High Cotton: Selected Stories of Joe R. Lansdale

  I went back upstairs, had coffee, and wrote not a line.

  · · ·

  So day fell into night, and I could not sleep, but finally got the strange business out of my mind by reading a novel. A rollicking good sea story of daring men and bloody battles, great ships clashing in a merciless sea.

  And then, from his side of the curtain, I heard Machen creak off his cot and take to the stairs. One flight below was the door that led to the railing round about the tower, and I heard that open and close.

  I rose, folded a small piece of paper into my book for a marker, and pulled back one of the window curtains. I walked around pulling curtains and looking until I could see him below.

  He stood with his hands behind his back, looking out at the sea like a stem father keeping an eye on his children. Then, calmly, he mounted the railing and leaped out into the air.

  I ran. Not that it mattered, but I ran, out to the railing…and looked down. His body looked like a rag doll splayed on the rocks.

  There was no question in my mind that he was dead, but slowly I wound my way down the steps…and was distracted by the room. The door stood wide open.

  I don’t know what compelled me to look in, but I was drawn to it. It was a small room with a desk and a lot of shelves filled with books, mostly occult and black magic. There were carpentry tools on the wall, and all manner of needles and devices that might be used by a tailor. The air was filled with an odd odor I could not place, and on Machen’s desk, something that was definitely not tobacco smoldered away.

  There was another room beyond the one in which I stood. The door to it was cracked open. I pushed it back and stepped inside. It was a little child’s room filled thick with toys and such: jack-in-the-boxes, dolls, kid books, and a toy piano. All were covered in dust.

  On the bed lay a Teddy bear. It was ripped open and the stuffing was pulled out. There was one long strand of hair hanging out of that gutted belly, just one, as if it were the last morsel of a greater whole. It was the color of honey from a fresh-robbed hive. I knew what the smell in the ashtray was now.

  I took the hair and put a match to it, just in case.

  The Job

  This little short-short was written for Razored Saddles, and was supposed to be a kind of modem Western. It doesn’t entirely fill the bill on that account, but I’m proud of it. A short film was made of it, and my son, Keith, and I even appear in the background of scenes. It wasn’t bad, and is now on video and DVD. It was fun to watch your characters brought to life by actors, one of which was an Elvis impersonator out of Las Vegas. Instead of the older Elvis, they changed the part to fit a younger Elvis, because, well, they had a younger, thinner, Elvis impersonator.

  BOWER PULLED THE SUN VISOR DOWN and looked in the mirror there and said, “You know, hadn’t been for the travel, I’d have done alright. I could even shake my ass like him. I tell you, it drove the women wild. You should have seen ’em.”

  “Don’t shake it for me,” Kelly said. “I don’t want to see it. Things I got to do are tough enough without having to see that.” Bower pushed the visor back. The light turned green. Kelly put the gas to the car and they went up and over a hill and turned right on Melroy.

  “Guess maybe you do look like him,” Kelly said. “During his fatter days, when he was on the drugs and the peanut butter.”

  “Yeah, but these pocks on my cheeks messes it up some. When I was on stage I had makeup on ’em. I looked okay then.”

  They stopped at a stop sign and Kelly got out a cigarette and pushed in the lighter.

  “A nigger nearly tail-ended me here once,” Kelly said. “Just come barreling down on me.” He took the lighter and lit his smoke. “Scared the piss out of me. I got him out of his car and popped him some. I bet he was one careful nigger from then on.” He pulled away from the stop sign and cruised.

  “You done one like this before? I know you’ve done it, but like this?”

  “Not just like this. But I done some things might surprise you. You getting nervous on me?”

  “I‘m alright. You know, thing made me quit the Elvis imitating was travel, cause one night on the road I was staying in this cheap motel, and it wasn’t heated too good. I’d had those kind of rooms before, and I always carried couple of space heaters in the trunk of the car with the rest of my junk, you know. I got them plugged in, and I was still cold, so I pulled the mattress on the floor by the heaters. I woke up and was on fire. I had been so worn out I’d gone to sleep in my Elvis outfit. That was the end of my best white jumpsuit, you know, like he wore with the gold glitter and all. I must have been funny on fire like that, hopping around the room beating it out. When I got that suit off I was burned like the way you get when you been out in the sun too long.”

