Corrosion (5 page)

I nodded my head. Yes, sir. I was.

Said you’d had a tough time of it since returning to the States. What with your face and all. Nobody would hire you. You were homeless for a time.

I’ve never felt sorry for myself, I said. Not for a single moment.

He moved forward until he was inches from my face. I felt threatened. I pulled out my knife and showed it to him up close. He smiled that sickly smile. What are you gonna do? he said. You gonna kill me?

Just move back, I said. I don’t know who you are but—

I lost concentration. He lunged at me and grabbed a hold of my wrist. The knife clattered to the ground. I tried reaching for it, and when I was off-balance, he shoved me hard, causing me to tumble into a pile of trash. He picked up the knife and squatted down next to me. His face now looked hard and mean.

You ever seen me before? he said.

I shook my head.

I said, you ever seen me before?

No, sir.

You say your name is Joseph Downs, huh? Iraqi veteran, huh?

Yes.

Tell me your unit.

I already told you.

Tell it to me again. This time he was shouting.

1st Battalion, 7th Regiment, 1st Division. What the hell is this?

When did you serve?

What?

Dates served, soldier! He pressed the knife against my throat, drawing a trickle of blood.

Shipped out August 11, 2004, I said. Honorable discharge…May 13, 2005.

Bullshit! he shouted. Who are you?

I already told you, I said. Jesus, what is wrong with you? What do you want from me? I can show you my tag—I keep it around my neck.

His eyes opened wide and his lower lip trembled. Give it to me, he said. Let me see your tag.

Put the knife down, I said.

Slowly, he placed the knife on the ground, inches from his body. He nodded his head. I removed the tag from around my neck and tossed it gently toward him. He picked it up without taking his eyes off me.

DOWNS

J.D.

522715386

USMC M

BAPTIST

He stared down at that tag for some time. Then his jaw slackened and his eyes filled with dread. He shook his head a few times and muttered something under his breath. He dropped the tag on the ground and then grabbed a shovel to steady himself.

He continued muttering but I couldn’t decipher the words.

Uneasily, I rose to my feet and backed away. Listen, I said. I’m not looking for any trouble. I was on my way to the Mountain when my car broke down. There’s been a misunderstanding of some kind.

The stranger looked at me wild-eyed. I’m not crazy, he said. I’m not crazy. He backed away slowly. I’m not crazy! Then he turned and lurched forward like a wounded animal. I watched as he dissolved into the trash around him. And as a fleet of garbage trucks appeared over the horizon, I wondered if he had really been there at all…

CHAPTER 6

There was this one fellow I worked with. Dustin Fender was his name. Usually he was on the bulldozer, but occasionally he’d be on slop duty with me, shoveling refuse. He had a muscular build and a Neanderthal face. He liked to tell stories; most of them were lies. He claimed that he’d survived a jet crash, set the Wyoming record for clean-jerk, fathered a dozen illegitimate children. He was a nice enough fellow and he liked to drink plenty. Every evening after work you could find him at a highway roadhouse called The Watering Hole sucking down gasoline, talking about the old days.

On this particular afternoon he was lounging on a vomit-damaged couch, smoking a cigarette down to the filter. Me, I was busy working like a son-of-a-bitch. Sweat was dripping down my forehead and landing in my eyes. Damn, boy, he said. You work too hard.

I wiped off my forehead with the crook of my arm. Just my nature, I said. Learned it from my old man. Besides. Hard work never hurt anybody.

Dustin killed his cigarette and grinned. Shit. Why take chances?

I gripped the shovel tighter. You ought to spend some time in boot camp, I said. Then you’d learn a thing or two about hard work. The sergeant used to wake us up at three in the morning, make us do fifty pushups, tell us to go back to sleep. Then he’d come in twenty minutes later and tell us to run a mile in the muck and mire. And if every last one of us couldn’t do it in under seven minutes, he’d make us strip our clothes and lie on the floor and he’d just start kicking us with those steel boots until we were bleeding and puking and shitting.

