

and he ron johnson he walks across the room his eyes catch hers she smiles he smiles she lays back opens her arms wide her buttercups pressing up against the white cotton slight stains of sweat spot dainty wet crescents beneath a seaming water source rather than result

or consequence

she wiggles and giggles on the reclined recliner he ron johnson he stops in front of her looking down upon her his young cock a dowsing rod searching searching desperately searching reaching out for her for her love for her loins his young cock trying to break the bonds trapped against his leg by tidie whities and levis discomfort drives him to reach down squat just the slightest suck in his gut to give himself room while his hand slides down to grab wrap around adjust himself to a more bearable position

his eyes never having left hers hers never having left his ron johnson he wonders if this is love he knows that this is love he doubts that this is love he is convinced that this is love he doesn’t give a shit about love he would give everything if this were love he wants to fuck love in the ass and then toss it over his shoulder on his way out he wants to build love in a bottle and display it on his mantle he wants to

sing a love song on the town square love being such a fucking traveling minstrel show comes into town on a friday afternoon with a parade down main street parties well into the wee hours stays a while gives everyone a thrill and some laughs

then sneaks out of town before monday’s dawn

ron johnson he stands tall and lifts his tee shirt up and over his head marshal tucker wrinkles and folds into a crumpled pile on the bare but polished pine floor can’t you see oh can’t you see what that woman been doing to me he leans over placing one hand on each of the arms of the chair the fold of his skinny gut squeezes two rivulets of sweat out of his navel and they slide down the twin trails of pale red fuzz that lead down below the belt loops of his jeans

her arms sally’s arms they suddenly wrap around him bringing him down to her

her lips

his lips to her lips

and she lifts herself up to him he remains tensed over the recliner his arms trembling her legs wrap around him she is a little writhing snake a creature from the lagoon fighting to hold on to get into his skin under his skin

she is a fucking love leach insatiable gluttonous a ravenous varmint that bites and won’t let go till she gets what she wants gets what she needs what she requires to keep going to keep on she grinds herself against his hip his legs his stomach his chest her love cups pressed up against him soft and young and willing and wanting

she slides around his tensed body like the red on a barber pole

they kiss so hard their teeth click and clack she pulls on his scruffy hair on his ears clasps his throat hangs on by incisors sunk deep she he they so hungry so ravenous desire slices off their ear sends it back home in a box with a ransom note

small unmarked bills only

if you ever want to see them alive again

ain’t nobody know what they know ain’t nobody gonna know what they know

and they collapse into their lover’s prison into their fuck cage trapped by their youth enslaved by his cock chained to her cunt they collapse onto the chair with a bounce and a shout of surprise and a titter and a snicker and a laugh

and then for a moment for a minute for a few more they are not a them they are an it a singular organism shedding clothes and skin and sweat

and they fuck

young fucking

animals rutting

flopping in their own sweat

the recliner bouncing bounding across the wooden floor inches at a time

deep scratches left in the soft pine

and they don’t hear the crunching of tires on gravel outside and they don’t hear the the cadillac pull up front and they don’t hear the dying whine of the air conditioner as the engine shuts down and they don’t hear the open and close of the door

metal on metal

that sweet sound so often associated with the end of the evening with mom getting up and going to the kitchen like pavlov’s dog getting down the glass and bottle from the cabinet the clink clink of ice dropping into the glass with mom pouring from the bottle of old granddad old crow two glugs of the bourbon over ice a lift a slight shake to cover and warm the two cubes

and they don’t hear the scraping of feet on the mat the tapping of the toe on the step to loosen and shake free the dirt caught in the loose cracks between sole and shoe

but they do hear the sound of the front door opening the casual greeting followed by the usual curse of the day this time a hey i’m home goddamn john amberlin got an emergency call some knocked up trailer trash having her baby early john had to take off after the fourth hole just as well i was putting like shit anyway hot as goddamned hades out there anyway hey sally where are you come make your daddy some iced tea

and ron johnson is up and off sally up and off that recliner and sally hopkins is up and out from under ron johnson up and off that chair and they scramble for their clothes and ron johnson he slides back into marshal tucker and slips on his jeans and boots as he hustles out the back screen door sally hopkins chasing after him stopping at the door to catch the screen keep it from slamming with one hand as she slides into her shorts in the other

