A Lonely Way To Die - Art Bourgeau Read online

  The camp was quiet. I lay there thinking about last night. It had been a dirty, shabby, manipulative evening, and I felt bad about it. There are two kinds of people in the world: the manipulators and the manipulatees. Last night I had been the manipulatee, and being the manipulatee can take all the fun out of a dirty, shabby, manipulative evening.

  I heard F.T. stirring about so I got up. I felt like hell. The trip from California had been long, and I was still tired. My muscles felt like they had been coated with lacquer. I did some bending and stretching to get the kinks out of my kidneys, and took my soap and razor and waded into the stream.

  The sun had not had time to warm the spring. The water was so cold that the first shock took my breath away, but by the time I had waded out to the deepest part, which was about chest high on me, I felt better. The cold was bringing me around. F.T. followed me into the stream. In Vietnam he had had a bad encounter with a land mine, and the cold water made the scars so pink and visible that his body looked like a poorly constructed jigsaw puzzle.

  By the time we had finished shaving, bathing, and dressing, Truman had arrived. He was wearing dungarees, tennis shoes, and a Leon Russell T-shirt.

  "Have y'all had breakfast yet?" he asked.

  "No, why?" I said.

  "I thought we'd ride out to the truck stop and get something to eat," Truman said.

  The Tank 'n' Tummy was about three miles east of town. The parking lot was about half full when we arrived.

  The inside of the diner was plastic indestructible. The waitresses and the dishes were the only things not bolted into the concrete floor.

  We took a corner booth next to a window. I Truman and I sat on one side, and F.T. took up the other side. Behind F.T. was a planter filled with dusty plastic flowers, which I half expected to see a plastic bee attempt to pollinate.

  The waitress brought three coffees without being asked and waited to take our orders. I knew her, but she did not recognize me. It was the sunglasses again, but this time I did not feel like a lot of gladhanding so I kept them on.

  While we waited for our food, I picked up a newspaper from a nearby table. It was the Gazette, the weekly county newspaper which came out each Friday. Today was Friday. The headline read: "Woman Candidate Predicts Easy Victory." Under the headline was a photo of Jessie standing in front of her beauty parlor, but it was blurred so badly that I had to read the caption to recognize her. I guess the photographer was not used to taking pictures of anything smaller than a cow. In the center of the front page was a long article about her campaign. I did not read it.

  The waitress brought our breakfast. It was typical truck stop fare: fried eggs, country ham, grits, and biscuits. The country ham was good, but F.T., being from the North, thought it was too salty. I offered to finish it for him, but he did not think it was that salty. By the time we had begun our third cup of coffee the diner was almost empty.

  "I guess we'd better get going," I said. "Truman, we need some fishing gear. Can we use some of yours?"

  "Aw, hell yeah. I've got plenty. We'll take a ride out to the farm and get it," he said.

  We paid the check and piled into the cab of the truck. Truman stepped on the gas, and the truck fishtailed out of the parking lot, spraying gravel until we reached the solid pavement of the highway.

  "Ride 'em cowboy!" yelled Truman. He was in high spirits today.

  I did not say anything, but I preferred to arrive at our destination in one piece. Fast driving and fried eggs do not mix.

  Truman kept the pedal to the floor as we returned to town. Fortunately, there was no traffic this time of the morning. We stopped at Lou Young's to pick up a six-pack of Old Blue to ease the thirst from the salty country ham. Lou Young was not around, and Hulan was minding the store. We walked back to the meat counter, where Hulan was singing "The Old Rugged Cross" while he was cutting up some pork chops.

  He looked like a fleshy Don Knotts, tall and lanky with a prominent Adam's apple sticking out over his bow tie. People were always amazed when they heard him sing. He had a deep, rich voice. When he was not butchering for Lou Young, he was a part-time gospel singer.

  We paid for our beer and left. After crossing the railroad tracks, we drove for about a mile. The entrance to the farm was marked by a white mailbox. The driveway wound past Truman's parents' house, and skirted the edge of a large cornfield until it finally ended at Truman's.

