American rust (2 page)

“Christ,” said Poe, as the rain started to fall. “That plant doesn't even have a roof. Course with your luck I should have figured.”

Isaac pointed: “There's another building back there that's in better shape.”

“I can't wait.”

Isaac walked ahead; Poe was in a foul mood and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

They followed a deer path that led through the meadow. They could see the smaller building beyond the main factory; half- hidden in the trees, it was dark and shaded. Or sheltered, he thought. A brick building, much smaller than the main plant, the size of a large garage, maybe, the windows boarded but the roof was intact. It was mostly grown over with vines though there was a clear path leading to it through the grass. The rain swept over them and they began to run and when they reached the building Poe shouldered the door. It swung open without any trouble.

It was dark inside but they could make out it had been a machine shop, maybe a dozen lathes and milling machines. A gantry and series of grinder stands for cutting tool bits, though the grinders themselves were missing and the lathes were missing their chucks and cross- feeds, anything a person could carry. There were empty bottles of fortified wine scattered everywhere, more beer cans. An old woodstove and signs of recent fires.

“Jesus H. Christ. Smells like about ten bums are taking a dirtnap under this floor.”

“It'll be alright,” said Isaac. “I'll get a fire going so we can dry off.”

“Look at this place, it's like Howard Johnson's for bums; stacks of wood and everything.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“Please,” Poe snorted, “you're a fuckin tourist, is all.”

Isaac ignored him. He knelt in front of the stove and began to build a careful fire structure, tinder and then kindling and then stopping to look for the right- sized sticks. Not the best place but it'll do. Better than spending the rest of the day in wet clothes. This is what it'll be like being on the road, prioritizing the small comforts—simple life. Back to nature. You get tired of it you can always buy a bus ticket. Except then it won't mean anything—you could just buy another ticket and come back. The kid is not afraid. More to see this way—detour to Texas, the McDonald Observatory. Davis Mountains, nine- meter telescope, Hobby- Eberly Try to imagine the stars through that—no different than being up there. Next best thing to astronauts. Very Large Array, New Mexico or Arizona, can't remember. See it all. No hurries, no worries.

“Don't look so happy,” said Poe.

“I can't help it.” He found some more small pieces and went back to building his fire, using his jackknife to shave splinters for tinder.

“You take for goddamn ever to do anything, you know that?”

“I like a one- match fire.”

“Which, by the time you get it lit, it'll be dark and time to go, because I ain't spending the night here.”

“I'll give you my sleeping bag.”

“Fuck that,” said Poe. “We've probably already caught tuberculosis just from being in here.”

“We'll be fine.”

“You're useless,” Poe told him.

“What do you think you'll do when I'm gone?”

“I imagine I'll be extremely happy.”

“Seriously.”

“Quit it. I want someone to nag me, I'll talk to my mother.”

“I'll talk to your mother.”

“Yeah, yeah. You bring anything to eat?”

“Some nuts.”

“You would.”

“Hand over your lighter.”

“What would be perfect right now is a pie from Vincent's. Christ I was up there the other day, the house special—”

“Lighter.”

“I'd order us one but Nextel turned my phone off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That was a joke,” said Poe.

“Extremely funny. Give me your lighter.”

Poe sighed and handed it over. Isaac got the fire going. It grew quickly. It was a good fire. He kicked the door of the stove all the way open and then sat back and looked at his work with satisfaction.

“You'll still be smiling when this place burns down on top of us.”

“For someone who put two guys in the hospital—”

“Don't go there,” said Poe.

“I wouldn't.”

“You know I think you're an alright guy, Mental. Just wanted to throw that out, in case you could consider my opinion.”

“You could probably walk onto any football team out there. They've got lots of colleges, it's like
Baywatch.”

“Except everyone I know lives here.”

“Call that coach from the New York school.”

Poe shrugged. “I'm happy for you,” he said. “You're gonna make it, just like your sister. Right down to the rich guy you'll end up marrying. Some sweet old man, you'll do the circuit in San Francisco …”

There was a pause as they looked around the hideout. Poe got up and found a piece of cardboard and set it down again to lie on. “I'm still drunk,” he said. “Thank God.” He lay back on the cardboard and closed his eyes. “Ah Christ, my life. I can't believe you're doing this.”

