Crapalachia: A Biography of Place (10 page)

I told him I came from monkeys. I was a wild animal.

 

 

So one weekend when Bill went home I decided I was going to mess with him some more. I had people who Bill knew come by. We went through Bill’s drawer. Then we walked around and put his clothes on and we took pictures of each other.

And even better than that I took his camera outside too when he was asleep. The stray dogs were running around again. I went outside and saw these big piles of dogshit on the ground. The stray dogs had crapped everywhere.

I had an idea.

 

A week later Bill went to have his pictures developed. He stood in the middle of Rite Aid expecting to see pictures of his muscles and pictures of nature, but instead he found pictures of people he knew.

“Hey, it’s pictures of my friends.”

Then he noticed weird things about his friends. “I think it’s pictures of my friends with my clothes on.” Then he kept flipping and what did he see?

He saw trees.

He saw flowers.

He saw muscles.

He saw dogshit.

He saw giant piles of dogshit.

He saw giant piles of nasty-ass dogshit.

It was steaming dogshit that would burn into all eternity—as if the only thing that survived was dogshit. IT IS.

That night I dreamed my dream about Ruby and that the world was just one thing happening after another. I awoke and I saw that life was one big practical joke full of pain. Someone was laughing at us. Someone was torturing us. I remember being at Grandma Ruby’s as a little boy and crushing the ants on her sidewalk. I saw all of Nathan’s pain and I saw all of Grandma’s pain explaining to relatives that Nathan was dead. “It’s a debt we all have to pay.”

Then she told me again, “Scott, Nathan is gone.”

I told her I knew. I was there.

She sat in her recliner and she said again, “Scott, Nathan is gone. We have to find some way to carry on. We have our own debt to pay now.”

We were ants and God was only a child with a nose full of snot. God was crushing the ants in the sun.

 

I left Bill alone for a few weeks. I didn’t steal his camera. I didn’t e-mail him from [email protected]. I didn’t bring up religion for us to argue about. I didn’t tell him to stop checking his weight. I didn’t tell him not to tell me about the Greenbrier Ghost. Bill started going back to grunting and rubbing his hands together and playing his music. He stopped taking pictures of his muscles in the mirror. He went back to spraying Lysol.

Then one day Bill walked into class and asked me if I thought I was funny. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.

Then he told me about another e-mail I supposedly sent. It was supposedly an e-mail I sent pretending to be God.

 

He showed me the e-mail. It was from an e-mail address with nothing but zeros in it. [email protected]. It was an e-mail from God.

 

I read how he wanted to tell Bill he wasn’t lazy. He was just tired. He realized now it had all been a horrible mistake—the world. He knew he created not with any plan in mind. He created just because he felt so lonely—that was all. He was so lonely and now it was all out of his control. He said he was an atheist he realized, but only a true atheist believes in God. Therefore, maybe he wasn’t an atheist because he didn’t know if he believed in himself anymore. He said he was Peter Pan. He said he wanted something removed. He said he felt like a hermaphrodite.

 

Bill smiled and said he knew it was me. I got up and went to the bathroom. How could I tell him that I didn’t write it? How could I tell him that maybe it really was from God. Maybe we would all meet in a lake of fire one day. Maybe we were all abominations. How could I tell him that I didn’t write this e-mail, but the world was just a joke, and God was a lonely hermaphrodite who was writing e-mails to strangers in the dark? Who knows?

It had been months since Nathan’s death and I wanted to see how she was doing. The first time I went to see her, she said, “Oh lordie, I’m dying.”

The next time I went to see her it was, “Oh lordie, I’m dying.” I always asked her if she liked living with Stanley and Mary, but she didn’t say anything.

I borrowed Bill’s car and I went to see her for a third time and it always happened like this.

I said, “Well, Grandma, I should get going.”

Grandma told me there was no use to be running off.

Yeah, but I probably better get back. I have school in the morning.

Then it started, “Oh lordie. I don’t feel no good at all.” Then she started crying and said, “I think I’m dying all right.”

My Aunt Mary came in and said, “Oh, Mother, you’re fine. You’re just upset that Scott has to leave.”

Grandma said, “Hateful old thing walking around here like a bandy rooster. I don’t feel good.”

My Aunt Mary checked her pulse—“I don’t know? Your pulse is really weird. Let me take your temperature.”

She took her temperature and it was a little bit high.

So I agreed to take her to the hospital to be sure. I told her I had Bill’s car. It was no big deal.

Mary told her, “You’re just like the boy who cried wolf, Ruby—one of these days you’re going to be really sick and we’re not going to believe you.”

My grandma told her she wanted them to know something. She wanted her to know that they might be taking care of her now, but she was still the boss around here. Little Nathan might be gone, and Little Scott might be living elsewhere, and she might be living at their house now, but she was still boss around here.

 

So I drove her to the hospital 40 miles away. I drove her through Danese and down the mountain. I drove her past our old house Elgie built out of wood from another house he bought for eight dollars. In the winter, the snow used to blow beneath the door. She told me about how Elgie used to hide his moonshine in the creek, but he was usually drunk when he did it. So when he returned he never could remember where he put it. She said there were still jars of his shine hiding in the mountains, waiting for us to find them.

We crossed the bridge and Ruby looked out across the river. It had been raining really hard that summer so the river was up and rolling all full of mud and roots.

So she looked out over the river and said: “Oh look out there. That river is nothing but a river of blood.”

