Page 5 of Absinthe Dreams
Man, Clay was so fuckin’ dark he was one of those guys who had almost purplish highlights to his skin in places. Didn’t help that half his bottom lip was fat as hell with one of those port wine stain birthmarks, which just added to the purple undertone to his skin where the lower left side of his face was concerned.
Still, while it was a glaringly obvious mark, somehow he wore it well. The combination of the unique trait and his massive size – the fucker was well over six foot five and built like John Coffey out of the movieThe Green Mile.He had something like six different baby mammas and would take all the overtime he could get to support every one of his kids.
Some of the women in his life chose to keep his babies out of his life, but no matter what, they didn’t want for anything. This man pulled inbankbetween the regular line work we did, and he was one of those guys who did the lightbulb replacement at the top of the big radio towers and shit – meaning he pulled over six figures a year for something like three days’ worth of work total from that gig alone.
Then, with all he worked here with the tree and lineman crews, he pulled almost six figures more with that when it came to all the overtime.
Dude was blessed and stacked with fuckin’ cash. But you’d never know it by the humble abode he kept and the beat-up old work truck he drove to and from the sites we worked.
He joked on the regular that the regular work he undertook was probably the only thing keeping him from getting with baby momma number seven, but that was alright with him.
He loved his kids, that was for sure. Had pictures of all of ‘em on the underside of his truck’s visor and showed everyone who’d look the latest pictures when he got ‘em.
Overall, he was a good dude, if imposing in size and with a booming laugh like thunder – but he and I shared a love of the Mississippi Delta Blues, which is where we’d found our common ground. Along with my not being so easily intimidated, we became and stayed fast friends.
Hell, I’d like to think he was my only real friend outside the club, and I was alright with that.
I stowed my climbing gear in my toolbox at the back of my truck to keep it out of the rain, and opened the tote, likewise, to keep my smaller chainsaw out of the wet and dropped it in, securing the yellow lid down tight onto the black tote to make sure it likewise stayed out of the coming rain – just as a gust of actual wind and not breeze shoved against us, bringing with it the heavy scent of petrichor as the clouds rolled overhead. The first fat drops started to fall.
“Later, man!” I waved at Clay and got into my truck as he looked to the sky and gave a nod, climbing into his rig.
I turned out from the side of the road and onto the highway. I was headed in the wrong direction toward the Mississippi state line, but it couldn’t be helped. I’d have to take the next exit that offered a way to get turned back around, headed backtoward New Orleans. The rain was harsh, clattering against the windshield in an angry cacophony that unnerved as well as made it fuckin’ hard as hell to see. I turned on the windshield wipers full-bore and dropped my speed to a safer speed for the conditions. I hit the switch for my emergency flashers for the travelers behind me so they would know I wasn’t moving at the speed limit and to hopefully keep them from bumping into my rear end.
I wasn’t into butt stuff, and neither was my fuckin’ truck – despite how beat to hell it may appear.
I took the next exit, carefully winding my way around and back down the on-ramp going the opposite direction, and got back on the freeway headed where I wanted to go, which was back to the club with the quickness before the shit hit the fan and I could be called back out.
I pulled into the lot outside the club around an hour later and hustled out of the truck and through the downpour into the front of the clubhouse.
Without a word, Axe Man, standing behind the bar, poured me two shots and slid them one after the other down the bar at me, where I scooped one right after the other up and downed them. I coughed and asked after the fact, “What was that shit?” He laughed at me.
“Beggars can’t be choosers, man,” he said, and turned the bottle to reveal it was cognac. “Making myself a Sazerac,” he said.
I shook my head. “Get me some of the absinthe that goes in that and we’ll be straight,” I told him, just as my phone started to vibrate in my coveralls’ pocket.
“Hey.” I answered it without looking, knowing it would be the boss man.
“You start drinkin’ yet?” he asked.
“Two shots deep already,” I declared.
He swore.
“Goddammit, need you out?—”
I cut him off. “Can’t do it, boss. I’m over the legal limit.”
He lit off in a string of Cajun-French insults. I chuffed a laugh and said, “Now, you leave my momma out of it. She was a good woman.”
“Really, now?” he said, and before he could start to apologize, I said, “No – she was a cracked-out ho and I hope she’s rottin’ in hell.”
He cursed again, but a guffaw of laughter was right on the tail end of it this time.
“Enjoy your weekend,” he said. “Don’t get too drunk now, y’hear?”
“Might surprise my liver a little later and drink some water. No guarantees,” I said. “You maybe try Clay. He’s always up for extra overtime,” I suggested.
“Motherfucker, I called him first!” he said, and I laughed.
