Drink for the Thirst to Come Read online

  DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME

  the short fiction of

  LAWRENCE SANTORO

  SILVERTHOUGHT PRESS

  PHILADELPHIA | NEW YORK

  DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2011 by Lawrence Santoro

  All rights reserved

  No part of this e-book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in it are fictitious, except where specific historical events are mentioned or cited in context. Any resemblance to real people or events is coincidental.

  Published by Silverthought Press

  www.silverthought.com

  Cover art: “Home” © 2011 by Anton Semenov

  “At Angels Sixteen” was first published in A DARK AND DEADLY VALLEY, Silverthought Press.

  “A Very Bad Day” was in TALES FROM THE PET SHOP,

  Twilight Tales Books.

  “Then, Just a Dream” appeared in STARSHIPSOFA STORIES, Vol. 2.

  “So Many Tiny Mouths” was published in Feral Fiction.

  “Cordwell’s Book” first appeared in TALES FROM THE RED LION,

  Twilight Tales Books.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A FEW WORDS…

  DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME

  ROOT SOUP, WINTER SOUP

  WIND SHADOWS

  IN A DAINTY PLACE

  AT ANGELS SIXTEEN

  SOME STAGES ON THE ROAD TOWARD OUR FAILURE TO REACH THE MOON

  THE BOY’S ROOM

  LITTLE GIRL DOWN THE WAY

  A VERY BAD DAY

  RAT TIME IN THE HALL OF PAIN

  THEN, JUST A DREAM

  SO MANY TINY MOUTHS

  JEREMY TAKES HIS TEXT FROM THE LIVES OF THE SPIDERS

  CORDWELL’S BOOK

  THE LAST SCOOT AT SKIDOO’S TAP

  FINAL WORDS

  A FEW WORDS…

  Five of the fourteen stories in this collection have been printed elsewhere. Two were made to-order for anthologies that never came about. That happens. Three were podcast. Two were submitted and rejected. That happens too. The rest were written then put aside. I do that. The earliest piece in the book is “Rat Time in the Hall of Pain.” It sounds like a title from a writer just setting forth, doesn’t it? It is.

  Because I always want to know where things come from, I’ve done short post-mortems on all the pieces in the collection. That can be tricky. I once told a guy who’d sent me a complimentary note that the story he’d liked was based on a real event. He was disappointed. “I thought you made it up,” was the crux of it.

  So if you’re not interested, forget the afterword.

  As with almost everything I’ve written, I hope you’ll read these stories aloud. They were written that way, me typing and talking (and getting ‘looks’ from people in cafés, on trains, wherever). So read them to a friend or to yourself. I’d like their voices to be yours.

  Now go. Enjoy.

  DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME

  …summer day and mild, mild weather, a day like no other, a day of sun and warmth, of swimming, friends and beer, a day of just-up corn stolen from the field above the quarry, cobs wrapped in mud, roasted in fire-ash, butter rubbed into the char till it dripped down the fingers.

  Later, black clouds rolled across the green-forever. A thunder-anvil filled the world above with miles-high darkness and the smell of how a penny tasted. Late day rain cleared the midsummer heat and brought a chill before the night, a crash-down bang, beauty and wonder, a wonder at the fury of it all, a bombardment, personal, from God in heaven to Chris Harp from out Haul Road, Dolph Station, Texas. As they clamored up the slope, down-rushing mud washed the earth from beneath their feet and hands and they all slid back to the shelf above the water below. Trapped and laughing. At the next down flash and bang, the girls, Lord bless them, Sally Wayne, Jaycee Dogton, Sarah Gonzales, Winnie Border, wriggled, squealing, beneath the blankets. Trapped! So what the hell? Chris dove into the water. Height of the storm, lightning strikes and thunder coming flash/bam and down he dives.

  He cleaved deep water, down to where the world was cold and green and the thunder pressed his whole body with terrible immediacy. Little fishies in a mass, shuddered, turned round by regiments.

  Perfect.

  The guys, Tex Acre, Billy Madeira, Marty Mundt, dove in after. Let them follow, let them not. This was for him, his perfect day, all a game, not for forever. Forever? Hell, forever was inside him, Chris Harp. He carried forever in his every grunt and drip.