“Boxcar Isaac, that's my new name.”

“Loved by sailors.”

“Duke of all hoboes.”

Poe grinned. “If that's your way of apologizing, I accept.” He rolled onto his side and wrapped his football jacket around him. “Might rest my eyes a minute. Make sure you wake me up the second it stops raining.”

Isaac kicked him: “Get up.”

“Just let me be happy.”

Isaac went back to watching the fire. Seems to be drawing—won't die of carbon monoxide. Kick him again. No. Let him be. Probably pass out. Anytime he sits still. Not like you—barely fall asleep in your own bed. Wouldn't even close your eyes in a place like this. Wish he was coming with. He looked around at the old machines, old rafters, cracks of gray light through the boarded-up windows. Poe is not afraid of people, that's the difference. Except he is in his way. Not physically afraid, is all. Meanwhile, look at you, already worrying, wondering if the old man's alright. When you know he'll be fine. Lee has a rich husband—they can get a nurse whenever they want. No reason as long as you lived there, but now that you're gone, a nurse will be found. Lee will buy her way out again. You put in five years and she puts in a couple of days every Christmas, her and the old man acting like it was fate. But still—look at it—somehow you're ending up the bad guy. The kid turns thief, abandons his father, his sister remains the hero and the favorite.

He tried to make himself relax but couldn't. The kid would like a triple dose of Prozac. Or something stronger. He took the money out and counted it again, it was not quite four thousand dollars, it felt like an enormous sum, though he knew it wasn't. Things will only get harder, you've got Poe right here and you're still in familiar territory. Thought you'd planned for everything, your notebooks and school transcripts, everything you need to start over in California. Made perfect sense on paper, but of course now it's ridiculous. Even if the old man doesn't call the cops. Just pride keeping you out here.

There was a noise at the other end of the building and Poe sat up groggily and looked around. There was a door they hadn't noticed. Three men appeared, stomping their feet and dripping, wearing backpacks. They were standing in the shadows, two tall men and one short one.

“Y'all are in our spot,” said the biggest of them. He was substantially taller than Poe, thick blond hair and a thick beard. The three of them made their way around the machines and stood a few feet from the fire.

Isaac stood up but Poe didn't move. “This ain't anyone's spot,” Poe said.

“No,” said the man. “This one is ours.”

“Dunno if you've been outside recently,” said Poe, looking at the puddles the men were making on the floor, “but we ain't moving.”

“We can go,” said Isaac. He was thinking about the money in his pocket and he looked away from the newcomers. He thought the big blond lumberjack one might say something more but he didn't.

“Who gives a shit,” said another of the men. “Least they got the fire going.” He took off his pack. He was the smallest and also the oldest, somewhere in his forties, a week's stubble, a thin nose that was very crooked, it had been broken and never reset. Isaac remembered that Poe had been messing around at practice once without his helmet, taken a hard hit that broke his nose, but he'd just grabbed it and straightened it himself, right there on the field.

The three men looked like they'd been on the road a long time. The older one wrung out his watch cap and set it near the fire and his wet pants clung to his thin legs. He told them his name was Murray and they could smell him.

“Do I know you?” he said to Poe.

“Probably not.”

“How would I know you?”

Poe shrugged.

“He used to play ball,” said Isaac. “He was tight end for the Buell Eagles.”

Poe gave Isaac a look.

The man noticed Poe's football jacket draped near the stove. He said: “I remember that. I used to change oil at Jones Chevy and we'd watch the games after work. Thought you'd be outta here. College ball or somethin.”

“Nah,” Poe said.

“You were good,” Murray said. “That wasn't that long ago.”

Poe didn't say anything.

“It's alright. Otto over there was Golden Gloves in his younger days. Coulda gone pro but—”

“I was in the army,” said Otto. He was the tall Swede. Most of the people in the Valley were ethnic in some way or other: Poles, Swedes, Serbs, Germans, Irish. Except for Isaac's people, who were Scottish, and Poe's, who had been here so long no one knew what they were.

“Otto is on leave from the VA.” Murray tapped his head.

“Fuckin Murray,” Otto said.

