Miles J. Jax, An Early Day In The Life
Branson Storm

 

A noise grows disturbing louder as I come to. It’s the persistent honking of a horn from the car of my friend and landlord, Louie Peete. Louie is the proud owner of Louie’s Waterfront Café, a fine dinning establishment built on a grand pier over the bay’s edge in a booming area of town called Anglers Pointe which is comprised of large, newly built homes with rolling bay windows and large wrap-around decks. The only permanent residents there are a few retired folks who spent their lives in dark suits scraping their leather-soled shoes across the concrete of the big city sidewalks, amassing fortunes in order to come to a place like this and brown their wrinkled skin as they adjust their hearing aids to the great silence of the still waters. The rest of the houses stay empty most of the time, except for holidays and weekends, when the others rush in like a white squall, carting in their fancy fishing gear and loaded wallets.

I can already picture him in my mind, dressed in his standard morning costume; a white short sleeve button-down, pleated kaki shorts, both Polo of course, starched to the inflexible feel of cardboard, a mahogany colored alligator skin belt and maroon penny loafers – no socks, with pennies. I’m surprised he doesn’t get his ass kicked on a daily basis.

The expression of anger on his puffy olive flavored face was just as I had imagined it as I slowly stepped down the outdoor stairwell, naked. If it weren’t for all the honking I would have slipped into some shorts, but Louie couldn’t stand embarrassment and I couldn’t stand loud noises.

“Don’t come out here like that, asshole.” He barked from behind the open door of his shinny black Range Rover.

“Just knock, Lou-Lou. There’s no need to go wakin’ up the whole neighborhood.”

“They’re awake. It’s Wednesday.”

As my feet hit the concrete surface of the driveway Louie took a guarded position with one loafer on the ground, the other on the floorboard of the Range Rover, just in case I suddenly came at him with my looming morning wood. We had been friends since the age of seven and when we hit puberty my dick outgrew my body and his just drifted-off to the left. It was a strange phenomenon within our circle of friends how my cock had over-matured and theirs just remained dormant. It became one of my best weapons of defense whenever our genial rousing of one another grew out control. If my back were against the wall, I’d just whip out Bret and head for the trouble. It was just one of those ways I liked to entertain myself, making grown men scramble like chickens from an axe at the possibility of them being touched by my penis.

“Where’s that bitch? She needs to move that piece of shit.” Louie aimed, referring to the deep purple Honda Accord parked behind him. Celeste was so proud of her new car. It was three years old, but to her it was new and to me it was better than walking. Personally I would have waited for another color, as it did resemble a deep bruise on wheels. Louie loved to hate that car. It was his way of letting off steam over my having a promiscuous relationship with his bartender. He had begged me to stay away from her but never gave a reason so I correctly assumed jealousy and steadfastly ignored his request.

At the edge of the driveway I pissed in the grass. “Give her minute, Lou-Lou. She’s coming.”

“Are you proud of yourself?”

“Never. You know that.”

With my bulging bladder steadily draining, Celeste descended down the stairs toward me. In her faded blue jeans and one of my weathered t-shirts, she came toward me like an angel. Holding her wrinkled work clothes in the curl of one arm and her shoes and purse in the other, her long, black curly hair danced in the breeze, brushing across the brilliant blue of her feline spotted eyes. Those eyes were like fire and I melted in their resilience. She was twenty-three, ferociously beautiful and free spirited with a heart hardened from a life of poverty and abuse, but somewhere, for some reason, in that jagged heart was a soft spot for me.

“You need to be ready by ten o’clock.” Louie snapped at Celeste.

She kissed me on the lips and patted my rear, “Bye, sugar.” As she passed Louie, mutually distasteful glares ensued.

“Don’t be late.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You’d better.”

“Fuck you.” And my beautiful angel slipped away in a revolting strip of deep purple.

Louie stood there giving me one of his usual expressions of disappointment, shaking his head and sighing, his Rolex glimmering in the sunshine. It was so hard to take seriously. “It hasn’t even been two weeks yet.”

“Actually it’s been exactly nineteen days and nineteen nights.”

“Oh, well, I guess that’s enough time to get over true love.”

Approaching Louie, he shutters as if to be ready to make a sudden escape, “That’s just it, Lou-Lou, if love is true it’s never over.”

