Appalachian Galapagos (37 page)

Jerry returned the handshake and the smile. "Hey, no problem! I'm Jerry." He looked down at the beaten man. "What'd he do?"

"You mean you helped me and you didn't know?" Wilbur asked, his eyes scanning Jerry's thick
sideburned
face suspiciously. "Shit, I figured you heard '
im
whistlin
' and then you came to help me."

Jerry shrugged. "Nope. I just figured that any guy getting beat that passionately deserved any beaten that he gets. What he
narc
about anyway?"

Not waiting for an answer, Jerry walked over to the urinal next to the pummeled man, put his beer on the top of the commode, and began to relieve himself.

"He didn't
narc
on anything, friend. I was
sittin
' in the stall
takin
' a shit, when that little motherfucker began to whistle. There's lots of things that get me riled up in this shithole of a world, man, and one of
them's
a whistler." Wilbur glared down at the injured man and contemplated putting his boot in his rib. "Not only was he
whistlin
', but he was
real
good, too. Motherfucker sounded like a cute little bird from some goddamn cartoon or
somethin
'. Cute is
somethin
' I can't stand one whit. Like that little bastard Gizmo in that movie
Gremlins
. That little motherfucker makes me want to punt him like a football. Anyway, that bastard
layin
' there on the floor was
somethin
' special of a whistler. Like he done went and practiced that shit for years and now he's
tryin
' to impress me with his magic. It'd be one thing if he was just some average Joe Shit Whistler, but this
whipdick
sounded like an angel. The fucker knew it too, so he was all impressed with his self. Had a glow of arrogance about his
whistlin
'. The bastard."

Jerry glanced down at the unfortunate whistler and saw yellow teeth scattered about like kernels of Del Monte corn. "Don't know if he's going to sound too professional now, man, considering that most of his teeth are laying around him like that." He paused, giving time for Wilbur to laugh.

At that moment, Jerry realized that he had found himself a real friend. He, too, hated whistlers and had often thought of tearing out their throats. The only difference was that he didn't act on his impulses. Now, he was wondering if he should start being more impulsive.
Shit, what gives people the right to annoy me
, he thought. Without even knowing what the man had done, he had joined in the pummeling instinctually. It was as if he knew what the right thing to do was.

"Yep," Wilbur said. "Let's just say that he ain't gonna be
whistlin
' "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-
Dah
" no more."

"Goddamn but that's a happy song to be whistling just before you lose your teeth," Jerry said. "Life's funny that way. One minute you're happier than Uncle
Remus
and his rabbits, the next you're
lyin
' on the floor of a urinal."

They both erupted into insane giggling. When they were through, Jerry said, "You ever do anything like this before?"

"Shit, yeah. One time I heard this brave fucker
singin
' "
Seasons in the Sun
" as I walked by his house."

Jerry groaned. He
hated
that fucking song. He had also gotten violent when he heard music that he didn't like once. One time he had broken a
boombox
over the head of some prick that was playing that jungle rap shit. He spent a year in prison for that one.

"I knew he was
singin
' in the shower
cuz
his voice sounded all hollow and shit," Wilbur continued. "So I tried his front door. Jesus must have wanted him dead, too, because his front door was unlocked."

Jerry broke into a grin and rubbed his thick Elvis-like sideburns. "Goddamn, if Jesus wants you fucking dead you may as well just up and kill yourself."

Wilbur nodded. "Fucker was in the shower
runnin
' the soap under his balls, when I came through the glass. That was all she wrote for that dumb bastard. The angels just swept him away."

Jerry's eyes widened in admiration. "You killed a man for singing '
Seasons in the Sun
'?"

"Well, I beat him first, but yeah, I killed '
im
."

Jerry giggled. "You mean to tell me that this poor fucker was singing, 'Goodbye, Pa-Pa it's hard to die' when you came through the glass and executed his ass?"

"Actually he was
singin
' that part where the guy sings, 'We had joy, we had fun'. Who sings that fuckin' song anyway?"

"Terry Jacks."

"Terry Jacks," Wilbur repeated, tasting the foul name on his lips. "He ain't still alive is he?"

"Yeah, I think he is. You know something, Wilbur? I think me and you is gonna be friends. There's one way to find out. What if I was to start singing "
YMCA"
by the Village People?"

Wilbur's eyes darkened. "I'll tell you what,
Jerr
. It's taking everything I got not to kill you for just
mentionin
' Satan's war song."

"Dear God
Awmighty
!" Jerry said, his voice reverberating through the restroom like a fiery preacher. "It's like were long lost brothers or some shit like in a fucking movie. How about guys who dance
real
good?"

"Shit, I killed me three of them already," Wilbur said. "Motherfucker was out there on the floor
shakin
' his ass back and forth like a girl,
actin
' like he was on goddamn
Soul Train
or
somethin
'. Had these tight leather pants on where you could see the crack of his ass. I considered it a mercy
killin
'."

They paused for a moment, staring at each other with respect and admiration. The seed of friendship had been planted; it was up to them to bring it to fruition. They had only known each other for minutes and they were already comfortable with silence.

