South Village (Ash McKenna) (3 page)

This is all too complicated. I settle on something simpler. “Still trying to figure that out.”

“And you’re looking for it in Sterling? Ain’t nothing down there.”

Being off the grid right now is kind of the point.

“Staying with some friends,” I tell him.

“You don’t talk a whole lot, do you?”

“Hot like it is down here, it sucks the life out of you.”

“I hear that.”

“So tell me,” I say, hoping to get the attention off me. “What do you do, Bill?”

“I’m an animal masturbator,” he says. “Simply put, I jerk off cows and horses.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Wait, what?”

He laughs, long and deep, and slaps my knee. I recoil a little bit, even though I don’t mean to. He says, “Bet you never heard of that job before, huh?”

“No, I haven’t. And now I wonder where that hand has been.”

He points a finger at me. “Now that’s not the first time I heard that one. But look, I get it. It sounds weird, right? My formal training is in veterinary tech. And whether you’re doing a study on infectious diseases or some genetic testing, sometimes you need a whole lot of animal semen.” He taps his thumb into his chest. “That’s my time to shine.”

“I take it you like your job, then?”

“I get to work outdoors. I get to work with animals. And I get to make them better. My lab is pioneering research that’s going to eradicate equine combined immunodeficiency disease.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s bad news for horses is what it is, son,” he says. “Look, it doesn’t sound like the most glamorous job on the planet. That I will give you. But it’s a job that needs to get done, and I just so happen to have the temperament for it.”

“And what’s the temperament for it, exactly?”

“Patience, steady hands, and the ability to laugh at yourself.”

“Fair enough.”

Bill seems like a nice guy, and it also seems like there’s not going to be any way to get him to stop talking, so I ask, “We’ve got a ways to go. How about you tell me a little about how your job works?”

He smiles and starts in. “Most people aren’t interested in the details.”

“How could they not be? I’ve never met anyone who masturbated animals, legit day job or not.”

“Okay okay. Well, there are three ways to do it. There are artificial vaginas, electrical stimulants, and old-fashioned hand-cranking…”

He sets off and keeps going, like a stone rolling down a hill. It’s perfect. Because really, I am curious. But also, I don’t want to answer any more questions about me. So I tilt an ear at him, toss in the occasional “oh” or “interesting” where I think it might be appropriate, and watch the world barrel by outside the window.

Trees and blacktop and empty stretches of sky.

Georgia melting in the August heat.

I’
m in mud up to my knees, and there’s a slicing sound of shovel into dirt, rain pecking at the back of my neck. Something pokes my arm. I look up and Bill is smiling at me from the driver’s seat.

“Fell asleep there, son,” he says. “Looks like you needed a rest, so I left you to it.”

We’re at the single-pump gas station next to Momma’s BBQ, which is right exactly where I was headed. I thought I was only getting as far down as Savannah. Bill sees the confusion on my face and says, “I wasn’t in any rush. Figured I’d give you a lift the whole way. Do you need to get much further into town?”

“No, right here is perfect actually,” I tell him, fumbling at my pocket. “Let me get you some gas money…”

“Think nothing of it, son,” he says.

“You sure? Nothing I can give you in return? Free and clear?”

“Free and clear.”

I hold his gaze for a moment but his face is flat against the expanse of his sunglasses. “Really?” I ask.

“You seem deeply suspect.”

“I’m a born and bred New Yorker,” I tell him. “I’m not used to people doing nice things without wanting something in return.”

“Well, the world ain’t such a bad place,” he says. He extends his hand and we shake. “Now, you sure this spot is okay?”

“I’m headed to that restaurant right there,” I tell him. “This couldn’t be better.”

He nods. “You get on safe, then.”

“You too,” I tell him.

I open the door. Pause, and consider telling him my real name. Like maybe I owe him that much. Shake it off and climb out of the blissful air conditioning, into the stifling heat, and close the door behind me.

He waves as he pulls out and onto the road. I watch him drive away, a little thrown on how to take that. He drove, what, a hundred miles out of his way? More, round-trip? That’s weird. People being nice for no clear reason is weird.