Isaac glanced over but Otto had gone quiet and was staring at the ground. As for the other man, he was dark and Hispanic- looking and a little smaller than Poe, he had a tattoo on his neck that said jesús in bubble letters. All three of the men were much larger than Isaac; the Swede, it now appeared, was close to seven feet.

“You're lucky it was us come in,” said the Hispanic one. “They got some real lunatics around here.”

“Jesús,” said Murray. “Stop being such a fuckin Mexican.”

“Murray might want to shut his mouth,” said Jesús.

Otto, the Swede, added: “Pretty soon it's a fuckin convention in here.”

“These two ain't like that, they're locals.”

The room seemed dark and small and the Swede picked up a long piece of lumber and rammed the end noisily into the stove. Isaac wondered how he'd get Poe to leave. The embers popped and shot across the floor and by the shadows on the wall all five men looked like sitting apes. This won't get any better, Isaac thought. Jesús jerked something from his pocket and Isaac flinched and Jesús burst out laughing. It was just a bottle of whiskey.

“I gotta take a piss,” Isaac said. He didn't have to piss; he wanted to leave and he looked at Poe but Poe didn't get it.

“Go on,” Poe said.

“Those two usually piss together,” said Jesús.

Isaac waited but Poe stayed where he was, staring at both Jesús and the Swede, he noticed Poe's jacket sitting there on the floor along with his backpack. Poe was in a definite mood, thinking he was indestructible. Isaac picked up the backpack, he could not afford to lose anything inside it, he held it by a strap and felt everyone watching him. He didn't know how to tell Poe to bring his coat. Finally he went out alone.

It was nearly dark and the storm had broken temporarily, though more clouds were coming in—across the meadow he could see the trees swaying by the river. He wondered again how he'd get Poe to come out. Thinks it's still school. No consequences. As for the field, it was full of scrap metal, tall grass grown up around piles of train parts, huge engine blocks, wheels, driveshafts and gears. A handful of bats were cutting and darting over the piles of rusted steel.

There was a patch of high clouds in the bloodorange light and he watched until the sun faded completely. He didn't know whether to go back and get Poe or if Poe would come out on his own. Poe was always doing these things. He'd nearly gone to jail for beating up a kid from Donora, he was still on probation for it. He can't resist a fight, not something you understand. Probably it's not his fault. Probably you can't be as big as him without having some kind of robot mentality.

Suddenly there were raised voices from inside the building, then shouting and banging around. Isaac tightened the straps on his pack and picked an escape route across the field and waited for Poe to come running. But Poe did not appear. Keep waiting, he told himself, just sit tight. The shouting and noises stopped. Isaac waited a while longer. Maybe it's okay. No, something is wrong. You have to go back in.

His hands were shaking but he took the money from his pocket and stuffed it deep inside his backpack and then quickly hid the pack under a piece of sheet metal. This is fine. The kid's got this under control. Don't go in empty- handed. He saw a short length of iron pipe but it would just get taken away from him. Underneath the other scrap—he reached his hand carefully through the stack of rusted metal to where a dozen or so industrial ball bearings were scattered in the dirt. He picked one up. It was the size of a baseball, or larger, cold and very heavy. Maybe too heavy. He wondered if there was something else. No, there's no time. Get in there. Don't use that same door.

After coming quietly through the back door he could see what was happening. Murray was laid out on the ground. The Mexican was standing behind Poe holding something to Poe's neck; his other hand was down Poe's crotch. Poe had both hands in the air like he was telling the man to calm down. They were standing in the light from the fire with their backs to him. Isaac was in the dark, invisible to others.

“Otto,” the Mexican shouted. “I ain't got all fuckin day.”

“Your little buddy ain't outside,” said a voice. “He must of already took off.”

The Swede came back from the other side of the building with his face shining in the firelight, grinning at Poe like he was happy to see him. Isaac found his grip on the bearing, felt how heavy it was, five pounds, six pounds, he rocked to his back leg and threw as hard as he could; he threw so hard he felt the muscles in his shoulder tear. The bearing disappeared in the darkness and there was a loud crack as it hit the Swede in the center of the head, just at the top of his nose. The Swede seemed frozen in place and then his knees went loose and he seemed to fall straight down, a building collapsing on itself.