The Bullshit

Cassidy Forrest

 

                                                Bullshit

 

“Peel away enough layers of anything, and it’s always rotten at the core.”

He smiled at his own analogy for our bad tires. A quote he had made up on the spot, and under his ragged dusty hat, he smiled a grin showing an array of broken teeth no doubt shattered and melted from years of biting the heads of bottles and dragging down on cigarettes. Behind him lay an old dog chained to what once was a stop sign; it sighed and yawned at us, and watched the heat waver off the filthy pavement that stretched out in  back of our car.

            I smiled back at him. That’s pretty much all you can do with a statement such as that. There is no debating with a man like this; there is no discussion on meaning or a proper way to evoke elaboration from a man who has seen and done more things then you could ever hope to imagine at your age. You may not agree, you may not understand, but any questioning will come off as arrogance, so you smile and nod, and try to get a feel for where that person from this forgotten place is coming from.

The man drew in his cigarette, and exhaled. The hiss of the generator blended with the screech that came from the radio inside his makeshift shack as he patched and filled our broken tires with air. His eyes would flicker up at us when we first would speak, but would immediately fall back down to the job at hand as our words fell meaninglessly into his ears.

You could tell by his dismissive way of speaking and the way he held himself that  he had seen a lot, and believed us to have seen nothing. Perhaps a great conversationalist and somebody familiar with the way of life in these parts could drag a bit more out of the old junk yard keeper. But we were obvious outsiders; just passing through to bite on a chicken fried steak, pick up some beer, and patch up a few flat tires.  We had no hope of finding the core of this man, his reasoning, and his train of thought.

One of my companions attempted to break the sudden awkward silence anyway.

“How long do you think this will take?”

I winced at this comment. This was the only man within 90 miles that could fix a flat. He wasn’t going to move any faster or slower then he wanted, and there was no way around that. The comment didn’t seem to faze him though; perhaps he expected impatience from outsiders like us.

He replied without any change of facial expression or tone, “’Bout as long as it takes to fix.”

So we continued to watch him work, with the heat of the desert and the thick scent of aged metal and hot oil overpowering any other aroma that could possibly be floating past our sweaty nostrils.

Mounds of junk lay piled behind him as he worked on our tires. Huge farming wheels, old bikes, steel fans from the 50’s, and abandoned RV’s stripped down to the raw chasse rested and wilted behind his shack. The bottom of every item and piece of equipment was half buried in the dirt, as if had been covered a hundred years ago and was just now starting to surface.

He rubbed the tires as he worked.  Like a veterinarian calming an animal at a zoo, he gently petted the tire with his rugged hands, hands that were thick and cracked like leather left in the sun. He pulled the nozzle like a stethoscope from the tire and patted it’s sides as if letting it know the worst was over. He stood up and turned to us. 

            “Should be alright, I’ve seen worse.”

My friend opened the van to get his wallet, and the man noticed the six-pack of cold beer we had just purchased. He removed his hat and wiped his wrinkled brow.

            “You boys gonna drink all of those?”

My friend took the hint, and immediately handed him one. He opened it without thanks, and drank long hard gulps until the can was at least halfway empty. He relaxed his arm and examined the can, then winced into the sunlight as a row of motorcycles roared by. He looked to the rear of our van at the red cursive written along the top of our license plate.

            “Cal-i-forn-i-a, uh?” His old rugged pronunciation of things cut the word into the five parts.  But it still stood as a question about ourselves, his repayment for the beer we had given him. We gladly accepted it.

            “Yeah, we’re heading back home after a few weeks on the road,” I said.

He didn’t ask where we had been, or what part of California we were from, he just continued to look at the van, and then glanced back at us as if the silent desert surrounding this little town had drowned my words out.

            “Stayed there for awhile once,” he stated.

We paused and created a silence for him to finish.  Just by luck we had broken that invisible barrier that prevented us from indulging ourselves in the tales this man no doubt kept to himself.

            “Had to get away from all that bullshit though…”

We could tell by his tone he had finished speaking. He pulled from his pocket another cigarette and lit it without looking at the tip. Instead he stared back at us with his grey eyes, barely visible under the tight squint of his eyelids. Analyzing our faces for the first time, sizing us up before he let out the smoke, he pulled back the can of beer and drained the rest in one quick motion.

