Nitro Mountain

by Lee Clay Johnson

  “What’re you drinking?” Larry says.

  Jones goes over and thumbs more quarters into the jukebox. “Dickel.”

  “Come on, don’t start that. Tell me what you want.” Larry points to the line of craft beers on draft. He stopped serving liquor here because of the noise it caused. Somebody would be onstage, and then here comes some loudmouth, half a bottle deep and thinking it’s his or her turn with the mic. The Hickory’s main course now is music, beer for a side. He’ll throw together a few burgers too.

  “It’s raining,” Jones says. “Let me bring in my whiskey. It won’t cost you nothing. Nobody’s showing up tonight, man.”

  “Must’ve been too long of a tour for you.” Larry turns his head and studies the rain, like this is something he might make sense of. Then he pats the bar with his left hand, the one that’s missing its peace fingers.

  “Too long,” Jones says. “Marshall Mac and the Fuck-You-Tees.”

  “How was Nashville? You make any contacts?” Larry’s always getting at Jones about keeping up with the business side. He lost his two fingers in the line of duty, he claims, and soon after, when he realized he’d never be able to play guitar again, he left the force and started the Honky Tonk. Wanted to put his money back into something he loved. Give local and touring musicians a place to play. At the Hickory’s first show, when he heard young Jones stumbling through Tony Rice’s “Old Train,” he came up to him afterward and said he was a boy he could teach to pick like he used to, if Jones’d just listen to him for a minute.

  “Hell no, I didn’t make any contacts,” Jones says. “Some of the band was still trying to figure out the arrangements. There we were, onstage, looking like a bunch of assholes. That’s how Nashville was.”

  Larry turns his back, takes a glass and pulls beer into it. “You’ll like this one. Unfiltered IPA. Almost strong as that stuff you like.”

  “This shit hurts me,” Jones says, taking the cloudy pint.

  “I was expecting your band to be with you.”

  “The last bass player we had sucked worse than the one with the broken arm.”

  “You had a broken-arm bass player?” Larry says. “Now that’s country music.”

  “It was, man. I hated letting him go. Jerry replaced him with a jazz guy who wouldn’t quit walking the neck—bompa-bompa, bompa-bompa—and he had this fretless stick-bass thing that sounded like a synth. And worse, his intonation was haywire. It was embarrassing. I really started missing that first guy.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Leon. Just some boy from Bordon, you wouldn’t know him. Dude was in trouble, man. He couldn’t hardly even think straight. Don’t know how he played a lick, and that arm was the least of his problems. But I liked him.”

  “Your worst picker’s as good as the band will ever get. That’s what your dad used to say.”

  “I know it.”

  “He’d be proud of what you’re doing.”

  “Maybe.”

  “He believed in you, Jones. And he was right about most things.”

  “I don’t feel like talking about him.” Jones slugs the rest of the thick brew. “This shit’s awful.”

  “All right,” Larry says. “Bring your whiskey in.”

  Jones runs out to the van, hoofing through puddles in his cowboy boots, and comes back soaking wet and carrying a tall bottle of tan-label sour mash. Larry sets out a taster and Jones pours a jigger. “To my father.” He lifts it up and waits for a toast.

  “Shoot, now. There you go with that talk.” Larry brings out another taster and pours himself one. “To your father.”

  They clink and drink. The whiskey sizzles the tip of Jones’s tongue, and he dumps the rest down.

  “I’m going to put this bottle back here and regulate your intake,” Larry says. “That all right?”

  “Yeah, just give me one more pour before you do.”

  “So you’re going solo?”

  “Till I find some guys who fit my playing.”

  “Pretty hard around here.”

  “Maybe it’ll give me a chance to try out some new songs,” Jones says.

  “Originals, that’s what the agents want.” Larry scoops some ice, drops it into Jones’s glass and pours him another one.

  “Right, the fucking agents.” Jones tips the glass up. “Do me a favor, no more ice.”

