by Chris Vola
Davis looks at his iPhone. “We’re only twenty miles out. Can you guys try to hold it?” he asks. “I really want to make it there before five. We’ll find a gas station in town.”
“Fine,” Billy grunts. “I don’t know why you’re in such a fucking hurry.”
“Punctuality is a virtue,” Davis says, smirking this lame-ass smirk.
“Listen to this shit,” Billy moans. “He goes from record industry slime lord to Celebrity Apprentice in ten minutes.”
Davis laughs. “Slime lord with a conscience,” he says.
“Hopefully your conscience is telling you to start speeding because otherwise there’s going to be some serious stainage on your imported leather seats, son.”
“Range Rovers are American,” I say.
“That’s what they tell you.” He grins at me in the side-view mirror.
A succession of ear pops and an abrupt climb in elevation means we’re at the easternmost edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Also, we just passed a rust-flavored highway sign that said as much. The imploding rooftops of abandoned farmhouses and charred silos collapse in slow motion, their gutted walls framed by misted, undefined peaks in every direction. Wherever patches of corn give way to empty grass, cows scour the turf like colonies of sluggish cockroaches. Water towers painted with fluorescent advertisements – $20 Marlboro Cartons at the Indian Trading Post! Come see the Most Popular Caverns in the East! Discover the Natural Wonder! Exit 140! I visualize the caverns as a glowing collection of stalagmite jaws, hidden floodlights, an endless flow of pale guts hidden under discount tourist tee shirts springing from RVs, dragging their reluctant children, thousands of digital camera flashes in the dark.
My BlackBerry slides against the door handle. I take it out of my pocket. No 3G or Wi-Fi. One service bar left.
No new messages.
THE OFF-RAMP SPIRALS down to a stoplight, perpendicular to a two-lane main drag, endlessly slicing though the receding hills in both directions. Christianville, Virginia. I know exactly what to expect from this place – a sort of elongated strip mall on steroids, Redneck Boulevard spit-washed in a foamy pseudo-corporate sheen. Wal-Mart, Popeye’s, Waffle House, Sheetz, JB’s Gallery of Girls. Davis pulls into a Texaco station parking lot.
Billy limps into the store. I flip my feet onto the pavement. Even this late in the afternoon it’s disgustingly humid. I wipe sweat from my face, notice a rickety building behind the gas station set far back from the road. A metal roof extends over the front wall of the tiny wooden structure, a big sign that says HARPER’S FRIED CHICKEN & BISCUITS in crude red and black letters. The front windows are both open, letting out the unmistakable aroma of gristle-laden chunks of chicken soaking in a golden tub of buttery lard and bacon drippings. Sweetly artificial.
“Davis,” I murmur, motioning at Harper’s ripped screen door, “let’s-eat-there.”
Davis, filling his tank with ultra-premium gas, inhales the chicken aroma, shuts his eyes. “You read my mind.”
Billy bursts out of the station grinning, gripping an enormous plastic souvenir mug with a NASCAR logo in one hand, a six-pack of Colt 45 in the other.
“YOU BOYS CAN sit your cute asses where you like,” Shayna says.
I assume her name is Shayna because she’s got a sticker that says Hello My Name Is Shayna H. stuck to the fabric side of one of her gigantic gravy-fat breasts. The restaurant is small, a few sun-faded booths near the windows, some tables and a long, warped bar off to the side. An unused grill, two unused fry-o-lators and a swinging door to what’s probably the kitchen. Constellations of grime. A lone customer in a fleece-lined denim jacket sits at the bar, hunched over a Sprite, fixated on one of the two identical TV sets mounted next to each other on the back wall, watching CNN.
“Booth?” Billy asks, swatting at something that had been creeping up his tee shirt. Davis and I nod.
“Now just hold on,” Shayna says, flinging her Jabba-size girth in our path. Uh. We freeze. “I ain’t about to let you set down in here with those,” she motions at the Colt 45s, “unless you’d be willing to sacrifice one for the common good.” She extends a freckled paw.
“Yes, ma'am!” Billy salutes stiffly. Davis and I look at each other. While we’re hunkering down into the rotting booth, we hear Shayna crack the tab, take a long guzzle, sigh.