  “You gonna be able to do this?”

  “Did I say I couldn’t?”

  “You’re nervous. I can tell, way you talk.”

  “A little. I always got nervous before I went on stage too, but I always came through. Crowd came to see Elvis, by God, they got Elvis. I used to sign autographs with his name. People wanted it like that. They wanted to pretend, see.”

  “Women mostly?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What were they, say, fifty-five?”

  “They were all ages. Some of them were pretty young.”

  “Ever fuck any of ’em?”

  “Sure, I got plenty. Sing a little “Love Me Tender” to them in the bedroom and they’d do whatever I wanted.”

  “Was it the old ones you was fucking?”

  “I didn’t fuck no real old ones, no. Whose idea is it to do things this way anyhow?”

  “Boss, of course. You think he lets me plan this stuff? He don’t want them chinks muscling in on the shrimping and all.”

  “I don’t know, we fought for these guys. It seems a little funny.”

  “Reason we lost the war over there is not being able to tell one chink from another and all of them being the way they are. I think we should have nuked the whole goddamned place. Went over there when it cooled down and stopped glowing, put in a fucking Disneyland or something.”

  They were moving out of the city now, picking up speed.

  “I don’t see why we don’t just whack this guy outright and not do it this way,” Bower said. “This seems kind of funny.”

  “No one’s asking you. You come on a job, you do it. Boss wants the chink to suffer, so he’s gonna suffer. Not like he didn’t get some warnings or nothing. Boss wants him to take it hard.”

  “Maybe this isn’t a smart thing on account of it may not bother chinks like it’d bother us. They’re different about stuff like this, all the things they’ve seen.”

  “It’ll bother him,” Kelly said. “And if it don’t, that ain’t our problem. We got a job to do and we’re gonna do it. Whatever comes after comes after. Boss wants us to do different next time, we do different. Whatever he wants we do it. He’s the one paying.” They were out of the city now, and to the left of the highway they could see the glint of the sea through a line of scrubby trees.

  “How’re we gonna know?” Bower says. “One chink looks like another.”

  “I got a photograph. This one’s got a burn on the face. Everything’s timed. Boss has been planning this. He had some of the guys watch and take notes. It’s all set up.”

  “Why us?”

  “Me because I’ve done some things before. You because he wants to see what you’re made of. I’m kind of here as your nursemaid.”

  “I don’t need anybody to see that I do what I’m supposed to do.”

  They drove past a lot of boats pulled up to a dock. They drove into a small town called Wilborn. They turned a corner at Catlow Street.

  “It’s down here a ways,” Kelly said. “You got your knife? You left your knife and brought your comb, I’m gonna whack you.”

  Bower got the knife out of his pocket. “Thing got a lot of blades, some utility stuff. Even a comb.”

  “Christ, you’re
gonna do it with a Boy Scout knife?”

  “Utility knife. The blade I want is plenty sharp, you’ll see. Why couldn’t we use a gun? That wouldn’t be as messy. A lot easier.”

  “Boss wants it messy. He wants the chink to think about it some. He wants all the chinks down here to think about it some. He wants them to pack their stuff on their boats and sail back to chink land. Either that, or they can pay their percentages like everyone else. He lets the chinks get away with things, everyone’ll want to get away with things.”

  They pulled over to the curb. Down the street was a school. Kelly looked at his watch.

  “Maybe if it was a nigger,” Bower said.

  “Chink, nigger, what’s the difference?”

  They could hear a bell ringing. After five minutes they saw kids going out to the curb to get on the buses parked there. A few kids came down the sidewalk toward them. One of them was a Vietnamese girl about eight years old.The left side of her face was scarred.

  “Won’t they remember me?” Bower said.

