SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #37

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #37

JUICE

WYOMING

It had snowed over eleven inches the evening before up in the mountains and here it was eight in the morning and still coming down. The dry, puffy kind of snow that seemed to pile up as quickly as you could shovel it off the sidewalks and driveways. The plows hadn’t even ventured out yet. Should have been a slow business day, not that it’s ever a real busy day up past Story, Wyoming.

It was a land of hermits, people who like to take life slow and easy, and folks who would rather have their past forgotten. If you craved the fast paced life of the city, Story was definitely not the place for you.

That’s why Sophie was surprised when she heard the cowbell on the front door clatter, telling her that a customer was coming in. She looked up from her inventory of Green Giant frozen vegetables, and was even more surprised to see that it wasn’t a customer, but her father.

They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in who knows how long? She stood and watched him as he brushed the powdery snow off.

“Sophie, before you say anything, the first thing I want to say is that I was wrong. I was wrong the whole time and I’m sorry. I should have supported you,” the reverend was having a hard time choking down his tears, so he handed her an envelope,“Here, this came for you yesterday

afternoon.”

She took the letter and looked at the handwriting. It was from Jake. For a big man he wrote with a surprisingly nice touch. The stamp was from Mexico. Her hands were shaking so badly that she handed it back to her father for him to open:

Dear Sophie,

All I can hope is that your Dad gets this letter to you. I don’t know if you have heard the news or not. I’m out. It’s too long of a story to tell you in a letter, but I’m out of prison. I know it’s been a long time and the last thing I want to do is interfere in your life but if you want to write me, here is my address. There is no phone where I live but I’ve enclosed a map if you ever want to visit me. I still feel the same.

Love,

Jake

“Do you need money?”

Sophie looked up from the letter at her father.

“What?”

“Money. Do you need money?”

“For what?”

“For Mexico. It’s a long drive. You’re going to need some cash.”

Her old Mazda pickup ran like it had just rolled off the factory floor. Her only complaint was its lack of air conditioning once she crossed the border at Yuma and crossed over to Mexicali. The heat was oppressive.

She had driven non stop after her shift had ended at the grocery store, getting by on Cokes and fast food burgers. Sophie had apologized profusely to the owner that she had to leave on such short notice, but he had merely shrugged his shoulders. How could he not understand?

San Felipe had seemed so close when she had first looked at it’s location on the map, but now that the initial surge of adrenaline had worn off, it seemed like it might as well have been in Peru.

The directions on Jake's map showed that he lived just north of San Felipe in an unmarked location on road maps. She had been driving for miles on a winding dirt road that seemed like it was never going to end.

Sophie had just decided that she was lost and was about to turn around to try to find someone who could give her directions, when she saw the Sea of Cortez and the old Winnebago trailer. Just like on Jake’s map.

She turned left onto the short driveway that came up behind the trailer and parked her truck there. Jutted up against the Winnebago was one of those old Volkswagen camper vans, the kind where the top popped up with some sort of tent. A ratty old hound came bounding around the side of the van and licked her hand, then turned and went back the way he came.

Sophie followed after him.

Sitting there in wheelchair covered in Harley Davidson and rock and roll decals, was a beautiful woman with the most incredible tan that Sophie had ever seen. Her hair was silver and was done up in a braided

ponytail that wound down into her lap. If you took the braids out, her hair would have easily spilled out onto the ground. On a picnic table next to her was a brass hookah pipe that the woman was puffing away contentedly on from one of the hoses coming off It’s octopus like body. The hound had

collapsed at her feet and was unashamedly washing his balls.

She smiled at Sophie. “I just got my husband back. So I’m celebrating.”

“Excuse me.”

“My husband, Billy. He passed away last month and you know, things move slowly in Mexico, so I just got him back.”

“Excuse me,” Sophie repeated, “I don’t understand.”

“From the funeral home, dear. We just got him back from the funeral home. He wanted to be cremated and they were booked up or short on gas for the oven, or some bullshit, so I just got him back. He’s right there.” She pointed at a quart bottle of Corona. “He wanted his ashes poured into a beer bottle. Typical fucking Billy. They had to crunch up the bone junks to fit ‘em in the bottle.”

Billy. Billy was Jake’s uncle, Sophie thought.

“Are you Dawn Morrow?”

The woman had an infectious laugh. “In the flesh. And I know that you must be Sophie. Jake went out partying with the boys last night but he’ll be around shortly.”

