The blue-green bottle fly walks in endless circles on the top lip of the mason jar. Sometimes, it dips inside the empty container, attempting to find leftover corn mash sugars in the residues coating the glass. It reverses course after detecting a speck of food for consumption. The insect covers every millimeter of this jar countless times. It moves in agile starts and stops, traveling to the next meal. Relentless hunger motivates its actions.

A set of eyes, red and puffy, struggles to peer into this world of glass and tin. A chubby man, moist with the sweat and other effects of his latest bender, attempts to make sense of his surroundings. Oblivious to the morning, he resents the intrusion of reality.

“Damn,” he says to the empty porch of his grandmother’s cabin. “Hate this part.”

John’s face, smudged with the dirt and dust from lying on the floor, contorts in the pain of the effects of the night’s ethanol poisoning. Bright sunlight forces its way into the little mountain valley (or “hollar” as the locals call it). It is late afternoon. That is remorse time.

As the daylight stabs John’s eyes, he slams his lids shut. It is a vain gesture at best. “Being hungover is bad,” he mumbles, continuing the morning monologue. “Martis, you know the drill.”

He opens one eye to form the slightest slit. The light shoots in like high-pressure water through a hole in a submarine. Fighting the pain, he murmurs self-encouragement, “Got to see somehow. Find your sunglasses. Come on, Martis. You can do it.”

Pulling up to his hands and knees, he attempts to locate his sunglasses, a first defense against boozing. But making sense of his surroundings through a swollen opening proves difficult. He searches the floorboards in expanding arcs with his hands. “Where the hell are they? You had ’em on yesterday, you idiot. Right out here. You were sitting—”

Crash! Mason jars scatter about the porch as his sweeping hands knock over the empties. Bottle flies, disturbed by the noisy explosion, swarm up and land on John’s face and arms.

“Damn!” He waves his hands as he stumbles up to his feet. Potent nausea builds deep in his gut. “Breathe . . . breathe . . . breathe. . . .” Bent over, he remains standing as erect as his compromised balance will allow.

“Got . . . got to settle . . . breathe . . . breathe. . . .”

A huge bottle fly enters right into his ear. Reflexes kick in and John swats with abrupt violence to shoo the invader away. He lists to the left, but somehow remains upright.

“Craaaaaap!” John whimpers as queasiness sinks its talons into his tummy. His torso twists one way and his stomach the other.

“Crap! Crap! Crap!” He moves forward. “Not here! Not on the porch!” His hungover legs cannot react. He falls to his knees. The rail!

Unable to regain his footing, he crawls to the rickety, dirty barrier. Frantic movements fling empty glassware across the old patio boards. He grabs the handrail, strains, but cannot pull himself up. He braces. John is no longer able to vocalize. Saliva pools in his mouth. Number one!

His puking comes in threes. He slides his hands from the upper rail to its supports. Looking like a convict in an old movie, his face settles between two vertical columns. He leans on them for a few hard seconds. Drool from his mouth falls to the deck boards. Come on, do it! 

Spasms build to gastric convulsions. He resigns to the eminent. “Oh . . . .”

With a long, protracted contraction, vomit flies forth, through the posts and into the thick weeds off the side of the deck. Clear fluid. Fire one . . . .

John keeps his head against the rails. Another volley, less intense, splits the vertical bars. Fire two . . . I’ll be better. . . . The final barrage, like an afterthought, dribbles off the porch. . . . Inside. 

He pants and braces. Fire three . . . .

The nausea and cramps of throwing up lessen, his breathing slows. Thank God.

John recuperates with his head on the struts of the handrail. Although fading, the sunlight makes staying on the porch uncomfortable, and he pulls himself to a standing position. “Whoa!” he says as he wobbles. 

The rail, while loose, offers enough support to keep him upright. Why can’t I see? 

John laughs and says, “Still have an eye shut!” That entire ordeal squinting out of one swollen eye.

“Where are those damn glasses?” he asks, staggering backward.

Crack!

The sound and a dull pain in his right foot alert him to the sunglasses’ location. There they are.

A sarcastic smirk, accompanied with a slight head shake, spreads on his face. A sidestep reveals the dark, fractured, cheap designer sunglasses knock offs. While the lenses stay in the frames, fissures cross the plastic of the right lens. Still squinting through one eye, John puts them on. He ventures a full opening of the eye. Alright . . . I can handle this.

He takes a sharp breath. Now the other. Not optimal, but tolerable. At least, I can see.

He stares around the porch covered in mason jars and milk jugs repurposed to hold moonshine. All of them empty. It is the lone alcohol available in this dry eastern Kentucky county. “Way to go ‘Jon Jon the Gone Gone.’” He shakes his head. “You’re an idiot.”

