Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders

  —who’d dropped one hand to the fork of his jeans. “You think you can wrestle another load of prime nigger cum out my mother-fuckin’ black snake?” Dark fingers squeezed the once-black denim, mostly gray-brown now.

  Eric swallowed. “Yeah.” His heart had started to beat hard again. “Sure—”

  “Then you go get yourself a decent pair of work shoes and come on back here with these low-down scumbag cocksuckers, and I may even let them stand around and watch us—and maybe let ’em lick up some of the leavin’s.” Standing up straight, Al dropped his hand from his pants. “But I still ain’t lettin’ you run around here with nothin’ on you damned feet, I don’t care how sweet your honkey butt-hole feels slidin’ up and down my big, black dick.” Al flung out a hand. “With them things on, you might as well be barefoot as dat damned nigger deah.” He spat to the left. “Next time I see you, I’ll take you in de shack. But after dat, we gonna wait till we run into each other at Turpens again. Or maybe at the Opera. Okay?”

  Eric looked up at Dynamite—who grinned back at him.

  “Yeah.” Eric looked at the gatekeeper. “Sure. That’s okay.”

  “’Cause this is work out here, cocksucker—at least most of it. It ain’t no play.” Then he grunted. “Motherfuckin’ birthday, my left nut…!” But he was smiling. In the gray light, over Al’s dark arms, though he looked for them, because of the clouded-over morning, Eric couldn’t see Al’s tattoos.

  “Al here’s a real busy man,” Shit explained from the pickup window. “He got three wives and—what is it?—seven little Havers runnin’ around Split Pine—and all his fans at Turpens and the Opera. And sometimes he has a little trouble arguin’ them ladies into given’ ’im some nookie. That’s why he’s always grabbin’ a little man-tail on the side.”

  “Two wives,” Al said, “and five kids. That’s right now, anyway. Still, it’s more’n you, scumsucker. And however much trouble I have wid ’em, they better than the bes’ piece you ever had!”

  “Aw, come on,” Shit said. “You gotta have a few by some you ain’t actually married to, yet.”

  “Well, yeah—” Havers’ smile got broader—“but I lose track of those. Hey—I may have another of dem raincoats tied up around a little somethin’ for you, from time to time. I like to give dem things to my faggot fren’s—so dey don’t forget what a straight guy can do for ’em. Now, you go on and dump them damned sacks today—but get yourself some motherfuckin’ work shoes.”

  Leaning from the truck window, Shit called, “Hey, Al—somebody done told me you just fill them rubbers up with piss. That ain’t no real cum.”

  Al looked up. “You don’t think da’s my real cum? You ever taste it?”

  In the window, Shit made a big show of shrugging his shoulders. “Yeah. Maybe a…little of it.”

  “What it taste like?”

  “Like horse jizz.” And Shit and Dynamite both began to laugh.

  Al reached between his legs and gripped his cock through the worn cloth. “Maybe I’ll let you suck a full load outta it someday. Den you can tell me if it tastes more like horse or like nigger.”

  “Sure,” Shit said. “And this nigger here—” he pointed at Eric— “would love to suck on it too; ’specially if you’ll lemme watch you put it up his white boy asshole, after he got it all slicked up.”

  “Well, since it’s his birthday, maybe we’ll work somethin’ out with him and this here pig fucker.” He dropped his hand and looked disgusted. “Once yall get some motherfuckin’ shoes, dat is.”

  *

  When they were driving back, Eric asked, “Does the garbage just go down to the sea?”

  “Naw,” Shit said. “They wouldn’t let that happen. From up there, it looks kinda like it does. But there’s strip a land, maybe a hun’erd, a hun’erd-fifty feet wide, that closes it off from the water on the other side.”

  “Eventually they gonna bury it, like they did the Dump,” Dynamite said. “It’s gonna be more landfill.”

  Shit said, “You can walk all the way around it, if you want.” Shit scowled. “I mean, on land. I don’t like that place. It stinks—I mean really stinks.” (Eric thought: it did.) “And it’s too high, that cliff you got to throw the bags over.”

  Dynamite said, “Shit don’t like real high places. He can go up any hill or bluff, but not if it’s sharp and sudden. If it’s like the Bottom—a cliff or somethin’—he gets that vertigo.”

