American Rust

  Patacki reached into the cooler and took a handful of ice and refreshed his glass. Then he splashed more gin into it. “Have you seen that lime?”

  “I never would have known,” said Harris. He handed Patacki a lime quarter.

  “I'm worried that you're going down a road, was my point, where maybe you better think if you got one of those jobs you wouldn't mind going back to. Unless it's already worse than I've heard.”

  “It's not worse,” said Harris.

  “No?”

  But he knew. Patacki could see right through him. He nodded but it was only kindness.

  “It will always get worse, old friend. Good deeds will not go unpunished.”

  5. Poe

  On his third day he walked out to the yard following Dwayne, it was full of convicts, alone, in small and large groups, pacing in circles, all with something different on their minds, planning how to improve their positions in life, all that could be gotten had to be taken from another. Nonetheless the DC Blacks stuck to their side and Poe was happy to stay on his. The sun was high and the guards looked down from their towers, M16s against their hips or some other rifle, he wasn't sure, no it was M16s, it would be a massacre if they ever wanted it, they could turn it on like water. Beyond the double forty- foot fences and razor wire the Valley was still there in all its greenness but he no longer knew what to make of it, it was a different place to him now.

  There was a hierarchy at the weight pile, the shotcallers and their lieutenants pumping out squats and dips and hanging out against the fences while a few dozen yard rats, the meth- heads and assorted trailer folk, they maintained a sort of perimeter, ran errands, occasionally stood close together so as to block a happening from the view of the guards. Poe was in the inner circle with Black Larry and the others, there were maybe seven or eight other men. But his position was tenuous, he could tell he was on a trial run, that was all, he was careful to laugh along with the others and get angry when they did. Once in a while a person who was not part of the group would come in to use the weight pile and one of the lieutenants would take their name down on a piece of paper.

  “Nonmembers pay ten a day” said Clovis.

  Poe looked at him.

  “Least they got an option,” Clovis said. “The ones over there—” He pointed to the weight pile run by the DC Blacks. “You go anywhere near there they'll start tossing weights at you, they brained a fuckin fish a few months back, a thirty- pounder right in the temple.”

  “Bunch of Olympians,” said Poe.

  “That's about all they are,” said Clovis. He tapped his head.

  They worked out on and off the entire day, they worked out more than Poe ever had when he played football. With the exception of Poe, everyone in the inner circle was covered with tattoos, full sleeves on both arms and assorted larger tattoos across backs and chests, vultures or eagles or some imaginary bird Poe couldn't make out. Clovis's triceps said white on one arm and power on the other. Dwayne had an eagle like many of the others, the wings spanning his shoulderblades. Black Larry had a pair of jokers on his chest and there was a good deal of writing on his abdomen that Poe didn't feel comfortable looking at closely enough to make out. Most had thick ropy scars scattered randomly. Most of the men were ten or fifteen years older than he was but he was not going to ask, it was not a place where asking questions was rewarded.

  One of the yard rats gave him a handrolled cigarette, he smoked it and it was disgusting, it was salvaged half- smoked tobacco. Dwayne saw him smoking it and shook his head and offered him a cigarette from a package. Poe gave the rollie back to the peckerwood, who brushed at it carefully and then finished smoking it. There was a general flow of people paying respects, a group of Latinos who seemed aligned with the Brotherhood, their leader and Black Larry went off and talked alone for a long time. Occasionally, a visitor would surreptitiously let something fall to the dirt. Later, the item would be retrieved.

  Black Larry turned to Poe, who had just finished another set of curls and was sitting on the bench eating a candy bar and drinking a soda.

  “We need to get you out of those state- issued trousers,” said Black Larry. He sized Poe up. “Look at them curly locks. One handsome, David Hasselhoff-lookin motherfucker, ain't he?”

  The others nodded their agreement though a few of the younger lieutenants were clearly only doing so out of respect for Black Larry, they were not particularly happy about Poe's existence.

