Page 34 of Road Refugees
“Oh hell no. Cap’n Spiro was married to the army. And he’s not light in the loafers if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I smiled. “I wasn’t thinking that. So he went cold turkey on alcohol?”
“Yep. Cold turkey!” He pronounced it like it was the name of a space mission, complete with echo. “The hard way! He got the DTs at first, but I was there to help him through. He told me to throw out or drink all the booze in the house, so I drank it. I kept it in the kitchen and Town was in his bedroom so he didn’t have to see it, but after awhile I passed out. Good thing the other fellows were there to help, because I was just schwavoed on top of some tribal bow and arrow.”
“But he must be in pain. Did booze not help that?”
“Hell yeah, mental as well as physical pain. Is that what you use it for?”
Luckily, Slappy didn’t wait on an answer to his question. He ploughed on. “We were incredibly irate and impotent in the positions the army put us in. No support structures whatsoever. And you know what, Heaven? It was like therapy for me, yanking shrapnel out of men and field dressing them. But I had to do it to Cap’n Spiro after he was nearly assassinated. And PTSD isn’t something that time heals. You don’t return to being the pre-army guy. It’s like being in a snowstorm, assaulted from all angles.”
I was grateful for Slappy’s intel, but I had to say, “Pull over here.”
“Smoky Mountain Bud and Breakfast?”
“That’s it. That’s where I’m staying. I’ll refill this flask and grab a couple other bottles.”
“The more the merrier!” proclaimed Slappy.
That was how I met up again with the headstrong and tough Captain Spiro. I was a bit insulted that he hadn’t called me—I’d given him my cell number before we parted ways in P and E—and now here I was forcing myself upon him again. I had to see if there was still that spark between us.
And, at first, I was afraid there wasn’t. Town just sort of stood there, hands at sides, jaw slung low. Looking at me. He even looked at me when Slappy lifted him off the ground in a hug. But Slappy was sucking up all Town’s aura, and he had no choice but to interact with his best friend.
Slappy yelled, “What’s the deal with these shrooms, man? Lay ‘em on me!” I thought I heard him say, “I’m already microdosing,” but I didn’t know what it meant.
At last Slappy let Town go—just in time, as another guy was already moving on me. His big hooked nose overshadowed his face, and his leather cut patches, while telling me he was a hard-assed member of the Bare Bones MC, also proclaimed “I’m The Person Your Mother Warned You About!” I highly doubted it, after my dealings with whacked Cornucopia men, but I was still massively relieved when Town came forward and took my hand.
“You want to . . . farm with me?”
My smile was so wide it threatened to break my mouth. “Why not? I’m just helping Sock Monkey with his archery range. Which can be fun for a short while, but—”
Now the patch holder did butt in. “You’re gonna help Captain Spiro here? So I’m off the hook? Seriously? Town, you don’t need me, do you? I’ll show you where the compost heap is and give you a basic tutorial—”
Town barely glanced at him. “Sure, Wolf. I don’t need you.”
“Wahoo!” yelped Wolf, fists in the air. “Colombia here I come! Hola! ¿Cómo estás?¿Qué pasa, compadres?”
A handsome, skinny guy stuck his head over Town’s shoulder. “Yeah, boss, I’d be better at rustling up the business, doing field ops. I know these affiliates of the club—you don’t.”
“That’s true, Crybaby,” said Town, without looking at the guy. He added, “But you want to keep your room here, right?”
“Oh, for sure!” sputtered Crybaby.
Town led me over to a large plexiglass greenhouse the size of a rail car, panes rimmed with mold. “I’m glad you came by, even though I’m tripping.”
“Tripping? Is that what it’s called?”
Town shrugged. “As far as I know. I guess I have to figure these things out.”
Inside the greenhouse there was a redheaded guy holding the mushrooms. He portioned some out for me, and I chewed them like a cow. I was a bit ashamed when I pulled out my flask, but it was to help wash them down. The guy thankfully left us alone inside the steamy house. So far, the only things in there were some leftover, yellowing tomatoes, withered stumps of what had been eggplants and lemon cucumbers.
From Town’s talk, he was already far into his trip. “These mountains surrounding the lake. I feel like they’re staring at me. They’re doing their chilly best to let me know this used to be a good neighborhood and now they have to tolerate us gig workers. Here we are with our ugly little greenhouse, but they’re not going to pal around with us. They’d sacrifice half their logs to move to Alaska and send an avalanche down onto us.”
Giggling, I sat down on a piece of plywood meant to keep plants off the cold ground. “You’re such a witty, intelligent man.” As an afterthought I added, “Unlike any I’ve ever known. I’ll be very glad to work with you. We can fill this entire greenhouse with spores.”
Was it my imagination, or did Town seem a little nervous? Maybe it was the psilocybin. “I don’t want you to feel strange about the selling aspect of this. It’s true lots of people just take them for recreation.”
I shrugged, sticking out my lower lip. “Marijuana was allowed at Cornucopia. I never did it. Maybe it was the THC, but it didn’t help relax me.” To forestall a caustic remark from him, I freely sipped from my flask and asked boldly, “What does Stormy Loves on your tattoo mean?” He wore a tight, plain white T-shirt. It wasn’t like I was ogling. How could anyone fail to notice the ink?