“Yeah. Did you tell that to Lauren?”

“Who do you love, Louie?” I asked, getting closer.

“How about putting some clothes on getting some writing done? I’m going broke over here.”

“Who do you love, Louie?”

“I’m not kidding, asshole. How long until you’re done? I’m tired of Barbara on my ass and I’d like to rent this place to someone who actually pays.”

“Inspiration, baby, inspiration.” I went at him with open arms.

“Godammit! Don’t do that shit out here!” He screeched, jumping in the car and slamming the door behind him.

I rubbed my oily face hard against his window, “You know you love me. Show me you me, Louie. Come on just show me.”

“Get some work done you sorry bastard!” He sped back into the street, just missing my toes. I chased after him in an over-exaggerated trot, black and white slow motion. He sped away with the flip of his finger shadowed in my greasy facial imprint, leaving me alone at the street’s edge. He was headed straight for the carwash, I’d a bet my life on it. Some things never change.
  
Louie was right about it being Wednesday. The entire street was abandoned and silent. Everyone was gone. I gazed about and engulfed the silence as if there were a whisper waiting to be heard. The sunlight danced on my skin through the sea-blown oak trees swaying in the breeze. As I began to make my way back to my apartment I wondered why it was that Wednesday was not pronounced the way it was actually spelled. This thought captured me and in my mind I saw weddings and white dresses, music and dance and I was there drinking and watching the formal garments toss in the wind and song.

It was a blotch of pale blue in the corner of my eye that made the music stop. Darlene, our mail carrier stood frozen next to the step of Louie’s front door. She was pale white and obese, her cheeks red with exhaustion. “How ‘boutcha, Darlene?”

“Miles, you’re naked.” She said almost motherly.

“I know. I was born this way.” With two quick steps I snatched away the mail from here clenched hand, “I’ll take that.” Walking away I sorted through the stash, “Be good now”.

“I ain’t sure that’s legal, Miles.” Darlene shouted as I rounded the side of the house.

“You too, gal.” It was my royalty check from Shredded Thoughts that I was after. It was about that time and I needed the money. The drugs and booze were beginning to grow scarce. And there it was. The elegant lettering engraved on the envelope gave it away every month.

I deposited Louie’s portion of the mail at his back doorstep. The day was enormous and I could feel an evening fish menacing in my blood. Ripping open my mail, I quickly made my way back to the stairs that led to my apartment above the garage. My feet hitting the steps I could feel Barbara’s eyes upon me from the second story of the main house, as she always kept a watchful eye, despising me the way she did. Not on accident I dropped my check and had to bend deeply over in order to retrieve it. Whether she enjoyed this or not, I know I did. Get a fucking job or mind your own business. It was smiles all the way up the stairs.

Setting my alarm for 3:00 PM, I loaded a bowl, inhaled as much as I could, ate an orange, drank warm water from an open Ozarka bottle then crashed like thunder and dreamt like rain.
* * *

The Valium in my belly was melting nicely as the ice-cold beer flowed in. It was 3:30 PM when I arrived at the marina and the water was a gorgeous emerald green. The wind had laid down for the past few days after the storm allowing the water to settle and beckon me like a call from home. From the back of the jeep I grabbed my rod and reel, Old Faithful, and my wading belt which was well-equipped with a floating, waterproof tackle box. This belt was one of my few proud possessions, outfitted with a holder for Old Faithful, a stringer with bright red corked end, a detachable floating koozie and a healthy plethora of zipped pockets loaded with top-water jigs, rubber worms of all colors, leads with treble hooks, needle-nose pliers, a roll of twelve pound line, three beers on ice, a pint of scotch, my collapsible, magnetized stainless steel pipe that I bought in New York City, and a variety of prescription medications – non-prescribed of course. My belt was an invention of perfection. When locked on I was hands-free and ready to fish, but never too far from any necessity.

After the Valium had dissolved its way into my bloodstream, two 750 mg Vicoden with my beer was a nice follow-up. Lately too much at once had begun to make me vomit and I could only attribute that to not eating enough, so I began to watch the timing of my dosages. What’s the point of cheating reality if you’re sick?