  “Him and Dwayne can fight it out for king stud.”

  Dwayne grinned.

  “Dwayne there got caught banging one of the English teachers, a cute little college girl. They wouldn't let her come back.”

  “But she still writes me,” said Dwayne.

  “Anyway young Poe, you got a lot of catching up to do. Though we have confidence.”

  In the afternoon a new pair of Dickies work pants appeared for Poe, he gave his old ones to one of the yard rats. It was hot and people were sitting on the benches or against the wall, sweating in the sun and watching the yard. Poe stood with his shirt off like the rest of them, they looked like a bunch of construction workers on lunch break, or firemen, regular guys they were not monsters or supermen, it was no different than anyplace else, no different than outside, that was what he had to focus on. A few hours later they were still in the same spot, he was hot and dehydrated and sunburned, the others didn't seem to notice it, just sitting in the low sun getting burned like that, he was very thirsty but he hadn't wanted to drink any more sodas, it seemed he'd had more than his share already. He was tired but he fought to keep his eyes open, a few of the lieutenants had wandered off but it was not an option for him, he had to stay near Dwayne and Black Larry. Dinnertime came but no one thought it was a good idea to bring Poe back to the messhall yet.

  “You need anything?” said Black Larry. “Skittles, cigarettes? Pruno?”

  “I could use some real food,” said Poe, “but I don't have any money.”

  “They got smoked packaged salmon at the commissary. Someone'll bring you some. Couple bags of Fritos, too.”

  — — —

  Dwayne walked him back to the cell. There was a laundry bag on top of Poe's bunk, full of items from the commissary, deodorant, Snickers bars, four packages of vacuum- sealed salmon, and some saltine crackers.

  “You makin out?” said Dwayne. They bumped and tapped fists. “I'm good,” Poe said.

  “Your cellie is getting back tonight. He's been locked down six months so when he gets back give him a little elbow room.”

  “No problem,” said Poe.

  “He'll be alright. He'll want to talk your ear off is all.”

  — — —

  After he was alone he ate two of the packages of salmon and the crackers, the first good food he'd had in he didn't know, days. He settled back on the bed, the sleepy full feeling, he was going to be fine. At first he couldn't help grinning to himself and then there was the other feeling, they would be wanting something for this. That was fine. He would take it day by day.

  Downstairs on the floor of the cellblock they were listening to rap videos on television, cheering along. He closed his eyes and lay on the bunk awhile, couldn't sleep, his hands were sore and he looked at them, they were healing slowly. His blood had definitely mixed with the other one's, with Little Man's. He got up and washed his hands again, he knew it wouldn't do any good, he would have to be more careful, he didn't know, he would have to get something, a lock or some batteries to put in a sock. He was not going to worry about it. AIDS was probably the least of his worries. What would kill him was a knife in the neck, he'd be eating a grilled cheese sandwich in the messhall. Clovis had shown him a nine- inch shank, a bone- crusher he'd called it, and if Clovis had one then the other side did as well. So at the moment worrying about AIDS was like worrying the world would be struck by a comet. He wondered if he was fighting a fight he'd already lost, completely lost only somehow he was still standing. When he was a kid he'd watched Virgil shoot a small buck w
ith his compound bow, the buck jumped a little and then had gone back to eating ryegrass like nothing happened. A few seconds later he toppled over, the arrow had cut right through both sides, severed the aorta, his fatal blow he had barely felt it. And here Poe was congratulating himself when there was nothing good happening, the only thing he could be sure of was the situation was getting worse, it was a trend in his life.