BATFISH

GULF COAST

The person who was born in Albert Lea doesn’t exist anymore. Physically he does, but on paper he doesn’t. In a touching little ceremony that I held by myself when I returned from Mexico, I burned my real birth certificate, Minnesota driver’s license, Social Security card, and my military ID card. My California identity also went into the flames. Sooner or later the government would get their shit together and put my fingerprints with that name. A tattoo artist had covered up my Navy tattoo with a jet black shark. If I look real close I can still see the old one through it.

My identity now is that of an Alabama baby who was born about the same time I was, but died young. Got his name out of the obituaries. His mother was stoned on hillbilly heroin and had forgotten that she had put him on the top of her car while unlocking the doors. She was coming out of a bar. A true class act.

I had been working in the gulf shores area at a local marina. Scraping the barnacles off the bottoms of boats. My Dad was finally right. That good Navy training finally became useful.

In the evenings I would spend my time trying to keep my old houseboat afloat. The owner of the marina gave it to me when I expressed an interest in it after he said it was destined for the wood pile. It leaked badly, so the bilge pump was always running, and was infested with mice, but it was home.

I’d been drug and steroid free for the first time in over a decade.

Anti-steroid zealots are full of shit when they tell the public that being on the juice doesn’t work. But when you get off them the size just melts away.

I don’t even lift anymore. Every morning I get up and run five miles on the beach. I weigh almost fifty pounds less than I did two years ago. I don’t know if anyone would even recognize me now. My hair is down to my shoulders and my beard almost reaches my chest. It’s starting to turn gray. I feel pretty good.

But being drug free doesn’t mean beer free. That part of Minnesota will never leave me. I had been trying to limit myself to only two cold ones a night. I’d only broken that self imposed rule once.

I’d also been following another personal rule No contact with anyone from my previous lives. That’s meant no letters or phone calls.

Ever. It’s better for me and its sure better for everybody else. I never wanted to put anyone in the spot of having to lie to some government official or someone much worse. Some drug dealer still pissed about some long ago scam and wanting to settle the score.

But one lonely and night I had decided to call Artimus. He had left Isla Mujures some time after I had, but he had given me the number of his mother in South Dakota. Said she would always know where he was.

Television hadn’t been a big part of my life, but this night at the marina I had caught this weekly show that was about Navy and Marine lawyers. Shit, the things that they did in one hour were incredible, as well as unbelievable. Flying fighter planes, kicking the shit out of people, and shooting terrorists. All in one hour. And here I am thinking that all JAG officers did was bust people for smoking pot. The Marine lawyer was a babe on top of everything else. I just had to call Arty and tell him about it.

And I missed him.

Artimus had been killed on his motorcycle while he was headed for the annual biker rally in Sturgis. It was a hit and run accident. The driver and vehicle were never seen and there were no witnesses.

I couldn’t get it out my head that I had killed him by telling him my story. That they had tracked him down looking for me.

I woke up the next morning where I had passed out the night before after consuming a huge amount of malt liquor and smoking a gram of hash. I had been laying face down on the beach. A bunch of surly sea gulls were doing bombing runs on my prone body and had shit all over me. They were screaming with glee when I came to. My life had officially hit rock bottom.

It was time to make a stand. I couldn’t go through life like this any longer. Afraid and alone. What was the fucking point of living? After getting back to the houseboat and taking an ice cold shower, having a breakfast of cold Krystal burgers, and then throwing it up over the side, I had broken my non contact rule for the second time in less than twenty four hours.

I was hoping that she was still there when I placed the call or at least someone would know where she was. I couldn’t believe it when she picked up the phone. “Hey, it’s me. I wasn’t bullshitting. I told you that I’d call."

JUICE

BAJA

The buds had these beautiful red hairs on them and were so moist with resin that it really took an effort to get one lit up after it was rolled.

“Man, I am fucking toasted. Nice and evenly toasted. This is some dynamite shit.” Jake lay back on the sand as he exhaled the hit.

“Is any of that beer in the cooler cold yet?”

It wasn’t even eight in the morning and they were at it again.

Jake, two gay windsurfers from Michigan named Lance and Robert, and Ozzie, a grizzled old marijuana smuggler with hair down to his ass and the filthiest mouth Jake had ever heard who had given up the trade when carrying a gun became part of the job description.

