Tuesday, July 19, 2016
About dawn the roar of an airplane woke me up. Some fool had buzzed my bunker.
I crawl up the steps and emerge
from the moon gate. A Cessna 180 with a huge spotlight between the floats is searching out the flat black waters of Rat River.
I sat on the stump I had carried to
the rooftop. The Mad Poet had been staring at
the same wall for 10 hours. He was in some
subterranean low place.
It’s almost as if he’s a reptile
shedding his skin, before he emerges again
with a new torrent of words. I’m not sure
how the whole process works, but I think that some lower hell is involved. Some questions…
it’s best never to ask.
Wildman’s sneaking up on me this time,
because he knows I’ll try to avoid him. That last bender that took us to Lima, Peru. That
was almost the end of us both.
It’s as if Bobby takes his own blitzo- monstro holocaust with him wherever he goes,
and we both have irresistible urges to drink ourselves unconscious. But when we add some crazed drug to the mix, a high-octane upper guaranteed to keep you awake for a week without napping…This is when the combination
About the third day we have a tendency to want to kill each other. He brings a hammer
down from the plane. I have a hammer in my inside jacket pocket…in case things get heavy.
Hank emerges from under the bed:
“A plane! he shouts, “Did I hear a plane?” he asks, his voice is trembling. He’s like a kid caught in the wrong boot camp.
“Will you take me with you when you leave?” he asks.
“Sure,” Bobby says.
“Sure he will,” I’m thinking, “Sure.”
The last time Bobby came by ,we went thru one of those benders
beyond all rationality. We very nearly came to blows, and that would have meant blood. Last time he ran at me saying, “I’ll Keeell you!” I had to give him a tap on the forehead to slow him down a little. I hit him with a 40 oz bottle of CC rye. That sat him down real fast on the floor. Then I had to patch the prick up and clean the sticky stuff off the floor.
“You got anything to drink?” he asks.
“I may have a little something tucked away…” I say
I have a quarter of a 250 gallon drum of moonshine we put thru the hopper two times.
When you look at a tin cup of the stuff, you see
little wavy lines above the surface of the brew.
I hand him a tin cup 2/3rds full. He tosses
it down. The expression on his face doesn’t change, through his eyes cross a bit.
There’s no way I’m going to tell him about the two full drums in the back of the woodshed.
He passes me the cup again. I shake my head and refuse to refill the tin cup.
I give him a nasty smile and say:
“Not until you put that hammer down,
on the shelf across the room behind me.
He puts the hammer away. I pour him
the next drink.
“Shit tastes like varsol,” he says.
I nod.“It grows on you.”
I add water to my brew and pour it down my throat.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice
he’s playing with the skinning knife.
* * *