Page 93 of Demon Copperhead

Another week, another shit show. Monday night.

Maggot wants me to pick him up from Mrs. Peggot’s and drive around.

Fine, we’re two guys getting away from women, as far as I know.

He gives directions to this sketchy house in Woodway to pick up a friend, and who should that turn out to be but Swap-Out.

News to me, that they know each other. Next thing I know we’re behind Walgreens, they’ve put a cement block through the drive-through window and we’re watching Swap-Out crawl in that tiny hole.

He climbs up and clears the top-shelf boxes and we’re out of there in under three minutes.

I have to pull over on Duff Patt Highway to put my head between my knees.

Maggot is skunked out of his skull, yelling that he’s the fucking Robin Hood of Sudafed.

I drop them both back at Woodway and fly out of there.

Tuesday. Fast Forward calls, wanting to know if I’d like to take a ride for old time’s sake.

Where to? He says Richmond. I tell him not on your life, give my regards to the Mousehole, and by the way, how is Emmy?

He says he and Emmy have parted company.

I hang up and call June to find out if she’s back home, which she isn’t.

June wants to know why. Shit. This is bad.

Wednesday. Not technically terrible, but as far as throwing me off my keel, yes, bad.

Tommy tells me people are writing to the paper about Red Neck.

He calls it an upswell of public opinion.

Nobody ever writes the paper unless over something major, like after they took the soft serve machine out of Dana’s Quickmart.

Pinkie orders Tommy to keep running that strip every week, by all means and no matter what, forcing Tommy to confess it’s not out of the regular package.

“Contributed by a local talent,” he says.

Pinkie takes this to mean Tommy himself, and offers him a ten-dollar-a-week bonus.

Tommy says he’ll have a discussion with Anonymous as to where ten bucks per strip might get them.

Every week would be a lot of pressure. Half of me says I’m already living on the knife edge between functional and dead meat blackhole junked, and this is the thing that’s going to shunt me in.

And half of me says, Ask her for twenty.

People in need of a hero, there’s no shortage in the local supply.

Ideas came at me from everywhere. It was fall now, topping and cutting time, so I did a series on tobacco.

I drew little kids working to top the tall plants, girls in hair bows and short socks, boys in ball caps.

All of them start seeing stars, reeling around dizzy with the green tobacco sickness.

Red Neck swoops in and tears through the field, holding out a blade in each hand to top all the flowers at once.

Then he piles the kids in the back of his pickup and takes them out for corn dogs.

In the last panel you can see they’ve made a stop on the way: with the truck bouncing off into the distance, it’s a close-up on tobacco flowers they’ve left on two graves. One is Pappaw, one is Little Brother.

I gave him a DeSoto truck, 1950s model with the fins. Just so you know. Not a Lariat.

That strip started a whole thing of people leaving tobacco flowers at their cemetery plots.

Pinkie sent her photographer Guy Greeley out there to take pictures, so that was crazy.

The newspaper making the newspaper. Tobacco flowers also got left on the front stoop of the paper office.

Pinkie got calls from the Russell County weekly and the daily over in Bristol, asking how they could run this strip, so she marched in to talk to Tommy.

Pinkie coming in after-hours was such a rare event, it scared the living piss out of him, hearing that locked front door open.

Half the storefronts in Pennington had been broken into lately, including ones you’d not expect to be all that rewarding.

Extension office, H&R Block. This happened on an evening I wasn’t there, due to a small bender after getting fired from Sonic.

I’d never met Pinkie. Tommy said picture a pit bull with Dutch boy hair, lighting one cigarette off the last, staring you down like she’s CIA special ops.

Good with words, Tommy. She said it was time to formalize the Red Neck arrangement.

There was money involved, so they needed a contract signed, a real person with a name. Still thinking it was him.

So he outed me. He blamed it on Pinkie being on the verge of getting physical, but I knew better.

I’d seen Tommy take many a hard leathering back at Creaky’s without squealing.

Finally he admitted it was his decision to name me, and I ought to be glad of it, not mad.

He said if the shoe had been on my foot, I’d have done the same.

Ms. Annie had given me her home number. The door is always open, etc. I wouldn’t expect people really to mean that, they just feel guilty walking away from your mess, back to their lucky lives. But I called, and she said come over now, why not. For dinner.

There was no missing the house. The front was painted like a quilt.

A dog barked inside but hushed after Mr. Armstrong told it to, not like Jip.

He let me in and said they were getting supper on, so feel free to have a look around, which I did because there was a lot.

Quilts on the walls. And these cloth pictures of mountain scenery, fall-colored trees and such, that Ms. Annie made on her loom, this contraption that took up half the living room.

Paint I understood, but realistic pictures made of nothing but colored string, this was another level.

I wanted to touch them, feel the grass and the bumpy rocks.

One had a waterfall. She said it was Devil’s Bathtub, had I been there?

I went ice-cold in my belly and said no ma’am and didn’t look at that one again.

Their dog was named Hazel Dickens. Black, small, long hair, short legs.

She followed me all around quietly, like she meant to pick up after me.

The place was clean but not overly tidy, with music items all over, amps and such.

I’d never heard their band. Not a young people kind of thing.

All over everywhere on the bookshelves and windowsills they had painted statues carved out of wood, almost like done by kids, but much better: smiling bear, Adam and Eve, IRS guy getting swallowed by a whale.

Mr. Armstrong said he was a collector of those.

People called it folk art, hillbilly art, self-taught, he called it just art.

One was a hillbilly-art Superman that was Black, with his regular cape and insignia and everything.

Big work shoes, fist in the air. And I thought, Huh, I am not the first to think of this.

It was trippy, seeing these teachers in their sock feet, being married.

She had on the exercise type pants and her hair in a ponytail, this whole sporty Jane Fonda side to Ms. Annie you’d never guess.

I saw him give her a sneaky pat on the ass while he was reaching behind her for the stirring spoon.

Dinner was soup beans, salad, cornbread. I ate seconds of everything.

She was excited to give me advice on Red Neck, which was why I’d called.

She said she would look over any contract before I signed, and I should think hard about the money.

I could lose opportunities later on if I didn’t drive a hard bargain from the start.

She said syndication and words like that.

I told her Pinkie had offered ten dollars per strip, and Ms. Annie said, Oh, honey, that’s not even in the ball park.

I told her it would feel weird pushing on the lady for more, not very Christian or whatever, and she said I needed to adjust my mindset.

On second thought, she said, she’d call Pinkie herself to discuss my compensation. She would say she was my agents.

Mr. Armstrong said, “Tell her you’re calling from Amato and Armstrong.”

She gave him this look of mischief. “I’m going to do that.” I always forgot that was her last name, Amato, different from his. They were crazy about each other though. You could see it plain as day in how they helped each other out, like mind reading. Mr. Peg would say, Like a mule team in harness.

I asked Mr. Armstrong how things were going over at Jonesville Middle, and he said same as usual, pissing onto the burning wreck.

Not the type of language arts he’d allowed us in class.

I was mildly stoned but trying not to let it throw me, being with them as people instead of teachers.

Them treating me not as a kid. We got on the subject of why the school board was wanting to fire him.

I asked if it was the coal company guys mad at him for blowing their cover, as far as them running all the other businesses out of town, and keeping the schools terrible so we’d be too dumb to fight back.

He turned his head to the side, making this comedy face like, Oh shit, and Ms. Annie raised her hands and shook them in the air.

They were having a big time, these two. With a complete poker face, he said he didn’t recall saying anything like that in class.

“He can make more money playing his banjo,” she said. “They keep him on at that school just to spite him.”