Across the room, two tetanus-colored industrial fans nearly drown out the buzz and screech of hungry flies dancing just outside the window screen. This is the cartoon version of a million Podunk stereotypes, the what’s-expected of what never really is expected. Good choice, Davis. Right now, a take-out order and an air conditioned meal in the Range Rover’s leathery confines seems like a perfectly viable option. Billy swats at something floating near the open mouth of his beer.
“Have I seen you boys here before?” the now-quenched Shayna asks, hovering like one of the insects, pushing her meaty fists into her hip divots. “Those faces are so familiar…” she trails off, glances at something across the room.
“No,” I say, “we’re from Connecticut.”
“Well then!” she says, runs her fingers through her limp, auburn hair. “Let me give you a proper introduction. Welcome to Harper’s Fried Chicken, home of the best hot wings and butter biscuits this side of the Shenandoah!” I doubt any of us has a clue of what side of the Shenandoah we’re on. A thin sheet of grime blends with my fingertips when I take my hands off the table.
“Christ, Ma, you’re gonna gab these guys clear out of here!” barks a crusty voice from the kitchen. Apparently this act needs more characters. Enter a black-haired, stubble-faced guy about my age with bad skin and thick furrowed eyebrows carrying in three plastic cups of ice water from an unseen side door. For a second I think he’s Middle Eastern but when he gets closer I see the resemblance to Shayna. “It’s not like we’re exactly reeling in new business lately,” he grumbles.
The man at the bar slams down his soda can, jerks his neck to one side. Davis, who had been texting on his iPhone, snaps his neck up, places the phone on the table, screen down.
Shayna’s son finishes setting down our glasses. “I’m going out back to take some notes,” he says to her, heads back the way he came in. “Holler if you all need anything. Oh and try the apple cobbler, I just made a half-dozen. Real fresh.”
“My Kane is fixing to become a writer,” Shayna says. “Spends hours in the kitchen, setting there, scratching in notepads.”
“What does he write?” Davis asks.
Shayna rubs her deeply freckled double-chin. “You know, I can’t rightly say. He’d flay me if he caught me peeking. You’d be best to ask his brother.” She heads out of the room. Davis resumes texting.
Billy leans forward. “I reckon you fellers sure picked one helluva watering hole fer us ta get our vittles an’ such,” he whispers in a something like a not-terrible John Wayne/Jeff Bridges in Big Lebowski accent. “Seriously, though.” He’s pointing at something on the menu.
“This is as real as it gets,” I say, faux-spookily, squinting in the perspiration glare of the rattling ice box just beyond the window. I snatch Billy’s menu, prop it in front of my face. “Private Whitmire, you have three choices. Beyond door number one: fried hog jowl with turnip and mustard greens!” Where he’d been pointing. He groans. Davis smiles but doesn’t look up. “Door number two, salted liver and boiled cabbage. And finally, my personal favorite, door number three: chicken fried biscuits topped in a –”
“Cuntapple!” the man at the bar howls. We swivel around to the tired face of a uniformed man on the TV. Marine Testifies about Haditha Death Scene during Commander’s Hearing. “Rrrrrngh…funkydeathman!” The spindly Gollum creature grunts. He swipes at the Sprite can. It tumbles over, spilling across the bar.
Billy, Davis, and I trade uhhh faces, wondering whether we should laugh or run.
“Abram’s got a touch of Tourette's is all,” a voice says. A not quite middle-aged man in a filthy smock, sunken frame with a Popeye gut and forearms, is st
anding in the entrance to the kitchen, camouflage hunting cap pulled down low.
“You mean the Meth Syndrome!” Kane cackles as he walks in behind the man, carrying three large crates. He leers at Abram – who does seem pretty cracked out – and disappears again. For a second it looks like Abram, recognizing the jab, is going to jump over the bar, but the man in the smock snatches a fresh Sprite can from under the counter, automatic reflex, slides it across the dusty wood. Abram jerks his neck in what might be a thankful nod, maybe an involuntary spasm.
“Sorry about all this,” the man apologizes. “I’m the head cook in this…this…”
“Cockroach hotel.” Kane re-enters, carrying more crates. “Freak factory.”