  He had not asked for it. He had not asked to go to that machine shop in a rainstorm, a place guaranteed to be a squatter haven. It was because of Isaac they had gone there, because of Isaac that they were sitting in a leaky building in a rainstorm instead of back on Poe's porch looking out over the fields and drinking beer. Poe, he could not afford to be in those situations but that did not bother Isaac, it was a different kind of judgment Poe had, his mind moved differently, he could not just get up and move when a few dripping wet bums came and insulted him, he had pride, he had human dignity, whereas you could say anything to Isaac and he would get up and walk away. And Isaac had gotten them into just that situation and had then wanted to get up and disappear. But Poe was not like that. It was a thing called self- respect and he possessed it and Isaac did not.

  He sat up. Nothing had changed, he was in a cell with a yellow window he could not see through, cement and iron bars, downstairs a commercial for car insurance blared on the television, they didn't even bother to turn it down, a thing none of them had any use for. He opened the third package of salmon and ate it, it was greasy and salty, he licked his fingers, a beer would be perfect, it was not bad being here, in this cell, it was safe. But he could not stay in the cell all day and night. The black man he'd choked out was a higher- up, a captain. Poe had gotten lucky, taking him down like that. But it was not some movie where you beat the biggest guy and they left you alone. That was not how things worked. They would have to pay him back and it could not be a beating, payback meant you had to escalate, he knew that from personal experience. You had to get the guy worse than he got you.

  He noticed he was breathing hard and his entire body was rigid. His neck was sore from tension and he tried to relax. I'll be fine, he thought. Sort it out. Sort it out fine only you didn't do anything to get here. That dead one Otto was not killed by you. All you did was get your balls crushed and your head nearly cut off from your body. Why are you here for that, he thought. You are here and it is only getting worse, tomorrow you may turn a corner and wham, five guys are on you and that's your end but Isaac is still out there. Walking around free.

  6. Isaac

  All through the night the train kept pulling over, hours would pass waiting on secondary tracks, he'd sit out on the platform, go back into the porthole, climb the ladder and sit with his feet in the mound of coal, looking at the stars. He guessed it was two A.M. If you'd thought to bring your star chart, you'd know. Or put a new battery in your watch. He shuffled his feet in the bed of coke, felt the cold metal wall of the hopper car in his hands. Close your eyes and sense the rotation of the earth. Stars always moving. Change every hour. Big Dipper starting to turn over—springtime. Ursa Major, technically. Makes more sense as the Dipper. Polaris, temporary as all polestars. Used to be Thuban. Eventually it'll be Alderamin. Then Deneb. Ptolemy's full catalog A.D. 150. Namer of stars—a good legacy. Even if no one knows. Learned it from the Babylonians, but all the records lost, burned at Alexandria. Julius Caesar the culprit. More knowledge lost than you'll ever know.

  He scanned the rest of the sky. Cancer and Leo. Probably Gemini disappearing. Should have brought something to read. No, should have brought penlight batteries. Stupid to have forgotten. He looked at the ground below him. The temptation was strong to climb down, the train would not start moving immediately. No—in the dark you'll never be able to find this car again, you'll lose your pack. Not to mention you've got no idea where you are. By next week you'll be in Berkeley and you won't remember any of this.

  He climbed down and back into the porthole, into his sleeping bag, his head outside where he got a small view of the sky. Try to sleep.

  — — —

  Morning came, hours passed, he rode on the platform as much as possible, up in the air on top until it got too cold. Your clothes all filthy. Probably your face as well.

  They were going along a big river, much wider than the Mon, in the distance he could see a factory that resolved itself into an enormous steelmill, dozens of long buildings, blast furnaces, steam rising everywhere. The place had a modern look, the buildings were being repaired. There was a sign: U.S. STEEL, GREAT LAKES WORKS. That is Michigan, he thought. One of the mills they kept open. Parking lot of cars, the way Buell used to look, there's the town behind it. Never seen land so flat.

  The brakes grated as they wound through an enormous trainyard, plug your ears, time to get off. They'll dump the coke here and you'll get seen. Get packed. Cramming his things into the bag again he was back out on the platform, crouching down thinking don't wait for full stop. They were near the end of the trainyard and the train was crawling along, he was hanging his head off the side and he saw the Baron climb down a few cars ahead of him. He swung himself down to the ground and the Baron caught up to him.

