!Woodsmen
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by Anna @ 2016 | edit 2/29/24
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Chapter 3: Our country
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I can easily imagine Mike in the hills transplanting
the little pot plants. Anybody who has spent a late
spring day in the woods, anybody who has worked,
knows.

He worked under the Kentucky sky, woolly with cloud
and blue as the eyes I imagined looked out of my 
great-grandfather Otis Brock's face. Above Mike the
ridges must have been sunlit, forested with a tangle
of trees gray and brown and green twisting twiglike,
opening into leafed hands grasping for that light.

In those trees was wind that rocked them, wind that
sighed so Mike could hear it long before he felt it;
in his nostrils the sharp smell of pine straw and 
freshly cut stumps, the subtle cloying funk of pot
seedlings.

Mike worked because there was work to be done. He
went to work for the same reason anyone does,
because we as people are made to work. The chill
descended, the peepers hollered in their multitudes,
wind shook branches and rustled his hunting jacket,
a lone dog kept up at a distance. A truck motor
growled closer, more distinct down the ridge, then
quit.

The guy Mike was working with, who I guess I'll call
Dennis, called from the stump across the way.

Time for you to go.

Mike hiked down the faint trail he'd climbed that
morning. For the better part of an hour he felt
reasonably certain it was the right trail. He
slipped in the looseness of spring mud, brier, pine
litter, gathering dark.

Jim was out of the truck when Mike got there, smok-
ing in the dusk. Mike accepted one, lit it, breathed
out. In Jim's truck with hubs locked and 4-wheel
drive engaged, Jim said, You get paid in last year's
bud every two weeks. I don't need to tell you to
keep your mouth shut.

You got a beer, man? Mike asked.

Behind the seat, Jim said.

Mike pulled the tab and drank. I just appreciate the
help, he said.

Hell, Jim said. We can't let the Mexicans make all
the money. It's our country. Remember that.

The truck wallowed in the mud, found purchase. With
its forward momentum it bumped and tilted down the
dark forest service road. Suddenly on solid ground,
the tires threw the mud from their grooves. It
pankled up on the underside of the truck bed.

Mike didn't know any Mexicans. He imagined them like 
deer that swim the creek, find their way through the
fence, and eat your corn. Once back in his Tercel
for the long drive back to Madison County, Mike
probably didn't think about Mexicans or weed or
sunlight on the ridges. He probably put in his 
*Appetite for Destruction* tape and sang along as
lines of dusktime clouds sat against the sky at an
angle like slate behind a waterfall, backlighting
trees into a forest of sharp shadows.

In Memphis, I refilled my boyfriend Ronald's coffee,
sat across from him in the booth. He talked about
his kids. I talked about my sister's kids. We talked
about the news.

You hear about the fire in Texas? Ronald asked.

The fire?

Yeah, the white guy down there who was running a
cult. The government burned them all out. It's over,
in the sense they're dead, but it ain't over. People
are mad about it. Something's going to happen.

I leaned over and kissed Ronald. My break was over.
What was small talk for him was life-changing for
the guys Mike was growing weed for in the National
Forest. Turns out it was a big deal for a lot of 
people.

On the 25 in Madison County, at the Okonite plant, 
Mike's forklift moved spools of wire from the wind-
ing machine to the machine that packed the wire on
flats, then loaded the plastic-wrapped pallets onto
tractor trailer backs.

The clatter of the factory was muted by hearing
protection. A handful of the men in the plant were
imagining the clatter of rifle-fire and children
screaming in the apocalypse of flame; wondering who
would be next.

In the break room, Jim set down his sandwich.

Don Hansen looked at him. You see about that in 
Waco? he asked Jim.

Yeah, Jim said. You want to know what a new world
order looks like? Man, there it is. They get away
with shooting Randy Weaver's family in Ruby Ridge,
now they're seeing what else they can get away with.

Fucked up, Don Hansen said.