Goddamn, that don’t seem right.

You wouldn’t get it, I said. The toughness that’s needed to be a soldier. You just wouldn’t get it.

Yeah. I guess not, he said. He rose to his feet, stuck a handful of Hot Tamales into his mouth, and stuffed the box back into his shirt pocket. Then he glanced at his watch. Four thirty. What you say we duck out of here a little early?

Well, I don’t know…

Come on. It’s just a half an hour. The trash will still be here tomorrow. Christ, there’ll be even more of it. We could grab a drink or two.

I shrugged my shoulders. Yeah, sure, why not? It’s been a long week. It’s been a long life.

* * *

The Watering Hole was located out on Highway 52 right across from the rendering plant. The bar was in bad shape. The linoleum floor was warped and so were the walls. The wooden chairs were rotting, a couple of them lying dead on the floor. The jukebox was playing Tammy Wynette, but it was too slow and she sounded like Johnny Cash. There was an old man sitting at the bar with a bottle of bourbon and a wooden cane. Around his neck hung a sign:
My name is John Holton. I suffer from Alzheimer’s Disease. I live at 42 Steele Street.
There were several Mexicans from the rendering plant still in white uniforms and hard hats. In the middle of the bar, a fat man was spinning a fatter woman round and round. She was laughing hysterically, her breasts jiggling like Jell-O. Dustin said: It ain’t the Taj Mahal, but they serve good whiskey.

We sat down at the bar and he ordered a couple of Jim Beams and Budweisers. The barmaid was a skinny lady with spaghetti blonde hair. She must have known Dustin pretty well because she didn’t mind when he accidentally/on purpose touched her left tit while reaching for his drinks. You’re a naughty boy, she said. Then: Who’s your friend?

This here is Joseph Downs, he said, an Iraqi war veteran, and the finest shovel man at the landfill.

She smiled at my burnt face and stuck out her slender hand. Pleasure to meet you, Joseph. Army? Navy?

Marine, I said. 1st Battalion, 7th Regiment, 1st Division. Stationed in Mosul. Still have scars on my face and sand in my lungs.

How exciting.

I shook my head. Wouldn’t call it exciting. I saw terrible things. I saw men come apart from their limbs and heads and souls. I saw children mangled beyond recognition. I saw Christ’s lonely hand reaching out from beneath a ton of rubble.

Dustin laughed and patted my back. Hell of a guy, ain’t he? Fucking war hero!

The barmaid nodded her head and smiled. Yes. Yes, he is.

* * *

Dustin and I played shuffleboard. He was better than me. He kept buying me drinks. An hour passed, then another. We destroyed a pint of booze, maybe more. He told me more lies and I ate them up. I liked this Dustin. I liked the way I was feeling. I decided that I would start drinking more often.

And that’s when I saw her. Lilith. My little hellcat. She came crashing into the bar, a roller-coaster grin on her face, a gangly Mexican on her arm. He wore a black cowboy hat and a black mustache: a real
vaquero
. She wore a rhinestone-studded Western snap shirt, tight blue jeans, and pink cowgirl boots with tassels and silver stars. Her hair was still blonde, but there were fresh streaks of black. From the way she was slurring her speech, I figured she’d been to a bar or two before this one. They were getting plenty friendly with each other. She waved down the bartender and whispered something into the
vaquero’s
ear and they both laughed. I stayed in the shadows drinking Yukon Jack and thinking, thinking.

They sat at the bar for a while and had a hell of a time. He kept trying to kiss her and she didn’t do much to stop him. Meanwhile, Dustin kept talking and laughing. My head was full of unpleasant thoughts. I drank more.

I didn’t know what to do. I thought about confronting the
vaquero
. I thought about confronting Lilith. I didn’t. I didn’t do anything at all.