I could see Piggy readying the nets as Pop’s boat, Freeloader, (name after me so he claimed) made its way out into the channel. It was about a fifty-yard trot from the pavement to the pier to bow of the boat. As I leapt aboard and set down my gear I felt as though I had run a thousand miles, but it didn’t matter, I was on my way and the day was stunning and the salt stirred in my veins.

“How ‘boutcha boys?” I asked as they both smiled, still tending to their business. They were use to my standard greeting, but I was in habit of saying it because it had always intrigued me as to what kind of response I would get, especially not knowing myself if what I was saying was a question or a statement or what. It was something I remember my grandfather saying when I was child. He had grown-up on a cattle ranch in West Texas and I figured since it was okay for him, it was fine for me too. As I got older, I realized it could tell me volumes about a person, depending on his or her particular response. The first time I met Pop, a soft-spoken, hard-weathered shrimper of forty-five years at sea, just smiled at me the first time I ‘how bouted’ him; not a tooth in sight nor an ounce of embarrassment about expressing the fact. He was salt of the earth and would, in time, become my good friend. Piggy, the only black man in town and Pop’s deckhand for over twenty years, just responded with one simple word, “Alright.” I liked it because it was just as confusing as ‘how ‘boutcha?’ It made me feel that somewhere in the opposite color of fabric was a common thread that tied a bond of friendship between us.

“I feel Mud Cut today, Pop. I feel it.” I said looking out over the water.

“You feel it, do ya’?”

“Yessir, I do. I do indeed.”

“He feels it again, Pig.”

“Look out,” Piggy smiled, “Miles done got that damned ol’ feelin’ again.”

With my feet dragging in the cool water, I took a half a joint from my shirt pocket and lit it. Pop or Piggy never gave me any hassle about it and neither partook, though I had offered many times. They made their living working with Mother Nature and as Pop once told me, “After so many years of life on the sea you learn to just let things be.” I admired this about both the men. They were old but strong, gentle but determined, quiet and content. Looking back at them working that old boat, it was just simple second nature. Smiling with great comfort as we hit the channel, I was feeling warm and ready.

“Can’t fight the feeling,” I whispered, and out to the bay we sailed.

* * *

In order to keep from stirring-up the water Pop slowed Freeloader to a slight chug as we entered Mud Cut. It was a courtesy to me and I appreciated his kindness. I could feel that, in his younger years, he too wanted to fish every day, fish for love, not money. Whether or not he approved of the way I lived my life, he appreciated the reality of seeing through the salty water with heart and hand. Joy is there for the taking and he would never deny me of that.

Mud Cut was not designed for boats the size of Freeloader nor was it the quickest path to the bay, but it did lead to a “wealthier piece of bay” as Pop called it. This eased my feelings of selfish guilt for being the cause of blowing their sails off course, but I knew by the look of ease and harmony in their eyes that both he and Piggy understood.

Mud Cut was about thirty yards in width at high tide and only about fifteen feet deep in the center. The edges of the cut where scattered with the remnants of old fishing camps that had either been wiped-out by hurricanes or simply left to rot by owners dead and gone. These old camps were only accessible by boat. There were no roads to Mud Cut, only roads to places near the cut, from there it was a hike through two miles of swampland that was home to alligators, feral hogs, cottonmouth snakes, seagulls, cranes, pelicans and well-hidden shell pits left behind from the old military artillery training days.

Over the years I had discovered only one water route to the cut, but it was only traversable bye canoe or kayak. I had kayaked to the cut many times until I discovered it was much easier to freeload my way out here on Freeloader. And so it was, my kayak retired behind Louie’s garage, my private route losing its tentacle trails in the fog of my mind’s evaporation.

Bloodshot and concealed by the tint of my sunglasses, my eyes worked the shoreline for the perfect spot. I was looking anything that might be moving along the banks of still sea grass. If nothing was moving then I looked for a place were I thought movement might occur as midday gave way to evening. When I found it, I knew it because I could feel it finding me.

I nodded at Pop. As he cut his engines I shed my shirt and glasses. The silence was singing on the tips of a gentle breeze and like my torn and faded blue jeans I slid into the cool water and let my feet sink into sucking black mud. As the warm top water filled the pits of my arms I held on to one of the old tires that adorned the sides of Freeloader and submerged my head beneath the surface. This had become my good luck ritual, staying under as long as I could, feeling the thick salt slush fill my ear canals. My feet were pulled from the mud from the force of the drifting vessel carrying me alongside.