  The house had once been white, but the paint had faded to a dull gray. An unscreened porch ran the length of the front of the house. The paint was peeling off its supporting posts. A few pieces of old lawn furniture were scattered about, and a stack of firewood leaned against an old refrigerator.

  In the yard,. another old pickup truck rusted away on blocks, its rims and tires gone to provide rolling stock for something else, its usefulness ended.

  The living room was filled with old furniture whose stuffing showed through the worn corners. It was a hand-me-down house, and looked it. I sat down in a large chair, and F.T. sat down at one end of the couch. The coffee table in front of him was littered with empty beer cans and ashtrays filled to overflowing.

  When Truman returned from the kitchen, I jokingly said, "To look at this place, you would never know that he is the son of the people who live in that pretty white house we passed coming in."

  "Ain't that the God's honest truth," said F.T.

  "That's all right, just go ahead and run down the old place, but I like it. It's got that lived-in look," said Truman.

  "You're right about that. It certainly does look lived in," l said.

  "Of course it looks lived in. That's because it is lived in. You won't stop in at my fooks' place and be offered a cold beer. Nossir, you won't stop in there and put your feet up on the coffee table and watch the ball game on Sunday. That's because their place isn't lived in. As soon as you get comfortable there, my mother is picking you up and dusting under you. But the worst thing about their place is that you can't play your music," said Truman as he selected a record from several cardboard boxes full of record albums.

  There was a loud scratching noise as the phonograph needle worked its way through the outer grooves toward the music, and then the room was filled with the thunder of ZZ Top. The loudness of the music made F.T. jump. He tried to settle back down, but Truman had the throttle of the stereo wide open, and the noise level was loud enough to rattle coffin lids under six feet of dirt. The music made the ashtrays and beer cans on the coffee table move around like they were dancing.

  Pointing to F.T., Truman yelled, "Snake, F.T. don't like music much, does he?"

  "What makes you say that?" I yelled.

  "He just don't look happy," yelled Truman.

  "Is that right, F.T.?" I yelled.

  "What did you say?" yelled F.T. "I can't hear a thing for the goddam music."

  Chapter 7

  My ears were still ringing when we got back to the goat shed. Truman put two six-packs of Old Blue in the stream to cool while F.T. and I started assembling the fishing gear.

  As F.T. tied a lure on the line, he said, "Truman what kind of fishing do you get around here?"

  "Pretty good most of the time, but we're getting a late start today, so it will probably be a little slow until about sundown."

  "What do you usually catch?"

  "Mostly large mouth bass, walleyes, or catfish," said Truman.

  "What about trout?" asked F.T.

  "Not in the river. I guess the water's too warm for them, but you can fish for trout around here. Just follow the stream, where we keep the beer, for a couple of miles back, and you'll find two pools about a quarter of a mile apart. That's where you do your trout fishing. But I'll tell you right now, don't waste your time with lures, because they won't hit them," said Truman.

  "What will they hit?" asked F.T.

  "Most of the time, not much of anything. They've been fished too much, and the ones that are left are pretty smart. Occasionally, you'll get one with canned corn, but that's about all t
hey'll ever hit."

  "Canned corn? What the hell are you talking about?" said F.T.

  "All the trout in that stream were raised on trout farms by the state fish-and-game people, and they fed them canned corn when they were small," said Truman.

  "Snake, did you hear that?" asked F.T.

  "Sure, I've always known that," I said.

  "I was just checking. Truman looks like the type that would pull your leg a little bit," said F.T.

  F.T. and I changed into bright-red gym shorts with our names stenciled across the ass and waded into the river. I hoped the fish were colorblind. The river bottom was rocky so we took our time, gradually separating to give each other more room to fish. The river was beautiful. I half expected to see Old Huck Finn lazing away on the bank. Trees grew out over the water. Half-submerged logs floated near the bank on either side. Small islands of mud and weeds narrowed the channel in places. It was good fishing country.