When the bar band's faithful rendition of Jimmy Buffet's "
Margaritaville
"
began wafting in through the bathroom walls they broke out into predatory smiles.

"
Ohhhh
, yeah," they both said simultaneously, heading towards the band, their hands clenched into tight fists.

At four in the afternoon, the shadows were already descending along the zigzag mountain road. Dark green kudzu smothered the trees in a continuous sculpted blanket. Windows of shadow enticed glimpses into the forest's interior. Multicolored trash littered the sides of the road like wild flowers growing lazily along the base of great castle walls.

Laurie smiled as she watched the shapes hurry by. Unlike clouds, imagination didn't need to be exhausted discerning the shapes in the complex kudzu lattice.

A large dinosaur was bent over gnawing at a smaller sleeping bear.

What looked like a net laden with fish danced in the wind making it seem as if they were alive, flopping, trying to escape.

A young child reached to the sky like a champion at some Olympic games.

The perfect shape of a 1950s pick-up truck squatted in the weeds as if...

Laurie grinned as she caught a glint of chrome and rust. It
was
a pick-up truck. She marveled at the voraciousness of the kudzu and wondered if the truck's occupants might still be sitting inside having momentarily stopped to consult a map, only to have become captured by a sudden furious growth of the all devouring plant.

Laurie turned to Doug who was grinning like a child. Although humid, Doug had insisted that the windows be rolled down and was breathing in the husky mountain air in deep drafts as if the smell of honeysuckle, old growth forests and humidity were an existentially necessary sustenance.

Raised in the Rockies, Laurie had scoffed at her husband's impertinence at calling these tiny Tennessee hills, mountains. She was used to majestic views of towering snow-capped rocky peaks, permanent and daunting in their glacier-carved clean lines. But now, she wasn't as certain as she once was. The rolling, tree-rounded Appalachians confused her, snuck up on her, drew her in and made her an extension of the forest. More than an experience, it was a feeling.

"Why didn't you tell me it was like this?"

"Like what," said Doug, grin widening.

"The mountains. The forest. This incredible kudzu."

"But they're not really mountains, honey. Not like the Rockies," he said, drawing out the word.

"Stop that," she said, punching him in the shoulder. "Don't make fun of me." She stared out the window for a few heartbeats. "It's everywhere. It grows on anything."

"And you know, I've always loved it. Strange thing, to love something that's essentially a parasite. I always wondered if the trees would grow bigger if it wasn't for the kudzu."

"Dad," came the voice from the back seat, drawn out in an impossible long breath. "Dad," Ian said again, "when are we gonna get to your fishing hole."

"Soon, Son. Soon," Doug replied. "Did I tell you about the time when my Dad and I found the hole behind the pig farm." Ian scooted forward on his seat, straining the limits of his seatbelt. "You know, we really didn't believe that there were any trout there, seeing as it was smack dab in the middle of Bass Country, but my Dad insisted we check it out. The day was one of those non-stop rainy Tennessee mountain days where you didn't know if it was the sweat or the rain that was making you wet..."

Laurie let the male-bonding fade into the background and watched the darkening forest that surrounded them. The edges of the shapes had become amorphous and darker with the setting sun. Goose bumps rose on her lightly tanned arm. The rushing wind teased her ears in a seductive whistle.

An inexplicable emotion interrupted her musings. She thought it might just be nervousness, but staring out into the dark mystery of the forest, the leafy vines eating away at the living, she admitted that it could just as easily be described as fear.

"There it is," shouted Ian from the backseat. The green
Jacob Mountain City Limits
sign welcomed them with a shotgun-hole smile. Laurie eyed the double-digit population figure. "Most of the folks up here live in the county. The actual town is pretty tiny," said Doug.

"Tiny? I could invite everyone over for a party and not have to borrow any extra chairs."

"What do you think they do here?" He laughed.

The forest had receded from the road, graciously allowing houses to be built. These were not the Alpine lodges of Colorado. Definitely not the carefully manicured and environmentally conscious plots and condos of Rocky Mountain retreats. Laurie's lips tightened as her critical eyes took in the anachronisms. The first house was a long blue trailer that squatted diagonally across the lot. In front was a large 1970s era black satellite dish that could easily bring in four hundred channels. Parked next to this was a dark red Trans-Am: T-tops, hood scoop, mag wheels; the wild 165-mile-an-hour ride of the late seventies.

The second house was a clapboard masterpiece of tar and the art of creative nailing. Dead hulks sat in effigy of their Detroit masters, losing the battle against weather and the ever-creeping kudzu. Grass grew in great tufts around the base of each wreck making them look like old grandfathers watching the youngsters speed by. Dogs cavorted through the missing doors.

The third house was an actual brick ranch-style house. Recently built, the shutters were still a gleaming dark green. The matching front door had a brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head. But the normalcy stopped there. If the house had been in a modern suburbia, it would be manicured to the millimeter. Any weed brave enough to invade would be immediately destroyed by the lawn's loyal owner. Yet here, the house sat on a plot of Tennessee red clay, the ground seeming as if the act of building had been a grievous wound.