            “That’s gonna be fifteen for the patch, two for the air.”

My friend handed him a twenty and told him the keep the rest. He nodded, and pocketed the money. Before he could turn, I held up the remaining beers and asked if he wanted another, trying to get more out of his story before our interaction ended. He accepted in silence, and drank slower then he had before.

            “What were you doing in California?” I asked.

            “That’s my own business,” he stated back.

I muttered an apology under my breath and looked at the ground; my companions did the same. He looked at the can, and then at us. I wasn’t sure if he felt bad that he had been short with my questioning or maybe he realized the importance of fair trade and that our offer of the beer would only have to be repaid by dealing a little with our ignorance.

            “I fetched rare parts for a man who ran a machine shop.”

We looked up excitedly, knowing he was going to continue. We had loved some of the stories we had been told so far on this trip. We had met some pretty amazing outsiders, and they had told us of the heroic acts they had done or seen happen. We had been told about the times before we were born, and how much better it was then. It had become almost a game, of who could meet the most amazing person, and re-tell his stories to the people back home.

But despite our efforts with this man, we were having a hard time getting him to show us a little of his world, which of course intrigued us even more. He lit a new cigarette with the butt of the old one and flicked its browned filter behind him towards the dog, which half stood up and examined the burning ember before settling back down.

            “Doesn’t sound like bullshit to me,” my friend said.

I winced again at this comment. But the man just looked at my friend as one does a child who tells a toilet joke to an adult.

            “Ain’t no bullshit ‘bout a hard working job,” the man said.

My friend smiled and nodded in agreement, although I doubt he realized the man wasn’t finding the connection my friend had hoped to gain with his statement. The man took a long draw from his cigarette.

            “So what didn’t you like about it?” I said.

The man looked at me as if my question had been an attempt at a joke, but his expression changed when he accepted I must be slow, and he started to answer.

            “Well, I could be here all day trying to tell you about that,” he said.

I waited for him to go on, watching him drag from the smoking paper in his hand and drink from the beer can. He watched us back, and he could tell we were going to need an example. Perhaps he thought we were so far gone into our other world that a generalization, fit for the likes of the inhabitants of this town, was not going to be enough for us lost boys. It had happened before, some people just didn’t even want to relate to the fast-paced culture of where we were from.

            “Seems like a dying world over there, things happen where they shouldn’t happen and the goings-on ain’t normal.”

I nodded in agreement, although I didn’t completely understand what he meant.

            “Got told once to find a fire hose that didn’t leak, didn’t know what for or why, but it wasn’t my position to ask, see?”

Again we all nodded, and waited for more.

            “Heard about an ol’ army base towards the north that wasn’t in use no more. Seemed like the right place to find what it was I was searching to find.”

He looked into the sky as he remembered back. Expressionless, he looked at the clouds, but deep down it seemed he was remembering something he had not thought about in years.

            “Caught a train that let me ride free in exchange for cleaning the dirty dishes. Knew how to use a torch, so they gave me a small cabin to sleep in and two square meals a day in exchange for any mending that was needed. Took a couple days ride to get up there, so seemed like a good deal to me. Kept to myself and minded my own business, best way to get where you need to go.”.

He looked at me with that last statement, making sure I understood the moral behind this portion of the story.

            “When I got there I find a ride with a man named Donald who said he would drive me right to the gates of the base for a buck fifty. Seeing as how I didn’t have much else to go on, I paid the man and rode in the back of his truck to the empty base. When I got there the sun was starting to set, and I knew I would only have a few hours of light ‘for the sun wasn’t gonna be there anymore and I would be pokin’ round in the dark. So I started off fast and not before too long I was passing by the ol’buildings with their smashed windows and torn off doors.”

            He paused again, remembering back to his surroundings, and finding a way to best describe them to us. He dragged from his short cigarette and started again.

            “Hadn’t been in use since middle of the war. Guess the place didn’t give much reason for being, so they left it as is with all the desks and pencils still inside. Everything you could think of was there, dozens of empty buildings for sleeping, a gym, giant office buildings, and even a hall for dancing that still had one of those shiny balls twirling in the middle of the room. It was like a full town that everyone had just up and left. The roads were cracked and I couldn’t see much of them due to the amount of dirt that had blown in. I found my way around nicely, walkin’ ‘long a levy that gave me a view of the things around me.

