Read Online Nitro Mountain by Lee Clay Johnson - Free Book Online
Authors: Lee Clay Johnson
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said. “About that girl you lost?”
“Which one?”
He nodded off, and then shook his head, either to wake himself up or simply to disagree with the sudden, unwelcome consciousness. Choked by the smell of the chair he slumped in, I asked him to tell me more. He clicked his tongue as if trying to decide whether to play a hand or fold.
“Forget it,” I said.
“I almost did.”
—
Summertime, and our yard was going wild. The mower was where I’d left it, stuck in its own track, and I figured the rabbits had built a little bunny kingdom under there by now. I kept my job at Foodville because the AC was reliable.
I started a beard, didn’t trim it, kept it rough, and looked at myself in windows whenever I got the chance. My left arm still hurt when I tried to straighten or flex it, the muscle withering and the whole thing shriveling. It looked like somebody had accidentally put the wrong part on my body, and I made sure to turn so I could only see my right side. I pretended I didn’t know who I was and rated myself on a scale of one-to-ten handsomeness. When I was honest I never made it past five. But if I glanced in the perfect direction, my teeth spreading below that darkening mustache, my right arm strong and straight, I could almost see myself as somebody worthy of Jennifer.
One morning after I’d just unlocked the grocery’s doors, I was looking in the window and thinking I might be moving into a six when this girl comes up to the other side of the window. I was looking at myself, and she steps right into my reflection. I didn’t recognize her at first. She was wearing a hoodie, long jeans, work boots. It was ninety damn degrees outside. The store hadn’t been open ten minutes. She walked in and squinted around.
It was Jennifer, heading for the dairy wall.
A man old enough to be her dad came in behind her and stood in the doorway. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt. His chest was dark and at first it looked like he had some kind of wing tattoo below his collarbone, but then I saw it was a rug of hair. He asked if he could come in, and before I said no, he did. I realized it was a chest full of tattoos, of chest hair, or small feathers, or flames. A hand-done job, that was all I could really tell. The hair hanging from his head was real, and on his neck was Daffy Duck. Arnett Atkins had arrived.
Not a whole lot had changed for me since last winter, and those moments at Misty’s felt far gone and up close all at once. Rachel hadn’t yet floated to any surface. She occupied a small place in my mind, like some bad dream that wasn’t possible to confront. But Arnett—had he heard I was the one who’d turned him in?
Jennifer was reaching for something high on the wall.
“The fuck you looking at?” Arnett said. He leaned in, and I could smell beer on his breath, a gamey odor from his flesh.
“That girl,” I said. “Nothing.”
“Who are you?” he said. “And why?”
I didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought. I classify this situation NFI: Not Fucking Important. Mommy’s little hunchy boy.”
I straightened up. “What’d you just say?”
“Put down your feathers, banty.” Arnett’s eyes wouldn’t keep still. They were wet and he pulled a rag from his pants and wiped them. He was taking in everything except me, his jugular pulsing through the skin of his neck. He held a hand in front of his face, stared into his palm, brought it to his mouth, licked it. He smiled and revealed a dark space in the side of his mouth. Teeth were missing since I’d last seen him. His bottom ones were thin and burnt-looking like used matches. All the gold in the back molars, gone. His tongue filled a gap and his eyes rolled back like something was moving inside him. “Let’s start over again, okay?” he said. “I’ll give you another chance, yes? Here’s a better question. What do you want to be?”
“That’s deep,” I said.
“Answer the fucking question, hunch.”
Maybe he actually didn’t
“Which one?”
He nodded off, and then shook his head, either to wake himself up or simply to disagree with the sudden, unwelcome consciousness. Choked by the smell of the chair he slumped in, I asked him to tell me more. He clicked his tongue as if trying to decide whether to play a hand or fold.
“Forget it,” I said.
“I almost did.”
—
Summertime, and our yard was going wild. The mower was where I’d left it, stuck in its own track, and I figured the rabbits had built a little bunny kingdom under there by now. I kept my job at Foodville because the AC was reliable.
I started a beard, didn’t trim it, kept it rough, and looked at myself in windows whenever I got the chance. My left arm still hurt when I tried to straighten or flex it, the muscle withering and the whole thing shriveling. It looked like somebody had accidentally put the wrong part on my body, and I made sure to turn so I could only see my right side. I pretended I didn’t know who I was and rated myself on a scale of one-to-ten handsomeness. When I was honest I never made it past five. But if I glanced in the perfect direction, my teeth spreading below that darkening mustache, my right arm strong and straight, I could almost see myself as somebody worthy of Jennifer.
One morning after I’d just unlocked the grocery’s doors, I was looking in the window and thinking I might be moving into a six when this girl comes up to the other side of the window. I was looking at myself, and she steps right into my reflection. I didn’t recognize her at first. She was wearing a hoodie, long jeans, work boots. It was ninety damn degrees outside. The store hadn’t been open ten minutes. She walked in and squinted around.
It was Jennifer, heading for the dairy wall.
A man old enough to be her dad came in behind her and stood in the doorway. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt. His chest was dark and at first it looked like he had some kind of wing tattoo below his collarbone, but then I saw it was a rug of hair. He asked if he could come in, and before I said no, he did. I realized it was a chest full of tattoos, of chest hair, or small feathers, or flames. A hand-done job, that was all I could really tell. The hair hanging from his head was real, and on his neck was Daffy Duck. Arnett Atkins had arrived.
Not a whole lot had changed for me since last winter, and those moments at Misty’s felt far gone and up close all at once. Rachel hadn’t yet floated to any surface. She occupied a small place in my mind, like some bad dream that wasn’t possible to confront. But Arnett—had he heard I was the one who’d turned him in?
Jennifer was reaching for something high on the wall.
“The fuck you looking at?” Arnett said. He leaned in, and I could smell beer on his breath, a gamey odor from his flesh.
“That girl,” I said. “Nothing.”
“Who are you?” he said. “And why?”
I didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought. I classify this situation NFI: Not Fucking Important. Mommy’s little hunchy boy.”
I straightened up. “What’d you just say?”
“Put down your feathers, banty.” Arnett’s eyes wouldn’t keep still. They were wet and he pulled a rag from his pants and wiped them. He was taking in everything except me, his jugular pulsing through the skin of his neck. He held a hand in front of his face, stared into his palm, brought it to his mouth, licked it. He smiled and revealed a dark space in the side of his mouth. Teeth were missing since I’d last seen him. His bottom ones were thin and burnt-looking like used matches. All the gold in the back molars, gone. His tongue filled a gap and his eyes rolled back like something was moving inside him. “Let’s start over again, okay?” he said. “I’ll give you another chance, yes? Here’s a better question. What do you want to be?”
“That’s deep,” I said.
“Answer the fucking question, hunch.”
Maybe he actually didn’t
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