  “I’m excited to see how it goes for you, Jones, just you and your guitar. I think it could be good. Strip it down, you know.”

  “I’m working on a new song.”

  “Glad to hear it. You sleeping in your van?”

  “No,” Jones says. “Yes.”

  “You know there’s an empty room at my house.”

  Jones pushes his glass out and Larry gives him a generous vertical turn of the bottle. “Last one.”

  Jones shoots the big drink down his throat and drops the glass back onto the bar. This should be a good evening at the Hickory. Nobody here to impress except Larry—good luck with that—so why not have a few pops before the set. “I appreciate it,” he says.

  “What’re you doing tomorrow? You got anything booked?”

  “Did.”

  “I got the Jags in here tomorrow night. You want to open? It’d be only for tips. But hell, far as tips go, you can play happy hour every day this week if you want to.”

  “Might, might not. Thanks, though. I just feel like bumming around a little bit more. Probably go see Natalie, since I’m officially back in town.”

  That’s his ex-wife, who lives down the road. Larry shakes his head. “She ain’t been doing well.”

  “Drinking,” Jones says. “Messing around every night. And, let me guess. Coming over here during shows and making a racket. That song wrote me.”

  “Try not to start nothing if you see her. Every time she comes in here she’s hellfire.”

  “I’m just going to swing by and check on her, see what’s up. Well, that and she’s still got my guitar case. If she’s drinking that much, I better get it before she burns it to ashes or something.”

  The wind sends the branch of a poplar scraping across the side window, which creaks and cracks and then breaks. “There she goes,” Larry says.

  “There she goes again,” Jones says.

  “I got to take care of that branch tomorrow before it kills the tree.”

  Larry’s good at getting shit done. Can’t not be busy. He even fronted the money for Jones’s first demo. About half the CDs are still behind the register in cardboard boxes. And they’re not really all that bad. Ask any of the thirty-three dopes who bought one.

  Jones gets up, goes behind the bar and grabs the bottle. “Let’s do one more. You and me.”

  The whiskey glugs from the long-barreled neck into his glass. Jones sets it down in front of him, points at it and says, “Who you think you looking at?” He turns to Larry. “You gonna let this guy talk to me like that?”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He says I’m too chicken to drink him. He’s sitting right here calling me names. He don’t even know me.” Jones stands up, adjusts his belt and sits back down. “And I just heard him say something about my mama.”

  “Ah, shit.” Larry rubs his eyes.

  “You know what I’m about to do to you?” Jones asks the glass. “I’m about to suck your ass down.”

  Larry walks over, opens the front door and leans out for some air. Jones tips the bottle up to his mouth, pulls it away, looks around, then takes it up once more and screws on the cap.

  “I saw that,” Larry says.

  “Just making sure I can take care of his friends before I start dealing with him.”

  “You need some backup?”

  “Might,” Jones says. “Yeah, shit. I’m down and they’re kicking me.”

  Larry comes over and drinks the rest of it. Jones unscrews the bottle and pours another short one. “This guy’s been talking shit too.”

  —

  The uneven floor around Jones’s stool
allows him to rock along to the music. He’s only thirty but has real sympathy for these old songs. He looks into his drink. Staring through a glass of bourbon straight. He grabs a bleach-white napkin from a chrome box on the counter, writes that thought down and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans. “My next song’s about nobody but you,” he says to his drink.

  “Y’all make up that fast?”

  “We just had a misunderstanding is all. Ain’t that right, Mr. Dickel?” His foot slips off the footrest and hits his Gibson leaning against the bar, knocking it to the floor. All the strings ringing out.

  “Hell,” Larry says. “That’s the one thing your daddy left you. If you ain’t going to play it, put it up.”

  “She’s got the case.”

  “Who?”

  “Natalie. I just told you. I’ll play it when everybody shows up.”

  “Ain’t nobody showing up tonight, Jones.”