  It was the first time he'd seen the Baron in daylight, his face was red and swollen and deeply creased and his skin looked hard and thick, his nose was bent and one eye hung much lower than the other, bones that had broken and never been fixed properly. The whole structure of his face was crooked and he was covered in coal dust; he gave off the impression of something pulled from a fire.

  “Goddamn,” said the Baron, staring at him equally, “someone had their way with you, didn't they?”

  Isaac just looked at him.

  “Your face got whomped on pretty good, is what I mean. You got a matched pair of shiners.”

  “It was four guys,” said Isaac.

  They began crossing the other tracks toward the town, dodging quickly to get out of the way of a blue locomotive coming toward them.

  “Keep your eye out,” said the Baron. “Won't believe how quiet they roll, I had a partner get cut in half once. Nothing you can do when that happens.”

  They crossed more tracks and then climbed down and up through a drainage ditch. They were standing on a small road.

  “We in the right spot?”

  “Yeah,” said the Baron. “It's called Ekkers. There's your unloading spot for the coke up there.”

  “Thought you said we'd be in Detroit.”

  “Don't get picky on me. It's only ten goddamn miles up the road.”

  As they walked the industrial buildings gradually gave way to a town, they passed a field of tall white storage tanks with the grass around them neatly clipped, then they were on a residential street. There was a big sign that said ECORSE. Ekkers. The name of the town. The houses were larger than the typical millhouse in Buell but most looked just as rundown. This is progress, he reminded himself. You just got six, seven hundred miles closer to California. Won't be wine and roses the whole way.

  “Spot me dinner if I find us a place?” said the Baron.

  Need to get rid of him first thing, he thought, but he said: “Sure. I've got to get going south soon, though.”

  “You will. We passed another yard back there. All we gotta do is follow those tracks back to where we split from the main line. Then you'll find your train.”

  They continued down the street, the houses getting better, then worse, then better again. A group of black men were sitting on a porch playing dice in puffy down jackets. They stared at the Baron and Isaac as they passed.

  “Get a fuckin shower,” one of them said, and the others burst out laughing. Isaac prepared to take off running, but the men went back to their dice.

  “We do have to find a Laundromat,” said the Baron. “Stash our packs and get cleaned up. We can get cleaned up where we get food, though.”

  “I want to find that yard soon.”

  “Rushin around don't help anything. We eat, we get cleaned up, find a place to sack out. I ca
n tell you're tired, and running around trainyards zonked out of your head don't lead to nothing but getting run over. I seen it happen, too, those trains roll right over you without noticing, same way you'd step on an ant.”

  You already said that, Isaac thought, but didn't say anything. After walking a while longer, they found a fried chicken place. They took turns washing in the bathroom. The Baron went first and took forever and when Isaac went in the place reeked of feces and the sink was splashed with black grit. Isaac used the toilet and cleaned up as well, his face and hands and coat were filthy. When he came out he looked more respectable but still. These clothes ought to be thrown out.

  Back at the counter the Baron ordered a bucket of fried chicken with several sides and Isaac was immediately sorry they'd come, the bill was over twenty dollars and he got out his wallet to pay but only had a single dollar bill. The Baron was looking at him.

  “You got this or no?” he said.

  The people at the counter stared at them and waited. Isaac turned away and unzipped his pocket with the money and tried to carefully slip a bill from the envelope, but it wouldn't come, it was awkward getting at the envelope and he had to lift it slightly out of his pocket to get at it. The Baron saw it and then looked the other way. It was a fifty- dollar bill that Isaac handed the clerk, and she held it up to the light and checked it with a felt-tip pen.

  “Glad you had something else,” said the Baron. He picked up the food and carried it out as Isaac zipped his pocket back up.