The party had started off with some late afternoon windsurfing the previous day and had continued on into the early morning hours. After a short cat nap, Ozzie had made a run to town in his battered jeep for some breakfast staples and more beer. The old fart had made a damn good biscuit, something you didn’t see a lot of in Mexico.

Ozzie passed the joint over to Lance as he dug a beer out of the cooler for Jake. “You guys weren’t doing any butt fucking last night while we were sleeping, were ya?”

“Jesus Christ, Ozzie,” Jake roared with laughter.

The couple laughed along with Jake.

“No, Ozzie,” Lance said, “we didn’t. But I was thinking about sneaking over and sliding my dick in your mouth while you were snoring. Your mouth was inviting.”

“You better fucking not have,” screamed the old hippie as he jumped up and ran down into the surf and dove in.

Ozzie had joined the party late the previous evening and had not realized that the windsurfers were an item until after he had started breakfast.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” laughed Jake, “he’s a little behind the times for an old smuggler and he is very burned out.”

“No problem. We’ve gotten use to that bullshit.” Robert handed the doobie to him. What brings you to Baja, Jake?”

“Warm weather helps keep my leg limber and it was always the dream of my aunt to live down here, so after her husband died, I helped move her down here and never went back.” His rehearsed standard bullshit line.

“For a guy who walks with a cane, you can handle a board pretty well,” said Lance. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

“Not at all. I was in the Navy and doing some high overhead work and took a tumble overboard. Had a compound fracture and after surgery wound up with a medical disability and a pension. I’m getting closer to shedding the cane, but it will be a while yet. Do you like it? I picked it up at a survivalist shop in Tijuana a while back.”

Jake took the cane and gave the gargoyle head on the handle a twist. A long stainless steel blade slid out of the body of the cane.

“Nasty looking weapon,” whistled Lance.

“I’ve never had any problems down here. But with my aunt being wheelchair bound and all, I like to have a little protection.”

“Robert was in the Navy, too,” volunteered Lance.

“Really? What was your rate, Robert?”

“Actually, I was a officer. In the administrative branch. Only for about two years though, so I only made lieutenant.” Robert opened up a can of Tecate and took a long pull. “I was forced to resign my commission.”

Jake was finishing up the final touches on another blunt.

“Problems with marijuana?”

Robert snorted and took another long drink. “I wish. No, I was involved with another officer and we had a place off base. He was assigned to the intelligence department. We kept our relationship real low. Real hush hush. Never even associated with each other during working hours. One night I had the duty and I got a phone call from a NIS agent. He told me that Darrell, that was who I lived with, had committed suicide by shooting himself in the head in the living room of our apartment, and I better get over there right away.” Robert stood up and looked out at Ozzie swimming in the bay.

He continued talking like he had narrated this story a dozen times in his life. “Something was real wrong there. We didn’t have a gun in the house, but there was one in Darrell's hand. We didn’t have or even believe in pornography, but the apartment was absolutely crawling with it. Books, magazines, videos, there was so much of the shit in here we wouldn’t have had time to even to go to work if we were that into it. If Darrell did kill himself, I’d like to know how NIS found out about it so quick. But I know that Darrell didn’t kill himself. He was too happy of a person. We were happy. When it was all said and done, I resigned my commission. That’s what the bastards wanted anyway.”

Lance went over and put his arms around Robert.

“I’ve always known that if I hadn’t been pulling the duty that night that I would have been killed too. They wanted to make it look like it was a lover’s quarrel. But when whoever got there that night saw that I wasn’t there, they just killed Darrell and made it look like we were a couple of sick perverts. I guess they figured murdering one fag would make his lover get the message.”

Robert turned and looked at Jake with distant, haunted eyes. Jake felt a chill go up his body like someone had just stepped on his grave. He remembered the night in Vegas when Jasmine had called him stupid for thinking that he had been the first one that Banks had used for his missions.

Ozzie came shuffling back up the beach with his head hung low.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But I got my reasons. When I was a boy back in Michigan, I had a gym teacher who wanted me to jack him off. Fucking pervert, I was only in the seventh grade.”

Robert and Lance both laughed. “That’s OK, Ozzie. No harm done. But we didn’t know you where from Michigan. So are we. We’re both from Grand Rapids."

"What about you?” said Lance.

Ozzie was beaming. “Fucking Detroit, of course. Home of the Red Wings, Lions, Tigers, and the greatest fighter of all time, the hit man, Tommy Hearns. Shit, what a small world.” He looked over at Jake. “What do you think of that, you big douche bag? They’re from Michigan.”

