Dust On My Boots: That’ll Be Cash On The Barrelhead by Nazel Pickens
As I sit upon this mountain
Scratch my grayin’ chin
Can’t remember how I got up here
Where else I might’ve been
But I sure as hell ain’t leavin
Nowhere left to be
So I hold on tight to what I got
Like a sailor out at seaAs I sit upon
this mountain
And watch the valley burn
I have to wonder once again
Will fools ever learn
Arrogance and thoughtlessness
The order of the day
Any hope for another world
Seems so far away
Up here on the mountain
High above the town
Up here on the mountain
Watchin’ it all go down
As I sit upon this mountain
I watch the walkin’ dead
A thousand scattered thoughts
Race through my weary head
‘Cause we gave up so goddamn much
For just a lil’ bit
Endless dreams of possibility
For a steamin’ pile of shit
As I sit upon this mountain
Unplugged from their machine
Livin’ life in real-time
Don’t feel too lonely or mean
Pickin’ this old guitar
Hummin’ a forgotten tune
Sippin’ shinin’ sour mash
And a-howlin’ at the moon
Up here on the mountain
High above the town
Up here on the mountain
Watchin’ it all go down
As I sit upon this mountain
Storms gather, thunder pounds
Electric light cracks midnight sky
I hear the age-old sounds
A doe moves through the meadow
Stellar jay cries in the trees
The trickle of our faithful creek
Wind through dried old leaves
As I sit upon this mountain
Lookin’ in my daughters’ eyes
Just wish there was more down there
Then lies on top of lies
So we live up here each day
With defiant joy and endless love
Down there vultures fight for poisoned flesh
But up here we play
like dovesUp here on the mountain
High above the town
Up here on the mountain
Watchin’ it all go down
As I sit upon this mountain
At the endin’ of the world
Self-righteous prepare for war
Their last banners are unfurled
And even though I am so high
Don’t really feel so very tall
Just wish it all came down fas
tNot this slow and painful crawl
As I sit upon this mountain
With all those for whom I care
Livin’ my last breath of freedom
With my shotgun and ol’ rockin’ chair
And If you come up here for me
Be ready for a fight
‘Cause as this day is endin’
So comes a long, long night
Up here on the mountain
High above the town
Up here on the mountain
Watchin’ it all go down!
I finish singing the song I wrote a few years ago (thinkin’ back then that they were gonna be my final words to the world down there) and lean my beat-up guitar with its rusty strings and well-worn scratches and dents up against the giant fallen cedar tree next to my cabin and stare at the powder blue sky. It is a warm and clear late-Spring mornin’ up here on the mountain. I’m hesitating as much as I possibly can. I need to go into town today to pick up some vitals… and I hate leaving here. It always feels like a risk not really worth taking, but until we can completely cut off, as long as we are still dependent on some of their things, its still an occasional necessity. I treat town-runs as plotted missions, and I gotta go on one.
I chug the last gulps of my now cold mornin’ coffee and get my list together… scribbled in my little black leather-bound notebook that I use for everything: lists, notes, ideas, poems, songs, unfinished communiques, and doodles, not to mention the pages I have ripped out to leave notes for people who have pissed me off somehow. I shower and get on my cleanest and most “normal” duds to blend in. And most importantly, I leave my gun under my bed. I have learned a lot in my half-century on the planet, but perhaps the best advice (words that have saved my hyde so many times during my inevitably frustrating encounters with dysfunctional members of the herd) has come from JC. No, not that dupe hangin’ on the cross, the one who Walks The Line, the Man In Black himself… Mr. Johnny Cash: “Don’t Take Your Guns To Town”. I hear his deep and wise voice goin’ through my head over and over every time I prepare for my missions.
Enough stalling. I got work to do ‘round here when I get back, and besides, I just drank my last cup of coffee and that makes me nervous. I get in my truck and drive down the mountain, breathing deep and slow the entire way, toothpick in mouth, pokin’ at the last bit of eggs and toast hidin’ from me in that hole between my back two molars on the bottom left side, and thinkin’ how much better it will be when I’m driving the other direction back home.
After ten minutes or so, I pass through the small village of Billtown. It seems fairly dead, ‘sides a few stragglers ‘round the general store and some scruffy fellas tryin’ to pull a car outta the ditch from last nights irresponsible inebriations. As I continue on, I wind through a rural landscape filled with small farms, horses, cows, rusty car heaps, collapsed barns and outbuildings, a bunch of single and double-wides, a few big houses, a couple churches, a fire department, and all the usual stuff one would see in a place like this. The closer I get to town, the density of human detritus and activity increases. I reach the first traffic light after about a half-an hour or so, and I am now in a place that seems perpetually stuck somewhere between small-to-mid-sized town and suburbs surrounded by tiny rural communities, farms, mountains, rivers, and forests: Grand Past.