  “You’ll see.” He picks up his guitar and sets it across his lap. He drains the drink, flips the guitar upright and hits a big A. It’s almost in tune with the song that’s playing, so he starts banging away and singing along, “Won’t you come to my arms, sweet darling, and stay?”

  “I know the answer to that question,” Larry says. He puts the bottle out of sight, pushes some numbers on the register and rings him up. “Five bucks.”

  Jones wipes his chin, strums harder and finishes, “The hell you trying to pull?” He puts his guitar down, goes behind the bar, stumbles over the rubber floor mat, grabs the bottle from below the register and carries it back to his stool.

  “Don’t,” Larry says.

  With the bottle uncapped in his hand, Jones blinks at him. “I just had an idea: Fuck no.”

  “Five bucks. Or quit drinking now.”

  “Look here,” Jones says. “I got a new song. Want to hear it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what it’s called!”

  “Listen,” Larry says, “I can’t just have you drinking like this. And then acting like this.”

  “You listen. I been drinking, okay?”

  “One thing we can agree on.”

  “So we’re in agreement. Good. I been drinking because I ain’t been playing.”

  “Ain’t been playing because you been drinking.”

  “I ain’t been playing because nobody’s here. Which is why I been drinking. Which is your fault. So. Here’s to me, because nobody’s like me and nobody likes me.” He takes a long pull from the bottle.

  The music stops, and Jones goes over to the jukebox.

  “You better come back to my place,” Larry says.

  “I ain’t going nowhere,” Jones says, “and I ain’t never coming back.” He sways to his seat.

  Larry’s holding the bottle. “Now I’m not kidding.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Jones blinks at him again.

  “Been saying so.”

  “Fine,” Jones says. “Let’s clean things up and head back to your place.”

  “Sounds good. You don’t mind sleeping in the living room, do you? Sharon’s been staying with me and we like to keep the upstairs to ourselves.”

  “You love her yet?”

  “Yeah. Told her, too.” He puts the bottle back down.

  Jones can tell he’s about to get a story out of this old soft-heart. He takes out the napkin again and flattens it in front of him.

  “I’d like to marry her,” Larry says. “If she’ll let me. Ain’t asked her yet, though.”

  Jones stops the pen on the paper and looks up at him. “Bullshit. Don’t lie.”

  “No shit. None at all.”

  “So when you gonna ask? You got a band to play the wedding yet? I’ll give you a bargain.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” Larry says. “When you’re sober.”

  “Since when was I sober tomorrow?”

  Somebody’s banging on the front door and they both look over their shoulders. A lady’s standing outside with her hands cupped around her face, nose pressed to the glass and long, wet hair draping down.

  Larry opens the door. “Come in out the rain, sweetheart.”

  “Y’all still serving?” She leaves a puddle where she stands.

  “Hell yeah,” Jones says.

  “Not that guy,” Larry says, and points at Jones. “But honey, if you need something.”

  Her face is thin and flushed, and she has a black eye and a busted bottom lip. The rain runs the blood down her chin in a line of pink watercolor.

  Jones recognizes her. Where from?

  She takes the stool next to him without even a glance. “Give me a Bud Light.” She pulls a napkin and dabs her lip. Larry levers off the cap and puts it in front of her. Jones lifts his glass. “To the rain,” he says. He keeps his eyes on hers and gets hers on his. “To the wetness.”

  “Shit,” Larry says.

  “So are you playing or what?” she says to Jones. If she smiles, her lips will bleed again.

  “I am.”

  “I don’t have nothing for a tip,” she says.

  “Quit it. Don’t even start. You got great tips.”

  She looks at them and has a swig, downing half the bottle. “I’d love to hear some music.” She points at the stage. “Get up there and pick a little.”

  Like that, from one pull, she’s a different person, telling Jones what to do. And Jones is under her spell. Larry shakes his head.

  “I’ll play you something,” Jones says. “Is that why you came out? To hear me?”

  “No,” she says. “Well, yeah, but not really.”