and she looks back and there on the floor are ron johnson’s underwear and she knows they are his because ron johnson his momma had written his name in big bold black letters over the tag in the back and sally her eyes are locked on ron johnson’s name and when they let loose of those drawers she looks up and sees her daddy judge hopkins sees his eyes themselves are locked on ron johnson’s name

and judge hopkins he doesn’t say a thing and after a minute a full sixty second count he just walks back into the kitchen picks the receiver up off the wall phone and punches in a few numbers and stands there

later sally hopkins when she would see ron johnson next maybe two maybe three days on sally hopkins she would tell ron johnson that the only thing her daddy said into that phone were

hey charlie this is judge hopkins

yeah

yeah say charlie do me a favor send a car on around here will you

yeah that’s right

my place

yeah that’s right

thanks charlie you tell that sweet wife of yours i said hello all right now good bye

and he judge hopkins he walks back into the sun room he leans over he picks up ron johnson’s drawers he balls them up puts them in his front golf pants pocket and he walks out the back door to watch ron johnson unload the truck

and wait for the patrol car to come on around

Jesup, part the sixteenth, monday monday

and it’s monday it’s a monday in june and ron is at work he's not working but he's there occupying space and time there at his at his place of summer employment working for bobby's daddy bobby of the shirtless double bird bobby of the double yellow line crossing bobby whose daddy owns the place bobby who will one day maybe if he lives if he stays out of jail if he if he if he

yeah maybe

it’s a fucking roll of the dice a game of chance a draw of the short straw a flip of the coin an unknown algorithm decided configured perfected by that nameless godhead that master architect of intelligent design who weaves our collective and individual fates into the fabric of time

god is a baptist but jesus was an accident an unintended consequence suffering six sigmas don’t you know perfection rests on the most fragile of variables

desideratum demands diligence

but death is easy it’s the blink of an eye the snap of the fingers the slight distraction from detail a drunken detour right when the lane leans left a culvert pipe its mouth open like jonah’s whale

and ron he’s at work on this monday this post-hallucinatory float atop a sea of worry and hope and ron he’s out back in the warehouse sitting back leaning back on a stack of big rectangular bags of peat moss laid this way and that in a makeshift lazy boy recliner the dried peat puffing out through tiny air holes each time he moves each time he fidgets he relaxes rather ron he simply reflects watching the morning clock tick tock if he smoked he'd be smoking if he did heroin if he even knew where to buy heroin if he knew one could really buy heroin here in jesup he'd probably be running it up floating back down like scooby-do do on saturday mornings after his scooby snack floating away doing that magic carpet ride up and out of town but the clock it ticks it tocks one slow second after the other some balzacian reminder of anticipated guilt he ron he wastes time his time his boss's time his boss's money time is money he ron he relaxes finds his zone finds that daytime should be nighttime rhythm infusing his post weekend tripster ennui with long lip pursing sips from the warm and now melted grape slurpee picked up from the suwannee swiftee this morning when he stopped for gas the syrupy stickiness of the concoction wrought upon this earth by refugees from the coca cola gulag a nehi dynasty dancing on his tongue like the bare feet of a dozen sugar cane workers just in from a hot afternoon of burning off the field

his lips smack but not with anything close to enjoyment

not that anything might ease these maudlin monday morning blues as he sits back leans back beneath the slow hypnotic twirl of one of the several overhead fans that celebrate the ceiling hanging from the rafters on long galvanized pipe he tries to follow the one blade afflicted with the moldy silvery sheen of duct tape wrapped round its midsection a nigger rigged splint that limps round and round and round but he gets dizzy and closes his eyes

only to be awakened seconds minutes hours days weeks later by the crackling cackling of bobby's daddy calling for ron over the intercom

ron where you at boy got a run for yall

ron his eyes do an ultra slow motion flutter stutter and stare into the void that is this his summer of satisfaction he struggles rolls off his bag o' dirt divan gets himself to his feet a little lightheaded stumbles through the shadowed dustiness of the warehouse tripping over a push broom left lingering in the aisle stops to pick it up leans it back up against a cheap pine lattice painted up all redwood not so different from not unlike the one town whore that might show up on a friday saturday night at the cocktail lounge off the lobby of the king of the road motor inn at the edge of town

