by tankcars of boiling lunchroom brew, bitter and brackish, and by vats of cheap whisky, and rotted by tons of soft sweet mediocre food, he had forgotten the delight of hunger, the pleasures of thirst. Forgotten, though he must have known them; he looked across the counter at his image sunk in glass, sipping coffee, staring directly at him from above the glasses, Heinz soups, napkins, pats of butter. A small brooding face foreshortened by time and inbreeding, a middleaged hillbilly looking at him, reflecting his natural features, his mood, his thoughts.
—Of weariness, boredom, of a path winding through laurel and under pines toward home, the dark cabin on the mountainside with its shingle roof and long front verandah where at this very moment, probably, his father and younger brother were sitting, smoking, not talking, watching the lights come on far below in the valley of the Shenandoah.
The lower eyelid of his left eye quivered, jerked again when he touched it He made a nervous grimace at himself in the mirror, left a quarter for the waitress, picked up the check and walked toward the cashier in her little fortress of glass, tin, cigarettes, candy, cigars and pocket packages of Kleenex. He gave the woman the slip of paper without looking at it, or at her.
“Forty cents, please.”
He gave the woman a dollar bill. “You have any Dexadrine?”
“Yes sir.” She leaned under the counter, opened a drawer, came back up and set a small metal box on the glass between them. “That will be forty—fifty—ninety cents all together. Ninety from a dollar.” She rang the cash register and gave him a dime. “Haven’t you been here before, trucker?”
He looked at her now, picking up his change from the rubber villi on the glass. “Yes,” he said; “a few times.” He was certain he had never seen the womanbefore. She was not very attractive. “I guess I’d like one of those chocolate bars, too.” He put the dime back on the pad.
“I thought I seen you in here before.” She slid open the door of the glass case and reached inside. “Which kind?”
“Any kind, I don’t care. They all taste the same.”
“I never forget a face,” she said. She gave him a Hershey bar, and after recording the sale, a nickel. “Where are you heading for this time?”
“Duke City.”
“Duke City, New Mexico?” The woman smiled at him. She was short, dark, and about forty years old; she had a large red wen on her jaw.
“Yes,” he said. He picked up the candy and the nickel and glanced toward the door.
“They say Duke City is a nice town.”
“I guess so. About the same as any other.” He started to leave.”
“Come back again.”
“Sure.” He opened the door and went out.
The sky had cleared a little and the sun seemed much lower now, spinning like a gold coin on the rim of the world: the restaurant, the parked trucks and cars, the beech trees, the fallow fields on the other side of the parkinglot, the cement highway, the slabs and blocks of Joplin to the east, the truckdriver Hinton, everything, everything visible, was washed and blurred and mesmerized by an overwhelming radiance the color of new honey. Hinton walked blindly toward his truck, unwrapping his candybar, while the cicada in the field and the frogs in the swampy ditch sang hosannas to the sky.
PART TWO
The Prisoner
“There was a Prisoner, dreaming of Liberty
…”
4
J ACK -SON!
Yay!
Have you seen my ole gray mule?
That I has not.
Has somebody here seen my gray mule? Six feet high and bucks like a fool; likes gingerbread cookies and pampas grass, has a notch in his ear and a star up his ass. Now if you done seen my ole gray mule, I’m tellin you straight don’t be a damn fool; but show me where he is and sure as I’m alive, you’ll get a pot of honey from the ole beehive.
Greene, ain’t you never gonna pipe down?
Never!
You better.
Never!
Timothy, you got the makins?
I got a half sack Bull Durham and not a single goddamn
—Of weariness, boredom, of a path winding through laurel and under pines toward home, the dark cabin on the mountainside with its shingle roof and long front verandah where at this very moment, probably, his father and younger brother were sitting, smoking, not talking, watching the lights come on far below in the valley of the Shenandoah.
The lower eyelid of his left eye quivered, jerked again when he touched it He made a nervous grimace at himself in the mirror, left a quarter for the waitress, picked up the check and walked toward the cashier in her little fortress of glass, tin, cigarettes, candy, cigars and pocket packages of Kleenex. He gave the woman the slip of paper without looking at it, or at her.
“Forty cents, please.”
He gave the woman a dollar bill. “You have any Dexadrine?”
“Yes sir.” She leaned under the counter, opened a drawer, came back up and set a small metal box on the glass between them. “That will be forty—fifty—ninety cents all together. Ninety from a dollar.” She rang the cash register and gave him a dime. “Haven’t you been here before, trucker?”
He looked at her now, picking up his change from the rubber villi on the glass. “Yes,” he said; “a few times.” He was certain he had never seen the womanbefore. She was not very attractive. “I guess I’d like one of those chocolate bars, too.” He put the dime back on the pad.
“I thought I seen you in here before.” She slid open the door of the glass case and reached inside. “Which kind?”
“Any kind, I don’t care. They all taste the same.”
“I never forget a face,” she said. She gave him a Hershey bar, and after recording the sale, a nickel. “Where are you heading for this time?”
“Duke City.”
“Duke City, New Mexico?” The woman smiled at him. She was short, dark, and about forty years old; she had a large red wen on her jaw.
“Yes,” he said. He picked up the candy and the nickel and glanced toward the door.
“They say Duke City is a nice town.”
“I guess so. About the same as any other.” He started to leave.”
“Come back again.”
“Sure.” He opened the door and went out.
The sky had cleared a little and the sun seemed much lower now, spinning like a gold coin on the rim of the world: the restaurant, the parked trucks and cars, the beech trees, the fallow fields on the other side of the parkinglot, the cement highway, the slabs and blocks of Joplin to the east, the truckdriver Hinton, everything, everything visible, was washed and blurred and mesmerized by an overwhelming radiance the color of new honey. Hinton walked blindly toward his truck, unwrapping his candybar, while the cicada in the field and the frogs in the swampy ditch sang hosannas to the sky.
PART TWO
The Prisoner
“There was a Prisoner, dreaming of Liberty
…”
4
J ACK -SON!
Yay!
Have you seen my ole gray mule?
That I has not.
Has somebody here seen my gray mule? Six feet high and bucks like a fool; likes gingerbread cookies and pampas grass, has a notch in his ear and a star up his ass. Now if you done seen my ole gray mule, I’m tellin you straight don’t be a damn fool; but show me where he is and sure as I’m alive, you’ll get a pot of honey from the ole beehive.
Greene, ain’t you never gonna pipe down?
Never!
You better.
Never!
Timothy, you got the makins?
I got a half sack Bull Durham and not a single goddamn
Similar Books