  We had fished for about an hour without a bite, when I snagged my lure on a log floating near the water's edge. I jerked until I thought the line would break, but the lure did not budge. Reeling the line slowly, I waded toward the log. The lure was caught on a small branch. I had the rod in my left hand. The line was taut, and the rod was bent sharply from the pull. I was reaching for the lure with my right hand when I saw a movement on the log. I stopped dead still. A big fat water moccasin was lying on the log, and he was well within striking distance of my hand.

  He did not strike. Instead, he just lay there looking at me. I do not know how much a snake can see or sense, but I was not anxious to find out so I stood there motionless. My right hand was still extended, and the rod was still bent from the pull of the line. I felt like I was in an abstract pose of an archer.

  The cottonmouth moved a little, but he still did not strike. He was not the largest cottonmouth I have ever seen, but he was damned close. F.T. and Truman could see me. They called to find out what was wrong. I did not reply. I know even less about a snake's hearing than its eyesight. This snake might have sensitive ears.

  If I had not been so damn scared, I would have been fascinated. The cottonmouth's coloring

  blended perfectly with the log. Truman and F.T. had waded close enough to see the snake, and they had stopped. The snake sensed them, and his coils began shifting and changing constantly from the excitement. Watching him was almost hypnotic. It was easy to see why the snake had been picked for that business at the Garden of Eden.

  Standing in this strained position was beginning to tire me. The muscles in my back were starting to burn from the strain, and my feet were on submerged rocks whose position could shift at any time.

  I was sure that I had not been standing there more than five minutes, but it seemed like at least two hours. I was sweating, and a stray drop or two had gotten onto the lens of my glasses, leaving a blurred track across my vision.

  Slowly I began to move my right hand. I was trying to move smoothly, but my muscles were so strained that each move seemed jerky. It took damn near forever, but finally I got my hand out of the way without being bitten. Then I began to slowly back away from the log, releasing line from the reel until I was far enough away to cut the line. When I cut the line, the sudden release of tension caused the little branch to rattle. The snake slid into the water and swam for shore. I almost laughed. He had been scared, too.

  "Goddam, that was a big snake. Are you all right?" said F.T.

  "Yeah, except for getting the shit scared out of me," I said.

  "There's only two things in life that scare me--snakes and dentists," said F.T.

  I did not have the heart to tell him that we did not have much in the way of dentistry around Cannibal Springs, but we did have plenty of snakes: timber rattlers, copperheads, and lots of cottonmouths.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday the fish were finally biting, and we caught more than we needed in less than an hour. After supper we decided to go into town for a little honky tonkin' at the First National Bar & Grill. There are only two things to do in Cannibal Springs on Saturday night: go to the First National Bar & Grill or stay home and watch Lawrence Welk on television. It is either champagne music or the music of the champagne of bottled beers.

  The center of town was quiet when we arrived. The only sign of life was the winking of the Old Blue signs in the windows of the bar. The rest of the town had closed down and gone home. Buck Hill was sitting in the police car parked across the street, waiting to hassle some unfortunate soul who stumbled or staggered coming out of the bar.

  The First National was doing a good business.

  There were three or four customers at the bar and a few couples in booths in the rear. Virgil was tending bar, and Flo was busy watching someone play the pinball machine. She smiled and waved when she saw us. We took three vacant seats at the bar. I sat next to Hulan, who was busy oiling his pipes with Old Blue. F.T. sat next to a heavyset man who was talking about the upcoming election.

  "Virgil, you know, Jessie running for mayor is just about the funniest thing I ever heard," said the heavyset man. I did not like him. He looked like he worked for the sand and gravel plant, and they are all a bunch of crumb-bums.

  "Don't let Flo hear you talk like that. She's got it in her head that Jessie is going to win this election," said Virgil.

