Rohe and Young motored out of Ohio 7 months ago looking for anything that wasn't Ohio. Nine days later out of money, and possessing piss-poor map reading skills, their flight from Ohio ended in the mountains of Colorado in a town called Grand Junction.
This is a true story told in a letter back to Ohio of two guys known each other 15 years, now in their 30's, their luck slowly running out, and neither willing to give up The Life.
In part one night was about to fall and Young and me were settling in for the looong drink…
Rohe and Young: Deep Into the Desert
Part the second
Young set the remaining pallets up in a long line, pressed them into the dust, interlocked and leant them against each other. I just stood there, cigarette and tallboy Colt, watching. It didn't take him long, I didn't interrupt with questions, and when he was done, he was standing on the other side of an incredibly ramshackle looking fence. Looking up from his labors, the sun finally gone, that eerie time of evening just before full dark on everything, I could see the fire behind us roaring and twisting in his glasses.
"This is my Shanty Town," Young said in a small protective voice, lenses winking hell and damnation for those who did not heed ownership. "Shanty Town I said! My Shanty Town! DO NOT FURTHER LOWER THE RENTS IN MY SHANTY TOWN! And upon screaming that last line he turned his attention to the mechanics of beer, cigarette, zipper, and BVDs.
I laughed, killed my beer, walked over to the truck, put Beethoven's Ode To Joy in the CD player, cranked it to the limit the batteries allowed, and wandered around in the space by the truck as I waited for 400 years and 10 tracks on the CD player.
Young came up to the truck, reached for another beer, got me one, "Shanty Town is now closed due to public health hazard-somebody pissin' off at the water works."
I really didn't hear him, my spine was coiling in anticipation; skull slopped in vibrating brain, I was finally doing something I told myself I would do-Beethoven, desert, booze. Oh those Germans! Those voices! If Young weren't there I would have fallen to my knees to pay homage, respect, act out in some small way that for the rest of my days I have been remade for 17 minutes at a time.
We started 2 feet from the music, but as Ode counted up 2 minutes, then 4, then 9, we nudged up closer to the fire, kicking unburnt shit in, talking about the strength of the wind. The fire curled and twisted, sparks and spray, silver and incandescent orange frozen in a fast moving wind. It carried away up the vertical path leading between the 2 dunes on our right. There was this small kinda' ground huggin plant that was pretty much everywhere out there and Young would point with a look! and I would see a small glow, and off we would run 20 feet into darkness beyond the fire stomping, kicking dust, or just plain looking down at ignition ground zero. It was fun. Something to do. Watch me, I can burn down a desert! I! AM! FROM! OHIO!
Soon our fire swath was combusted and then it got really dark. Like biblical dark. I think REM was playing by now and really truthfully this is where it gets squirrely on me.
I remember looking behind us, at those cliffs, dark gargantuan motherfuckers silhouetted a deep dark fuckin' thing against a fucker dark night sky, and then it crept, licking over our heads; lightning. Not any distance to the left or right, but right over us, our personal short-circuit connection to the Dynamo of Night.
I shouted to Young and we both stood there, backs to the fire, facing the biggest blackest thing I'd ever seen topped with lightning like a dancer's fan. It started somewhere out of sight behind the cliffs and rolled out to us eager, 186,000 miles a second. These cliffs, mountains, whatever, ring this town, and to have this happen right over our heads, dammit, I felt honored.
For all its glory, for all it was worth, it lashed three times 5 minutes, and still we waited. Then the waiting got old like our attention span, and the moon came out for the benefit of her nocturnal fish who slouch in the atmosphere, belching, lighting smokes, and cracking beers. Suddenly the place was lit up, could see everything 100's of feet and more.
Young belched, looked at me, looked up the obvious trail we could both now see between the dunes that had been on our right. What could I say? Up he went. Up I went, smoke and beer in one hand, grabbing handfuls of dust for balance with the other.
The top was like standing on the middle part of a W, and I mean one where the center serif is smaller. Didn't see it before, but power lines ran up there, a long dark geometry against the now silver horizon.
I barely made the top when Young started down and back up the taller side of the W that overlooked our camp site. I scrambled under power lines looked thick as my leg, through dust like fine silk, up some rocks all about as big as my fist, finally standing next to him. Never spilled a drop of brew, held a fuming cigarette to boot.
We stood on that hill, and man, it wasn't a hill, but Ohio people really don't discriminate, and looking down at where we were, that fire burning, our place flickering in and out like a bad drive-in movie, I got the wild feelin' in me. I felt 2000 years younger. I wanted a badly forged, barely honed sword. I wanted to thunder down that slope swinging brittle steel incoherent for blood and souls. I wanted to hammer my destiny on the forge of fate. But most of all, I really had to piss. And piss I did, looking at the airport lights, right after Young said: "Hey, man, look, the airport, thataway," pointing, a scarecrow silhouette sprung from dust, and in the dust he leapt down the hill, hips twisting, snowboarding in lineman's boots.