My first stop is Bumperstock Gun Shop for some .30 carbine ammo. Its hard to find, but packs quite a wallop. It’ll stop a zombified tweaker — tryin’ to get passed my gate to syphon out gas again or lookin’ to get into soma’ my things to sell at the pawn shop — flat in its jittery tracks. Harm reduction is for liberals. You look at me funny and I cut you in two with my eyes. You step on me and I bite back. I don’t need to mediate, negotiate, or drag things out too much. I get’er done and don’t ask too many questions. Anyway, the .30 carbine would also work well on any number of intruders tryin’ to get into the sanctuary of my life: pryin’ census counters, greedy tax collectors, nosey neighbors, sanctimonious surveyors, voter registration losers, any sorta badge-wearin’ puds, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons and other true believer types, a few personal enemies, and such. I have a list at home. True friends, most family, and my pack don’t need to worry all that much, and, well, I guess some Girl Scouts might get a pass if they are packin’ some thin mints…
Oh, right, so, the parking lot of the gun shop is empty and when I pull up, the sign on the door says “CLOSED”. I scratch my head and hope the ATF wasn’t involved. I figure I’ll stop at The Second Amendment Emporium on my way outta town. I set off to my next stop, Backside Liquor, to pick up a few bottles of rye whiskey and mescal for my night-time enjoyments. I pull up, and once again I am met with the heart-droppin’ “CLOSED” sign.
“Damn!” I say out loud and pound my fist on the dashboard and knock dust up in a lil’ cloud.
Is it Sunday? This is what I get for tossin’ my watch and calendar in the river a few months back I suppose, but I’ll never understand why this damn town closes everything down for their great bearded boogie man in the sky once a week. I go through an anti-religious tirade in my mind for a few minutes until I remind myself that this will do my health no good and certainly won’t make securing my supplies any easier. I sigh and realize that the big box store on the other side of town by the highway is gonna be my only option, so I suck in my pride and overcome my prejudices and head over to Stuff Mart.
Trigger Warning: What I am about to describe is disturbing and traumatic, and most unsettlin’, it is absolutely accurate. I pull into the parking lot and begin to witness the cesspool of extreme human mediocrity and dysfunction (I am being very generous folks) I am about to dip my toes into: some in-bread pasty couple with a half-a-dozen lil’ piglets trailin’ behind them arguin’ about which cart is better and who ate the last corn-dog, a dumb-as-a-dog-door twenty-somethin’ dude in a bright blue truck two inches off the ground with flames runnin’ down the side tryin’ to fit a giant screen tv in the back with his trash cans and some broken bicycles, an elderly couple sitting completely motionless in the seats of their white Prius who seem to have forgotten why they came here or even where and possibly who they are, and some enormous woman in a bathrobe and slippers eatin’ from a giant bucket of KFC sittin’ on the curb mutterin’ somethin’ about “The Colonel leavin’ her again…” All very inspiring to say the least.
None of this even begins to prime me for the experience I am about to have once I pass through the metallic and glass sliding gates and into the belly of the beast where an ancient creature in blue polyester and a name tag reading “My Name Is: Bob” mumbles “Hello, sir.” in an almost inaudible, meek voice that seems to have come from the distant dusty past. I say nothing and don’t make eye contact, the key to maneuverin’ through the herd, and I swoop right past him and into the mass-cultural slimy sludge.
What I witness through the aisles of misery could fill the darkest of pages, each section gettin’ more degrading and odious. The electronics section is filled with pale-faced drones with glazed-over eyes looking for the latest version of some slave device to convince them they are not as miserable as they think they might feel deep down. In the sporting goods area there are a few sad people pullin’ items off the shelf that they hope might remove all that redundant jelly in their rolls. The clothing department is a madhouse of mostly women and kids obediently pilin’ their carts with this season’s “half-off” fashions (whatever the sweatshops made too much of last year).
Just when I think that the line at the pharmacy is too depressing for words and the bottom of the bin, I enter the so-called “food” department. Without goin’ into a rant about whole foods, nutrition, or even culinary taste, none of which can be found here, I will just say that I understand why most people in the civilized human race never even come close to the finish line. Ground zero for morbid obesity, diabetes, heart disease, hyper-tension, cancer, depression, and all the rest of this kind of deadly fun is right here on display and waitin’ for a ride home. What were at one time naughty little decadent once-in-a-long-while treats now make up the majority of these people’s caloric intake. Food has been replaced with a loaded gun and people seem more than willin’ to pull the salty, sticky, sugary, gooey trigger. Unfortunately, the bullet takes a few decades to reach the intended target, creating lots of carnage, lethargy, and sadness along the way.