  "Hell, she'll be lucky to get fifteen votes, and I doubt if she'll get that many. I don't think we've got fifteen people with that little sense in this town. Even my wife is against her. Just the other day we were talking, and she was saying that she couldn't understand why any woman would want to get involved in politics. It has got to be too rough on their health. You know something? She's right, goddamit. It has got to be too rough on their health. Hell, it's a known fact that women can't stand the strain like men can. Their plumbing just can't take it. She wouldn't be in office more than six months before we would be paying for her hysterectomy. That's a fifty-cent word, ain't it Virgil? You know what a hiss-toe-wreck-toe-me is? That's where they operate on her and cut out everything except the box you come in. Hell, she ain't even half a woman when they finish."

  F.T. leaned over to me and said, "This fat fuck next to me is beginning to irritate me, and if he don't watch it, I'm going to hand him his ass on a plank."

  "Don't worry about him. He's harmless. He's just blowing off a little steam," I said.

  And he continued to blow off steam.

  "The doctor told my wife she needed one of those hysterectomies once. I told her I'd see her dead first before I'd let him turn her into half a woman. Well, when she heard that, she stood right up for herself and told the doc she wasn't going to have no operation. Told him right to his face she did. She said all he wanted was the money for cutting her open. When he heard that I thought he'd bust a gut, but instead, he just said he thought some pills would help. So he gave her these big yellow pills she takes every day. But I don't think they do much good because for about two years now she's been on the rag at least three weeks out of four. And believe me, it's mighty goddam rough on me with her bleeding all the time, and me having to pay for all that goddam worthless medicine.

  "Shit, it's just about impossible for a man to get ahead these days if he's got a wife. That old business about two living as cheap as one is pure bullshit. Probably started by some woman looking for a free ride. If I were single, I'd be saving all kinds of money. But hell, I can't get nothing aside. Not one lousy goddam dollar. If it's not one thing then it's another. Just the other day, after all those medical bills, she started on me about her getting her hair done. I asked what the hell she wanted to do that for, and you know what she said? She wanted to look pretty. A lot of goddam good that does me when she's bleeding all the time."

  "Well, you know what they say—" said Virgil.

  "No, what?" asked the man.

  "A new hairdo is just about the best medicine you can give a woman. It might do her a world of good. You know how a woman likes to get all prettied up."

  The heavyset m
an looked a little uncomfortable and changed the subject.

  "That's right, and if Jessie got elected that's probably what would happen to this town. She would be spending all our tax money on things to make the place look pretty. Hell, I heard tell that she wanted to put up a traffic light at that intersection where her beauty parlor is. This town needs a second traffic light like tits on a bull. But, like I said, women just don't understand the value of a dollar."

  All this talk about Jessie had caught Flo's attention, and she came over to find out what was happening. She put her arm on his shoulder, leaned over, and said, "Honey, we haven't seen you in here for a while. Where have you been keeping yourself'?"

  His tone softened immediately. "I've been too tired. I've been working two shifts, and I just haven't had a chance to get down here."

  "We've all missed you here, and I think your spirits need a little lift. We ought to celebrate. Give me a dollar's worth of change, and I'll play some celebrating music for you on the jukebox."

  "Sure, take whatever you want. Virgil, give the little lady a beer on me," he said.

  I did not know what Flo had on her mind, but I could tell from experience that the poor bastard who had been shooting his mouth off was in a lot of trouble. I did not envy him one damn bit.

  As she went to play the jukebox, F .T. said to Truman, "Get a load of this asshole. He's been sitting here for fifteen minutes running off at the mouth about women, and how they are responsible for everything bad that's ever happened to him, but let him get one whiff of pussy and look at him. He'd eat a mile of her shit just to see where it came from. It's really fucking disgusting."

  Fortunately, F.T. said it loudly enough to be overheard. I say fortunately, because I knew before the night was out, Flo would have taken him out to the woods, set him on a stump, nailed his nuts to it, and shoved him off, or done something at least equally as bad.

  He stood up from his bar stool and reached for a beer bottle.