  “Christ, it stinks,” Shit reiterated. “I mean, this truck’s bad enough. But they put everything in there. I seen a dead cow down there, once. And a pig. I swear they got human bodies in there, too, smellin’ it up. People done disappeared outta Runcible and nobody never seen ’em again. I bet my black ass they’re in half a dozen pieces in plastic sacks, rottin’ down in the Bottom, underneath all that junk.”

  “Does Al live in the Dump?” Eric asked.

  “Naw,” Shit said. “He’s straight. Him and some of his wives live in Split Pine, a little place up back of Hemmings—right across the street from each other. I don’t even know how many he got. I hear a couple he divorced a few years ago came on back and moved into places just down the street from ’im, and he drops in to see ’em pretty regular. People say he’s supposed to live a couple of days with one and a couple of days with the other. Probably them women run that nigger crazy. I don't think they’d let him do that if he was white.”

  “Well,” Dynamite said, “he divorces ’em first, but they’re always changin’ their mind.” The garbage man chuckled. “I just know he stops off at Turpens pretty regular—”

  “—when he ain’t at the Opera,” Shit added.

  Dynamite said, “You gonna get them shoes?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Eric wondered if fear of heights was the reason Shit was shy of work shoes.

  “Good. Maybe your mom’ll help you get ’em,” Dynamite said. “They’re a good investment if you gonna work ’round here. But they’re expensive.”

  “See, if Al lived in the Dump,” Shit said, “you could suck that mule-dicked nigger any time you wanted. Just walk down the road and knock on his door—and he’d probably grin at ya’ and whip it right out while you fell on your knees. And I could walk on down there with you, and watch. He likes people to see ’im—like me. We almost got in trouble a couple of times, at the Opera House, takin’ it outside in the street. But ’cause he’s straight, you kinda got to work around it, there—grab it when you can. Damn, that nigger is so dick proud—”

  “Yeah,” Dynamite said. “And you ain’t? Shit, you either gotta watch out for that or keep it in the Dump, one. You can’t be doin’ it all over the road and in the Harbor—even when it ain’t light out.”

  Shit humphed a little. Then he grinned at Eric.

  As they drove back by the beach, bird cries over the Bottom grew quieter behind them. “See,” Dynamite said, “that’s what the Dump used to look like. My daddy told me that—Shad remembers it.” Now he humphed. “They had a couple of bodies in there, too. I know that nigger Shad shot went down in that—that’s was an outright murder and shouldn’t a been condoned. But then they filled it in, poured in a few tons of lime—bulldozed it all down. Even put some big ol’ cement bracin’ down in there. Now—” he shrugged—“it’s where we live.”

  “At least all the faggots like us do,” Shit said.

  Dynamite said, “Shit, you ain’t supposed to say that.”

  “Oh,” Shit said. “I’m sorry. I meant all the nigger faggots like us. Hey, you want a birthday present?” Taking Eric’s hand, Shit pulled it into his crotch. “You could suck on this…”

  *

  In the cab, between Dynamite and Shit, Eric sat thinking, as they drove. “You know—” they had finished the last houses; the sun was high—“it’s funny down here. I mean, the first day after I was messin’ with you guys in the truck stop—”

  “Turpens—” Dynamite changed gears.

  “Yeah—I’m sittin’ in the Lighthouse, talkin’ to Mex and Jay o
ut on the dock, and all at once it hits me: I’m havin’ what sounds like a sensible conversation with a pair of guys about how they eat each other’s goddam shit! And I’m thinkin’, where the fuck am I? Then, yeah, like back at the Bottom, sure, I’d like to bounce up and down on Al’s fuckin’ horse cock again—I mean, it was really good. But there you was, my boss, I mean, talkin’ about givin’ Al my ass as a birthday present, the first thing when we get in to work—”

  “Hey,” Dynamite said. “I was talkin’ about him givin’ you some dick—”

  Though he wasn’t laughing, clearly Shit thought it was funny. “You’re the one who said you like givin’ presents on your birthday.”