“I’d have to agree,” the cook says. He pulls out a crumpled piece of scrap paper from his smock pocket, nods at us, clears his throat. “The scrawny flat-assed girl of Kane’s dreams was flipping eggs behind the Waffle House counter. Her legs were pale and soft…”
“Always stealing my…” Kane mutters, letting the crates drop and scatter. “Weasely cocksucker.” He bends down, pulls out a hunting knife from under the bar. The cook, with uncanny intuition, has already grabbed a crate like a shield and is ready for combat.
“Uh,” Billy says.
I finger the last loose Xanax in my pocket.
“Cut the shit!” Shayna returns from the kitchen to take our orders. “We have customers.” The cook lowers the crate. Kane spits, walks sullenly into the back room. Bomb diffused. Go Shayna. Or not?
“So what’ll it be?” she asks as she waddles to our table, her memory apparently as glitch-free as her air conditioning system.
“Um…chicken sandwich and waffle fries,” Billy mumbles, almost speechless from the confrontation, or just beginning the inevitable malt liquor spiral. He makes a good point, though.
“Same thing,” Davis says.
“Same thing,” I say.
“Well isn’t that easy!” she exclaims. “These’ll take but a couple minutes.” She scurries into the kitchen.
“Got any good reality show titles for this place?” Billy whispers. “Should we ask him?” He motions at the bar with a can.
Abram is pounding his fists in no particular rhythm against the table at the conclusion of a news segment exposing a Boston hospital caught in an organ harvesting scam.
“Not real sure he’s into reality,” Davis says.
“Pisscola…livertits!” Abram shrieks.
“I hope the chicken is worth it,” I whisper.
“If it’s half as good as it smells,” Billy says, “I think we’ll be fine.” He slurps the remains of his third can. The monotone inflections of a female newscaster. I lean forward, unstick myself from the pleather. The chicken aroma does smell good, but I’m starting to feel more than a little tired, more than a little sick of all of this. I take out my BlackBerry and scan the recent texts, of which there are none. Is Lauren eating at some quaint little Michelin-starred Armenian-Zimbabwe fusion bistro with John?
“Not that either of you care,” Davis says, finally finished beating off his phone, “but I want to give you some specifics about who we’re going to be dealing with down here. The guy’s name is Titus, Titus Urban. Went to Wharton with my father in the sixties. Got into coffee beans after that.”
No, I hadn’t thought about the specifics of where we’d actually be going, who we’d be meeting there. Specifics are overrated. I just wanted out, and I still don’t care. I sink back into the seat. I’m just along for the ride…
“He’s a caffeine freak?” Billy snickers stupidly, cracks another can.
“No slapdick,” Davis snaps, “he imported them, mostly from Equador. Sold them to everybody – Chock full o'Nuts, Dunkin’ Donuts. Bought a ton of land around this town, works out of a compound he built in one of the mountains.”
“Slapdick,” Billy says, “that’s awesome.”
“Why here?” I ask as Kane steps in from the back room, hocks another loogie on the floor. Billy giggles, chugs. There’s something oddly nervous about it.
“I guess he grew up around here,” Davis says, “I don’t know. He’s outdoorsy. Neo-Luddite and whatnot. But he’s treated me like a godson, took me and my cousins on fishing trips to Central America in his plane, sends me a card (no check) on my birthday. When I graduated high school, he told me that if I ever needed anything, to come and see him about it first. He and my father haven’t kept in close enough contact the last few years to for him to be aware of my current situation. Like I said, he doesn’t even have an email address. I’m pretty sure.”
“And so,” I say, “you’re just going to stroll up to this reclusive uncle-figure’s compound, ask him for what, a couple thousand dollars just for showing up and playing grab-ass for old time’s sake? Smart tactic.”
“Obviously it’s not that simple,” Davis says, a little annoyed. “This guy loves me.” Billy kicks me under the table, mouths the words altar boy. “I also brought a PowerPoint presentation and you two.”
PowerPoint? “First of all,” I say, “I want as little to do with any of this as possible. I’m happy to wait in the car. Take this ray of marketable drunk joy in with you, see what happens when he boots malt liquor in the compound. By the way, where are we staying tonight? That Marriott we passed?”
“Fuck you,” Billy says to neither of us, slobbering a little, done with beer number four, maintaining a sprinter’s clip.
