Jeanne and I hung out by the dead pool, got stoned, talked about our classmates, and sometimes fooled around. The dead pool was an abandoned swimming pool that our all white academy had shut down because the Federal government was going to force them to open it up to Blacks. This was 1979 in Central Virginia where massive resistance lingered like a bad hangover. The pool was cracked at the bottom with green and brown weeds growing across the floor and up the sides like a drunken man’s half-beard. Jeanne said sealing the pool off from everyone was super-racist, and that’s why her father made her go to the white academy because he was super-racist. “Your parents,” she said, exhaling cigarette smoke, dramatically, “they fuck you up.” She had light hazel eyes slightly hooded with an expression that I thought of as both joyous and cool. When I tried to describe this to her, she whispered, “They are beatific.” “Beatific?” “Haven’t you read Jack Kerouac? Beatific, like ‘beat,’ get it?” In 1979 Central Virginia there was not a whisper of “beat.” Jeanne sighed, “Kerouac thought of it like the beatitudes. I hate this hick town.” On Jeanne’s recommendation, I read all of “On the Road” the next week. It was clear I had a lot to learn. Her usual outfit was a tattered jeans jacket, frayed at the cuffs, with tight fitting cords, a loose blouse, and brown leather boots. She wore tangling earrings that were actual feathers and no lipstick or eye makeup. She was gorgeous and radical; a transplant to Farmington due to an industrious father who was the Vice President of Kraddock-Murray Shoes, taking advantage of the cheap labor here. There were only three rules to Jeanne’s beat living creed, live in the now, do not get embarrassed by the straights and, scratch out nothing. We read poems like The Howl out-loud, and I wrote her poems I hoped to be in the beat style, two decades late. They were not good, but they were sincere. “This is Benediction.” I said, “Benediction.” I repeated, solemnly; cleared my throat, standing by the edge of the dead pool: “Blessed be the blessed! And also us, who just hang, Killing that old bastard, time. We’ll never be as beautiful, As we are right now. Yet, someday we’ll drive all night, So far from this town, Tomorrow will blink and wonder In the flame of dawn, What’s happened? And where’s the bread and jam?” I stopped reading. Jeanne looked at me, “That’s it?” “Yeah, I mean, you get it, right?” She shrugged. I thought she hated it, but she said, “I like ‘bastard time’ and ‘the flame of dawn,’” She added. “When do you want to leave?” I hadn’t really thought of the details. “You mean you want to leave Farmington, too?” “Sure,” she said, “who doesn’t?” ** Of course, she hadn’t meant at that precise moment, but some day, after high school graduation, say, if the temperature was right and arrangements worked out. We talked about our eventual escape together, even planned different routes to Mexico and then down to Costa Rica or Brazil. Jeanne was already taking a Spanish class and she said that I ought to pick one up as well. Then one weekend, one Saturday, all those plans vanished. Like a balloon that’s popped. A summer night in July. Jeanne was visiting relatives in Alexandria, a place she hated more deeply than Farmington, because, as she explained, they had no excuse. That Friday, I was halfway across the Dairy Queen parking lot when I spied Jamie driving up beside me in a bright red Geo Metro. Jamie was only seventeen, but had been kicked out of school and put in a juvenile detention center for the last six months. JD Jamie we called him. Jamie had once shot me with a BB gun which I found deeply annoying, but I was bored, and Jamie was always good for a story. That night Jamie told me he had stolen the Geo in Roanoke and now wanted to dump it in Milson’s quarry. “Why dump it?” “Cops,” said Jamie whose eyes were preternaturally wide. He scratched the wispy beginnings of his beard. “Are you tripping again?” “Only a little. I took a few hits.” Jamie dug through his pockets, “I’ll give you one if you help me dump it.” When I leaned forward to take the tab, I saw there was a woman with Jamie in the Geo. “This is Grace, Grace this is Jeremy. I picked her up hitchhiking outside of Roanoke.” Grace was older, like in her twenties, beautiful though, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks. “Hey, there, honey,” she said. I decided I was all in: stolen car, hit of acid, ride to the quarry. I slipped the tab onto my tongue, followed Jamie’s Geo. Half way there, the streetlights began to get a little streaky, then we turned onto a back road and Jamie turned off his lights. I parked my car and began following the back road on foot. It was so dark I couldn’t see my shoes or the road, or the trees on either side, but at the top of the hill, I suddenly saw Jamie and Grace in the moonlight slipping out of the Geo. I jogged up beside them and the three of us managed to push the car over the edge into the inkwell of blackness below. We listened to the sound of our own breathing until we heard the thunderous clap of the Geo hitting, and then the salubrious sound of the water sucking the vehicle down. We walked back and slipped into my Mustang. Once in town, Jamie procured a flask of whiskey. By then the lights were getting bizarrely streaky and my feet felt like