Fiction: Drinking Kubulis at the Dead Cat Café [14]

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14. Of course, now, as he fishtailed

[This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living, dead, or anywhere in between, is purely a figment of your own sick, twisted imagination. You really ought to seek professional help for that. Except for the cat, of course; that skin on the cover really is  t h e  Dead Cat, if that’s any consolation to you.]

Of course, now, as he fishtailed down the streaming mountain in the hurricane that Georgia, or actually her mother, had predicted, Ras finally did the math of Marfa’s statement in his head, and damn near wound up in the flooded concrete ditch. He squelched to a sliding halt under the spread of a calabash tree just one curve from Vena’s Place. The young savior. Salbado. Would tell him, about “it.” On the hillside. In a storm. This storm, which had not even been over the horizon when he had gone upso to Attley and Bayo’s River Place and Marfa’s pitiful shack under the tall coconut trees. What else had Salbado said?

Vena’s Place

    “I don’t see you leavin’ here any time soon, papa Ras.” Those words ripped through his brain like an AK-47 cutting loose in the jungle. He had not only missed his plane because he was drinking Kubulis at the Dead Cat, but now there was a storm, and he would most certainly not be leaving here any time soon; it would be two or three days at least. And he would be a king. No, like a king. And Marfa had said his way was dark, he would not be going back the same way? He began to wonder if he would ever get back at all.
    With shaking hands he rolled two more joints from Salbado’s magic stash, then lit one. He toked on it gratefully, exhaled. The incredible rain flooded across the windshield. He took a long pull from the rum bottle. It was getting lower; he was getting higher. The warm glow of the dope and alcohol finally gave him the courage to put the car in gear and get it back on the road. He pulled out from the little cliff that was held up by the roots of the massive calabash tree and started down the incline to the curve before Vena’s. He held the joint in his mouth at a jaunty angle like the pictures he’d seen of FDR with his cigarette holder and took the turn in second gear. It was an easy turn, even in a hurricane.
    The hillside below Vena’s Place had been bulldozed by an island man who had clear-cut the trees and planted dasheen. Kirk had bitched about it several times, in spite of the fact that he had cut most of the native trees on his own land and planted coconuts, flowers, bananas, and houses. It was just one of the quirks about his odd friend, who was like a screaming left-wing environmentalist one day and a calculating conservative the next. The rain cascading down the mountainside had filled the concrete ditch to overflowing, and now a massive bulge in the red clay soil and rocks had formed just below the edge of the road. Ras was never sure if the weight of his little four-wheel had actually set off the landslide, or if he was just lucky enough to be there at the perfect moment to be caught up in it. As he made the curve at a reckless twenty-five miles per hour, the pavement in front of Vena’s began to break up into jagged chunks. These tumbled into the concrete ditch, then the entire slope, road and all, gave way.

Suzuki Gran Vitarra exactly like we drove

    Now was when the Suzuki proved it was worth every bit of the extra five bucks a day. As the roadway in front of his hood fell away to the right, he slammed the shift into third and turned the wheel to follow it. There was nowhere else to go. Where the road had been, there was now a giant hole. He’d been in four-wheel drive the whole time and now that paid off too. The ditch was filled with road debris, and his wheels left the ground as his vehicle bounded across it. He flew, and as he flew, he imagined the wheels wobbling in slow motion like they did in the commercials, when the text under the video said something like: “Closed course. Professional driver. Do not attempt this suicidal maneuver at home or anywhere else, as if you had shit like this happening every day in your pathetic suburban back yard.” The Gran Vitarra tilted forward with nightmare slowness, then smashed into the muddy dasheen field like an overloaded garbage scow nosing under a rogue wave. Time sped up to freakish velocity as mud and leaves spattered across his vision. He was now careering down the mountain, with the mountain, out of control. A cataract of rocks and uprooted trees tumbled along with him, dragging entire enchanted forests of vines and giant ferns along with them. Pieces of the pavement showed their grey clay bottoms and broke up even further as they bounced with him down the hillside. The booming rumble of the landslide drowned out the roar of the hurricane winds.
    His brave little SUV was now jack-rabbiting among the flying tangle of rock and soil and rain, landing now on the front wheels, now the rear, never staying on the ground for more than the blink of his astonished eyes. The text under the commercial now read: “We TOLD you not to try this shit at home, you stupid asshole! Now you are well and truly FUCKED, and don’t even THINK about a lawsuit because we have lawyers, guns, and money, and we will BURY you!” He bounced around inside the cab like a bug trapped in a shaken jar, in spite of the safety harness, and thanked a God he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore he had it on. It was like a pissed-off big brother had ahold of his shirt, and was showing him every rock-hard, steel-pointed corner of that car, up close and personal. The rum bottle went airborne and smashed through the back window, and Ras observed, with heartfelt regret, the remaining reefers from his top pocket spinning through space like something from a sci-fi flick. He saw the ground coming from a long way up. His face hit the steering wheel with a star-studded crunch and he was launched into oblivion.

Copyright © 2020 by Roger Owens