  “But Al ain’t even gay—at least, he don’t think he is. Or even…the two of you. What the hell did you say to your dad this mornin’? Hey, I wanna grab some nookie off Eric? And what did he say? Okay, I’ll run you up near his house, so you can catch him comin’ down. But don’t take too long. We got to get to work. Or, maybe, let’s get home in time so you can fuck my butthole before we go to sleep. Who the hell says things like that to his father? I mean, that’s not jokin’ around, like the guys out at the Farm. I don’t know. It makes me feel…a little crazy, I guess.”

  “What’s so crazy about us?” Shit asked from beside the window.

  “Well, you’re…related, for one thing. And pretty close related, too.”

  “Un-huh,” Shit agreed. (Eric could hear his grin.) “I think that’s fuckin’ nasty, ain’t it?”

  “I guess—” Dynamite brought them around another curve, again into the sun—“all this is a little new for Eric. Maybe we got to remember that about him, Shit.”

  “Still, it’s the stuff guys down here talk about, suckin’ toes and fuckin’ some black guy with an elephant cock at work, father-son…incest. I mean, that’s what it is. And, like I say, eatin’ shit—”

  “You sucked his shit off my dick pretty much every afternoon since you been here—includin’ at Turpens,” Shit said. “I love that—so does he. Makes us both shoot some big ol’ loads.”

  “Yeah, but I know you two—”

  “You worried about it,” Shit went on, “you go see Dr. Greene. He’ll tell you—long as everybody eats plenty of fresh vegetables and don’t pick up no parasites lickin’ out the wrong fella’s asshole, nothin’s gonna happen. That’s the only problem with the Opera. Once every year or two, they get a half-a-dozen cases of them things, if the wrong homeless guy starts hangin’ around in there. But they got medicine for that, too. Him and me had that humera, once. Yuchh! That was a mess…But we don’t now.”

  “Oh…” Eric said, surprised. “Well, it still…sounds crazy.”

  The road got straighter as it prepared to feed onto a larger highway they could see below the grade.

  “I guess ‘crazy,’” Shit said, “is just your word for ‘nasty.’”

  Which surprised Eric.

  “See, Shit was brought up thinkin’ ‘nasty’ was a good word.” Dynamite was smiling.

  “’Bout the best one in the language,” Shit said, “I figured. But we can call it crazy, if you want.”

  “See, you just gotta decide,” Dynamite said, “which is crazier: talkin’ about it and doin’ it—or not talkin’ about it and doin’ it. ’Cause one way or the other, the doin’ part’s gonna get done. I can promise you that.”

  * * *

  [13] DAILY, DURING THE first hour-and-a-half or two hours of work it was still dark, ten and twelve days could go by without their seeing anybody before copper light filtered along the road’s edge or through the banks of pine.

  During that time, Dynamite was pretty loose about where he’d take a morning piss: off the Gilead Dock, against the pump at the Citgo Station, on the front fender of his truck, or all over the tailgate, before he’d go climb into the cab to pull away from the shoulder of a wooded path.

  It wasn’t till the third week that Eric noticed—the first couple of times he thought it was happenstance—Dynamite always took his testicles from his pants along with his cock, as his stream began to chatter on new leaves or hissed over the tarmac’s rim.

  A few times in the first weeks, Dynamite had looked over at Eric and asked, “What you starin’ at? Ain’t you ever seen a fella take a piss before? Son, this whole town’s my personal urinal. Makes me feel like I own it, pissin’ all over the fuckin’ thing.”

  “I’m starin’ at your nuts,” Eric would answer.

  Shit would chuckle.

  “You like them things, doncha, boy? Back at the cabin, you always suckin’ on one or the other of the damned things.”

  “You ain’t never told me to leave off ’em, yet.”

  “And I probably never will. A little tuggin’ on them suckers feels nice.”

  A mess of morning bugs swarmed the orange ends of the florescent tubes under the awning off the Citgo office, and Shit, who was pissing on the corner of the garage, cracked up, finding this hysterically funny.

  “Well, see, now—” Shit shook himself off—“I guess that’s somethin’ people don’t do up in the big city.” He pushed himself inside, but his flies were broken so there was no pretense at closing them. “Up there, I guess, everybody just holds it in forever. You don’t ever get to flush it out, huh?”

  Dynamite raised his chin, and said, “Oh,” as if that explained it. “Well, look all you want. You’ll get a mouth full of ’em later, anyway.”