I don't even remember zipping up, just momentum, the thudding sound of breaking earth, then falling, twisting, skidding, moonlight on churning dirt, and I was still moving, at the bottom, momentum with me, roadrunner legs carrying me into the road next to the corpse pond.
I huffed my way to the back of the pick-up where Young was standing all shiny teeth and glowing glasses. "I'm thinkin we need more wood," he grinned, molten lenses surveying the remaining pallets. We milled about the fire for awhile, and for the life of me I can't remember anything we talked about, except Young insisting with a look I imagine pyromaniacs watch clips of the Hindenberg disaster with: "More pallets…fire needs more pallets…"
With such a prodding, and that prodding probably about to become unreasonably violent about having to prod, we embarked upon an arcane series of experiments in pallet burning. Trying to burn a pallet partially by moving it upwind, teepeeing 3 together, etc. The data collected would prove invaluable to future generations of pallet burners, and of course, was recorded upon our nicest, heaviest pallet to be enshrined at a later date.
A word of warning to the pallet burner on a budget: cut no corners using your research assistant as a control subject. 1) He will torch your data just to see the horror on your face. 2) If he is unable to effect complete combustion of your data, psychological intimidation may be indicated: "Ya fucker, gotts ta sleep sometime, fucker. I don't sleep, fucker. Fresh, 5am, roses in my cheeks…put yer eye out while ya sleep, fucker."
And so it went, rampant male bonding UNTIL (and that is a big until) lights, brother, lights in the middle a nuthin', lights winking up, down, coming our way from the base of the cliffs. Registered pretty quick it was a vehicle, but the operator of that vehicle could have been Herman Munster, or less agreeably, some kinda BLM official woke up that morning, holster on the bedpost, realized his ammo ain't been changed since 1984.
I was sweating it, the lights were just above us now, made good time from the cliffs, then down they came. Whu' the fuk? It crawled down to us, a fuckin' 20 year old Dodge Colt, and now they were pullin into our camp site. WHAT THE? WHAT THE FUCKIN' FUCK?
I think many a' trial and tribulation is greeted with that particular acknowledgment: WHU' THE FUCKIN FUCK? Unless the greeter lives in New York, and some quick vowel substitution makes anyone a seasoned greeter as in: WHU' THU' FOCKIN FOCK? Or ya can live here, gamble with the desert, as in: CRAZED MEXICANS STEAL SHOES AND BRIEFS AT GUNPOINT. Two local men were found yesterday wandering out of the desert shoeless and without underwear. Although the ordeal has left them badly shaken, they are expected to recover from severe chaffing within the week.
I was kinda freaked that a coupla' people we didn't even know would just whip in and throw it in park like that. Then I saw Young coming away from the side of his truck; he was waving them in. Well, one mystery solved.
They piled out of their bondo sculpture sort of happy to see us it seemed. Both were young, very early 20's if not late teens. One dude was taller, the other about to that guy's shoulder. Both had dark hair, and although they had some kinda rap crap blaring when they pulled in, neither impressed me as trying to live that pseudo-ghetto thing. Soon names were exchanged, beers cracked, and the shorter guy, the driver, was sliding my Morphine CD into his car jams, which it was proving, was a serious thumper.
We started talking by the cars, closest to the road, and soon I was talking to the shorter guy, the taller dude was yakking with Young, then weed was brought up, and on its heels meth, then Young searched some shit somewhere in his truck and popped back with the 911 joint. Them guys had some kinda coded pow-wow at this point, the short guy going to get the "good shit…no, the shit in the bowl" from their car.
So we smoked and drank and slouched around the fire vibing on the serious bass and horns of Morphine. It wasn't like we all knew each other all our lives or anything, but in just a few minutes we were talking heavy life lessons the way people on blow stay up all night, newly met strangers in somebody's kitchen, talking their most intimate shit.
I recall the smaller guys conversation between hits on the bowl, the joint alternating, wiping beer spill from my face: "Ya always gotta take care of yer buddies, even if ya have a choice in the matter, take care a' yer partners, cause one day, never know, might need someone take care a' you." I burped an affirmative at his "stranger met at midnight in the desert" wisdom.
"So's" I said, crossing over close to the fire, Young and the taller guy on the other side, the light low and deep orange now, everyone creeping in closer, "Who's got the marshmellows?"
I expected Young to volunteer to dig the crap out of the truck and we'd spend the next 20 minutes launching flaming sugar at each other. When I got closer and could actually see the other side of the campfire the taller guy was getting up and moving away, and there Young was, fallen on his side, head in the dust, not movin a fuckin millimeter. It didn't register right away that something wasn't right, so's I set about:"Get the fuck up! We got company over and yer layin on yer ass slobbin in the dirt!" "Reel the drool in, buddy! Put a new roll in the bathroom and clean the ashtrays!"
I thought I was being entertaining, scoring points with the new guys round the campfire, only it's just me round the fire now, I can't even remember tailights… them guys were just…head nod Jeannie blink…gone.
It was incredibly dark, incredibly frightening, right there smack middla' god's crusty asshole. Not a sound. Not the fire. Not Young. I could barely see him there. He was down in a small depression and all I could see was a shoulder and a knee. I think I fell there shouting more shit at him, I really don't remember.