Sweat trickles down his forehead. It is not hot in the early fall air. The consequences of intoxication and afternoon sun are uncomfortable. The cabin is still dark and cool. I’ll feel better in there.

It takes several minutes until he trusts his feet. With arms lifted out for balance, he plods across the uneven porch. He navigates and avoids the minefield of glass, plastic, and bottle fly shrapnel. He pulls on the screen door. It sticks in the frame. 

“Oh, come on,” John complains. 

In his weakened state, he cannot jerk the door open. Failed attempts increase his frustration. 

“Damn it!”

Pull. Pull. No movement. 

“Damn you, open!”

Yank. Yank. The screen door makes a single high-pitched squeak. “Bastard. . . . Let me in!”

John pauses, gathers strength. With one more straining effort, he puts his weight behind it. It gives way. He pulls the door into his nose and shades. Whack! “Damn. . . .”

The compromised sunglasses frame falls apart. Both lenses shatter and cascade to the floor. The moment of shocked silence precedes the wave of pain. Like a child hitting its head, a distinct pause comes before the eruption of screaming. “God! Why do you hate me?” 

John’s voice echoes in the hollar. Birds next to the cabin startle and fly up into the air. He staggers and rubs his face and looks for blood. No red . . . good.

His anger and head ringing subside. With one hand on his nose, he pushes the screen door aside. In the cooler, musty air of his grandmother’s cabin, he exhales in a moment of realization mixed with relief. I have met the enemy, and it is me.

John sits heavy in the one remaining chair and leans his head on the thick, sturdy table. The cool wood feels nice. But after a few minutes, another urge asserts itself. “Oh boy. Time to pee,” he says with a mock glee.

His grandmother’s (or “Meemaw” as he called her as a child) cabin, once quaint, aches in lonely isolation. This ramshackle structure suffers from years of neglect. A mildew odor of faded comfort fills the dim interior. The floorboards are uneven and the roof leaks. Every chair, save the one holding up John’s rear end, lays about like fractured bones. The other place to sit in the main room is the raised hearth of the ample fireplace that smells of old smoke. He is a ghost haunting the ruins of happier times.

Delaying natural urges makes them sharper. He must go outside to urinate. He does have other options. A bedside commode sits in the cabin’s dust-covered bedroom. He looks at his Meemaw’s old room and shudders. She took her last breaths in there.

He laughs from his uneasiness. Or from a happier memory that asserts itself. Could be it is both? He remembers her shrill southern voice. “Jon, Jon, no! If the outhouse still scares you, then walk up into the woods.” 

John laughs at her loving anger. She was never abusive. She caught him going off the back stoop one early morning. “I’ll snatch you bald-headed, you do that again!”

John chuckles at how his grandmother chided him. Expressions like that made you remember the lesson. Snatch me bald-headed? 

But, as fast as this fond whisper from the past appears, it fades. A dark, remorsefilled shadow steals the warmth of the recollection. Wish she was still here.

Although weakened, John gets up and exits through the back door of the cabin. Here, it’s a single step to the ground, unlike the front porch elevated close to six feet. Everything in this little hollar is up or down. The old privy is far up the hill, but he avoids it. The rotten boards crawl with insects. One might end up in the pit with what you came to deposit there. And John isn’t comfortable with how close this outhouse is to the old water pump. One person couldn’t generate enough waste to contaminate the aquifer far below, but it’s the idea.

He battles up the hill through the scrubby undergrowth for fifteen yards. Anticipation of going makes the pressure build to an uncomfortable level. John has trouble with the tie cord of his baggy, gray sweats. Trying to undo a knot in his hungover state proves difficult. The longer he fights, the greater the urgency. The more his urgency increases, the more he struggles with the snag. After several revolutions of this cycle, John punts.

“To hell with it!” he mumbles.

He pulls down the sweats, tighty-whities and all, and relieves himself, bare-bottomed in the woods. Like a little boy in potty training, he stands with his pants at his knees. The release causes him to shiver. He doesn’t mind.

“Niiice . . .” he says with a long exhale.

As he waits to finish, John glances around. Farther up the hill is an old, dead tree. Mummified by lightning forty years ago, it still stands. Nothing grows near it. He doesn’t remember what species it was. The trunk and few deceased branches claw at the sky. An arm and a hand caught in the reflexive struggle to hold back impending doom. John shivers again.

Creepy thing. Gonna cut you up and burn you.