  Eric had decided Dynamite’s urethra must be twice the width of most guys’, since his urine stream seemed twice as thick. The garbage man slid his skin forward so that for seconds he splattered over his own dusty shoes and jean’s cuffs, and even on Eric’s. “Come on over here.” He beckoned Shit with his chin. “Lemme mark you, boy. I wanna mark you two the way ol’ Tom marks his trees and the porch steps and his rocks and things.” That day Shit had showed up to work barefoot; now, Dynamite swung his stream around in the middle to pee on Shit’s foot.

  Under the florescence, the pavement darkened and a brown leaf rose beside Shit’s instep, turned, and swept away on his father’s urine.

  Eric felt a thrill of envy, while Shit stood there and said, dryly, “I sure hope you’re havin’ fun.”

  His father grinned. “Yep—kinda. But you know me.”

  Back at Barbara’s, out on his porch, while bats flicked through the twilight outside the screen, when Eric would have his before-sleep jerk off, he would imagine Dynamite smiling at him and saying, “Squat on down, son,” and that racehorse waterfall splashing and splattering into his face. He would force himself to keep his mouth and his eyes open. He would imagine the encounter occurring all over Diamond Harbor, in the cool evening, in the warm morning, on the marina, on the back roads, beside the post office, out on the dock, behind the Citgo while hot, salty urine fell.

  The image could always make him come.

  * * *

  [14] ERIC WAS DISAPPOINTED when Shit said, “You go on to the mall by yourself. I don’t like that place. I go there an’ people always lookin’ at me funny.”

  Dynamite chuckled, pulled the oil stick up from the engine, frowned at it, black and bronze in the sun, then wiped it with the cloth balled in his other hand that was half black and half brown and kind of yellow between. He moved his head from under the hood. Shadow pulled away from his long nose and oily fingers. His fingers were black. “If you put some damned shoes on, wore a T-shirt instead of that old rag with no buttons half fallin’ off you, and stuck a belt in your pants so that people couldn’t see the hair at the top of your dick and three inches of your damn ass crack, they wouldn’t grin at you so much.” He slipped the oil stick back in its collar and screwed down the cap. “He likes to go and hang around the johns—he does pretty well out there, don’t you? That’s when he wants a change of nookie—which with Shit is pretty much all the time. Ain’t it, boy?”

  “Well,” Shit said, “yeah. I don’t mind the grinnin’—just that they keep it up. I guess I used to—a few years ago, I mean. Go to th
e mall. You show enough skin, you can get your dick sucked pretty much anywhere. But you have to wait so long out there. I have more fun at Turpens.”

  Dynamite laughed again and stood up.

  “But I don’t like to go there to buy nothin’. You go on—you can get the shuttle bus, if you want.”

  So, in the gray halls that ran from clothing store to Radio Shack to Rite Aid to Atlas Power Tools, looking pretty much like the mall outside Hugantown and the one outside Orlando and the one they went to near Atlanta, Eric found the Verizon store. On the TV screen keyboard at the front, he typed his name and watched it appear on the overhead screen at the bottom of the list of four other customers.

  Forty minutes later, he left the gray-carpeted interior with a new cell phone that had some colored lights that blinked on the front around the little window with the time on it. He dumped the considerable plastic and cardboard packaging in a blue wire refuse basket. At first, he thought about sitting at the food court, but it was awfully noisy. So he went to the rest room that was at the end of a hall where someone had put three aluminum ladders, on their sides, down against the wall. Eric sat on one.

  Then he punched Mike’s number.

  With the rectangular phone pressed onto his ear, after the repeated buzz, what sounded like an anonymous black voiced answered, “Yeah…?”

  “Hi.” Eric leaned over with an elbow on his knee. “How are you?”

  “Huh…? Who’s this?”

  “Dad?”

  “Eric…? Oh, hello…everything okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your mom ain’t givin’ you a hard time, is she?”

  “Naw,” he said. “No. Everything’s fine. Barb’s fine.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s good.”

  “Yeah,” Eric said. “I got a job, too. I mean, a good steady one. But I don’t work today.”

  “Well, I do,” Mike said.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. Naw, I just wanted to let you know.”

  “Good. What you doin’?”