  Later, with no expectation, Jaycee Dogton was under the blanket with him, in his space and he in her, in her good and sweet, long and quiet so not to be heard, and wholly without preparation. And ah, the smell of sweat and wool and them.

  Later, when they hit the diner, the day begins to bleed away. They still roll with joy. When they order, a dozen voices call; as they wait, they rock the eyes of the Sunday folk who turn Methodist stares upon them. Sure they’re the center of attention. And, as this is a dream of perfection, he was the center of that center. They bit old Eulie’s ass, they surely did, but even she smiles as she takes their orders, brings the grub. Had to love them, Chris Harp and friends, Lords of the Earth, holders of forever!

  By the window, Chris watches night seep from the trees that fence the joint. Texas night shines the rainslick macadam in the lot. Their pickup kicks back orange glitter from sodium lights.

  And as always on the road, walking from nowhere, going who knew where, barefoot, white hair flying ahead, shirt, open, flapping, ragged jeans gray with dust, there comes Walkin’ Will, the Old Guy. Grandpa’d told of Will from down in ’34, told of Walkin’ Will who walked the land preaching judgment at the end of times, who shouts out scripture and who takes offered rides on truck or wagon, then somewhere, nowhere, cries, “God says, walk here!” and out he leaps to walk wherever, down a road, into the fields… Now here he comes, same one, same as always. Looking back at those left behind he calls, “You! Drink, you! Drink for the thirst to come!”

  Chris watches. Beneath the table, Jaycee Dogton takes his hand. Day has bled to memories, beer and thunder, chill water, butter, corn, and her. And with that memory, his final convulsion and the tingle as he flows from himself into Jaycee and into the world, the perfect day becomes one more dirty morning and night is gone with the dream.

  And there lay Chris Harp: dirty little man of more than middle years, and those years hidden unto his own-damnself, he waked into a dark and ugly morning, as always. He breathed stench. Everywhere, the reek of mold and ash, of long-drowned fire and rust, of rotted teeth and unwashed pit and crotch, his and hundreds more. One bunk above, the One-eyed Kid from Nowhere still cut wood with the rest of the rink.

  For seconds Chris held the dream. When he shoved it away, time it was to rise, shinny down the bunks and be.

  Johnny’s Icehouse flop was cold. He shivered into shirt and pants, wrapped the static chain around his waist, thin metal, fine and supple as yarn, let it curl in his pocket with his breathing silks. His jacket was balled beneath the blanket. Leather, fur trimmed, it had come all the way on the Walk. In the pocket, his cell. He stroked dead plastic, touched the numbers of home.

  He shook his boots over the edge, wagged his socks and threads. Let floormen worry about stray critters, he thought. Slipped into his socks. The Old Guy’s socks! “Remember me,” the Old Guy said (A couple months ago, was that all?), said before he gave his all to the Vendateria. The socks were warm, a little stiff. Chris wiggled his toes. No holes. Good tubes, tight wo
ve, thick.

  “They’re new,” the Old Guy’d said.

  New they was. By some miracle, bag-new. Survivors of The Day, the socks—a miracle of all the days between The Day and the Old Guy’s finding of them—found in plastic, three pairs full.

  “Chicago’s gone but my socks survive. Found outta that mess below the collapsed ceiling, mixed they was with skates, pucks, and bust-up junk from Gunzo’s pro shop at Johnnie’s. In the blastshadow the place was. I believe Sears’s’ Tower saved them socks!” The Old Guy pressed his socks into Chris’s hands. “Remember me. My name,” he said.

  Chris kept the socks close. Thank you Sears Roebuck and all things in between. Thank you, Old Guy. Never was no good with names. Sorry. Socks were pure worth. Chris had his own worth, too. He still ate thistle, but was that/close to the Boss table. That/close. He’d get there. Can’s bottom, maybe, but something from the can at least, a little fat, a bit of…

  Fuck you Harp, Chris told himself, there’s this day to do. And the next and so it would go until he heard, “Chris Harp. Rise.” Then he’d move on up (“…to that de-luxe apartment in the sky-y-y!” What the hell was that from? What? Cripes, so much gone). If he didn’t rise to the Boss table, well hell, tumbleweed sprout—called thistle in Texas—stayed in him, stayed down anyway, gave him juice to run on. Not everyone was that lucky.

