Chainsaw

8: Oregon

JD returned to the table clearly flustered. His tan trousers were spattered with water, soaked in some spots. He sat down with a huff and took a long pull from his margarita before him. "Goddamn split-shot. I hate that."

"Split-shot? What's that? Did you dump guacamole in your lap?" Stuart asked, puzzled.

"Split-shot is what you get when a pube is stuck across your dick-end and you get a stream that goes off in both directions instead of straight. Then you try to pinch your pud to break it free, and half the time that just changes the shot pattern so you spray down your pant leg, which is what happened to me. 'Split-Shot,'" he repeated, like he was completing his turn in a spelling bee.

Stuart roared with laughter. "That's a good one. Good lord. That's the best laugh I've had since I was in the states. Split shot. You know -- you could avoid that if you'd do a little bush pruning."

"What do I want to do that for?!?" JD said, looking askance at Stuart. "You think I'm a Playgirl model or something? And what's so funny, anyway? I ought to cold-cock you."

Stuart still had not gotten his laughing under control. "That's another approach you could use -- the cold-cock to shrink it away from clinging hair!" and commenced laughing again.

"Jesus, Christ -- you are a piece of work. If you weren't paying for lunch and this drink, I'd turn you over to the locals and tell them you fucked their daughter and have the clap. They don't take kindly to that. And you were supposed to tell me your sad story after I told you how I got to where I went from school. When is that supposed to happen?"

Stuart's look sobered to one of surprise. "Maybe I can get to that. But I don't feel like I got much out of what drove you to this god-forsaken country for so long. So you could either cut to the chase and tell me why you're holed up down here, or give me some more of the front-matter so I might get to where I could spill my guts."

The combination of the hurt and indignation that Stuart displayed struck JD as amusing and he guffawed with laughter. "Okay, okay, I don't want you to wet your pants, too, JD said dismissively. He shook out a cigarette, offered one to Stuart (who waved it away), then blew smoke toward the ceiling as he looked off out the window. "Let's see...I'll tell you about the neighbors, because I think they're related to the fishing stuff, sort of -- at least the Portland picture. And they'll help it wind into some drugs and escapades and who-knows-what else. And I can't guarantee which part is from which time in Portland -- the second semester of what would have been my Sophomore year, or when I landed there after college and thought I was there to stay. Does that agree with your poor, vulnerable constitution?" JD said smiling, his eyes twinkling in the light from the window.

"Ha, ha, ha," Stuart replied. "I like the stories. I can do without the sarcasm."

"Then we're even. My sister and her husband lived in an old, two-story frame house in Southeast Portland. Must have been constructed in the '20s or so. Definitely pre-war. Probably three bedrooms upstairs. Come to think of it, there was also sort of an upstairs porch, maybe a sleeping porch, there, too. Kind of quaint but pretty useless except for airing your socks or smoking, but they all smoked indoors, anyway. Downstairs was the front living room with a fireplace -- more of a parlor in the old times. The stairs up were right there not far from where the front door opened. It was a pretty good sized room -- at least I remember getting the kid and the dog into a lather one day playing some Frank Zappa.

"The first visit they had a different pitbull, Frankie -- Ira's first. They weren't true pit bulls, they were brindled Staffordshire Terriers, not your standard pitbull, though I'm not sure of the different. Frankie was a sweetheart, though Ira tried to make her out to be mean and acted like she was a tough girl. She was strong all right, but from what I remember hearing, what fights she got into, it always took her a while to figure out the other dog wasn't just playing. She died relatively young, and I don't remember what the issue was, but I think Ira was pissed, thinking he'd gotten ripped off by the breeder back in the midwest. So maybe Taurus came from there, too, with a 'I'll kick your ass if you don't give me a warranty' discount. Taurus was also a sweetheart, but was bigger, broader in the chest, and Ira had a game that sometimes got too intense and serious. You could have somebody knock at the door, or even if they were in the room and not a regular in the house, you could say -- Ira especially could say -- 'What is it Taurus? What the hell is that?' And Taurus would growl and make an awful noise, like he was taut on a chain ready to rip off a leg. If the person came in or was already in Ira would say, 'Watch him Taurus! You watch him!' and Taurus would stand, tense and alert, scowling and growling at this supposed threat. But I think it was all bullshit and bravura, since you could say, 'Okay, Taurus, it's okay -- good dog!' and Taurus would wag his tail and dance around the stranger like he was ready to play or get patted on the head. Usually the person would ease himself around the room, his back to the wall -- facing Taurus the whole time and sort of guarding his nuts, because the dog, while not huge, was one handsome, white-chested, solid piece of canine. I liked that they hadn't clubbed his tail or clipped his ears -- it made him friendlier in my mind, but I wish they'd have trimmed his nuts off, because I think the balls in his sack made him more aggressive and made him downright impossible on a leash if there was a bitch in heat.