I turn to the station and it’s empty. Drive by fast and it might look deserted, with the way one window is boarded up and the lights inside aren’t turned on. But the proprietor is there, sitting on the rocking chair in the shadow of the propped-open door. He looks like a bridge troll in overalls, and he’s staring at me like he stares at everyone, with a great deal of contempt. I nod and he doesn’t acknowledge me.

Momma’s looks equally as empty. Given it was originally a two-story house with a wrap-around porch and a big bay window, it doesn’t look much like a restaurant. The only sign it’s a business is “Momma’s” hand-painted in red on a white plank over the porch.

From what I hear, this place used to be nuts—they only served meat until they ran out for the day, and the only way to ensure you got some was to line up around dawn. But the housing collapse emptied out the surrounding area, and some newer restaurants opened a little further away, closer to the more affluent neighborhoods. Momma’s still seems to do pretty good business, but not nearly as much as it used to.

This is also where our mail gets dropped off. Mail trucks won’t come all the way down to camp, so we have to get everything sent here. In exchange we provide herbs and fresh vegetables to the owner, Luanne.

The front door is locked so I walk around the porch, footsteps echoing in the hollow underneath, follow the smell of applewood smoke and charred meat. Luanne is in the back yard, dipping a mop into a plastic bucket of thick red liquid, then leaning into a smoking rig fashioned from the remains of a massive propane tank. She drags the mop over the piles of meat inside, which snap and smoke and crackle. I skipped breakfast and didn’t eat lunch and I want to stick my face inside the smoker, see where luck takes me.

She hears me approaching and drops the mop back into the bucket. She turns, smiles at me. That smile makes me think thoughts unbecoming of a gentleman. Her hands are covered in red barbecue sauce, like they’re covered in blood. She runs the back of her arm across her brow to clear it of sweat. The way she stands, long limbs cocked out at odd angles, smiling like her face was built that way, skin shining like bronze in the sunlight. Fuck.

“How’re you, Ash?” she asks.

“Fair to middling.”

“Something I can do for you, now?” she asks, loading that question with so much subtext it’s a wonder we’re not both suddenly naked.

“Need a favor,” I tell her. “Got a package coming within the next week or so. It’s pretty important. When it arrives can you put it someplace safe?”

She nods. “Of course. I’ll make sure you get it safe and sound.”

“Thanks, kid,” I tell her, hoping the use of the word ‘kid’ will deflate the sexual tension. And it does, a little. Her body unwinds. She leans down and picks up the bucket.

“That it?” she asks.

“That’s it. We’ll be on by in the next day or two with some baskets. You good until then?”

“Good as I can be, everything considered.”

“Cheers then,” I tell her. Salute, turn, and leave the yard. Feel her staring after me. Wishing I could go back. But Luanne is nice. Nice enough I don’t want to risk it. She’s hanging on by a thread here, trying to keep her mother’s restaurant alive in what amounts to a ghost town. I tend to cut threads. Rarely is it intentional, but it’s definitely becoming an unsettling pattern.

The sun has arced enough that one side of the long stretch of road is in the shade. I strip off my shirt and cram it into my belt. It’s a long walk and I don’t have to be worried about sunburn if I stick to the tree line. That, at least, is nice. The threatening voice of sobriety calls out to me, so I take another swig of whiskey, drain the bottle empty, and set off toward the waving lines of heat sprouting off the asphalt in the distance.

T
he road is straight and uniform. Nothing to break it up, just the odd car passing by every few minutes. I lose track of how far I travel. I wish I had brought my phone. I was halfway to Atlanta before I realized I left it at camp.

Just about when I’m wondering whether I missed the turn-off, there it is, hacked through the tree line. A dirt path with a weathered wood sign at the foot, carved into it the words: SOUTH VILLAGE.

Underneath that: EST. 1973.

I follow the worn-smooth path. The canopy is so thick it takes my eyes a second to adjust to the darkness. The temperature drops a good ten degrees, too. Now I’m almost chilly.

As I walk down the path I feel two sets of eyes on me. That same set I always feel in the forest. There’s not someone watching me. I know that, intellectually. But still, those eyes are there, boring into my back.

I ignore it. Wish I had more whiskey.