But gettin’ farther back into the area, things started to change. People of all sorts been campin’ there and doin’ different things. Writin’ on the walls and sayin’s spelled out in paint told different stories ‘bout the happenin’s  going on. Start to see some bad things, like devil worshippers been doin’ their deeds there. Being a god fearin’ man I didn’t worry none about that, and kept on goin’. Wasn’t long before I hear some sounds coming from a building I was passin’.”

He paused now and looked at our waiting eyes, making sure he wasn’t wasting his breath on the three of us. Reassured by our look of interest, he continued.

            “Sounded like all sorts of bad happenin’ in there. Glass breakin’ and metal twistin’, sound of wood shatterin’ and splittin’ off onto the floor. Sounded like whoever was in there was tryin’ to tear the building down piece by piece. But I just keep walkin’, I don’t want any part of what’s going on in there, so I just keep on goin’ and don’t miss a step. Best to mind my own business, see?”

Again he meets my eyes; I silently sigh in my head and play ignorant to his gaze and continue to look back at him.

“‘Bout an hour later, I find a building that looks like it might have what I’m seekin’. Little shack that sat halfway out into a bit of water that looks like it might have been a lake at one time ‘nother. Ain’t no door to the place, so I just go in and wouldn’t you know it, there’s a hose sittin’ right there on the wall. I take it down and it’s pretty heavy, so I wrap it around myself until most of its weight’s on my shoulders. I start back towards the gates I entered through, and  cuz I’m excited by how easy my find was, I start thinkin’ and forget’ bout the noises coming from that building I was passin’ before on my search.

By the time I remember the happenin’s going on in that big structure, it’s a bit too late and I’ve come up on the noise of breakin’ and shatterin’. Noise hadn’t stopped, still as loud as when I passed it before. The building’s pretty big, so I figure whatever’s making that noise in there ain’t gonna hear me walkin’ past with all the noise and goings on in there. I walked fast, but I was a younger man then, and I slowed my pace and I watched the house, wonderin’ what all the racket’s about.”

He looks at me again, this time with eyes and puckered lips that show a bit of forgiveness. I think his last statement made him remember that as a young man, curiosity even came to him from time to time. I can’t help but smile, which makes him turn to my friends to continue his story.

            “I kept on walkin’, but I slowed down a bit. I watched the empty door ‘bout thirty, forty yards away where all the noise was comin’ from. I slowed down til I wasn’t movin’ at all, and just stood there lookin’ at the ol’ building with the setting sun behind it. I had a good amount of tall grass in front of me, so I figured I was pretty well hidden from whatever might be lookin’ out a window at me. The noise went on and on, sounds of smashin’ and throwin’, like couple people in there raisin’ all sorts of hell. No real way to tell what was happenin’ without lookin’ inside, so I turned and started walkin’ away. Then all at once, like god himself had sucked up all the noise on this earth, everythin’ went silent. I stopped my breathin’ and hunkered down behind the grass. No more crashin’ or bangin’ on walls, just silence as cold and heavy as the deep plains at night.

I waited for a minute, and out from the door come these two dogs, skinny black, mean looking dogs, with tall pointy ears. They start lookin’ around and smellin’ the air. I’m sittin’ downwind, so I figure my scent’s pretty well hidden, but like they’re seein’ like an eagle, seems almost like they seen me from above, and they both look at me and even from a distance I can see their teeth growlin’ at me.”

            “What kind of dogs were they?” my friend interrupts.

He glares at my friend’s question, as if my friend had not been following the story.

            “I guess he means, what exactly did the dogs look like?” I reassure him.

            “They were black, mean lookin.”

We go quiet again.

            “Dogs start runnin’ towards my direction, and I start runnin’ fast as I can.

Ain’t much chance of outrunnin’ dogs like that, but better to give it a shot than stayin’ put.

They get to where I am, but I’m up on a little hill that gives me a wall that’s blocking them from getting right to me. So I’m runnin’ through the tall grass, dogs runnin’ right alongside but a few feet  b’low me. I see ahead the hill evens off, and I can see the dogs see it too. I know we’re gonna meet face to face now, ain’t no way out of it, dogs quicker ‘n me and they’re gonna get there first. So I stop, and see what the dogs’re gonna do.

