I Shop At Laney’s- free short story of the month for May

Many years ago now my buddy Chico and I went on a road trip from Portland to Roswell New Mexico. Way out in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of The Valley of Fires, we met a strange old cowboy at this place that sold rocks and fossils. He didn’t like us and he was paranoid, pulled his gun, and it was just another day on that crazy trip. That patch of desert is unforgettable and I always wanted to write something that takes place there. And I always wanted to use that old piece of shit cowboy too. I Shop At Laney’s is it.

I Shop At Laney’s by Jeff Johnson

The grasslands shortly gave way to wind-sculpted piñon and then larger pines after Laney turned off I 70 on to the dusty two lane 37 headed for Carrizozo. The southern spine of the White Mountains collected enough water from the upper atmosphere to make a ski resort in winter. He passed through Ruidoso and then dropped into the abrupt desolation of the desert ahead to the west, into a landscape filled with Saguaro cactus and lava fields, snakes and night owls. Laney cracked the window, easy behind the wheel. Doobie Brothers on the tape deck, slow beer between his legs, two tacos in a bag one the passenger seat, it was easy to be breezy.

Laney super liked his job out there at The Rock Shack. It was a ramshackle mineral and fossil display room grafted onto an old prospector’s cabin, situated in what amounted to the middle of nowhere. The little place was just off the side of the highway in the wide desert just outside the Valley of Fires, in the spectacular alien landscape of ancient lava flows and cacti and sweet smelling scrub brush. An entire week might pass without a visitor, and most of the time the people who did stop by were weirdo 50’s style Evangelical tourists from Iowa or Michigan looking to use the outdoor toilet or inspect the rusted tractor in the side lot. Laney’s job was simple. He did a little digging in the surrounding fields in the morning hunting for new stock, in the window of time between when the stars went out and the late morning sun grew fierce, and after that a little coffee and maybe a few pancakes. Then he’d put out the sun bleached open sign and watch the cash register, which meant reading a paperback and listening to Johnny Cash or Steely Dan. They both worked. At night he’d watch old movies on the black and white TV, a thematic marvel he savored. It was better than shoveling horse shit in Ruidoso, but not as good as his old produce job at the hippy grocery store in Santa Fe. Two weeks on, two weeks off. That’s the way it worked.

            As
the sun set in front of him, Laney’s thoughts turned as they always did to
Ralston Oney, the jumbo horsefly in the ointment when it came to his peaceful
gig at The Rock Shack. The disgusting old chaw squirting bowlegged red-neck
left the place a mess after his two weeks- a smelly, horrific biohazard
disaster that took a whole day to scrub out. The Rock Shack had an employee
supply list that was supposed to be maintained with weekly runs into Carrizozo,
mainly beans, ground beef, coffee, and bread or tortillas. Canned green beans
and popsicles. Oney rarely left anything, which meant Laney had to make the
forty-mile round trip after work on the first day and make his purchases at the
gas station. The grocery store closed at 7:00, and the gas station food
selection was terrible and expensive. This time he was prepared. The box in the
back of his truck had enough beer and good food to get him through the next two
weeks. He’d also brought cleaning supplies from the Dollar General and worn
sheets and a comforter from the Goodwill.

Out along 380, twenty miles east of Bingham, The Rock Shack finally came into view and Laney’s heart sank into his jeans. Oney’s piece of shit Ford half ton was parked askew on the small front lava rock bed. The open sign was still out on the side of the road even though it was officially after dusk. The lights were off in the long addition housing the rocks and the fossils, and the windows of the small house flickered gray and off white- Oney was inside watching TV.

            Laney
slid to a halt in a cloud of dust behind Oney’s battered pick-up. They’d
threatened each other more than once, and by unspoken agreement their time
never overlapped. Oney was supposed to be on his way to whatever cave he slept
in during his off time. Laney slammed the door on the rusted Ford to give Oney
some warning. The last time they’d see each other, Laney had thrown a cup of
coffee at him and Oney had come after him with a flyswatter. Laney was tall and
slightly chubby, wearing a pearl buttoned v-backed western shirt, faded jeans
and worn cowboy boots. He drew himself up and psychically tried to emanate
danger. There was no mistaking the expression on his wide, sun-burnt face as he
dragged the open sign in and closed the gate, then marched up the house. Without
stopping, Laney kicked open the front door and stopped, utterly stunned, his
mouth suddenly sticky-dry as a cave dirt.

            Ralston
Oney sat on the sofa facing the TV, which flickered on a dead station. He was
wearing threadbare underpants, a gun belt with a .45 in the holster and a
single cowboy boot. The toenails on his free foot were gnarly. His big belly,
normally self-consciously tucked in, hung low and wide in his lap and there
were heavy black bags under his empty eyes. A half empty one-gallon plastic
bottle of cheap bourbon sat on the stand next to him beside a can of beans with
a spoon sticking out.

            What
froze Laney in his tracks was the huge thing
on the floor in between them. For some reason, Oney had dragged a giant piece of
rusted machinery into the center of the tiny living room. The door was
scratched and the floor carved with the deep groves of its passage.

            “Oney!”
Laney yelled. This was too much. He narrowed his eyes as Oney fixed him with a
queer, vacant gaze. “Get up and get your shit together! What the hell is this?”

            Oney
stared at him and hiccoughed once, signifying nothing.

            “Out!”
Laney bellowed. He could feel his pulse pounding in his head. “Get your pants
on! Jesus!”

            Slowly,
his blood-shot eyes gradually widening, Oney raised one trembling arm and
pointed at the piece of machinery he’d dragged in. Laney glared down at it for
the span of a heartbeat and lurched back.

            The piece of metal on the floor between them, pitted and blackened by time almost to the point of disintegration and still partially encrusted with sand, was an enormous belt-buckle.

Read the rest at http://www.greatpinkskeleton.com