Mike finished his coffee, set down the Styrofoam
cup. Ruby what? he asked.

Last year, Jim said. In Idaho. The government wanted
to disarm this man, Randy Weaver, wasn't bothering
nobody. They shot his wife down holding his baby and
left her in the dirt right there in front of the
cabin. It's getting so a man can't raise a family
anymore without the government getting involved.
Might be your wife next time.

Don't have one, man, Mike said.

Well, it might be that girl you was with, Jim said.

Jim and them had cut a good chunk out of the
National Forest to grow their weed and the trees was
all that held the dirt on the hills. Mike got paid,
he stayed in his house, he mostly healed from
Floyd's beating except his right shoulder hurt when
the weather changed and his right eye stayed weak.

Rain cut away the earth around the pot seedlings.
The hillside eroded, exposing stump roots. Most of
the plants stayed put enough to grow. Once they were
all in the ground and the cicadas started up, Mike's
work wasn't much but to sit there with the guys,
Dennis and Jim and a handful of others, and talk 
politics. They saw Bill Clinton as a global elite,
corrupt and corrupting.

Jim said, he made it so easy to get an abortion so
he can fuck that Flowers girl or any girl he likes.
Old Bill's a dog, you know. But you understand,
that's not the only reason. The globalists hate
families. They'd rather a government program than a
man with a job. Just watch.

Mike read the Patriot newsletters Jim passed him,
read stuff he didn't understand about Jews and the
United Nations eroding national sovereignty. He
thought about getting sutures to practice sewing 
wounds in a pig carcass. Jim promised to teach him
to reload ammunition in case the government cut off
the supply.

It's easy for me to imagine Mike in the hills, on
the road singing all the words to Welcome to the
Jungle, or loading wire rope. It's easy to remember
his hands on me, my body on his. What I can't
imagine is who they expected to fight.

Randy Weaver's wife was dead. I don't think I'm
going to be next. Here in Memphis crack and cops and
AIDS are ending the world. I don't see what threat-
ened those men in the hills. The biggest danger they
faced was, as I see it, themselves.

To be completely fair, they helped Mike pay his rent
and light bill. Landlord didn't care, Don Hansen
didn't care, but Jim helped Mike out. They got Mike
out of himself like he got me out of myself after
the abortion.

They cut down the woods to grow their weed, but
loved wilderness. They were paranoid about Mexicans
and Jews, but wanted to be protagonists of history,
not just guardians of their little hoard. Like
Shirley Chester with her Holiness religion, their
politics told them to be a force for good in a nasty
world, have solidarity with guys down on their luck,
stop blaming themselves for their misfortunes and
love somebody.

They had a lot in common with the Nation of Islam I
was reading about that saved Malcolm X's life, or
people in Memphis like Donna at the Huddle House,
who said AIDS was government biological warfare to
wipe out blacks.

The thing is, when you think the world's fixing to
end, it makes you a jackass. When you think shadowy
forces control it, whether Jews, white women
stealing your black men, or hate groups, you don't
fix the world's problems, you just break your part
of it worse.

I don't know why the ATF shot Randy Weaver's wife or
burned down the Branch Davidian complex in Waco, but
I bet they fucked up. I don't know why the
hospital's full of AIDS patients, but I don't think
it's on purpose.

I don't know why I ran to Memphis, but now I'm here,
I try to make a life. I don't need a big story about
the world that makes me important. I don't have a
story about me, really. Just stories about men.

Ground fertilized, irrigation tubing run, glyphosate
and sevin dust sprayed, mantraps set, Mike's new
buddies sat and watched the weed grow, talked about
attorney general Janet Reno's shifty performance at
press conferences and hearings about Waco. She knew
stuff she wasn't saying. They claimed child abuse
as their justification for the raid, then tortured
the kids in the compound for a month and a half and
killed them.

Reno was pro-abortion. Jim said she tortured
confessions out of people in child abuse cases in
Florida, got psychologists to manipulate children to
say whatever she needed to win.

