Joe Burkes Last Stand | Page 4

loading his cart. And Shannon? He was from Ten Mile Creek,
south of Pittsburgh; what had happened to him? Joe decided to cut
through Cat Hollow and over to Roscoe on Route 17. He followed 17
west, taking his time, enjoying the October colors. He had lunch in
Hancock and stayed overnight in a motel outside Painted Post.
The next afternoon he was in Ten Mile Creek, coal country. A black
hill in the distance, the highest point around, turned out to be a slag pile.
Containers suspended from cable were hauled up the pile, tipped over,
and returned upside down. The top of a silo, last sign of a buried barn,
waited a few feet above a spreading shoulder of slag. The air was gritty
and had a sulfurous tang.
He stopped outside an American Legion hall and walked into a dimly
lit bar. In one corner a fat man sat upright before a video poker machine.
Only his right hand moved as he inserted quarters, one after another.
Joe sat at the bar, three stools down from a short guy who was staring
over the top of a half empty glass of beer. The bartender moved a step
in his direction and waited.
"I'll have a beer," Joe said, putting a five dollar bill in front of him. The
bartender was about forty. He had a blonde crew cut and a face like a
poker chip, Robert Redford run into a door. He set the beer down, made
change, and resumed his position. It was oddly as though he hadn't
moved at all.
"I was in the service--with a guy named Shannon. Long time ago. Said
he was from around here." Silence. Friendly place.
"Which service?" Shorty didn't turn his head.
"Air Force."

"That'd be Bobby," Shorty said.
"Yeah," Joe said, "Bobby."
"Jacky, he went in the Navy."
"Bobby was a good guy. He around?" Shorty glanced at the bartender.
They had a committee meeting.
"California," the bartender said.
"California," Shorty confirmed. "Stayed in and retired. He's out there
cashing checks with eagles on 'em."
"Shit," Joe said. "Would'a liked to seen him."
"Two more, Floyd." The gambler said, putting a twenty on the bar.
The bartender laid two quarter rolls soundlessly next to the bill and
asked, "You come around just to look up Bobby Shannon?"
"I, ah, well, got sick of working. Had some money saved. Thought I'd
take a break, look around." Shorty shook his head. "I mean, what do
you do after . . . " Joe meant, after you'd done pretty well, at least
compared to these guys.
The bartender said:

"Beware of gnawing the ideogram of nothingness:
Your teeth will crack. Swallow it whole, and you've a treasure
Beyond the hope of Buddha and the Mind. The east breeze
Fondles the horses ears: how sweet the smell of plum."

"What!?"
"Mitsuhiro, 17th century," the bartender said. For an instant his eyes
came at Joe like horses jumping the gate.
"Who are you?" Joe asked.
"Pretty Boy Floyd," said Shorty. "Best athlete ever come out of this
town." There was a blaze of sound from the poker machine followed by
a crash of quarters. Shorty turned his head. "I'll take some of that, Earl."
"Can't win if you don't play," Earl said.
"Used to pitch for the Pirates," Shorty said. The bartender's expression
didn't change. Joe noticed that he stood balanced on both feet.
"Why aren't you teaching in a university somewhere?" Joe asked him.
"You know Bob Dylan's line about the difference between hospitals
and universities?"
"No."
"More people die in universities. Also . . . " He did a quick soft-shoe
shuffle. "I drink, so be it." A trace of amusement crossed his face.
Mitsuhiro, Dylan, and Mr. Bojangles; one, two, three. A silent ump
pumped his right fist. Joe was gone.
"Let me buy a round," Joe said. About four beers later he got into the
truck, blinking. "Jesus, Batman, Ten Mile Creek, hell of a place!" He
made it to a motel and called it a day.
The next morning he had a big breakfast. The grip of the Northeast was
loosening. Driving all day was beginning to seem natural. "Roll 'em,
Batman," he said, "Bach first. Then, we'll move on to Gabby Pahinui,
get into Willy Nelson, and The Grateful Dead. We've got a delivery for
Kate." The truck was running great. Traffic was light. Ohio went by,
and Indiana, like a dream.

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Madison, Minneapolis, Fargo, the long run over to Missoula, Spokane,
Seattle, finally. Joe parked by Ivar's and stretched, tired but satisfied.
He was meeting Kate for lunch where they could look across Puget
Sound.
A few minutes later, Kate appeared from behind a group of tourists.
They had a reunion hug.
"How was the trip, Dad?"