Rising up I gasped for air and shook away the water from my ears. The welcome sight of Piggy’s smiling face leaning overboard dissolved away the pungent burn of salt in my eyes. “Forty-two seconds, Mr. Jax,” Piggy said as he handed down my gear, “you must be getting’ old on us.”

“No sir, it’s just the pot.”

“Alright, alright. Pop and I could use a filet or two. We gettin’ a little tired of eatin’ bait.” He looked back at Pop, “What do say, Poppy?”

Pop said nothing and from my position I couldn’t see him, but I knew he agreed.

“Four on the half shell. You got it, Pig.” It let loose of the tire as Pop fired-up the diesels and out into the big, beautiful bay they went.

With mud like quicksand after my feet I shuffled closer to the edge of the cut. At thigh-deep water I pulled a cold beer from my belt, took several heavy swallows then set the can in its pouch. “I love that thing.” I said looking at its simple construction of foam, camouflage nylon and Velcro. I checked the watermelon colored worm on the end of my line, then spit on it for good luck. It never failed, every time I spat on bait visions of my grandmother and I fishing off the pier at our family’s old bay house in Galveston rose in my mind. It was an old stucco house on stilts that sat on a large grassy lot on 6 1/2 Mile Road. Behind the house were picnic benches, an outdoor cold-water shower, and pier jetting about thirty paces into the canal. From the road the house was an exact replica of the Alamo. We called the place, Poopy-Doo. I don’t know why and now anyone that did is dead. I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. Poopy-Doo is gone, wiped out by the raging winds, but like the little gusts that remain twirling about that lot, so turn certain memories I’ll never lose and one of those was MeeMaw telling me to spit on the shrimp before I dropped the line from cane pole in the crawling water. “Spit on your bait.” She said. And I did as I whispered, “Tails… tails... tails...” from the silence of Mud Cut, casting Old Faithful at the banks. Life was upon me and I danced in its cloth, the sun working its needlepoint, the waters thread weaving through me, the tails making their way to my watermelon falls.

* * *

Pop and Piggy must’ve had a good run. This was my only thought as I vomited in the sea grass. The darkness had led me to the shore to dry my skin and rest my bones. The evening breeze had died with the sunlight and the ruthless mosquitoes of the humid Texas coast came to life with a fury. Without the tall grass to brush against I’d have no protection from them. Those fuckers are ruthless. It’s blood, blood, blood.

When the grass lost its salvation capacity to the overwhelming numbers of skeeters, I resorted to covering my sunburnt skin with the thick mud of the cut. It dried quickly and was an immense help, but nothing was an end all, so I laid on back in the grass awaiting the sound of approaching diesel engines, sipping scotch from the bottle and swallowing down pills that made the bites feel like warm pinpricks.

The silence was so immense I wanted to drift to sleep, but the stars were at my fingertips and so many would lose their grip on the world’s ceiling and fall away, burning in a shot of white fire through the sky, vanishing forever. I saw one star drop from its still position and ride a fall that seemed cushioned by its close proximity to earth. It was as though the celestial glue that had held it in place since time began finally froze in the arctic emptiness of space and let loose its grip, the great ball of nuclear fusion parachuting to its death. “I’ll remember you,” I said.

I closed my eyes and relaxed every muscle in my body trying to find the stillness that would ease the nausea and allow me to absorb the full effect of the drugs. It was a feeling that I now had to fight to get to. Everything was there, but so was my growing tolerance and I had to teach myself to slip into my bloodstream and concentrate on the things that I put there. Reality is best when you don’t have to live in it.

