PURE OLD PANTHER PISS SQUIRTED AND BOTTLED IN 1934 BY FRED MARX, the sign above the screen door read. I looked the place over. Two trailer homes had been conjoined to form a bar. From the air, it must have looked like the letter T. The vinyl siding was white except where a thin layer of mud and mildew had soiled two feet or so near the bottom. I had just arrived after driving I-75 south all day from Michigan to visit my friend, Nick. Standing in front of me wearing a grey V-neck T-shirt and rafting shorts without pockets, Nick read the house rules to me in a southern accent he didn't do well. "Gentlemen will remove their hats." Nick removed his hat and tucked it between his right arm and ribs. "Children out by 7:00, no exceptions. Shirts and shoes required, bras and panties optional." I laughed and took a step backward to catch my balance. It was nice to see him. I snugged the straps on my Tevas and noticed my feet were pale. I needed a tan. Nick said to me, "Max, what does a divorce and a tornado have in common in Tennessee?"
     "Couldn't tell ya."
     "Either way somebody's losin' a trailer home." This summer, like the last, Nick was a raft guide on the Big Pigeon River in eastern Tennessee. After graduating Mio High School, I went to college and Nick worked the adventure industry. I remembered Junior year when Nick and I performed a skit at the Fall homecoming pep rally. I was a Traverse City Trojan football player, and Nick, in the Brutus the Bulldog costume, portrayed our mascot. The MC announced, "Brutus meets a Trojan," and I sprinted across the gymnasium floor, football under arm. As we had choreographed, Nick tackled me. He barked, and I said, "down boy." The crowd chanted, "beat T.C., beat beat, T.C." We wrestled on the floor to position ourselves, and Nick humped my leg. That was the first time we were issued in-school-suspension. I passed the days in ISS shooting spitwads at Nick and watching the Oak leaves turn waxy shades of red, before letting go.
     "Ready, Nick?" I said. I felt a hair sneaking from my nose. It reminded me of kid I babysat who wouldn't stay in bed. Why should I have cared if he wet the bed? I figured if he slept in piss for a night, eventually he would be better off. With a sharp tug, I plucked the hair. I noticed a plumply faced man with a crooked mustache had watched me through the window. Obviously, he didn't care how he looked in public.
    We monopolized a four-person table farthest from the entrance, and I sat facing the door. Above the door frame, hung a copper colored horseshoe with the open end aimed down. It could have fit a wooly mammoth. The bartender approached us and said nothing. He stood at the head of the table, crossed his arms, and loomed. "Gimme a Summerbreeze, Art," Nick said. He could have said please. The bartender nodded. He wore tight black Lee jeans and shitkickers. His face resembled a catcher's mit, cracked and tan with a weathered quality to it.
     I looked him in the eye because that's important to these kind of people and said, "I'm gonna look at the menu." He nodded, but I got the feeling he was insulted. "How's the Blue Houdini, Nick?"
     "Well, Janet says it disappears. But the real trick is how it escapes the next morning." Not much of a joke, but Nick laughed hard causing his glasses to rise off his nose a bit. Arthur returned with Nick's drink and looked at me. The mit said try and throw the heat Yankee. I know it ain't in ya. Take that spoon outta your mouth and drink my drink. Order!
     "Freddy Fudrucker." I paused. "If you please." Arthur nodded.            "Nick, who's Janet?"
     "Arthur's wife. She's probably up front, watchin' T.V., eating popcorn. Probably sippin' on some Panther Piss," Nick said. "She comes out when it gets busy in here."
     "It gets busy in here?" I said, looking at the vacant tables. Crooked mustache man had staggered out a minute ago. I rocked back in my chair trying to absorb the place a little. Each of the tables was different. A card table, covered with a plastic-like green and white checkered cloth, wobbled on three legs. The cloth was torn in the corner and lay askew over the table's surface. A booth in the corner boasted pepperoni colored cushions with mustard stains and cigarette burns. Nick unscrewed the top of the salt shaker on our table like he used to do at Burger King during lunch break. Not now, Nick. Dollar bills and napkins that patrons had scribbled on splattered the walls and ceiling. I saw a bearded George Washington hiding between two marijuana leaves with a caption that read HE GREW IT THEN. WE GROW IT NOW. A heart-shaped napkin behind me explained that God's on our side because he hates the Yanks too.
     My drink came in a Coca Cola happy holiday glass with a straw, a few ice cubes, and two white cherries. I realized I wasn't in a bar; this was Arthur Marx's home, his kitchen, and we were his guests. I sucked a half inch through the straw. It tasted syrupy, like root beer without the carbonation, and burned the whole way down. Arthur supported himself and his wife with this shit and that bothered me. I tightened the top of the salt shaker. "What's with the fruit, Nick?" He pointed to a glass cupboard containing dozens of quart jars--grandma's jelly jars with the screw on lids--filled with cherries. The white ones floated near the top, the pink hovered in the middle, and the red cherries congregated at the bottom.
     "They absorb alcohol. The whiter the better. Eat up and pucker up," he said as he smacked his lips. The ice trapped the cherries at the bottom of the glass, and I had to dig a little to retrieve them. They were white but not a clean white more like a dead man's skin; the booze had sucked the life from them. "You wouldn't believe some of the fucking obnoxious people I get on a trip," Nick said. When he spoke, he blinked a lot. "One guy asked me which direction we were gonna go."