‘Stead of running around and up the hill, dogs stop and look up at me. They’re  just a few feet below, but the dirt on the hill gives no ground for them to leap up on. They both stand there on their skinny legs, pantin’ heavily; I can tell I gave them a run. They look up at me, the one on the right starts talking.

            “Hey!” the dog says to me.

            “Hey yourself, dog,” I say back.

            “Where you going with that hose?”

The dog on the left jerks his head ‘round tow’rd the dog speakin’, then jerks his head back to face me, teeth showin’.

            “What concern of it’s to you?” I say.

The dog on the left snarls at me, and his ears go back. One on the right keeps lookin’ at me, waitin’ to see what I’m gonna do; he goes on speakin’.

            “That’s our hose,” he says to me.

            “Hose ain’t no use to a dog,” I says back.

They both show their teeth to me now, and the one on the left barks.

            “That’s not the point,” he says to me.

“This is our home, and you are stealing from us” the dog on the right says.

I laugh at the dogs.

            “Dogs can’t own no property, can’t sign no agreements,” I says to them.

Dogs start hissin’ at me like snakes.

            “Give us the hose!” dog on the right yells at me.

            “I ain’t givin’ up shit to no dog!” I says back.

Both dogs start barkin’ now, runnin’ round in circles and foamin’ at the mouth.

I know that things just gonna get worse now, and I start runnin’.

Dogs take notice of my leavin’, and start runnin’ towards the end of the hill where I was head’n. I start reachin’ in my pockets for anythin’ to throw at them, couple coins and a pen don’t do much, but I throw ’em anyway. It’s in the diggin’ through my pockets that I realize I have all I need in my back pouch. As luck would have it, I was forgettin’ about the one thing I never leave behind, the ol’ Bible, bless it, sittin’ right there beside me.

So I pull it out and start tellin’ the dogs the truth of the Lord and readin’ in the loudest voice I could yell at them.

Pretty soon the dogs start goin’ crazy, start flippin, over and yelpin’ like they’re in some sorts of pain. I’m runnin’ as fast as I can, so I can only make out some parts between my breathin’, so they keep chasin’ me best they can. I get to the gate and leap over it same way I got in. Dogs reach the gate as well, but it’s a bit tall for them so they just start barkin’ and snarlin’ at me from th’ other side of the metal gate. I give them one last verse from the good book, the bastards, and head back down to the road.

Caught the same train back, had to walk half a day to the station seein’ as nobody was gonna pick up a man with that much hose.”

            The man takes a final drag from his cigarette before he lets it drop into the dirt at his feet. He doesn’t put it out, so it continues to smoke as he swirls the remaining beer in the can he holds. We all stand in a line in front of him, looking at his face as he looks at the sun, and then into the town down the road.

            “Gave the hose to my boss and quit that same day,” he said as he curled his nose.

“All kinds of bullshit over there,” he then mutters, looking back at his shack. 

            We get back into the car, and start the engine in silence. As we pull away, we laugh a little, and recall to each other parts of the old junkyard owner’s story. But on the back of our tongues, we feel like we’re really talking in a language that mimics only what we know to be real, billboards and advertisements for movies that pave the roads back to home. We’re translating the old man’s story into logic and lingo based on our sociological upbringing, making sense of what he really could have seen to fit our clouded eyes.

I look through the back window towards the man we just left, and through the glare of the sun I can see he isn’t watching us leave. Just letting us drive off, having given us a story to take as we will. It didn’t matter to him where we were heading, or whether or not we believed what he had said.  To him, we were just heading back to the land of the forsaken where we belonged; back to our loud music, promiscuous sex, instant information, blockbuster video stores, and false idols. We had left no impression on him, our egos and thoughts just blends of the world he had gotten away from.

            I watched him as we drove into the distance.  His back to the setting sun, he walked to his chained dog, and poured the remaining beer into a puddle for the animal to lap up. The dog stood happily, and the man petted the mutt’s shaggy head.

Soon his yard of junk, his old beaten down shack, and his obedient animal were just dots on the horizon. We were all looking forward now in silence, facing the road that would take us back to our bullshit, feeling empty and questioning what it was we weren’t seeing.