Just Make it to Memphis
Part 1 of the Johnny Jags saga
Flicking a cockroach off his pillow with an overgrown, yellow fingernail and only the slightest bit of disgust, Johnny Jags wondered aloud how the hell he’d fallen so low, yet again, in this life. Then he remembered the 30 grand and the .45 under his mattress, and he drifted off in to a long, peaceful sleep, the slightest crease of a smile looking entirely out of place on his whiskey and women-worn face.
But to start our story with a smile on the face of our man Johnny would be a disservice to not only anyone who’d ever met the man, but also to any story ever told that was worth its weight in chewing tobacco and tequila.
No, a smiling man is not how any of those who’d ever shared a drink with Johnny would describe him.
You see, to describe Johnny Jags and who and where he comes from is not an easy task. Impossible, some would even say. But to those who know him even in passing, there is one word that would keep coming up when asked to describe the man who more often than not looked like he was a day or two behind on sleep and likely a month or three behind on rent;
Bitter.
Bitter, but somehow, despite Father’s best efforts — and boy did he put in some effort — not broken. Well, not all the way broken anyways. Somehow there’s still a bare thread or two left that he manages to cling to, like a cat on a screen door, very much aware all of a sudden that he never really thought about what his next step would be or how this all would end, so there he hangs, clinging away until either fate intervenes or he finally succumbs to the inevitable. But there’s a reason for this implausible grasp he maintains on those old threads;
He knows something that no one else does.
And he knows that he needs to keep that secret to himself, no matter what, at all costs.
Because if he can do that, and make it to Memphis with his secret intact by the time Charlie Red’s liquor store closes on Thursday, the 12th of April, this fine — well, fine as any I suppose — year of 2012, he will finally be able to put this young man’s life of restiveness behind him, buy himself that classic 1953 Indian Big Chief motorcycle he’d wanted ever since that night back in Abita Springs when he convinced Mary Downright to let him find out if she was ticklish between her thighs — you know, for research purposes — and follow the sunset to California. To a new way of life; A life a whole lot sweeter, and a whole lot easier on the elbows.
He’d happily hang on to those scars till his end of days, but he was very much looking forward to saying goodbye to those other scars. You know, the ones you can’t see, even under the finest of microscopes.
But, though bitter had long ago taken up permanent residence in his heart and on his ever-stubbled face, this secret of Johnny’s had the power to release that bitterness back to the Devil himself and finally allow Johnny to search out that one word — that one feeling — he had never been able to hold on to.
Well, not for very long anyways.
Because the thing is, as his grandma — probably the only woman he ever actually truly loved in this lifetime — used to say,
‘Those that came from shit only have to stay in the shit as long as they believe shit is all they deserve. And once someone gets tired of sitting around in the shit, they just have to find a way to get themselves out of it and go on about the rest of their life.’
And — of course — find the nearest shower so you don’t head in to your new life stinking like those pens Johnny used to have to clean every morning as a young boy, knowing that when he finished up his beloved grandmother would have two hot eggs and a biscuit waiting for him.
Johnny still didn’t know what she did to those eggs that made ’em taste so damn good.
You see, for the sake of this story here, it is that search for a life free of the stench of shit that makes Johnny Jags such a key figure in this tale.
Because without Johnny Jags — or his grandmother one would have to infer — there is no story. Sure, some other poor soul, abandoned by the graces and blessins most regular folk not only enjoy but take for granted more often than not, may have come along and stumbled upon his secret. It’s possible.
But with any other sole that secret is just a few scratchings on a notepad. A note from another taken for granted wife to her cheating husband before she washes down 17 too many sleeping pills with a full glass of whiskey — because though she’s a gin drinker, gin is for ladies, and this final act of hers was far from lady like — and slips in to what she hoped were the awaiting arms of Poppa in the clouds.
Just a simple ‘Fuck You’ if you will.
Not with Johnny though. With Johnny that secret becomes “Tread softly because you tread on my dreams,’ or ‘You don’t understand, I coulda had class!’
No, with Johnny this tale’s book becomes a best seller, a movie even, directed by The Duke and starring Eastwood. Two of the sweetest sinners sneering two of the sweetest smiles two sinners ever smiled, listlessly walking down sunset after the after party, each with their pal Oscar feeling a little heavier than they would have guessed in their polished Hollywood hands.
‘I coulda been a Contender!’