they were encased in cement, and I said, wisely, “I don’t think I should drive anymore.” So Jamie took over which wasn’t a great idea, either. By two a.m., way past our town’s curfew, we decided to break into this cheap hotel run by an old Indian woman named Jami to get off the streets. Jamie smashed out a back window and I climbed through the jagged glass and unlocked the door. A red vacancy sign sparkled like fire along the shards. When I opened the door for Jamie and Grace, they were already deep in a kiss. I stood there, blinking. Grace noticed me and disentangled herself. She leaned forward and kissed me. It was a breathtaking moment. If I hadn’t dosed, it probably wouldn’t have meant anything, but the acid made everything amazing. Her lips were tender and had a sweet glossy taste to them that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. There was a rush to it, like birds flying from eaves. I leaned forward for another kiss, but she was already pulling us toward the bed. We all fell onto the mattress, laughing. I searched for her lips, thinking just one more kiss and then I’m out of there. Except, before I could move, she grabbed my belt buckle, pulled me closer, and kissed me solidly again. “Now,” she said. “Now?” I repeated, dumbly. She put her hand behind my head. “Now,” in a violently sweet voice that left me gasping. She yanked off my shirt, and I slipped out of my jeans. Then she was down on the bed without clothes. I pushed into her like a freight train. I glanced up and saw Jamie’s big belly slightly beneath which was the bottom line of her jaw. I couldn’t stop looking. It was as though I was watching a pornographic movie, until I realized I was actually part of a larger pornographic movie that included Jamie Payne. Schlupping is the only word I could think of for what Jamie was doing. A constant, unrelenting motion. I had never seen Jamie look so intense. “You okay, Jamie?” “Errrm.” “Jamie? Dude, you alright?” Jamie didn’t answer, and after a short time, I saw his eyes roll back, and he fell away from the girl in a spasm of relief. “Grace,” Jamie wailed, “Grace.” She didn’t miss a beat, turning to me, “Don’t stop,” she said. We were beatific, weren’t we? Wasn’t this beat? Yes, but somehow I suspected I would not tell Jeanne. ** Jeanne found out about it—how, I never knew. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she was angry. I apologized, but she said that apologies were silly. No need to apologize, she explained. It’s just that she had other plans now, too. “Those plans do not happen to include you,” she noted. “So are you mad?” “Only dogs get mad.” “Wouldn’t you feel better if you hit me?” “Not really.” “Oh, come on, slug me, go ahead.” “No,” She only shrugged, “Why would I waste the energy, Jeremy?” So we broke up, unofficially. We still saw each other and she was friendly enough, but there were no more readings by the dead pool, and when I tried to kiss her, it was like smooching a stone. After we graduated from high school, rather than fleeing Farmington with Jeanne to Costa Rica or somewhere cool, I ended up taking a factory job my father landed for me. When I told Jeanne, she evinced no disappointment, only said, “Go for it. Make your Daddy proud.” “You’re being ….” I searched for the word. “Ironic,” she explained. “Don’t you want to travel?” “I have other plans now.” “Oh, come on, Jeanne. Costa Rica!” She would not be moved. ** It wasn’t long after that, I decided that working in the straight world was entirely unsupportable. I saved a few hundred dollars and then decided to take the rest of the summer off. My father was miffed, “Why are you quitting a perfectly good job?” “Because, I hate it, Dad.” “That’s no excuse. You think I like working? Everyone hates their jobs. That’s the way it’s supposed to be!” I decided to move out, which was a little rash, as I didn’t want to work either, at least not at a factory. To save my funds, I went to live in the woods like a hermit. An experiment in living. Like Henry David Thoreau. I didn’t tell Dad, though. In fact, I only told one other person what I intended. Not my father, not my mother, not any of my friends. Just Jeanne. For a long while, I somehow expected to see her, but I never did, and I thought it might be really over. Then about a month into my hermitage, she visited my campsite out by the Appomattox River. I was living like some weird cross between Euell Gibbons and John the Baptist. I heard her one bright afternoon late in the summer. Her voice was like a bird. I came upon her, threading through the sycamores. I’m sure I looked crazy, bearded, unbathed, wide eyes bright with pleasure at seeing her. “You look like crap,” Jeanne confirmed, and laughed. We talked. I confessed to stupidity. “Yep, everyone thinks you’re nuts,” she said, “Really,” “Yeah,” I said, “I hated the factory. I want to blow it up,” She laughed, “Have you ever read about Andy Warhol, and his factory?” I admitted I had not, and so began my education all over again. ** She stayed with me most of that summer. We woke in the morning and I swear it was a little like paradise, on the good mornings. When it rained, not so much; but many times she stuck it, out, too, which I admired. When the summer ended, there were a string of burglaries in the swanky houses near the golf course. Jeanne thought she knew who