Concentrate on the trees. Palmettos and magnolia and cedar and holly and pine and myrtle. More trees on this walk than I’ve probably seen in my entire lifetime. Trees are nice. The forest is so big and so dense it feels like being inside someplace else. Nothing but the sound of my sneakers in the dirt and the occasional animal noise. The call of a bird or shrill click of an insect.

I think about Bill, too.

To take pride in your work, even if it’s a little messy, that must be a very nice feeling.

A half-mile in, I hit the bridge over the stream and stop to check it. One of the visitors reported it was shaking when she drove over it, though she seemed like the nervous type. I stomp on some of the boards, hold the railing and shake. It feels solid as concrete, but then again, I’m not a car. I’ll come out and take a look at it with someone who knows what they’re doing, to make sure it’s sound, but it doesn’t seem to be in imminent danger.

Bridge cleared, it’s not too much longer until I reach the Hub.

The first dome is the biggest, dark wood and covered in moss, the size of a small house. There are more behind it, no consistency to the size or order, so the domes look like giant mushrooms grown up out of the forest floor. The only pop of color, the only thing that looks artificial, is the long rows of rainbow-hued Tibetan prayer flags, crisscrossed between the domes, some of them reaching up to the canopy, haphazard the way Christmas lights are strung up around a college dorm room.

The porch in front of the Hub and the paths cutting around and behind the domes appear to be empty. There’s no one in the front clearing. Which is strange. Usually this place is bustling with people doing chores, lounging, participating in workshops. There’s not a single acoustic guitar playing.

There’s always an acoustic guitar playing.

But all I hear now is the gentle flap of the prayer flags.

There must be an assembly somewhere. Some event I wouldn’t have given a shit about if someone told me. Maybe everyone is down by the lake. It’s a good day for a dip. I keep walking, past the Hub, to Eatery. Climb up the back steps and into the glorious mess of the main kitchen.

I should go back to the bus and get a clean shirt but I don’t really care to, so I toss my t-shirt into the corner, pull an apron off the wall, and pull it over my head. Turn on the window fan that will keep the air moving enough so that when I turn on the ovens, I will not immediately die.

I nearly trip over Mathilda, who’s poking at the floor with her beak. She doesn’t look up, just clucks to acknowledge my presence, like I’ve annoyed her delicate chicken sensibilities.

“Fuck you too,” I tell her.

It’s probably not sanitary to cook in an apron with no shirt underneath while a chicken wanders around the kitchen but I’m a rebel. And anyway, not a day goes by that some goofball isn’t wandering around here naked.

My stomach roars. There’s a tray covered with foil on the stove. I pull the foil aside and find rows of desiccated brown twigs, glistening with oil, sprinkled with piles of rocky sea salt. Aesop roasted some mushrooms. I love when Aesop roasts mushrooms. He has to forage them; I don’t know which are safe and which will kill me, but he does, and he leaves them in the oven until they turn into tiny little flavor bombs.

I grab a handful and cram them in my mouth, wipe the oil off on the apron as I chew, and wash it down with the plastic jug of whiskey I keep stashed underneath the sink, behind the cleaning supplies. That helps a little. I refill my flask and stick it into my cargo pocket.

After a few handfuls of granola, I head into the pantry to pull ingredients for the night’s dinner, not even sure of what’s going to be on the menu, but we’re close enough that I need to get some stuff going.

What I find is an entire wall of cans, their labels torn off.

There’s a shuffle from the main kitchen. Aesop is standing there, his face blanched. At least, the parts of it I can see underneath the mammoth mountain-man beard. It reaches down past his chest. He’s not wearing a shirt either, and his muscular torso is riddled with tattoos. Random stuff—tribals and faces and symbols and words—all done in black and white. Some of it is intricate and professional. Some of it is muddy and uneven, a clear sign of stick-and-poke. The kind of stuff you get in prison, or after a long night of drinking and your idiot friend has a sewing needle and some printer ink. I’ve never asked him which.

“Can we please figure out who’s recycling the labels, and tell them to do it after we use the cans, not before?” I ask him. “We’re going to be eating bean and veggie and whatever the fuck else surprise for the next few weeks…”

“Ash.”

“What?”

“Crusty Pete is dead.”

“Ah fuck.”