Fucking poetry.
None of this ‘There’s no place like home’ bullshit for Johnny Jags. Can’t have a home when you can’t even remember when the last time was you wasn’t running.
No, lucky for the rest of us, where Johnny goes a good — usually unbelievable and a tad ridiculous — story always seems to follow.
And now that Johnny’s got his hands on this secret of his, this could prove to be the tastiest tale Johnny has ever found himself taking on the role of top billed cast in.
And maybe this one could be different from all those that came before, and even have a happy ending.
All he had to do, was make it to Memphis.
Johnny seemed rushed, in a hurry, making the casual observer think he’s on a schedule but, as the many women of his life would all attest to, hands placed without second thoughts or considerations on the good book of Babylon, Johnny ain’t ever been much of a ‘schedule’ guy. If he had somewhere to be he’d get there.
More often than not at least.
But this time Jonny wanted to be on time. No. Fuck that. This time Johnny HAD to be on time. That old Indian flashed again through his cloudy brain, hidden behind cloudy eyes. He’s fairly certain he’s settled on black and chrome, with the only white paint being the ‘Indian’ logo on the gas tank. But shit, there was something about that red and black mother fucker he couldn’t quite put his finger on that had his final decision swayin’ a bit yet.
But first things first. And first things was Memphis.
Gotta make it to Memphis.
‘Focus mother fucker,’ Johnny whispered to himself, knowing all too well this whole thing could blow up in his face and go off the rails at any point in time along the way if he didn’t keep his eye on the prize and dig his dirty heels in and do the work.
Stay on task.
‘Just focus you fucking moron.’
Putting thoughts like if he was the type of guy who could pull off tasseled saddle bags out of his mind, Johnny pretended to pick at a particularly stubborn piece of sap gum he musta took on as a passenger on his boot from them poplars he saw back at that last greasy gravy where he stopped for a couple patties and onions. But the sap didn’t bother him. Dirty boots showed people a man’s been out livin’. Shows he ain’t been sitting around reading the Sports section and polishing his boots.
Nah. Where Johnny came from, real men didn’t polish their boots. Just didn’t make any sense.
No, Johnny was making sure he didn’t pick up any of the other types of clingers on. The type he didn’t care for; The nosy types.
The followin’ types.
And to his surprise — and let’s be honest, also to his disbelief — so far no one seemed to be on his tail. But, as Johnny had learned the hard way — over and over again — one could never be too certain of things such as this.
Especially after the last few weeks Johnny’d been through.
Johnny needed rest. Proper rest. Not this one eye open and one hand on the trigger kinda rest he’d been getting as of late.
He knows when he doesn’t sleep for long periods things can start to get a little squiggly and more often than not leave him holding nothing but an empty wallet, some wounded pride and a begrudgingly great story for the boys once he’d thumbed his way back home. Believe the longest he ever went without winks was 12 days down in Juarez. But he had an excuse. And his excuse’s name was Apolonia — no wait, or was it Anjelica? No, no, Anjelica was the French quarter the year before — and Apolonia was not the ticklish between the thighs type.
No … she didn’t flinch one bit. Not one.
And we all know how that ended. Just ask his elbows. They ain’t been right since.
‘Where the fuck she learn to tie a knot like that anyways’ Johnny found himself wondering.
No, Johnny had learned from that one.
Never go too long without sleep,
never have only one gun,
and never, EVER trust a girl that ain’t ticklish.
Point being, without rest Johnny’d been known to start doing stupid shit. Shit that didn’t make sense. Shit that would make those around him say things like ‘Jesus Christ Johnny, what the hell is wrong with you?’ and ‘You just ain’t quite right in the head is you Johnny? Got a few less screws than the rest of us when God was handing them out or something eh?’
So if this time was gonna be any different — and Johnny swore he’d hang up the whiskey bottle forever if the man above let it be so — Johnny needed rest. Proper rest. And quick like.
But he was so close. Next stop Memphis.
Just get to Memphis. Get it done and drive off into that California fucking sunset. Off to all he ever wanted. Well, all he thought he ever wanted anyway.
Until that is … Jackson.
What the fuck had made him stop in Jackson?
He was so close. So fucking close!
But so much had changed.
So much had changed since Jackson.
So much had changed since … her.
‘Fuck,’ Johnny whispered.
Stay tuned for Part 2 coming soon!