And all you liberals and progressives out there, shakin’ yer heads at me, you who take the blame off of those makin’ these beyond-unhealthy choices or you who work to put taxes on the products to try to stop people from stuffin’ themselves with sugars, starches, fats, unidentifiable chemicals, hyper-processed garbage and such, or you who blame poverty, food-deserts, and poor education (or the endless other excuses) can go eat a twinkee, ‘cause we all make choices. There are lots of reasons to make bad ones (I make my share), but at least fuckin’ own them. Rice, beans, and some cheap veggies cost less than most of this shit, plus, everyone is glued to their screens and could easily find nutritional information on these things, which should already be pretty damn self-evident, and….well, nevermind. Go ahead and eat it everyone, population reduction needs to happen somehow, might as well be at your own puffy hands and chompin’ mouths…
Anyway, I hold my breath and quickly gather the few items I came to town for and head to the check out where I wait behind one miserable sheepshow after another until it is my turn to go through the degrading ritual of tradin’ my hard-earned (some more-easily-and-maybe-not-too-legally-obtained) cash for the crap version of what I really wanted. The cashier with a name tag reading “Sherrri” rings everythin’ up as I put them into two brown paper bags. The total is $98.74. I pull four twenties, one ten, one five, and four singles from my wallet and present them to Sherrri, who stares at the bills as if she is unfamiliar with the concept of a financial transaction. After about ten seconds I extend the bills closer to her.
“Um, sir” she shyly peeps.
“Please don’t call me sir, I am not your master.” I politely reply.
“Well, um, just scan your phone please.” Sherrri responds blankly. I’ve felt more emotion from a public toilet seat.
“My what?” I ask, hopin’ I didn’t just hear what I heard.
“Your phone. The QR code. Ya know,” Sherrri says. “Sir, there are people waiting.” she impatiently adds.
I slowly look around at this pathetic scene happening all around me, overlook her callin’ me sir, again, slap the cash on the counter, and say “Here’s the goddamn money.”
Sherrri picks up a phone and calls for a manager. Brad, barely out of his teens, with gelled-up hair and reekin’ of nasty cheep cologne, is there out of nowhere almost instantaneously.
“Hello, I am the shift manager. My name is Brad. Is there a problem, sir?” he asks in a squeaky voice.
“Yes, I can read your name-tag B-R-A-D!” I say pronouncing each letter louder and with more dis-gusto. “I am just trying to pay for my things and get the hell out of here.”
“Well, sir, because of theft, fraud, counterfeit bills, and, of course, for your convenience and safety, we have recently transitioned to a cashless process,” Brad responds, proud of himself for pronouncing it all correctly and without a breath. “Just use your phone, or if you prefer, any major credit card. But that will take a little longer to go through our new system, so your device is preferred,” he adds, accentuating it all with a quick smile at the end.
“Look BRAD, I don’t have a phone and I do not use credit cards.”
“Hmm. Well. Hmm. OK. Hmm. Well. Umm. Well. Hmm. OK. Hmm.” Brad stutters.
I think I broke Brad. So in all the confusion, I leave the bills on the counter, grab the bags, and head for the door where I am abruptly tackled by three goons who obviously could find nothin’ better to do after their few years of high school football fame faded fast and now had something pathetically predictable to prove.
I spend the night in the county lock-up. I ache all over. I didn’t sleep a wink ‘cause of the hard metal bench, non-rhythmic flickerin’ fluorescent lights, and the mumblin’ of some ol’ drunk. I never got a phone call. And, I sure hate bologna and mayo on white bread. Monday afternoon they let me out with an order to appear in court in three weeks on the charges of “Theft”, “Resisting Arrest”, and “Disorderly Conduct”.
Next time it’ll be cash on the barrelhead, son.
—————
Nazel Pickens, a cosmic-anarchist-cowboy with backwoods, home-spun, divergent, deviant, rebellious, sorrowful, cynical, silly, and celestial commentary on the world at large and his forever cluttered and dusty lil' place in it. Ol’ Nazel doesn’t have a cellphone (they’re gonna pry his rotary landline outta his cold dead hand) or internet connection, but he sure does have opinions about this psychotically alienated technophilic postmodern mess of a world and of his perpetual pursuit of authentic anarchic freedom, and loves to pound them out on his typewriter, some of which is available as the somewhat regularly reoccurring column “Dust On My Boots” from The Rogue Writers Guild’s online magazine (www.roguewritersguild.com). From essays to poems to rants to short stories to songs, Mr. Pickens emotes with words in the dust, and lets the wind take it all away. He sometimes joins forces with another voice in his head, Invecchiare Selvatico, who writes from a more sophisticated, sometimes more analytical, voice. They teamed up to put out a book, Black Blossoms At The End Of The World, available from littleblackcart.com or underworldamusements.com. Messages to be passed on to Nazel (and requests for a free catalog of his own distro) can be sent to nazelpickens@gmail.com. Nazel also puts out music with his (probably now defunct) cosmic-outlaw-country band, which can be heard at distilledspiritrebellion.bandcamp.com