They didn’t stay too long. Just long enough for a few drinks, just long enough for Lilith to dance sloppily to a Dwight Yoakam song before collapsing to the floor like a broken marionette. When they left, she was dry heaving and the
vaquero
was screaming out a
grito Mexicano
: AY YA YAY YA!

As for me, I wasn’t feeling good at all. I stumbled toward the back of the bar, blood trickling from my right nostril. Inside the bathroom everything was mixed up. The sinks were spilling whiskey, the urinals were upside down, and rats were crawling on the ceiling. I stared into the mirror. It was cracked badly and my face was a Picasso painting, parts everywhere. I slicked back my hair with water and squeezed my eyes shut.

Dustin was standing outside the restroom. Jesus, boy, he said. You all right?

Yeah, I mumbled. Just not used to drinking this hard, I guess.

I was going to drive back to the hotel, but Dustin wouldn’t hear of it. C’mon, pal, he said. I’ll give you a lift. You can pick up your hunk of junk tomorrow.

Dustin swerved through town, running red lights and crashing into curbs. He wouldn’t stop talking. I closed my eyes and slept drunkenly.

Eventually we arrived at the hotel. The sun was setting, the sky a bloody tarp thrown over the world, and the leaves were dancing in waltz time. Okay, buddy, Dustin said, shaking my shoulder. Home sweet home. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.

Somehow I managed to stumble inside the hotel and up the stairs. My stomach was lurching, bile burning my throat. I thought about Lilith and felt good and mad. All I wanted was a lifetime of slumber. I roller-skated down the hallway, the walls swerving from their foundations. I came to my room. My heart gave out. A transplant was years away. Leaning against the wall was a man I’d never seen before. He was tall and wiry with a red slit for a mouth that looked ready to curse. His eyes were gray and his skin was leathery. He wore snakeskin boots, tight slim blue jeans, a jean jacket, and a felt cowboy hat.

He also wore a shiny sheriff’s badge.

CHAPTER 7

He took a couple of steps toward me. Mr. Downs? he said with a backcountry drawl.

Yes, sir. It was hard for me to speak. My tongue was bloated and black.

He stuck out a thin hand without a callus visible. Name’s Sheriff Baker, he said. I apologize if I startled you. Didn’t want to miss you. Night’s slow, so I figgered I’d wait for you here. Figgered you’d show up eventually. Figgered right.

I shook his hand. His skin was as soft as a concert pianist. No problem, I said. No problem at all. What do you need? Am I in trouble? I was drinking tonight. Just to pass the time.

No, you ain’t in trouble, he said. You ain’t in trouble a’tall. Mind if we go into your room? Don’t want to wake up all the fine folks that call the Hotel Paisano their home.

We went inside, me first, followed by the Sheriff. He took off his hat and tossed it on the bed. His brown hair was thin and straight, neatly parted to the side. He moved slowly forward, the floorboards creaking under his feet. He pulled back the window curtain and stared down at the street below, his own image twisting in the glass.

He spoke: Wasn’t so long ago that this was a respectable little town. Good, honest, God-fearing folks. Folks that were willing to help a stranger just as certain as their own family. Oh, sure, there was the occasional tragedy, but for the most part it was a good town. A safe town. A white town. And now…All sorts of trash being dumped in our little town. Guess you could say that most of us don’t like it one bit. Speakin’ of which, how you likin’ work at the landfill?

Fine, sir. It’s a good job.

He turned around and faced me. Where you from, Mr. Downs?

Ohio originally, I said. But I’ve been all over. I was on my way to the Mountain when my car broke down. I’ve liked your little town okay so I decided to stay for a while.

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. You know a fellow named Nick McClellan?

I shook my head. Should I?

He didn’t want to answer right away, wanted to make the moment last. You got in a fight with him a few days back. Over at Del’s.

I didn’t know his name, I said. He was beating on his wife. I told him to cut it out. He didn’t take too kindly to my suggestion. So I showed him a thing or two.