Thirty years ago, he saw dull, metallic red eyes by this tree. The two ovals became crimson flames suspended in midair. Every time, they appeared in pairs. He experienced a feeling of being watched by something that wanted to do more than physically hurt him. He sensed an agenda behind the presence … a plan … a strategy. John heard hissing rustlings formed in a silent despair. Growls born of pain and anger. Or a bully imitating the call made by a prey animal being killed. That bleating noise was the worst one.

John returns to the present. 

“Hate you,” he mutters. 

He fears his recollection from that summer might call the visions to repeat. He doesn’t notice he’s done for a few moments. He looks down. The cord is loose. He curses at the drawstring as he pulls his clothing back to position. Now you open?

In his peripheral vision, he detects a bloody tinge. For a moment, he freezes. Did I see what I . . . 

With hesitation, John rotates his head back toward the old dead trunk. At first, he sees dry, gray, split-open wood. One dull, reddish spot edges out from behind the tree.

“You . . . you found me . . . again,” John whispers.

As if sensing detection, another red point, now a flame, emerges to make a pair. They shine steady for an instant and wink off. Icy, dead fingers lightly caress John’s cheek like an unwelcome lover. From years of practice, he drops his gaze to the ground in front of his feet. He hopes no one will notice his seeing the eyes, or hearing the voices, or the screams, or the crying. The weeping is the worst.

But no spectators will gawk and stare at him here. No “it’s a crazy homeless guy” faces decorating shocked bystanders. No, “let’s get you some help” clichés from well-intentioned strangers. No “Johnny Law” prying you out of your car and into a shelter or psychiatric ward. He raises his head and scans the hollar. None of these past specters show themselves. His hands gather into fists. Anger builds and erupts.

“Don’t have to pretend here! No going turtle here! Leave me alone!”

This last word echoes in the mountain valley. “Alone . . . alone . . . alone. . . .”

John stares at the tree corpse a few more minutes. No red glimmers return to taunt him. He retreats down the hillside. Every few steps, he pauses to glance back. Nothing. He listens when he stops. No cracks of vegetation, no rustle of leaves, no yelling of distant tortured voices, no muffled angry shouts graze the edges of his perception. The valley is noiseless . . . a strange silent.

He pauses under the eaves of the stoop and ducks inside. “Who you yelling at?” a voice asks.

John jumps back, eyes wide. “Dang!”

“Sorry, Mister Martis,” comes after a brief pause. “Didn’t wanna scare ya none.” The voice is so southern fried, it drips grease.

“Scooter! You scared the crap outta me,” John replies. “Don’t you knock?”

“Did knock. Then, heard you hollering out back of the cabin. What’s the fuss?”

“Um . . . nothing. Nothing . . . just mad at the world.”

“Hmmm . . . don’t say?”

Scooter McVey is a tall, lanky country boy. A faded, camouflage hat sits backwards on his close shaven head. A stubby, gristly beard garnishes his pointy dimpled chin like a long-forgotten garden overgrown with weeds. “Drink when you’re angry, do ya?” “Sometimes,” John replies.

“Came to tell you a couple of things, Mister Martis,” Scooter continues.

“Please, call me John.”

The country boy pauses, considers his words. “If it all the same to you, I like to keep my business relations formal.”

John raises his eyebrows and exhales through pursed lips. “Alright . . .”

“First, came to tell you that I can’t accept this award of yours as payment,” Scooter explains as he places a large golden coin on the fireplace mantel.

“But it’s real gold . . .”

“Yeah, I know.” 

Scooter furrows his brow and continues.

“Don’t sit well with me. Something’s wrong with taking this thing for moonshine 

. . . like . . . taking part of your life away or something.” “But I don’t have any other way. . . .”

“Let me finish.” Scooter interrupts. “Other thing is, can’t sell you no more shine anyhow.”

“But. . . .”

“Don’t cut me off, Mister Martis.”

The words stun John into silence. He stares at the good old boy with confusion. Scooter approaches and gazes at him with great concern. “I like you, Mister Martis, 

I do. But I don’t give a man a gun so he can shoot himself in the head.”

“A gun?”

“Figure of speech, Mister Martis. Figure. Of. Speech.” Scooter leans in too close and whispers, “You’re a writer ain’t you? Instead of a blue steel barrel, it’s a mason jar. Instead of a hollow point, it’s hooch.” 

He drops his uncomfortable stare and steps back. “Mister Martis, you look horrible.”

“Just woke up.”

“No doubt. Your beard’s all wild and that bushy hair might have to get dusted for critters.”

“Thanks,” John replies in a flat tone that makes Scooter to laugh. 