They were planning a camp-out near Ravenna with some
patriot groups coming from other states for the gun
show at Rupp Arena. To make command chain clear and
task allocation easier, they'd adopted a para-
military structure, like a boy scout troop.

On his Sundays and Mondays Mike went out to the land
they were going to camp on. He dug pit toilets, cut
back brush, sprayed Roundup on poison ivy, dumped
motor oil in ditches where mosquitoes bred, hauled
hay bales and carpeted the ground with hay. He
helped decide where the campsites would be, the big
fire pit, the flagpole, the shooting ranges.

There were supposed to be guys coming up from Texas
and Tennessee and down from Ohio, Indiana, and 
Michigan.

The second Sunday Mike was out there, on his way home
he drove down the steep washed-out dirt trail to
the river, parked next to a motorcycle, walked past
the place Floyd Chester'd beat him down the winter
before, across the gangplank, and into the houseboat
Floyd bootlegged out of.

Floyd was smoking and talking to a man about his age
in the dim light. Both sat backs to the wall. Each
had an arm on the table between them. As Mike
crossed the threshold, Floyd's hand slid casually
under the table. The other man stood. Floyd said,
Amon, and a good day to ye.

You too, Floyd, the man said, and walked past Mike
out the door.

Floyd Chester remained sitting. Grab a beer, he
said.

No but I thank you, man, Mike said, and sat across
from Floyd in the seat vacated by Amon. You heard
anything from your sister-in-law? Mike asked.

Only how she nursed your ass and I ought to quit my
evil ways, go to church, and honk like a goose.

You didn't have to beat me, Mike said.

That's where you're wrong, Floyd said. My brother
said she got you saved.

I didn't go back for the baptism, Mike said.

Least you got some sense. For a crackhead. What you
come in here for?

Mike took a big breath, let it out. Well, hell. Just
seemed I ought to tell you about something so you
wasn't caught unawares. Man, I don't think, that's
my problem.

You're damn right, Floyd said.

I know I'm right, Mike said. This sounds fucking
psycho in my head, man-- Mike trailed off.

Floyd held his tongue lest he disturb the magic.

Fucking psycho, Mike repeated.

Floyd picked up his pack of Lucky Strikes, offered
it to Mike, who waved it away. Floyd shrugged,
mouthed one and lit it.

What I'm right about, Mike said, is how goddamn
wrong I am.

Floyd blew smoke. Sounds like the Mike I know.

But I'm not, Mike said. The Mike you know don't
think. The Mike you know is the same piece of shit I
am, only he don't know it. God *damn* it, man.

Like a dog that didn't know if it wanted to go out
in the rain, he turned inward and outward a few
times. He saw the wrongness in himself, then the 
room in the houseboat where he sat companioned by
propane refrigerator, cloud of cigarette smoke,
Floyd, rough table, pack of matches on the pack of
Lucky Strikes.

I'd like one now, Mike said, gesturing at the pack.

You got hands, Floyd said. I ain't your wife.

Mike reached for the pack, dug one out with his
fingernail, watched the flame, filled himself with
smoke and comforting nausea, shook out the match,
ears ringing. It didn't take but a moment, and the
moment was over.

You know the old Pauley place, I think it's called?
About ten miles past the old L&N yard?

Pauley place, Floyd answered.

Yeah, Mike said. They rent it out sometimes for 
campouts and stuff.

I think I know where you're talking about, Floyd
said. Used to belong to Francis Pauley.

Hell if I know, Mike said. But me and some guys
going to have a thing up there when the gun show's
in Lexington. A lot of guys from out of town.

That's nice, Floyd said, stumping out his cigarette.

I just know you pay attention to things, Mike said.

Floyd looked at him like he was an idiot child.

Didn't want you to wonder at the license plates,
Mike said.

Floyd put his hands on the table, stood up. I have
to take a shit, he said. You gonna buy something?