The blotter acid in and around Johnson County, Texas, was undependable. One visit had you barking at the mellow purple moon; the next was speedy strychnine psychotic hell.
"Goddamit, come on. Let's go get some beer."
Rodent was always in a hurry. If you didn't get in the car when he hollered he'd leave your ass anywhere. One time I couldn't pinch a crap off quick enough at a gas station in south Fort Worth and ended up sleeping in Seminary Park. Fucker. Hitch-hiking back to the ranch in Godley always sucked. Nobody knew where it was, and even if they did they wouldn't go there.
"Hang on, man," I said. I was plopped on one of the lawn chairs on the front porch.
"At least let me get my boots on. Shit."
Rodent had a different car every time you saw him. The last I had rode in was a full-bore '70 Mercury that decided to open its own hood at about 73 mph just before the S-curve on FM 917.
"Shit," Rodent had said.
"No shit," I had answered.
We got her shut down by hanging our heads out the windows and watching ditches. Good Detroit steel, them Mercuries. The hood didn't buckle a bit. Hoods these days would have crumpled into foil, busted through the windshield, deployed the airbags, and killed everybody.
"Come ON, man!"
This time Rodent had him a '67 Impala. Black. 396SS. Chrome everywhere. I jumped in.
"Cool car, man. Punch it."
BBBBRRRRAWWK. Hell yeah. Rodent rapped that sweet 396 up and let fly down the gravel Godley road, spitting rocks and dust up in a rooster tail that a body could probably see across the prairie in Burleson, which was where we were headed. Burleson had the nearest beer stores in the nearest finger of a wet county.
"Hey, man," Rodent said, shifting into third, "How much money you got?"
"Let's see…four dollars…thirty five, six, seven cents… and two hits of paper acid. How much you got?"
"Two dollars. And give me one of them hits."
I handed him a hit and started chewing on the other. "Let's see…six bucks and change…how you set for smokes?"
"Two-and-a-half packs of Winstons in the glovebox."
"Weed?"
"Three joints in the open pack."
I popped the glovebox open and tapped a joint out of the pack. "Aight, then. Six bucks and change…" I pulled a big crackling lungful off the joint, the blue fire of my Zippo sucking into the business end. I always loved the smell of burning lighter fluid mixed with the tastes of wet green Mexican weed and bitter LSD. Put a beer behind all that and I was right satisfied. I passed the joint over to Rodent and expelled smoke.
"….that's…about…a…case….of….Falstaff…"
Rodent took a toke. I rolled the window down and let the wind whip our hair around.
"Got gas?"
"….got….it…covered…."
Rodent down-shifted and spun off the gravel road onto the patched hardtop of FM917, spewing dust, squalling tires and almost running an old rancher dude in a beat-up pickup into the ditch.
"YaaaaeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEE…aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!"
The sound of a sixth-generation rebel yell in crazy harmony. I popped a Skynyrd cassette into the deck. The sun was setting over the green hills and high prairie toward Blum and Glen Rose; it was a damn good evening to be alive in Johnson County, Texas.
Monday, November 10, 2008
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