was doing it. She thought it might be Jamie. A few weeks later, someone from the town saw the smoke from our campfire. A fire truck showed up, along with city police and destroyed the campsite. Jeanne and I ran when we heard the sirens. We stood on the bridge overlooking the scene and watched the red lights zipping by. It was wild from that distance, blue and red with smoke billowing over the treetops from the doused flames. That’s when Jeanne said that I probably ought to leave, that they might try to hold me for the burglaries. “Why would they--?” “Patrick gave me some stuff, jewelry stuff that he said he’d found.” Patrick was Jamie’s brother. “Patrick gave you….” Jeanne nodded, “It’s all at the camp.” “Well, damn,” I said. I took off that night, headed to Northern Virginia, where I had a friend who let me crash on his couch. I found a job in sales that I happened to be good at, made triple what I’d made at the factory. I avoided Jeanne and Jamie after that; didn’t return except to visit family and tell Dad I was making good. Apparently, the cops didn’t find the jewelry or didn’t put it together that it was the stuff Jamie had stolen. In that time, I’d heard Jeanne had started dating Patrick, was even living at his house. Every so often, on a holiday visit, I’d drift by Patrick’s house slowly and consider stopping in, but I never worked up the nerve. Truth is, I missed Jeanne. I was still thinking of Costa Rica, the trip we had promised ourselves. After nearly a year of this, I finally stopped by and rang their doorbell. I told myself I just wanted to say hi, to see how things were going. Jeanne opened the door, looked at me with such shock and wonder that I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Jeremy?” “Hey, I …” She was cradling an infant. I lost my voice. She looked aged, beautiful, still, but tired. No feather earrings. When I could finally speak, all I said was, “You look good.” “You too.” Scratch out nothing. “Well come in, have a seat.” The place smelled like burnt bacon, soured milk and cats. She showed me into the living room and adjusted herself on a couch. I went for a lazy boy where two calicos glared angrily, then leapt off. The coffee table held rattlers, a sticky milk bottle, and a light green pacifier. She caught me staring at the child. “This is Luca.” “Hello, Luca,” I tried a smile. Luca was decidedly indifferent. “My name’s Jeremy.” I waved. Luca buried his face in the crook of Jeannie’s neck and shoulder. “He’s cute.” I could barely get out the word, “Your’s?” She smiled, “Oh, no. Patricks’s. I’m just taking care of him.” “Patrick’s?” “Yeah, he’s with some woman from Roanoke. Jamie knows her too. Grace. Grace Putney.” “Grace,” I repeated. “Huh.” I wanted to ask if she was sure it was Patrick’s baby but decided against that. “They’re supposed to get married.” “Grace and Patrick? So you’re just taking care of the baby?” “He’s paying me while he’s at the lumber yard.” “Where’s Grace?” “She’s sleeping now.” Jeanne nodded toward the bedroom, “She works at the hospital, night shift.” “Ah,” I had an overwhelming urge to poke my face in the bedroom to see if it was really her, but thought better of it. “I still wonder about Costa Rica sometimes.” I said. Jeanne laughed, then grew serious, “Why did you wait so long, Jeremy?” She paused, and when I didn’t respond, added, almost a whisper, “Why didn’t you call?” I wanted to tell her that once I didn’t return after a month or so, I was too embarrassed to show up again or call. As it turned out, I wasn’t embarrassed by the straights, but by myself. I didn’t say this, though. I couldn’t. Just shook my head. “I was scared. You know, I didn’t know what was going on with the jewelry….with you.” “Over a year, Jeremy.” She stopped, her eyes beyond angry, somehow, just empty now, dull. This was 1982, before cell phones so she really had no way of getting in contact, “One phone call, Jeremy. I ran into your father, he told me that you had left, were living in D.C., somewhere.” I nodded, “Fairfax, I’ve saved up some money. We could still go,” I said. “What go?” “Mexico. Costa Rica.” I shrugged. Jeanne looked at me. “You’re such a fool,” she said. “Why not?” She shifted the baby on her shoulder, reached for the bottle, “He’s hungry.” She lifted his head and put the bottle to his lips. He began to make sucking sounds. “No.” she said, when I looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Why?” “Just no, it’s too late,” she said. “I can stop by in a week,” I said, “two weeks, a month. It’s our time,” I said “You’re a fool,” she said, and then out of nowhere, “Bastard time.” She laughed. I laughed, too, “We’ll never be as beautiful as we are right now.” The baby gurgled, and Jeanne lifted the infant to her shoulder, lightly tapping his back. “Just call me when you get home,” The baby burped. She put the bottle back into his mouth. “Or tomorrow,” she added, with the slightest hint of a smile, “in the flame of dawn.”
Jack R. Johnson is a monthly columnist for North of the James Magazine in Richmond, Virginia; an editor of The Alliance for Progressive Virginia blog and a contributor to Style Magazine. His published works include short stories, articles and the novel, An Animal’s Guide to Earthly Salvation. His latest novel, In Black and White, is scheduled to be published by Propertius Press in 2024.