he goes up to the register at the front of the store bobby's daddy hands him a handwritten ink and tobacco stained invoice says begins to say stops pauses leans over lets loose with a long stringy slinky spit into the white plastic bucket next to the counter a white bucket already spotted from rim to bottom already having been the recipient of a thousand and twelve shots some on the money some drunkenly hitting the edge splitting the difference bobby's daddy he hands him an invoice says

hey now

pauses fist touched to chest assisting a slight silent gaseous emission says

fill out this here order load up the truck take it on out yonder to the hopkins place

he says bobby's daddy he says the judge he ain't home said he wouldn't be home probably off spending our tax money on a high priority guv'mint mission to the golf course

bobby's daddy he spits says rather mumbles as he turns says

goddamned lawyers

ron he looks a little confused he starts to ask

stops

waits for bobby's daddy to spit

ron he says so if he ain't home where you think he wants me to heft it

bobby's daddy he spits again an irritating ping into the bucket lets drop the whole used up chaw in behind it with a flat plop he says hell boy don't you go to college to learn or you just up there wastin' your daddy's money smokin' that mary-wanna

bobby's daddy hands now on hips shaking his head he says

shit

he says

hell just unload it stack it all up on the side of the garage

ron he takes the list he studies the list bobby's daddy he wanders out front to have himself another chew he leans over his little foil pack of red man opens his jaw shovels shredded tobacco product into his mouth back up into his cheek packs it in until it's full using his fingers to stuff it all up pack it all up

a long dark thick stream yo yo'ing out between his lips down down bouncing up down down slowly down a little further bouncing up dripping down dancing on the bungee cord a little further til he bobby's daddy he grits his teeth tightens his lips just a bit cutting off the tobacco taffy pull watching it splat down onto the sidewalk outside

a few tannic drops spattering leaping onto his creased ben davis breeches

ron walks back to the office to get the keys to the truck he stops at the old black phone on the desk dials out the seven numbers one painfully after another too many nines and eights

hello

hey you home

duh

i got a delivery out to your place your old man playing golf you gonna be there i'm coming over

the voice on the other end of the line slides into a slight pause a little short gasp barely audible the voice on the other end it says

cool hurry up and come on i'll be in the day room downstairs it's cooler back there

see you in a bit

and ron he glances down at the list as he backs the truck up to the warehouse loading dock

and ron he loads the truck with a few bags of soil a few bags of peat moss one still holding his butt print like it was plaster of paris a few bags of mulch four large potted azalea plants

and ron he jumps off the loading dock and climbs behind the wheel turning the key to hear a click another click and another then a catch and a whine and a cough and a fart and a grunt and finally a roar

and ron he works the three on the tree and the clutch in two part harmony the tires spin just a bit on the gravel as he punches the gas and leaves the lot

a single rock escapes the rear flaps pops out from beneath the rubber like a tiddly wink

pings

an old tin washtub standing on its side like a bass drum down at the edge of the property painted adorned with the words jesup feed and seed pings it with a

plink

pulls onto the road heads north out toward the edge of town the road that leads out to the hopkins place passes the trailer park with the little fountain gurgling at the entrance separating the coming in from the going out passes fat old mister thomas riding his little red comet riding lawnmower his pale white belly jiggling all jelly roll across his brownish green lawn exhaust and dust and trimmings and lizard legs blowing out the side ron he waves mister thomas he nods touches the brim of his panama hat

the edge of town gives way to plots of pine separating surrounding a couple of small fields one of them hosting a greying wood structure a cabin a shack a home sitting up under beside a tall poplar a clothes line running from the house to a tall post thirty feet away two pair of gym socks a pair of briefs and a thin white sheet pinned to the line limp and hanging contributing to and absorbing the humidity

ron he slows downshifts into second the truck jumps and moans he turns into the long driveway that winds up through a small grove of pecan trees that says gentleman farmer that separates the house from the road running back on into town that splits into a fork near the corner of the house one branch leading up and around the front forming a little circular la-de-da before the faux off white plantation era columns splotched with the stains of this past spring's spider webs the other branch going on around back to the building that serves as garage barn and tool shed

ron has his hands on the steering wheel ten and two the wheel loose and forgiving the tires crunching on the gravel dust puffing up and into the open windows as if the elements conspire to mask the oncoming interloper the big truck moving slowly purposefully on around back up around and next to the garage unseen from the front ron he opens the door with a creak a squeak that breaks the heavy silence of the cloudless midday he looks toward the house

the back door's open