John regards his clothes. His dirty sweats and voluminous T-shirt contain the stains of a week of binge drinking with no water.

“When was the last time you took a bath?” Scooter asks with narrowed eyes.

John shrugs in silent reply.

“When a backwoods redneck like me says you stink? Brother, you stink.”

An exasperated sigh escapes John’s mouth. “Is this going anywhere?”

A shadow of unpleasant remembrance creeps over Scooter’s demeanor. After a brief and silent stare of the dusty cabin floorboards, he speaks. “Saw all them empties on your front porch. You drank a month’s worth in one night.” 

The man shakes his head. A memory of past days creates motion in his body. “If I sold bad white lightning . . . with impurities and such? You’d be a cold slab of meat out on that porch.”

John exhales and drops his eyes. He concentrates on the details of the room to his front: a rickety table, broken chairs, bent up floorboards, empty junk food wrappers, his dirty feet. It distracts him from the confrontation.

“Why do you do that?” Scooter’s brow furrows.

“Do what?” John whispers, eyes still at the ground.

“Act like a kid about to get whupped? Looking away like that? Not looking folks in the eye and such?”

Ungraceful stillness ensues. The tactic of “going full turtle” evolves in John’s childhood. Staying silent protects him. On the Chicago streets, it makes him less visible. It keeps away the stares. It keeps him out of jail. It keeps him out of the mental hospital. “Don’t know,” John lies.

Scooter lets out a long breath of perplexity. After a brief look around the cabin, he assumes the attitude of someone escaping the awkward. “Got my orders. Wanna keep my liquor license in these parts. Don’t worry none about paying me. Been taken care of.”

Taken care of? Who would pay my booze tab?

“Cheer up.” Scooter smiles. “Word is your situation is about to get better.” He turns the cabin and scolds “Dang! Place is a real crap show. Gonna clean it any?” John remains silent, looking at the floor.

“Mister Martis?”

John stares downward and waits for the country boy to leave.

Scooter comes back and places an empathetic hand on John’s shoulder. He shakes the shoulder to force John to look up. It doesn’t work. John remains in “full turtle.”

“Booze don’t make this any better. Trust me, I know. Knew your Meemaw. Kind. Always kind. People in this town. . . .”

Scooter’s words sound like they come from a television in a distant hotel room.

“Some people read the Good Book. A lot of them quote stuff from it. But she . . . she lived it, Mister Martis.”

The good old boy removes his hat. This memory is a holy place. His reverence is natural and reflexive. “She helped me and my kin when nobody else did. Didn’t care my daddy was a bootlegger and a drunk.” 

A thin smile parts his somber expression. “Didn’t matter that the rest of this dyin’ crap town wouldn’t talk to us. She didn’t judge people.”

Scooter pauses. John senses tears in the words. “She prayed for us. Bought medicine for my little sister. Gave me the food she caught me stealing out of that garden out front. Well, what used to be a garden out front.”

Scooter turns away, his mind replaying an event long past. “Went to her funeral with most of the town riffraff she loved.” 

A slight disdainful snort escapes the man’s nose before he continues. “Old preacher Flanagan and the snooty folk didn’t show. Art Wilkins said some kind words and old man Vipperman even.” Scooter snorts and grins. “Thought he was old then.”

He smiles and places his hand, this time with a firmer squeeze, back on John’s slumped shoulders. “She was, still is, the best person I ever knew.”

At this, John comes out of the shell. “Thanks for the kind words.”

“Well, they’re true. You shoulda been there.” 

With a shake of his head, Scooter replaces his hat and turns to the door. He struggles with the stuck screen. “Dang, Mister Martis, you oughta fix this. Could whack your face, break your glasses even.”

Questions form in John’s mind. He’s been watching me?

After a few awkward seconds, John asks, “Where’s your car? I didn’t hear you drive up.”

Scooter smiles. “Ain’t driving my rig up that excuse for a road. Truck’s new and I don’t want to scratch it or get it stuck. How’d you get that old bomb of a car up here anyhow?” 

He stares at John across the cabin for a moment. The playful taunting takes a serious tone. 

“Um, Mister Martis, justa warn you, Sheriff Gunnar’s coming to see you. Tidy up a little?”

“Sheriff Gunnar?”

“Yep. ‘Old Billy Ray,’ The angry man himself. And I ain’t gonna be anywhere near here. Gotta bounce!”

Scooter disappears from the frame of the threshold. John follows out the front to the trashed porch to see no one. He marvels at the stealth. 

Didn’t hear him go down the stairs? No noise from the woods? His thoughts turn toward the country boy’s warning. What the hell does the sheriff want with me?