     "Seriously, huh."
     "Or the people who ask how deep the water is." I dropped a cherry in my mouth and just let it occupy space for a moment while Nick rambled on. "452 feet. And they believe me." I rolled it around a little with my tongue, stalling, thinking. "You shoulda been there when" I blocked Nick's voice out. Twelve hours to Tennessee. Spent a little: 30 in gas, two Mountain Dews, pack of Camels, Mars bar--king size, a Big Slam at Denny's. "She lost her T-grip and the paddle got her right in teeth." Nick laughed and slammed his palm on our table. I smiled, but that kind of thing wasn't funny anymore. I crushed the cherry with my back teeth and hoped for the best. Instead, I got something more like 16 molar hydrochloric acid. It burned my cheeks and gums and tongue. Fuck. My head.
     "My head's fuckin' hot." I lit a cigarette to let the smoke cool my mouth. "So Nick, what about rafting tomorrow?"
     "Check this out. Me and you can go for free. USA Raft has some job perks. You seen Deliverance, right?" Nick asked. I nodded. He had insisted I watch it before I came down. "Tomorrow, I'll show ya where they filmed the love scene. 'Squeal like a pig, boy!'" Nick mentioned the love scene more often than I was comfortable with.
     "I'm kinda tired. Long drive down. What do you think about gettin' some sleep and hittin' the river early?"
     "Relax. Chill. You gotta get the moonshine buzz on first." Nick chugged his drink. He slammed his empty glass on our table, causing my drink to spill over the top and wet a ring on the napkin. "Trust me. It doesn't take too many."
     "Not when you pound them like that," I said. I lifted the drink off my napkin and set it to the left. Nick needed to see that he spilled my drink.
     "Hey, Arthur." Nick shouted across the bar. "What does a West Virginia girl say after sex?" He shrugged his shoulders. In his Yankee, southern accent, Nick continued, "daddy get offa me. Yer crushin' my cigarettes." Arthur might have laughed or shrugged, but the lighting was bad, so I couldn't tell.
     "They probably tell that same joke in West Virginia except it's about the girl from Tennessee," I said. "Right, Nick?" I took a drag off my cigarette. Nick wasn't paying attention. I thought of ISS and blew smoke toward him.
     "Art, how 'bout a Rebel Yell," Nick said. Arthur didn't nod this time. He turned around and made the drink. "The Rebel Yell's the stiffest they got."
     When Arthur brought Nick's drink, I said to him, "can I get one too, please." He nodded. The mit had to have been Johnny Bench's. My dad used to say Johnny could stop anything. A hard slider in the dirt or the chin music up high, it didn't matter. He had great hands.
     "This is fucking water!" Little league. The Huron Shore all-star team.
     "What," I said. "What's the matter with your drink? Let me try it." He handed me the concoction, and I tasted it. He was right, and I didn't care.
     "Hey Arthur," Nick said.
     "Nick it's not that big a deal. Just drink it." Arthur had heard Nick and was on his way over. It was warm, and a bead of sweat ran from my armpit and down, over my ribs. "Nick, he's comin' over here. Be cool, alright."
     "This drink is watered down, man," Nick said. Arthur picked up the drink. I hadn't noticed his hands until now. They looked sinewy and well-worked with veins like number twelve wire. Arthur walked back to the bar. "See, everything's cool." Nick's forehead perspired and his cheeks had turned red. I thought of Oak leaves in Fall.
     "Nick, I don't think he's making you another drink." Janet had emerged from her living room. She wore a kiss-the-cook-apron and walked pigeon toed. She listened to her husband speak as he stirred and mixed like an alchemist. I couldn't hear their conversation, but Arthur returned with my drink.
     "I bet it's worse than mine," Nick said. I sipped it gently and swallowed.
     "No, it burnt like hell." Janet and Arthur continued their conversation at the bar. Her voice grew louder, but between the southern accent and slurred speech, I still couldn't make it out. Arthur walked slowly back to our table, and his shitkickers clicked against the floor as he stepped. He stood behind Nick and put his hand on his shoulder.
     "Get out," Arthur said. Nick rolled his eyes. You son-of-a-bitch. You stupid, obnoxious, son-of-a-bitch. Arthur fixed his eyes on mine and his grip tightened on Nick's shoulder. Nick squirmed and his face contorted causing his glasses to fall on the floor. Arthur tipped Nick over backward in his chair and his head smacked the floor. It was loud, like a bowling ball hitting particle board. I sat still, watching Arthur's hands and waiting for Nick to bleed.
     I looked Arthur in the eye and said, "my drink was fine." He nodded as he stepped over Nick on his way back to the bar. I stirred my Rebel Yell and poked the cherries around with my straw. Nick was on his knees now. One hand nursed his head and the other glided over popcorn and cherry stems, searching for his glasses.
     "Where were you on that one?" Nick asked. He leaned against the table and tried to bend his glasses back to their original shape.
    "Right here," I said. "Nick, about tomorrow." He massaged his scalp as I spoke to him. "You should probably just take it easy. Rest up."
     "Yeah, we'll see," he said. When I finished my drink, I pulled a twenty from my wallet to cover a ten dollar tab. I found a pen and my napkin. I thought of the last red Oak leaf and how it dangled until December. Unseasonable and ill-timed, it just hung there. HAVE A DRINK. IT'S SPRING, I wrote and tagged it to the wall.

©1998 Cory Curtis


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