Jake felt like barfing up his huevos rancheros and biscuits.

“Ya, what do you think of that?’ He grinned weakly. “Hey Ozzie, I’m not feeling the greatest. How ‘bout giving me a lift home?”

He struggled to get up off of the sand with his cane. Robert walked over and put a hand under Jake’s arm to help give him a lift and walked over with him to Ozzie’s jeep.

“Such a fucking lightweight,” taunted Ozzie. “I was just getting ready to get and down and do some serious fucking partying with my new amigos.”

Jake climbed up into the passenger seat of the jeep. Ozzie was still back at the camp site with Lance. He was babbling something about Hearns knocking that “homo Sugar Ray Leonard’s dick in the dirt” in their rematch.

Jake shook his head. “Ozzie will never learn.”

“I read about you, Jake.”

“What do you mean?” Jake wished Ozzie would hurry the hell up.

“You were the guy who supposed to be in Leavenworth prison for murder but the cops found you after you jumped off that bridge in Long Beach. Aren’t you?”

Jake didn’t answer.

“The agent that let you out is dead and the naval officer from the prison that he was working with committed suicide a couple of days later.”

Robert continued. “I read all about it in Newsweek. Why did they let you out, Jake? What did they want you to do to in return for getting you out of there?”

Over Robert’s shoulder, Jake could see Ozzie was shuffling up the beach with his arm around Lance like they were old college buddies.

“I can’t talk about it. They forced me to sign an agreement,” Jake whispered.

“I saw the look on your face when I was talking about Darrell. It was like you knew.”

Ozzie jumped up into the jeep and cocked his ass cheek towards Jake and farted loudly. “Blew ya kiss there, my sweetheart.” The stupid old stoner cackled like a witch. The jeep roared to life.

Robert reached into the vehicle and shook hands with Jake.

“By not talking, Jake, you’re letting them get away with it.”

“C’mon, ya Mary. Let’s get your sick pussy ass home,” said Ozzie.

“We’ll be here for another week, Jake. If you want to talk, you know where our camp is.” Robert turned and headed back down the beach.

Ozzie put the jeep in gear and raced off down the gravel road. “What were you two talking about? Is he trying to get in your cornhole?”

“Ozzie, will you shut the hell up? Please?”

“Fuck you, dickhead.” They rode in silence up to the Winnebago.

“Looks like you got company, Jake.” The argument already forgotten. “Or does Dawn have herself a new guy.” Ozzie sounded jealous.

He had had an enormous crush on Dawn since the first day he had come over to sell them a bag of weed.

“Wyoming plates on that piece of shit. Who the hell do you know from Wyoming?”

Jake slid out of the jeep without a word and began to limp around the side of the trailer while ignoring Ozzie’s taunt of “Hey, you dumb fuckstick, you forgot your cane.”

Rossington Collins Band was jamming on Don’t Misunderstand Me at a level that almost made your ears bleed. Uncle Billy's favorite band. He had always claimed that it was Gary Rossington and Allen Collins who

had made Skynyrd. So after their plane crashed in that swamp in Mississippi, Billy said that had just helped fine tune the band a little and that the crash hadn’t been the tragedy or the end of southern rock and roll like all those faggot rock reporters wrote about.

Dawn’s old nameless hound came loping around the corner, barked a hello, turned and walked with Jake, all the while trying to sniff at Jake's crotch. Jake absently shooed the flea bitten mongrel away. He turned the corner. It felt like an acid flashback. Maybe Ozzie’s red hair buds packed more of a wallop that he thought.

It was her. The woman that Jake was going to marry a lifetime ago. She looked exactly the same way she had the day he had left her to go off for his run. The day the ensign died in the fight and his life went to shit.

He always had kidded her that she reminded him of Morticia Adams, with her snow white skin and jet black hair. Jake thought that she had ignored his letter. Had gotten on with her life. Married some evangelist and had forgotten about old Jake sitting in his prison cell. But now here she was. Sitting there with his Aunt Dawn and his uncle in a bottle between them.

She was sipping on a glass of sun tea while Dawn was belting down her first margarita of the day.

Listening to the survivors of a dead rock and roll band. Like time had never passed. They both turned and looked at Jake at the same time. Jake Morrow, adrenaline junkie, drug dealer, armed robber, government hit man, dropped to his knees in the sand and cried like he was nine years old.