“The angry man?” he whispers. “Billy Ray?”

A stereotype of a cigar-chomping, big-bellied, gun-toting southern lawman leaps to John’s mind. With the image of a Smokey-the-Bear hat and reflective sunglasses, he shakes his head. 

There are people named Billy Ray? He surveys the chaos of the porch. Tidy up? If I had a bulldozer, maybe.

Empty mason jars that contained illegal alcohol are everywhere. This is a “crap show!” Don’t need “Johnny Law” seeing this. Best clean the inside first.

He returns to the cabin interior and throws the debris of his past into a moving box: divorce decree, his Pulitzer announcement, old style memo pads, a pocketknife, a bag of stale potato chips, sweats dirtier than the ones he’s wearing, a dead flip phone, the first hand-written manuscript of his book, several pens with no ink, smelly socks. They are corpses in the mortuary of a former life. At the mantel, he picks up a dust-covered pistol. “Ah ‘Last Laugh.’” he says. “Forgot about you.”

“Last Laugh,” a name given to the weapon by his grandmother, is a .38 special, police-issue revolver. It is the sole item John wants from this cabin. His Meemaw used it to scare off critters, like the giant boar that attacked him up the hill his last childhood summer in this hollar. He scowls at the condition of the firearm. The sight bends left. A deep scratch mars the wooden grip. Beside it is a dusty box of range ammunition. One bullet remains. A sarcastic smile spreads on his face. 

“One is all you need,” he says, looking at the faded scars on his wrists. His thoughts turn to the past. No rescues with this option.

He returns the pistol and the box with one bullet to the mantel. “No time for memory lane, Martis.”

John’s experiences with law enforcement, save one, are unpleasant. When he lives on the streets in Chicago, he sleeps in the old, rusty Chevy, now out front. Cops don’t want him on their beat. They use the words “move along,” or “not here, bud.” 

After packing up the clutter, John finishes by taking his “bedroom” away from the hearth. He rolls up the smelly “fart-sack,” as he calls his sleeping bag, and the foam, army-surplus sleeping pad. He stacks them in the corner. “Now, the porch.” The volume of refuse presents a greater problem. Can’t throw all this in a box.

He surveys the porch for solutions. You’ll do!

He grabs the old, rusty washtub once used by his Meemaw for laundry. Stash this stuff in the woods. 

He puts jars into the old tub. “Shoulda started out here, Martis,” he says.

He fans away annoyed bottle flies. “Sun’s almost down. Gonna get cooler.”

A distant crack echoes. John freezes with a jar in his hand. It takes a moment to process. 

“Gun shot?” he blurts out.

Within seconds, another high-pitched clap follows. A rifle?

Noise bounces around these hills. It’s difficult to tell where a shot comes from or how close the shooter is. That Sheriff shooting at Scooter?

John squints as he looks to the lower part of the hollar. What is going on down there?

He increases the tempo of piling jars and jugs into the tub. He tosses in the old sunglasses. “Get this the hell outta here,” he says. 

He squats to grab the handles. John struggles to lift the overfilled tub. After much effort and counting to three, he hefts the basin up to his waist. The rusted bottom gives way.

Plastic and glass crash to the porch. The release of weight causes John to fall back the other way and land flat, looking skyward. He sits up to see the mess spread out in a cone pattern across the deck and down the stairs. Any hope of a rapid cleanup vanishes. Jar fragments of assorted sizes, difficult to clean, are everywhere. A third gunshot splits the early evening air.

John jumps upward. “Enough of this!”

He avoids the shards of glass on the steps and tiptoes barefoot to his car. Bounce, Martis!

He turns the key still in the ignition. He doesn’t bother to close the door.

The car’s starter sounds like an asthmatic donkey. 

“Rrrrrrr-onck! Rrrrr-onck! Rrr-onck! Rrr. Click. Click. Click.” John pumps the gas, waits a second and tries again.

“Click. . . .”

Once more. 

“Click. . . .”

John ponders his options. Hide in the woods?

He shakes his head with eyes closed. Not smart to run from cops, Martis.

John’s hopes, like the car, are cold and silent. An idea flickers. Meet him down the road? Away from evidence? Away from Old Red Eyes?

The flicker becomes a light that promises to drive out this cold, dark despair. Yeah. That could work.

John braces to stand but returns to the torn fabric of the car’s bucket seat. The flame blows out in the winds of a new realization. He hears the unmistakable sound of a vehicle coming up the road . . . and in a hurry.

It’s an SUV from the sound of the deep growl of the motor. Tree branches scratch its sides creating loud screeches of warning.

The “angry man” is here.