  Time to motivate. Early worm gets top weed.

  Chris smacked the slats above him. The Kid’s snores gurgled before turning to tears. What the hell? The Kid? What’s his name? Worth plain nothing and that was fact. Chris wondered why the Boss…

  No. Shut down that Goddamn plink. He did not wonder why-the-Boss anything.

  Down the pole went Chris, by the Mex, past Fireman Bill and the Drooler. He hit floor where tucked last night’s TV Johnny, snoozing still. A celebrity and still on the floors. Lost: the series premiere this Johnny’d been last night. Maybe Chris’d be TV John tonight. He was a tolerable Simpsons but no one—not a one!—was My Name Is Earl like Christian Harp. Now that was one ace shitload of worth.

  Watch your hiddens, Harp. Damn hiddens kill.

  Gray light shafted through the roof thirty feet above. It lay busted on snoring lumps that quivered and farted across the floor of the rink. Time to move. There’d be shadow today. The Long Season was ending, Boss had said. So there it was. Sky is clearing, five-year Winter verging on Spring.

  And then?

  Then earth returns, bears fruit and…

  …and enough of that!

  In the lobby, more light knifed through the curving wall and ceiling. For a second he watched the beams crawl. They licked floor, folded over trophy cases, caught the once-glassed pictures of men on ice. One hell of a spot must have been the Icehouse lobby back in the day before The Day.

  Fuckit. He skittered, crunching glass and beams of dirty light that cut through pulver-dust. It was a spooked out place—though none spoke of spooks or living dead. “Ain’t no living dead,” Boss had said. Still, sometimes, late, dragging back from a worth-hunt—be it folly or for the Boss—Chris felt shivers in the neckhair. Just wall crackles or creeping skitters among shards and busted brick, sure-sure. But when shadows flickered in tallow flame, yeah, he scooted, ahead of thoughts of Walkin’ Will barefooting the busted earth. Them nights, Chris shinnied to his bunk, wriggled down beneath his blanket like a girl and let the snoring ease him…

  Goddamn! Plinking again!

  The tin sheet over the doorway thundered as he wiggled into morning. Light cut through the stumps of buildings, Wetward. And there! His shadow, a sun-shade falling through the dust. It dragged westward from his feet, toward the Outskirts and long-gone ’burbs. He felt like dancing his shadow. He did not. And there was the gong, the always and forever bong-bong, bong-bong, distant, tolling out of the Wet. One day he’d like to…

  No-no, not his business, them bongs. Still he wondered, in day, night, wind, or none, bong-bong, bong-bong.

  Even in light the Icehouse was a black mass, bomb-baked brick swiped gray with pulver. A bob-wire path led, there to the Center. The Boss decreed it: a path of prongs to keep you straight in deep dark, in swirling dust or driving snow. This morning, even poles and wire threw down shadow. They made a choppy lane a hundred yards to the Center. Chris could barely see it now, in the pitch, but it was out there, more char-black brick, more sheet tin, more gray, the forever dust here at world’s-end.

  Ditch that, duster, he told himself. He gripped a bob to punish him. Best not plink upon that “World’s End” shit, Harp! The prong dug flesh down to the blood! Boss hears discouraging word, spies an eye in downcast plinks, and Boss will lunch upon said eye and that for him who spoke or plinked it.

  A sudden wind from the Wet raised a wraith. A little’n. Vaporized steel, pulverized brick, flour-fine cement, wee shards of beast- and folk-bone raised from the earth, twisted skyward, caught light, reared three, four hundred feet—who could tell? Dusted wind caught hollows in downed walls and busted buildings; it sheared over sheet tin corners to raise a reedy howl. The Icehouse faded. The Center was gone. The wraith matured from pup to wolf like/that. Out of the moan came a crackle. The Boss’s bob-wire fence flickered. Starry static snapped electric blue on every prong and post. Chris wrapped his face in a breathing silk, drew cleaner breath. He dropped his static chain down his leg to trail and drain electric fire into the dust.

  And here comes Lenny.

  And there Lenny came, limping, leading with his shoulder, head, and elbow, out of the wraith. And there Lenny went, gimping the other way from breakfast, mumbling.