“Not only that,” I continue, “but I haven’t taken a shower since yesterday morning. We smell like shit. And a PowerPoint presentation? Way to be cutting-edge, bro.” The asshole routine seems warranted here. Or the Tryptan's wearing off in a way I don’t care to think about.
“Not a big issue,” Davis says. “My spiel will look a whole lot more justifiable than if I just walked in by myself. Strength in numbers, right? Titus won’t be concerned with appearances, believe me. He cuts through the bullshit. You stand there and agree with whatever I say. Can you handle that?”
“Yessuh Massa!” Billy throws up his hands, slops some foam on the table.
Behind the bar, Kane mutes the volume on the TV Abram’s watching. Abram scowls. “Don’t give me that face,” Kane says to him. “Nobody here wants to watch that garbage, right?” He realizes we’ve stopped talking, glances over. Uh. We shrug. “That’s right,” he says, triumphantly. Abram spasms. Kane turns on the other TV, settles on a popular game show where a female contestant has to answer trivia questions in order to win a private weekend at a Spanish villa with her choice of two dozen in-house male models. The host is a balding, fresh-from-rehab thirty-something, with a receding chin, who used to be a major child star on a short-lived sitcom in the early nineties, I don’t remember which one. This week’s contestant – crouching on a metal stool in the center of a dimly lit stage – is blonde, tan, balloon breasts, wearing nothing except a light blue and white-striped bikini.
“See that?” Kane raps Abram’s knuckles. “That’s entertainment!”
“Fucking hilarious,” Billy agrees. “I watch this all the time at work. The boss has Netflix.” The woman gets a question wrong and gets hit with a blood-colored pie. A male model in a Speedo happily smears it all over her face and chest. Davis checks something else on his iPhone.
Shayna rushes in from the back room, meanders around the tables like a juggling elephant seal with trick platters, drops three steaming, overflowing plates of chicken in front of us. “Careful now,” she says, “these'll burn you.”
Billy ignores her, bites into his sandwich. His cheeks swell, turn red. He snatches for his glass of water. Shayna shakes her head, laughing. She doesn’t leave.
Davis and I hold out for as long as we can, then dig in. The heavily seasoned skin melts onto my tongue. A beautiful bastard child of Science and the Blue Collar Belt. A Buddhist-like, chicken-flavored calmness saturating from deep inside. Xanax, check.
I lift my water glass and Shayna is still standing next to the booth, watching me. “I figured it out
,” she says. Billy and Davis stop chewing, look at each other. “I should have known it soon as you come in here. You’re the image of my oldest, my Kody. Those shoulders, the way you walk. Strong, too. Look like you’re going somewhere, know what you’re looking for…”
Billy gives us the she’s-obviously-fucking-nuts look. Davis snickers, avoids eye contact.
“Um, thanks?” I say. “But I’m not sure if –”
“Yes, yes!” she hollers, her hand slicing the air two inches from my face. “A studying man, just like Kody, Got something nice lined up in…”
“Connecticut.”
“Right. Nice name. Like to see it for myself. Kody is the one for travel. Got yourself a nice girl back home? I bet you do. I bet all the ladies are…” Billy snickers. I kick his shin hard. He lurches forward, sprays chicken crumbs. This is torture.
“…I wish Kody was here, though, I know he’d agree with me,” she says.
I give Billy a barely discernable half-second flip-off, then turn to look up at her, against what judgment I have left. “Where is he?” I ask.
“You boys look like you could use some more water,” she says. “Be right back.”
Billy nudges Davis. “Not too good with first impressions, is she?” he cracks open his last beer. “You play your cards right, Josh, and you’ll be slapping those saggy tits around the hotel bathtub tonight!”
“It’s about that time,” Davis says, wiping sweat off his forehead and onto the pleather behind Billy’s neck. “We need some drinks, like now. Kody, you want to get us a couple?” He tosses a few crumpled bills across the table. Billy laughs. I stand up too fast, wobble, steady myself.
“Whatever,” I mutter, “at least someone around here likes me.”
The cook has been behind the bar, silent, staring at the TVs. He flicks a wad of Skoal into an empty Powerade bottle, smiles when he notices me. “What’ll it be, boss?”
“Two whiskeys.”
He reaches for a plastic liter of something with the consistency of molasses. “So which one of you is Kody?” he asks.