  “Good enough.”

  “My boyfriend, he did this to me last night.” She points at her face with the bottle. “I had to move out here to the Lakewood so he couldn’t find me.”

  “Let’s get this straight,” Jones says. “Did you come to hear me or not?”

  “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Wish I could say the same for you.”

  “Enough, Jones,” Larry says.

  “Leon,” Jones says. “That’s who you’re talking about.”

  “Wait, now,” she says. “How do you…Wait, you’re Jones Young.”

  “At your mercy.”

  “This ain’t all he did to me,” she says. “He did something real bad to my boyfriend too.”

  “Thought you said Leon was your boyfriend,” Larry says.

  “Well, he was.”

  “Okay,” Jones says. “So what’d your boyfriend do to your boyfriend?” He lifts his eyebrows at Larry, who nods. Jones unscrews the bottle and offers it to her. She takes it.

  “See, my other boyfriend, Leon, was like freaked out by—anyway. Me and Leon used to be together. We started—is this being embarrassing?—we started sleeping together again.”

  “Together again,” Jones sings.

  “While I was still living with the other one.” She looks around. “I shouldn’t be telling y’all this.”

  “Drink a little bit more,” Jones says.

  “You’ll feel better,” Larry says.

  “Will you drink with me?” she says. “I’m scared of being alone right now.”

  She scoots close to Jones and he can smell her perfume, a cheap flower scent cut with vanilla. Her knee touches his and makes his balls tighten. “I’ll drink with you,” he says.

  “So Leon starts getting these ideas? This crazy shit. That he wants to, like, kill Arnett.”

  “Arnett was the other boyfriend?” Larry puts both hands on the bar and lowers his head.

  “Normal breakup stuff,” Jones says. “Only natural.”

  “He was serious,” Jennifer says. “I wasn’t about to get mixed up in any of that. I don’t want murder on my soul.”

  Jones jots down a line on the napkin and puts it back in his pocket. “I remember what Leon was like on tour,” he says. “I could never tell what that guy was thinking. But come on, there’s no chance in hell he was serious about that.”

  “Hush up,” Larry says. �
��Let the girl talk.”

  “Problem is,” Jennifer says, “I think he did it.”

  “How do you know this?” Larry says.

  “I just have this tingle. A very bad little tingle.”

  “You’re going on a tingle?” Larry says.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Jones says. “I’ve tingled before and I’m not afraid to tingle again.”

  “I ain’t shitting you,” Jennifer says. “He was always talking about doing it. And now I don’t know where he is. He might still be up there.”

  “Up where?” Larry says.

  She tosses her hand over her head and points straight up. “Nitro.”

  “Jack’s place?” Larry says.

  “Arnett’s Jack’s son,” Jennifer says. “Or was. Or somebody’s.”

  “I know that. Last time I saw him he was about eighteen, wearing shorts made of chicken-feed bags. Just covered in scabies. I went up there to check on a Child Protective Services call. To see what Jack was doing. That’s how I got this.” He holds up his bad hand as if taking some warped oath.

  “Now you done it,” Jones says to Jennifer. “Getting him started back on the old cop stuff. That’s exactly what gets him every time. Who’s doing what-where-when. Next he’ll start into how bad us young folks are. Just listen. He’s given me the whole speech before. Careful—you’ll get it too.”

  “Son of a bitch caught me with shot-spray out in the woods. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to,’ he says, while I’m kneeling there bleeding in the fucking leaves. Then defends himself, successfully, saying he was hunting. Season was open, I’ll give him that. And I didn’t have a warrant to be on his land, true, not yet. Court found him innocent. And he still ran. Don’t know where he went. Nobody does. I been wondering lately what’s happening on that mountain.”

  “I think that’s where Leon is,” she says. “Something real fucked’s going down up there.”

  “Turner,” Larry says. “He thinks as much, too.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Jones says. “Now we gotta bring Turner into this?”