Flying Shoes (24 page)

Ernest felt pumped up by yesterday’s call from Mary Byrd and the last of Pothus’s bottle of Maker’s, which the ladies thought they’d hidden. It was getting chillier and the day was turning bitter and threatening, even a little icy shit coming down How bad could it get? He’d seen unbelievable snow in the Dinara Planina south of Sarajevo—snow that fell in clumps for days, covering tanks, cows, houses. Snow in Mississippi was puny and accidental and didn’t last. Things never got covered over; you could always still see the ugly kudzu tangles underneath, like piles of chicken bones. But now the early night sky had turned that ominous steely gray he remembered in Bosnia—low and solid and not looking like there was going to be any breaking up to it.

A little weather sure as hell wouldn’t have bothered Kalashnikov, who’d lived in Siberia and then worked in some wasteland at the munitions plant, not giving a fuck about the cold and lack of attractive gash as long as he could jink with his guns. Ernest pictured him in his tiny, immaculate dacha, cheesecloth spread out on a table where dozens of oily steel pieces lay scattered like watch parts, or jewelry. Kalashnikov would work at the guns into the night with the wind and the wolves trying to out-howl each other outside his door in the vast taiga, or the steppes, or whatever. In the morning he would gather up a few parts, tying them up in an old babushka, and take them to the factory, where he’d fool with them some more. He would mess with them until he got it right, honing and tooling until the gun became a perfect little piece of clockwork, an artifact of impeccable craftsmanship and satisfying—thrilling—to hold and behold. This was just the way Ernest intended to write his novel, refining each little detail until the whole worked flawlessly. It would be the AK-47 of novels. He would get to work on it seriously again after the weekend. Anyway he’d better get his ass on the road.

Ernest gathered up the things he would need for the night. It was a birthday party at Janky Jill’s, black tie, but would they be lame enough to cancel it for a little weather? Surely not. The Lords of Chevron were lined up, and even though all they did was R&B and rockabilly covers, they must have cost somebody some money. It had to be happening. He was out of here. He had had no fun,
zero
, in weeks, unless you counted the night at the boats in Greenville, where he’d lost a wad and glimpsed his father.

Maybe Mary Byrd had already left for Virginia, and he wondered how. The Teever idea was just nuts. He was encouraged by her call; she wouldn’t have made it if she weren’t still interested, right? She could put that shit in Virginia off for a day or two. Crime always waited.

Ernest threw his tux and batwing of Tanqueray into his MG and stowed his overcoat, hunting boots, and gun in the trunk. He carefully tucked a folded-up Dixie Crystal sugar packet in the glove box. A little toot for the ride back. Backing down the long, rutted dirt drive he stopped to throw back a little white pill. “Godshpeed,” he said, chewing. He was off.

The roads were fine and there was no precipitation until he hit Highway 7. Ernest could feel but not see that there was a little ice. The MG was so low to the ground that he could sense the road slipping away beneath him, tire treads unengaged. At one point he fishtailed, sending him into a cheek-stinging adrenaline rush and a lower gear. The little car righted itself and Ernest patted the dashboard. “Good girl,” he said, and plugged in a Stones tape. The Stones; you could always count on them to supply intestinal fortitude and a surge of confidence. God bless Mick and Keith, although sometimes Ernest had a nagging fear that they had gone soft on him. He didn’t mind all the models—that was good—but all those kids, the health food and tennis and tans, the repaired teeth; what was going on with those guys? Ernest had missed out on the early days; Brian Jones, the incredible drugs and parties; he was just about being born when Marianne Faithfull had done the candy bar thing. He had read about it. Now
that
would have been a party.

The light, Ernest noticed, had gotten really strange, like tornado weather, but that was a good month off. The clouds in the lights of the highway seemed so low, like they were barely clearing the trees. Sleet was coming down in hard little lines, and few cars were on the road, almost none from the opposite direction. Here and there a car had run off into a ditch, or had pulled over. Still, it was just a little glaze—nothing so unusual. Southerners just did not know how to drive on ice. They would try to brake, and they would turn against a skid. Sorry bastards. He was glad his country-boy driving skills were so superior. He took another pull of Tanqueray.

