The Feet of God

88 - EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY & NIGHT

After ol’ Cleet’d handed the leader a Tuffy Bag stuffed with farm-fresh roasted chickens, our little caravan prepared to head off.

There was way too much manure loaded in the trailer to be riding back there, what with an abundance of noxious vapors and other unspeakable toxic health hazards, so I was mercifully allowed in the back of the van.  I was thrown in, actually.  Up front the young guy drove while the old guy rode shotgun.  Literally.  He was fingerin’ a shotgun the whole time.  They concerned themselves mostly with staying behind their leader and being alert to steer clear of the law.  They didn’t spare no words for me.

Left to myself, I couldn’t help thinking how less than supreme these supremacists was.  Aside from all the unnecessary carnage at the Cirque De Bizarro, they’d stolen a van with DE painted on its sides and a truck with BIZARRO plastered down its sides, and as I figure it, it don’t take no genius to connect the dots.  And they was on a mission requiring at least a little stealth and discretion.  Maybe what they needed was less shit and dynamite, and more brains, or at least enough paint to hide the vehicular writing on the walls.

Then it occurred to me.  This kinda thinking might be the start of me identifying with these tormentors who’d made me a prisoner at gunpoint and pressed me into forced labor.  I’d hafta be mindful of keeping a more careful vigil on my thoughts.

We traveled some ways down a partially paved country lane-and-a-half when the semi swung a hard right onto a side dirt road that led to a dark pine forest.  We disappeared under the cover of trees.  As we made our way through the woods, the big-rig pushed branches back and bounced along the uneven dirt and gravel, and you could hear the grinding of downshifting gears, while mud flaps slapped back whatever the wheels churned up.  It was like the van was followin’ close behind the larger vehicle’s protective lead through a forested tunnel.

A few miles later we come upon an opening in the pines where loggers had stripped the land clean.  Stumps ‘n grassy brush stretched out as far as you could see under a near-full moon.  The brake lights of the big-rig trailer flashed a couple’a times as a signal we was gonna be stopping.  The leader and his two partners proceeded to get out, me included, and everybody silently moved off a bit to answer nature’s call.

That business complete, the leader hauled out a plastic bag from the front of the truck.  “Let’s have us something to eat, boys, I say we deserve it.”  Like a doctor delivering a newborn, he pulled a small golden-brown roast chicken from inside the garbage bag.  He tossed it over to the older guy.  Then he pulled another one out and tossed it to the younger guy.  He paused for a moment when his eyes met mine.  I could see the irritation in his facial expression, but a chicken flew my way anyhow.  We each found a separate stump to privately dine on our hard-earned dinner.  The quiet night was disturbed only by the glugging and smacking sounds of four men chowing down.

I tellya, all that manual labor can cause a man a considerable pang of hunger.  I dug in.  I gotta admit, that farmer’s wife sure was a good cook.  The meat was so tender you could suck it off the bone, and then toss the bones in about any direction you felt like so long as you missed your neighbor.  The only thing missing was frosty cold ones and a pack of smokes.  And maybe paper towels.

The leader stripped and sucked the chicken carcass clean and tossed it aside.  He wiped his greasy hands against his jeans and said, “Now boys, a few more shitloads and we’ll be loaded for bear, or should I say, ready for D-Day in the land of Jews ‘n Cubans?”

The other two laughed agreeably.

“We got a couple more miles to go on this old log trail before we set up camp, so let’s roll.  Tomorrow we’ll hook up with some of Cleet’s clan.”

The young guy threw his clean-picked roaster to the ground and asked, “You mean the Klan?”

“No.  Not the Klan.  Kith ‘n kin kinda clan.  Relatives.  Cousins and such.  They’re gonna help us.  Now come on, let’s go.”  The leader picked up the half-full garbage bag and slung it into the rear of his cab before he climbed up and started the engine.  Me and the other two guys piled into the van and prepared to follow.

We traveled low and slow, the big-rig taking the lead, crushing scraps of wood debris left on the trail, grinding past the bare and dead remains of trees long gone.  Then, like a mirage, a thick woods appeared again and we slipped under the cover of more pine trees.  The big-rig belched black smoke out chrome pipes, which brought back fond memories of my old home in Broken Heart Park.  I miss our little clutch of trailers laid out right below the interstate with all them huge semis roaring by.  I brushed away a tear as the memories flooded back.

We came to another stop.  Again, everyone got out and took a piss.  As we regrouped the leader zipped his fly and said, “Okay, boys, let’s get some wood for a fire and lay out our campsite.”  The leader shouted at me, “And you!  Start digging a pit for a fire.  Then help the boys with their wood.  I’m gonna check our load.”  He handed me a trowel and stomped off.

About ten feet off the road I found a good spot between the trees.  I removed leaves and twigs until I’d cleared a space to start digging.  I dug down, using what I dug up to make a nice ring around the pit, so sparks wouldn’t fly all over from the fire.  In about twenty minutes I had a fairly nice pit all prepared.  (I ain’t never been no Boy Scout, but I done my time in the woods, and I knew a thing or two about camping.)

The guys started showing up with twigs and sticks.  “Uh, you can’t have no decent fire with that stuff.  Here, lemme show you.”  I marched off to find some good, dry, fallen branches, easy to break and the right size for our need.  I had to make four or five trips to haul in enough for the night.  I piled the kindling twigs and sticks into a proper cone shape for a starter fire, feeling a sense of accomplishment and pride as I did so, just as the leader came up with a length of rope.  He tossed it to the young one.

“Tie him up good to that tree over there.  I don’t want him wanderin’ off in the night or pullin’ any damn fool stunts while we’re sleepin’.”

My hands got tied with rope around my wrists, and my wrists was bound to my waist so’s I couldn’t get to the knots but I could reach my zipper in emergencies.  Next I was tethered to a tree like a dog on a leash.  With nothing else to do, I contented myself turning three times and curling up on the ground where I commenced to nod off and go to sleep, dog-tired.