We rode out of Port Aransas down the stark
highways of south Texas. It was the early evening and the heat started to
slowly wane. I rolled down the window and lit a cigarette feeling the warm air
wrap around the cabin of the orange brute. What sunny, endless days down here,
what beautiful glory a sun state can reign down on you. The tropical green
trees started to get a little more brown as the miles ticked on and the more
north we got, never too harsh, but just a few more shades of tan and cocoa-colored
leaves. It amazed me how gradually and perfect yet diverse vegetation and
waterways can change not only through the country but just a state. Sure, Texas
is a monster, but it’s just one piece of fifty no matter how gargantuan it may
be. I thought of the dark blue depths of the Malibu Pacific, the Mediterranean
and Adriatic, the Puget Sound of Seattle, the dark mysterious canal ways of
Paris, and the light tans and true baby blues of The Gulf, I thought of the
evergreens and large timbers of the northwest and then the infinite out
stretching arms of grandiose oaks of the south, of Texas. Once I noticed there
wasn’t any reminisce of the salty air of The Gulf I became instantly nostalgic
and nearly threw around the orange brute back south. North, we must press on
before The Oak closes and there won’t be any beer mixed with the odd, random,
and beautiful company of the dusty little town of Seguin.
Tom woke in a shaking fright. “Mother Mary. That
was a weird dream, Colter. I gotta piss, by the way.”
“What was the dream about?”
“Shit. Fuck, I think I was in Alaska. You were
there too. We had got done fishing or some shit and we were tossing back vodka,
drinking some White Russians.”
“Dreamy.”
“Yeah? And well a fuckin grizz appeared in the
distance and you were taking a swig from your drink and you didn’t even see the
cocksucker, but you were holding a knife, a filet knife.”
“This is really detailed.”
“As they usually are. Kinda haunting to be
honest, Colter. Well, I grabbed the filet knife from your hand, you know for
cutting the salmon and I grabbed your drink too, and I took a big swig.”
“Naturally.”
“And I just slammed that Russian back and threw
it at the big grizz. I wasn’t gonna let him eat our fish, right? He didn’t care
much for the glass. So, I had to do something else. I just charged at the
motherfucker with that filet knife. Just a little filet knife, Colter. Then the
grizz’s face turned into Max’s face then it all just burst into flames. That’s
when I woke up, when the flames started up. Is that a sign?”
“Christ.”
“Is it?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“What do you think about stopping and letting me
piss? I need to collect my thoughts, right?”
“I want to hear more about the dream.”
“Excuse me? That’s it, I told you all of it. I am
not a liar.”
“Maybe you should to call Max?”
“Fuck that guy.”
“All right.”
“Colter, I’m gonna whip my dick out and piss on
the fucking floor unless you stop. And you do not want to see my dick!”
“We gotta get back, clean up, and head to The
Oak! We can’t stop. Don’t you know what is at stake?”
“You’re doing this shit again? Oh, don’t worry
about old Tom. You give him shit about this and that, you beat him up, you
listen to his stories, but you won’t stop for whiskey or even a little piss.
Not even a little piss.”
“Tom, just hold it.”
“I’m gonna whip my fucking dick out, you prick.”
Tom went for the end of his shorts and began to reach up into the depths. I
punched him in the arm and he punched me back. “Fuck you!” Tom yelled. I
laughed and kept laughing. His eyes grew and he started to manically laugh too,
perhaps mocking me. He grabbed me by the shoulder and dug in his hardened and
strong farrier hands into my back. I stepped on the pedal of the orange brute
pushing the speed from seventy-five up to ninety. We were the only ones out there
on the rustic south Texas roads, running between the waltzing and entwining beams
of light ricocheting off of the occasional swamp. The middle ground and the
real sublime of Texas where the clime doesn’t really know where to run or where
it’s fecundity will truly take place. The chirping of the Grackles couldn’t be
heard from this incredible now one-hundred mile an hour American made speed,
even the slow hunting halos of the Red-Tailed Hawks were blurred. Not a sound
to be listened to other than the jocose hum from the orange brute and the
distant cries from Tom. “You’re torturing me, I get it. You’re torturing old
Tom, real nice.” I pressed further, nearly to a hundred and ten. “YOU’RE a CUNT!
I’m really pullin it out this time! That’s it!” I let my
foot off of the pedal and the hums started to drag out lethargically. Hell, we
can’t have too much fun I thought as I patted the dash of the orange brute. The
monster wanted to keep running, I could tell. Eventually we slowed down enough
to a manageable speed and I turned down an empty street.
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