  Lenny had smoke again. What was it about that old Kicker? Son of a bitch could flop in a can of turd and come up smoking! Lenny’d been somewhere, not here, two days back. Doing Boss bidding, something Chris would not ask about and did not need to know, no sir. Anyways, since he’s back, Lenny’s worth is up, up, up. Up with the Boss, up with the Kickmen and the Bits—even soft and fragrant Bits glommed onto gimpy Len, begged to suck him dry or be just his own Little Bit for the night. With everyone, Lenny’s worth is through the clouds.

  Now, he’s shoving wind, Chris realized. “How’s morning thistle, Len?” Chris hollered against the wind, letting pulver flake sneak by his silk, suck up his nose, scour his eyes.

  Lenny swatted the question back at Chris and put his ass to the wind. “I ain’t ate!”

  A Boss job, sure. “What! Haven’t had your breakfast, Len?” Chris shouted.

  Lenny shuffled sidewise, plinkage filled with mumbles and murder. “Fuck no, ain’t ate yet.”

  Enough. The man’s doing for the Boss. Son of a bitch’ll be back with more weed and… “Hey, Len. Len, I gottcher back,” Chris called above the moan.

  Lenny’s limp. Good and faithful kicker he once was, Lenny took a bolt from the Wet. Who knew? From a Niggertown kink, from ’Tweeners, from somedamnone, but he took it for the Boss! Good Lenny. Boss himself dug it out of Lenny’s thigh, first chance he had! Chris helped a little. He’d flopped across, held down the big lug’s bottom parts so Len would not disgrace himself in jumps and kicks, not jolt the procedure or the Boss.

  A good kicker before that bolt, Lenny’d snap a neck like/that! One windmill twirl from standing still and crack! A thing to see!

  The bolt was rusted rebar, probably shot from a leaf-spring cross’. Not dangerous eventually. Might have been a poison bolt or one soaked in sick but it healed. Still, his left leg, his kicking leg, was fucked. So Lenny now cannot kick. He is slow coming when called and is certainly not the kicker he was. Being too damn dumb to admin others, his worth is seriously shit-lined. So now the presh is on. “Deliver or get you gone!” the Boss might have said. “Thanks for taking that bolt, old Len, just the same…”

  But he sure could dip that smoke! And smoke was worth!

  “I’ll dip grunts for you, okay Len? Be back soon, yeah?” Without waiting for a “sure-sure” or “fuck y’self,” Chris dodged the slanting shove of the wraith wind and grabbed the Gimper’s tin, forg
etting—

  …a whack-crack static shot and—

  …Chris was down hard. His drag-chain saved him the worst of it, but a snap-slap arced from Lenny’s plate to Chris’s mitt, walloped like the old kicker might have done himself and Chris, who should have known, was down. An old Dust-Walker like him!

  Lenny leaned against the wind and appreciated the moment. He laughed and laughed. He shook his paw—he’d caught a clout of static, too—but Chris’s flop was just that damn funny and worth a tingling mitt.

  Rising from the dirt, Chris joined, laughed at his own damnself. Better, Chris figured, take a clout offering a worthy thing. And he’d pry smoke from the old kicker. Sure.

  Then Lenny stopped and stared. He’s thinking, ‘What’s this? He gets my thistle, saves me space, and what’s it cost me?’ Chris almost smelled Lenny’s brain working.

  “Nice,” Lenny said, not looking at Chris, his stare fixed on the rising beauty of morning.

  Len’s looking at light and don’t mind hunger, Chris realized. Chris peeked. Sun-up was making dustbows, the color refracted from particulates wilding in the air. It was all so damn pretty! Old Lenny! Then it was done. Strands of wispy gray hair whipped Lenny’s face and he was off, a galloping limp. Boss work.

  “Sure-sure.” The wind tossed Lenny’s words to Chris. “I’m over the Jordan! Back in no time!”

  Chris waved Lenny’s tin above his head.

  The Jordan? What the hell’s the Boss doing with the old stadium, now taboo, off limits, stay out, this means you? Well, huh?

  Chris dug another bob into his hand. None of your business, he told himself.

  Another couple tons of pulverized city kicked high and hung ’round whilst sunbeams split the clouds. A couple strakes of light reddened, then goldened the Goddamn air. Shit, it was damn near pretty. Until you wanted to breathe.