  “Kids? Naw. Nobody knows you around here. Get rid of that Elvis look and you’ll be okay.”

  “It don’t seem right. In front of these kids and all. I think we ought to whack her father.”

  “No one’s paying you to think, Elvis. Do what you’re supposed to do. I have to do it and you’ll wish you had.”

  Bower opened the utility knife and got out of the car. He held the knife by his leg and walked around front and leaned on the hood just as the Vietnamese girl came up. He said, “Hey, kid, come here a minute.” His voice got thick. “Elvis wants to show you something.”

  Godzilla’s Twelve Step Program

  I grew up on those old monster movies. You know, the ones with men in rubber suits. Though I still love horror and monster movies, I can’t say that I continued to be a Godzilla fan. It didn’t take long before these got pretty silly. But I still remember fondly how I first felt about the old boy, and all the other monsters. This is a kind of tribute to those feelings, though, I must admit, a slightly askew one.

  One: Honest Work

  GODZILLA, ON HIS WAY to work at the foundry, sees a large building that seems to be mostly made of shiny copper and dark, reflecting solar glass. He sees his image in the glass and thinks of the old days, wonders what it would be like to stomp on the building, to blow flames at it, kiss the windows black with his burning breath, then dance rapturously in the smoking debris.

  One day at a time, he tells himself. One day at a time. Godzilla makes himself look at the building hard. He passes it by. He goes to the foundry. He puts on his hard hat. He blows his fiery breath into the great vat full of used car parts, turns the car parts to molten metal. The metal runs through pipes and into new molds for new car parts. Doors. Roofs. Etc.

  Godzilla feels some of the tension drain out.

  Two: Recreation

  After work Godzilla stays away from downtown. He feels tense. To stop blowing flames after work is difficult. He goes over to the BIG MONSTER RECREATION CENTER.

  Gorgo is there. Drunk from oily seawater, as usual. Gorgo talks about the old days. She’s like that. Always the old days.

  They go out back and use their breath on the debris that is deposited there daily for the center’s use. Kong is out back. Drunk as a monkey. He’s playing with Barbie dolls. He does that all the time. Finally, he puts the Barbies away in his coat pocket, takes hold of his walker and wobbles past Godzilla and Gorgo.

  Cargo says, “Since the fall he ain’t been worth shit. And what’s with him and the little plastic broads anyway? Don’t he know there’re real women in the world?”

  Godzilla thinks Gorgo looks at Kong’s departing walker-supported ass a little too wistfully. He’s sure he sees wetness in Gorgo’s eyes.

  Godzilla blows some scrap to cinders for recreation, but it doesn’t do much for him, as he’s been blowing fire all day long and has, at best, merely taken the edge off his compulsions. This isn’t even as satisfying as the foundry. He goes home.

  Three: Sex and Destruction

  That night there’s a monster movie on television. The usual one. Big beasts wrecking havoc on city after city. Crushing pedestrians under foot.

  Godzilla examines the bottom of his right foot, looks at the scar there from stomping cars flat. He remembers how it was to have people squish between his toes. He thinks about all of that and changes the channel. He watches twenty minutes of Mr. Ed, turns off the TV, masturbates to the images of burning cities and squashing flesh.

  Later, deep into the night, he awakens in a cold sweat. He goes to the bathroom and quickly carves crude human figures from bars of soap. He mashes the soap between his toes, closes his eyes and imagines. Tries to remember.

  Four: Beach Trip and The Big Turtle

  Saturday, Godzilla goes to the beach. A drunk monster that looks like a big turtle flies by and bumps Godzilla. The turtle calls Godzilla a name, looking for a fight. Godzilla remembers the turtle is called Gamera.

  Gamera is always trouble. No one liked Gamera. The turtle was a real asshole.

  Godzilla grits his teeth and holds back the flames. He turns his back and walks along the beach. He mutters a secret mantra given him by his sponsor. The giant turtle follows after, calling him names.