By the time he reached Coffeeville, the dex had kicked in good, which made it hard to deal with the fact that he was creeping along, doing maybe forty, forty-five. What
was
this shit? The trees sparkled even in the low light, their branches drooping. The surface of the road had a high and alarming sheen to it now, as if it were coated with Vaseline. Ernest lit a cigarette and fast-forwarded to “Memo from Turner.”

Didn’t I see you down in San Antone on a hot and dusty night?

You were eatin’ eggs in Sammy’s when the black man there drew his knife

Inspired by Ry Cooder’s thrilling slide and Mick’s lip-curling snarl, he sucked on the Tanqueray again. Mother’s milk. He would probably arrive in time to shoot a few at Purvis’s Tables with his bud, Boudleaux. Maybe.

Ernest took the exit at a crawl. For the last half hour he hadn’t seen a soul on the road. The freezing rain was falling thickly and noisily now, and trees were burdened with ice, branches bending to the ground. Wires sagged.
What the fuck?

He decided that first he would go to Boudleaux’s where he could change and leave the MG. Boudleaux would know whether or not the party was still on. From there he could walk to Jill’s. Clearly there would be no driving anywhere tonight. He could crash with Boudleaux in the unlikely event that he did not get lucky. Or he could get a room at the Ole South Motel, where all the doors had hearts painted on them, and room 14 had the Black Romeo circular bed with lights and mirrors. But that was a waste of cash if he didn’t score.

Upstairs, in Boudleaux’s little apartment overlooking the town square, Ernest hung the tux on a door and flopped down on a crusty plaid sofa. He brushed away some Sonic foot-long wrappers and a puckered nub of hot dog bounced out and rolled along the floor. He pulled on his gin.

His friend Bryant Boudleaux was a faux Cajun. While still in his tender adolescence he had left his unbearably white middle-class Rochester home to work on the rigs off the Louisiana Coast. Taking advantage of his Frenchy last name, he had managed to pass as a local and to pick up some useful skills. A great singer, he had learned to play a wicked squeeze box from some criminal and learned to cook from a three-hundred-pound woman who he only occasionally had to service in exchange for meat and groceries. She had been a wonder with seafood, from catching it to having her way with it in the kitchen. Boudleaux had felt like just another crustacean in her hands, soft and peeled and defenseless, waiting to be plunged alive into a boiling pot of pungent Zatarain’s.

The Tanqueray was about a third gone and, wanting to conserve his gin, he switched to the beer in the fridge. “Ah, PBR,” he said, gulping. “Piss, But Refreshing.” He shook his head.

Boudleaux came in with a sack. “Hey, man,” he said. “Why don’t you have a beer?” He began unloading batteries, candles, and more beer.

“All they had at Family Dollar were these red Liberace candles.” He carried two beers to the window and opened it. On the outside ledge was a narrow painter’s trough for spinning beers. A beer could be spun to icy perfection in ninety-six seconds.

“What in the fuck is happening out there?” Ernest asked. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t
know
, man.” Boudleaux said. “It’s the
weirdest
. I walked back through the cemetery and some kids were in there sledding, and all of a sudden, the trees were, like,
exploding
. The kids were freaked—they were screaming.”

There was a huge crash. Ernest jumped up to look out the window where Boudleaux was spinning. “Jesus God!” Boudleaux shouted. An enormous oak had split in half. In the streetlight, they saw a confused raccoon pop out of the tree trunk and scrabble away. All around them was the din of branches and trees shattering and crashing under the weight of the ice. The sound was like gunfire, shots amplified by the lowering sky.

“The power’s bound to go,” said Boudleaux. “I’d better cook.”

“I guess this means the bars will be closed,” Ernest said glumly.

“It don’t seem unreasonable that the bars might close for the end of the world,” said Boudleaux. He was busy taking paper packages from the freezer.