"Next door to them lived Mary in this cute little arts-and-crafts single-story bungalow. Mary was a sweetheart and I loved to go over and she'd make the best coffee and almost always have some weed to share with me in a cute little ceramic pipe. I think she thought I was lonely, but I really appreciated her earth-mother maternal tone, and also had a little fantasy of sleeping with her. She had a son who was about four years older than Luke and a cute daughter maybe just a year older, I think.

"Mary lived with Ted, a jovial, friendly-seeming, pretty worthless piece of shit who probably sponged off her and was always looking for something not nailed down he could get if he wasn't telling some bullshit story -- fish story, party story, hunting story...whatever. He was also one of Ira's best friends, I think -- or somebody Ira would take along on his escapades, or fishing or to the track or looking for drugs, or something to buy or sell.

"Ted would come by to smoke, pace around, talk about fishing, and ask if we had some rooter -- that's what he called weed, which I always found amusing -- and then he'd go drive off somewhere looking for a better offer. He did work for Ira, too, off and on. The only problem was that he would feed Ira's ability to procrastinate or do something besides go do the tree work, but I recall he was a pretty good climber and trimmer. Just not worth the rest of the package. You still with me?" Stuart nodded and smiled.

"Next to Mary lived a weasley-looking old pot head named Barry. He supposedly had a job doing something or other, but I don't know what the hell that was. His wife Alice was as mousy as he was scrawny and she'd to gripe about people hanging around. But Larry usually had seedy just-okay pot for sale if I was in a pinch. There's nothing much more to say about them. I think maybe Barry fished -- I kinda remember Ira and Ted talking like gossipy housewives after Barry would leave -- that his fishing was crappy, that there's no way he caught whatever, that whatever he'd hooked and lost was likely much smaller than he claimed, or was a snag, and that his weed was overpriced and no good. Though Ted was always nice enough when he came around with a rooter.

"Actually, when I went out there after college, Ira was supposed to be clean. He'd been in AA and didn't drink all the time he was in Portland. Except he fell off the wagon a few times. But for the first few years they were out there, during my first stay with them, he still smoked dope and did mushrooms and other stuff. He figured, and there some others in AA, that if you didn't drink, then at least you were dealing with your alcoholism. It worked out great for me -- he'd come back, supposedly from a meeting, red-eyed and grinning, and give me a few sweet buds, or sometimes some coke. And Ann still smoked dope those first times. So there was weed around most times, and they didn't seem to mind my rather compulsive preoccupation with staying stoned nearly all the time."

"Nearly all the time?" Stuart smiled.

"Yeah. All the time I was awake, basically. I had a ritual from the co-op house I was in at college, where I'd have my first few hits in the morning when I took a shit. That was invariably after I'd had a couple cups of coffee and a cigarette. Out there, it was a general alteration of coffee and weed. I don't think I drank in the house -- they probably didn't want to have that around.

JD looked absently at the ceiling, then out the window, reached up over his head to scratch at something between his shoulder blades, rolled his shoulders, then looked squarely at Stuart. "Let's get the hell outta here. I've got the willies now. Lemme take you to a place of distraction."

Stuart opened his eyes wide, questioning, shrugged, drank the last of his drink, and flagged the waitress over to pay their bill.