Bongwater by Michael Hornburg

Author:Michael Hornburg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 1995-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Portland

We rolled down 1-5 past Salem, Eugene, and Roseburg, nonstop until Grants Pass, a town of pickup trucks and Klansmen, a cluster of shopping malls clinging to the highway. Mary pulled into a twenty-four-hour truck stop. Two hunters in camouflage were parked ahead of us, their red van bearing a SOLDIERS FOR CHRIST bumper sticker. I went into the store and bought a six-pack of Heineken. The lady behind the counter wore an orange polyester smock and chewed gum like someone dying for a smoke. She looked me over, took my money, asked if I was from Portland. I nodded. End of conversation.

Mary went to the bathroom, seeing her walk off made me horny again, her little hips had a lazy sway that said fuck me. One of the guys in the van whistled at her, she ignored him. The truck stop was jammed, eighteen-wheelers parked side by side. Hungry cowboys burning on speed filled every booth of the restaurant, one eye on the runny eggs sliding off their forks and one eye on the skinny legs of the teenage waitress working behind the counter.

The attendant took the nozzle from the pump and started filling the tank. I paid for ten dollars worth of gas. Mary snuck up behind me, tickled my waist, scared the shit out of me, took the Heinekens, and got back into the car.

“I love the smell of gasoline,” she said. The orange and red lights of semitrailers glowed like a carnival at closing time, a long stretch of mist crept over the soybean fields, a flatbed truck full of migrant workers sped past. Mary was revving the engine in true redneck fashion. I jumped back in, cracked a beer, pressed my feet against the dashboard. Mary swerved out of the lot.

As we sped through the forest, lightning flashed over the valley, illuminating the distant purple mountains. Flying away from roadkill in the center of the highway, a huge white owl with a fat piece of red flesh hanging from its beak floated over the windshield then banked into the black trees. I tried rolling a cigarette unsuccessfully, settled for a roach in the ashtray instead.

“So tell me about Phil,” Mary said, changing lanes to pass an old VW van struggling through the first mountain pass.

“I’ve known him since high school. We moved out here together. He joined a fire crew a few months after we arrived and hasn’t been back much since. He hangs out in the woods pretty much by himself.”

“How does somebody become such a recluse?”

“A friend of ours was shot and killed. We were both in the car when it happened. Phil was really freaked. I don’t think he ever got over it. Being out here, growing weed, maybe it’s all he can handle.”

“Who shot your friend?”

“The cops.”

“Why?”

“Gary shot at them first.” I pushed my empty beer bottle under the seat. “He had a little problem with authority.”

“I guess.”

“If that hadn’t happened something else would have, he was a crazy motherfucker.” I reached over and touched Mary’s hair.

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