She repeated: “It looks like nothing but a river of blood and hearts.”

So I took her to the doctor and she was telling me about how Nathan had missed her, and how he was crying at night and wanted her home, and how she knew he was waiting right now for her return.

Then I told her Nathan was gone.

She told me she knew.

I couldn’t tell if she was losing her mind or just pretending to lose her mind.

I knew old people used the “losing my mind” excuse all of the time, especially if they were caught stealing at a grocery store.

 

 

And so we passed the place where the mountain caved in a couple of years before and killed her cousin who was riding along. I told her about how just a couple of weeks ago, I went through these old dusty volumes of Fayette County census records in the library—and I found her father and her mother, and that the first McClanahan in Fayette County was in 1872. She cussed to herself and said “shit” and she wanted me to know that she was from on top of Backus Mountain. She was a farmer’s daughter and she didn’t want to be associated with any coal-mining McClanahans who lived at the bottom of the mountain. She told me after Elgie’s death his brother Jason called her and proposed marriage. Jason McClanahan was 80 years old. She said she had one McClanahan in her life and that was sure as shit enough for one lifetime.

 

When we got to the hospital the nurse took Ruby’s vitals and said, “I think you’re okay, Miss Ruby. It must have been something you ate.”

Ruby raised her hands in the air and shouted, “Praise God.”

Then Dr. Mustafa Mahboob came down and gave her an ass-chewing and told her that her family was going to put her in a nursing home if she didn’t stop. He asked her if she knew how many times she had been to the hospital in the past two months. She shook her head no. He told her 10 times. He told her he knew she just lost her son, but she was out of control.

 

Then he told her Medicare was going to flag her. He told her she was going to get in trouble. I shook my head and nodded at her. So I put her back in the car and I took her home.

 

I drove up the mountain towards Prince and past all the old places. We drove past where Elgie sold moonshine and where Ruby used to wash her clothes in the river. And we drove past the old mine, which had a church in front of it now. She told me about how she used to sit on the front porch and blow a whistle when the cops were coming. She blew the whistle and screamed, “The revenuers are coming. The revenuers are coming.” Then Elgie would hear her on the mountain and blow up the still.

She pointed to the hillsides and said, “There used to be houses all over.”

Then she pointed to the side of the hill and said there used to be houses there too.

Then she pointed beside the creek and said there used to be houses over there too. There used to be houses anywhere you could put a house. She told me how Elgie brought home a box of dynamite from the river and tried to blow her up one day, but the dynamite got wet and wouldn’t go off. She told me a revenuer disappeared one time. People said the McClanahan boys did it. She told me they tied him to a tree and put a shotgun in his guts. Then they fed him to a hog because hogs eat everything. This was called a coal camp. This was the true way of justice and truth and law.

 

And as we drove through the holler I could see the whole place. There was a moment when it felt like it was 1930 and I was traveling through time. I could see the mine. I could see people walking. There were houses everywhere.

 

It was all gone now. There were only mountains and a twisty-turny road with chug holes so deep you could bury your baby inside of them. For a while now you had to be careful because there was an abandoned mine shaft beneath the road. The state transportation officials were worried about the road caving in and cars falling down into this forever mine shaft. But now there was tall grass growing over everything and vines wrapping around old shacks and rusty railroad tracks and rickety bridges. There weren’t any of the old places. There wasn’t a coal mine. And there wasn’t a house here.

And there wasn’t…

And there wasn’t…

 

There was only a train station nobody stopped at and the New River rushing all red and full of river mud.

 

When we got back home I helped Aunt Mary to get Ruby ready for bed. I told Mary that Ruby was fine. It was just indigestion probably. I helped put Ruby into bed. I touched her hand and told her I was going now.

 

“Oh lordie, I’m feeling horrible,” she said. Then she clutched her chest. “I’m having chest pains.” I kissed her cheek and I said, “I’ll see you next week.” She told me my grandfather Elgie used to have nightmares begging for the whistle to stop.

She wasn’t dying.

She was lonely.

 

 

So I left and I heard Ruby shouting again, “Oh lordie, I’m dying.” I didn’t turn back. I wasn’t sure we were even born yet. We were all inside of a giant mother right then and we were waiting to be born. Just like tomorrow, at dawn, we will be held in the arms of the giant mother. We will find warmth and maybe even war there.

 

I want us all to be ready.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick
…

 

 

I went back to Bill’s mom’s apartment, and it was all the same. It was just an apartment full of the…

There was Reinaldo who always used to sneak into the bedroom and try on a pair of Bill’s mom’s crotchless panties. She moved out years before, but she still kept a pair of crotchless panties around. Bill used to get pissed and tell him to take off his mom’s crotchless panties.

 

There was the foreign exchange student Tiertha Timsina who arrived in Crapalachia knowing only two words of English. Tiertha had to get married before he turned 18 or he would be sentenced by the wise men in his village to marry a tree. Lee told him, “I know if I had to marry a tree—I’d sure as hell put a lot of knot holes in it if you know what I mean. I’d fuck the hell out of that tree.”

Tiertha and Bill bonded because they were both mountain boys. They talked about Sewell Mountain and the Himalayas and the elevations of the mountains of their birth.

We talked about the town of Lewisburg in the eastern end of the county and how we hated all the hippies who lived there who talked constantly about black bears and healing massage.

There was Six Toed Russell who snuck into bars and bet drunk lumberjacks. “Hey, I bet I have six toes on both feet.”