I dug in and found that warm feeling. Like the black mud below the water the drug resin lay heavy on the bottom of my veins. Relax and bring it to the top. Feel it crawl into my brain, pushing back my eyeballs, sending my heart to sleep and my mind to carry on with fantastic thoughts of what would be different. Time is of no consequence. It does not exist here. Nothing here exists unless I invite it. It’s living invisibly over my fantasies. A corpse so deep in death that life itself is nothing but a dream of good things, smiles, love and truth. I see no evil here. I fell only warmth and the tingle of life around my heart. My body is limp, my hands numb and my dreams stable in my ability to change from one to the other depending on the depth of their excitement. The world of life has left me and the world I create takes over. It’s everything that feels good; laughter, smooth bare skin relaxed against mine, sandy blonde hair scented with honeysuckle and green apples laying soft and cool on my face as we sleep entangled beneath white cotton sheets and the old Indian blanket, the fire flickering, splashing flashes of orange over my thoughts in the darkness, the snow falling, the city finally growing weary, leaving us alone, allowing us to be. This was all I ever wanted. This is where I belonged, in love as deep as the ocean, as high as the sky, as wide as the breeze tossing about the tips of the sea grass, as dense and pure as the black mud beneath me. I’m there with her smile and words of love. I’m there with the touch of her plump lips soft against mine, our tongues reaching for more closeness, and so many times our eyes open, looking at the raging love and desire in each other’s eyes. It’s true and final and there will never be anyone else, for without her I would die.

Caught comfortably in the web of my high and exhaustion, my body is gone from me. I feel nothing but the weightlessness of heaven floating in our love.

A layer of gentle blue builds in brightening scales of light over my closed eyes and it begins to pull me back. I fight hard to hide my awareness of its growth. Now she comes and goes. I release the clasp of my hands from my chest trying to ignore the rush of stinging blood lighting-up the tips of my sleeping fingers. Soon I find my place, but more light comes and I can’t help but thinking of the great opportunity to see one of the few enormously beneficial sites of reality.

With a fight from the thickness of a slimy high dream I break loose the seal of my eyes and the light that falls into me is stretched with nameless hues of orange and blue and in that moment I am in love with life. An early rising full moon over the bay was nothing less than a miracle to me. It was bigger than everything that was myself, my questions, my ability to answer them, and my ever wondering of who made it all real. It was someone I could never be and it was no one that I knew, but it was something strong and large, tough but more loving than I could understand. I knew, for I was bathing in the light of one of His greatest gifts. How could it be that I could see something so large, so beautiful, so bright, but still have no life? It’s surface cold and gray, dusty and without water or air. Maybe I’d live long enough to die of suffocation should I be fortunate enough to freely dance about a glowing bed of moon dust in the utter absence of gravity. What a way to go. Angels float. I’d better take my chance. Always take your chance otherwise you’re not living you’re dead. A man put an American flag on the moon. It’s there. I’ve seen the fucking pictures. Look at what I’ve done.

A sharp light slashed my view, a glimmer in the swing of a sword caught in a flash of sunlight. The spotlight combing the still sea grass stopped as Pop spotted me. As the light went off I stood and moved toward the shore. My skin burned with the anxiety to reality but it felt good to make my way into the cool water. I washed the mud from my body, but left it dried on my face as I could hear the mosquitoes steadily swarming my head, searching for a spot of exposed flesh in which to drill.

I handed my gear to Piggy, then the stringer holding three beautiful red fish. Piggy giggled with excitement as he showed them to Pop. I climbed up into the boat and waded through the thick odor of shrimp. Without asking, I dug into Pop’s cooler for a beer.

“Make it a double.” Pop said.

Clicks and spews, his beer was always ice cold. “Thanks for the lift.” I said as I made my way to a makeshift cleaning table in the back of the boat. Under a small light Piggy was already cleaning the fish. “Pig, I’ll take care of that. You’ve worked hard enough today.”

“Ain’t no problem. Miles. Go ahead up and get you some wind.”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

Piggy turned and looked my in the eye, “Mr. Jax, you look like you need some rest. When you look that way it means God’s trying to tell you somethin’.”

“Piggy it’s just the mud. I feel just…”

“I don’t want to be the cause of no man not listening to his creator, whether that man wanna listen or not. Now go on, get you some wind.” Piggy turned his attention back to the fish, but I was frozen, feeling as though he had just stole a glimpse at my soul. He looked right through me and for a moment I felt naked and weak, exposed like a withering tree in the desert.

I made my way to the front of the boat and let the night winds and cold beer wash away the pain, the physical pain, as anything emotional was dissolved in the boil of booze and drugs and physical exhaustion. This was my time to be completely free. I was in good hands. The night sky dazzled me with its light and the diesels churned, chopping a wake behind us, leaving another day of life and madness in its bubbling fizz.

 

 

Copyright © 2002 Branson Storm
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"