“It’s supposed to end in fire and brimstone, not in ice,” said Ernest, popping a new beer. “Ignorant heathen. You know—the two hundred thousand horsemen:
“
And thus I saw the horses in the vision, and them that sat on them, having breastplates of fire, and of jacinth, and brimstone.”

“Apocalypse is apocalypse is apocalypse,” said Boudleaux, busily starting a roux. “You get that from
Star Wars
?”

At that moment the lights went off and the old Frigidaire quit its friendly hum. Ernest and Boudleaux looked at each other in the gloom.

“I wonder how long this will last,” said Boudleaux. “If it’s doing this all over town, trees and shit falling on lines, then it’s not going to be coming on anytime soon.”

There was clumping on the stairs and in came Stovall Bott with more beer. Ernest was glad to see it was an upgrade, but not a big one: good old skunky Rolling Rock. They lit all the candles.

“Where’d you get these pussy-ass candles?” said Sto. “Reminds me of my sister back in high school, smoking dope in her room listening to the Carpenters.”

“Valentine’s Day,” said Boudleaux, stirring. “I hope we don’t have to fire up the tar baby.” The tar baby was a large brown voodoo candle in the shape of a man. You could light him upright from the wick on top of his head or lay him down and light his dick. Next to his Hohner Corona II, the tar baby was Boudleaux’s favorite thing.

“Sto, do you think this party will still be on?” said Ernest.

“Definitely, man. It will definitely be a party,” said Sto. “It may not be the
same
party, but it will be one. Who needs electricity?”

“We got to plug into something to be able to play, dumbass.” said Boudleaux. “Think about it: the Lords of Chevron unplugged? Acoustic ‘Higher and Higher’? Mr. Excitement would die all over again”

“Gentlemen,” said Ernest. “This plugging-in thing concerns me. Are there any women in town?”

“Who knows?” said Sto. “Let’s get the news and see where this situation is going.”

They tried to pick up the local stations on the jam box but there was nothing but static. Finally, they homed in on WLVS from Tupelo. “All the way over to the river—they’re having a major
thing
, a major ice storm,” said the deejay. “We’ve been told that the power is out over there and trees are falling on power lines—it’s an emergency situation. Folks over there, don’t go out of your houses unless absolutely necessary. We’ll be giving you more information on that ice storm as soon as we get it.”

“Cool,” said Stovall.

“Damn,” said Ernest. Byrd would be less likely to show with the power out. She better not be on her way to Virginia. If she went with Teever, he’d probably never see her again. Crazy bitch.

“I’m just gonna cook up all this shit,” said Boudleaux, bending over to light a smoke on the gas eye. “Or this freezer will get funky. We need gumbo to keep up our strength.”

“Put me some oysters in there,” said Ernest.

Boudleaux threw everything in the pot with the half-made roux. They sat down and began a game of bourré. For every pat hand, knock, and bourré in the game there was a line from
Deliverance
:

“Now let’s you jes drop’em pants.”

“You don’t know nuthin’.”

“Aintry? This river don’t go to Aintry.”

“Give the boy a dollar, Drew.”

“Get on back up thar in them woods.”

“Don’t say anythang—just do it.”

“L-l-l-louder.”

“Don’t you boys try nothin’ like that again.”

“I could play with that guy all day.”

“This corn’s special.”

“Panties, too.”

The men did Jäger shots in NASCAR jelly glasses. The cheap candles formed bloody puddles and the gumbo simmered forgotten on the stove, a stinking sludge. Boudleaux passed around some ludes, saying, “Lagniappe, boys!” Ernest grew bored with the card game even though he’d been winning. When Sto accused him of cheating Ernest said, “Fuck y’all, bastards. This game sucks anyway with three people,” and got up to dress for the party and refresh himself. The smell of the gumbo was unsettling. He was curious about outside, and restless, and wanted to find Byrd. Also he needed more smokes.

When he emerged in his tux, Sto said, “Nice monkey suit, dude. You gone need more than that tonight. Carhartt, Day-Glo vest, boots.” He lurched toward the bathroom.

“Clothes make the man,” Ernest said, scooping up his winnings. “If anyone comes looking for me, I’ll be at the par-tay.”