The clearest recollection I have about the next few minutes is one of escalation. 0 to120 in an eyeblink. A corpse is a corpse is a corpse of course, sings Mr. Dead to Young's wailing mother over Sunday pot roast. Wings whuff…whuff…whuff behind me huge like the sky, wings over me, speeding up impatient, a supersonic whine vibrating my skull crystal high C, skeleton strain to burst free clacking, rattling, abandoning the soft pink ship…
I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't moved. Probably had've take a pulse, administer CPR one foot on his chest, plan the getaway, look left, look right.
But Young moved , and did he move, I think he moved every organ not over 2 lbs.
He shot up onto all fours, a 170lb preening cat, undulating waves of vomit starting at his ass squeezed out of him like quash! a toothpaste tube building, splurting outward toward inevitable 2 dimensionality.
Young rose and fell on all fours, expanding and contracting asshole to shoulders, vomit pooling exponentially between his outstretched hands. Compassionately I thought, "Let pukeboy sleep in the truck….Gonna' stink powerful after this…After that sprayin' give em' some peace…" But the sprayin' didn't stop, and in fact, was joined in chorus by a cannonade of farting enough to skid mark the dainties of every man, woman, and child in the county.
I'd never been witness to such a violent expunging, both vaporous and solids. And just as I thought he was getting it together he began expunging in rounds, ya know, like ya sing "row row row your boat"? Something like BLARG! UUURRGH!, BRAAPPP
BRAAAAAP….UUURGH! BLERG!, BRAP BRAPIPPITY…after two heaves he'd look up, arch his back, and let go posterior-wise, regular as clockwork.
And I'm thinkin: "Holy mother a' fuck…He shit his pants…I should drive outta here…It's what a friend would do…"
ERK! HACK! BRAP-BRAP-BRIPPP!
"Christ, I'm drunk…I don't know the way out…"
CHOKE-ERRRG-BRIIIP-BAP-BAP!
Then after what seemed like the 22nd fusillade he began to peter out, like a badly timed engine still runs after the ignition is off. BIP-BAP! Bip-bipBAP…braaapBAP…
I looked at Young, still on all fours, head dangling, vomit coming stringy and silent now, and I knew I had to do something-dammit, I'd drive. It would take hours to drive out of here-up, down, sideways, getting out to check angle and slope with a cheap flashlight, each eye swimming in independent inebriation.
I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, turned around to face the dunes Krista had driven up hours before, and then I heard it…giggling.
It was a giggle I'd heard before, usually when Young was violating a natural law behind a 7-11 or trying on clothes in the dressing rooms of K-Marts statewide. Even though there's little more unnerving than shopping fer cheap gitta-gotta-go-this-wedding clothes with that giggle coming out of the changing booth for 20 minutes, this time it was a cool breeze on my burning concern.
I turned around to congratulate Young on his return to the living, a smile on my face, a butt fuming between my lips, beer slopping sideways out of the can into the night, when it came spouting out of me, the last 4 hours of food intake. Sudden and without warning, BLERK! ERK! I turned my head and up/out it came till gravity resumed a hold on it again. I never thought twice, seemed a mighty natural thing to do, didn't inconvenience me at all.
I was standing there wondering what odd shit this was, wondering possibly if there was more in them dude's bowl than just a 'welcome to Colorado' bud when Young's giggle went up an octave, shouting: "YEWWW PEWKED! YEWWW PEWWWKED! I came closer to the fire pointing out I wasn't the one unable to move, face hovering 12 inches above a monster puddla'sick, an original Rorschach freshly spattered in my jeans.
"S'THO?", said Young looking like a life-size drunken muppet.
I was looking down, barely able to see him, just dim glints off his glasses from the dying fire when he looked up.
"S'THO?" he repeated, voice rising. "S'THO? S'THO? S'THO?" Each time his voice a little clearer, till finally he was shouting, "SOOO? SOOO?"
Personally I agreed with him, 'so what'? He was one third of the way to getting up and helping me pile him into the bed of his truck. I'd drive out in the morning and if he was bad enough I'd hose him off at a carwash before we got home. If God provides few other perks to industrial-size drunks, he has blessed us with the convenience of semi-high pressure washing systems.
I knew I had the calm, the ice cool, the bigger picture viewable hours later as diagrams drawn in the remains of omelets and hashbrowns, empty sugar packets and multiple coffee cup rings. In my mind I was flagging down a waitress and spritzing Young with hot blueberry syrup, the better the check sticks to those whom the check will be stuck.
My reverie didn't last long when, well, Young began to, well, dig. He arced his body out over the puddla' sick, hanging in the air like sometimes caterpillars do, scooping handfuls of dirt over his puke. He worked faster and faster scooping and throwing, giggling and scooping, faster and faster. When the easily moved dirt was exhausted he'd scoop from more outlying areas till finally he looked, as his face got closer and closer to the ground the further he reached, like a hypersonic Islam worshipper….
Next Month: the conclusion…:(ya, I know I promised it this month, so whuthfuk?)