  Godzilla packs up his beach stuff and goes home. At his back he hears the turtle, still cussing, still pushing. It’s all he can do not to respond to the big dumb bastard. All he can do. He knows the turtle will be in the news tomorrow. He will have destroyed something, or will have been destroyed himself.

  Godzilla thinks perhaps he should try and talk to the turtle, get him on the twelve step program. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Help others. Maybe the turtle could find some peace.

  But then, again, you can only help those who help themselves. Godzilla realizes he can not save all the monsters of the world. They have to make these decisions for themselves. But he makes a mental note to go armed with leaflets about the twelve step program from now on.

  Later, he calls in to his sponsor. Tells him he’s had a bad day. That he wanted to burn buildings and fight the big turtle. Reptilicus tells him it’s okay. He’s had days like that. Will have days like that once again.

  Once a monster, always a monster. But a recovering monster is where it’s at. Take it one day at a time. It’s the only way to be happy in the world. You can’t burn and kill and chew up humans and their creations without paying the price of guilt and multiple artillery wounds.

  Godzilla thanks Reptilicus and hangs up. He feels better for a while, but deep down he wonders just how much guilt he really harbors. He thinks maybe it’s the artillery and the rocket-firing jets he really hates, not the guilt.

  Five: Off The Wagon

  It happens suddenly. He falls off the wagon. Coming back from work he sees a small doghouse with a sleeping dog sticking halfway out of a doorway. There’s no one around. The dog looks old. It’s on a chain. Probably miserable anyway. The water dish is empty. The dog is living a worthless life. Chained. Bored. No water.

  Godzilla leaps and comes down on the doghouse and squashes dog in all directions. He burns what’s left of the doghouse with a blast of his breath. He leaps and spins on tip-toe through the wreckage. Black cinders and cooked dog slip through his toes and remind him of the old days.

  He gets away fast. No one has seen him. He feels giddy. He can hardly walk he’s so intoxicated. He calls Reptilicus, gets his answering machine. “I’m not in right now. I’m out doing good. But please leave a message, and I’ll get right back to you.”

  The machine beeps. Godzilla says, “Help.”

  Six: His Sponsor

  The doghouse rolls around in his head all the next day. While at work he thinks of the dog and the way it burned. He thinks of the little house and the way it crumbled. He thinks of the dance he did in the ruins.

  The day drags on forever. He thinks maybe when work is through he might find another doghouse, another dog.

  On the way
home he keeps an eye peeled, but no doghouses or dogs are seen.

  When he gets home his answering machine light is blinking. It’s a message from Reptilicus. Reptilicus’s voice says, “Call me.”

  Godzilla does. He says, “Reptilicus. Forgive me, for I have sinned.”

  Seven: Disillusioned. Disappointed.

  Reptilicus’s talk doesn’t help much. Godzilla shreds all the twelve step program leaflets. He wipes his butt on a couple and throws them out the window. He puts the scraps of the others in the sink and sets them on fire with his breath. He burns a coffee table and a chair, and when he’s through, feels bad for it. He knows the landlady will expect him to replace them.

  He turns on the radio and lies on the bed listening to an Oldies station. After a while, he falls asleep to Martha and the Vandellas singing “Heat Wave.”

  Eight: Unemployed

  Godzilla dreams. In it God comes to him, all scaly and blowing fire. He tells Godzilla he’s ashamed of him. He says he should do better. Godzilla awakes covered in sweat. No one is in the room.

  Godzilla feels guilt. He has faint memories of waking up and going out to destroy part of the city. He really tied one on, but he can’t remember everything he did. Maybe he’ll read about it in the papers. He notices he smells like charred lumber and melted plastic. There’s gooshy stuff between his toes, and something tells him it isn’t soap.

  He wants to kill himself. He goes to look for his gun, but he’s too drunk to find it. He passes out on the floor. He dreams of the devil this time. He looks just like God except he has one eyebrow that goes over both eyes. The devil says he’s come for Godzilla.

  Godzilla moans and fights. He dreams he gets up and takes pokes at the devil, blows ineffective fire on him.