When Buck Metzger’s childhood is interrupted by the disappearance of his grandfather, several family members and close friends plot revenge on the suspected killer. From remote towns in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, to the Texas/Mexico border, to war-torn Bosnia, Metzger struggles for self-identity and resolution in a world of blue-collar ethics and liquor-fueled violence.
When Buck Metzger’s childhood is interrupted by the disappearance of his grandfather, several family members and close friends plot revenge on the suspected killer. From remote towns in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, to the Texas/Mexico border, to war-torn Bosnia, Metzger struggles for self-identity and resolution in a world of blue-collar ethics and liquor-fueled violence.
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Overview
When Buck Metzger’s childhood is interrupted by the disappearance of his grandfather, several family members and close friends plot revenge on the suspected killer. From remote towns in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, to the Texas/Mexico border, to war-torn Bosnia, Metzger struggles for self-identity and resolution in a world of blue-collar ethics and liquor-fueled violence.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781937875275 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Texas Review Press |
| Publication date: | 10/15/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 184 |
| File size: | 5 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
North Dixie Highway
By Joseph D. Haske
Texas Review Press
Copyright © 2013 Joseph D. HaskeAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-937875-27-5
CHAPTER 1
1994
With every mile Johnny drives, Lester Cronin is closer to dead. Nobody knows this yet but me. Nobody ever talks about what happened to Grandpa Eddie anymore, like the whole family just forgot all about it, but I never will. The last four years, my whole time in the Army, I've been planning and working toward revenge, waiting for the chance to set things right. Once I finish off Lester, I'll go to college on the G.I. Bill—move on and live a respectable life. But I'm coming home to take care of business first.
Officially I'm on active duty until September, but I had enough leave time left to out-process two months early. Dad and Johnny picked me up at Detroit Metro in Johnny's Delta 88 five hours ago. We get the first view of the bridge coming up from I-75 and the sky stretches out around the ivory suspension arches. The blue from the lakes blends and melts together with the sky, reaching up toward the clouds and the gulls. Our windows are down and the damp, dense air tastes cool and fresh, not like the south Georgia summer heat I just left.
Dad sits in the middle of the backseat, crowded in by Johnny's blue sweatpants, duffel bags and two pairs of basketball shoes. Johnny got a scholarship to play at Hillsdale but he spends the summer at home, up north with the rest of the family. There's only three beers left in the case of Busch that Dad bought at the Shell station in Pontiac. He cracks one for himself and passes another up to me.
"Bet you'd like one of these, eh Johnny?"
Johnny jerks the wheel just hard enough to wet Dad's t-shirt with Busch.
"Colonel Henry ain't doing so good," Dad says. "The hard life's finally catching up with him. Walks with a cane now."
"What's he, ninety-two?" Johnny asks.
"Ninety-four in November," Dad says.
"Might still have a good run left in him," I say.
"Looks rough since the last time you seen him, Buck," Dad says. "Something in his eyes, like the fight just ain't there."
"I'll never count Henry down till he's out for good," I say.
"Your Grandma Clio's doing great, though," he says. "Women get the better end."
Grandma Clio's a good thirty years younger than Henry and she had a rough time keeping up with him until a few years ago.
Didn't see Grandma Clio or Henry last year when I came up for Christmas. Spent Christmas Eve with Grandma Gloria. The old two-story farm house looked more faded and beat-up than I remembered. The white outside walls are stained with time and weather and the barn is in even worse shape—a cold wind blowing down from Ontario would take it down. It was good to see family but it's not the same as it used to be. Dad's side of the family used to be close, now everybody's doing their own thing. Cousin Gwen spent Christmas Eve with her boyfriend's family, something nobody would've done when Grandpa was alive. After Grandma downed her fifth shot of Kessler's she told Aunt Alexa that Gwen could forget about spending next Christmas Eve with the family. Even if she begged, she wouldn't let Gwen in the house.
There's not much room in the old house anyway, with all the new grandkids running around. It's a big enough house for a regular family, but not for us Metzgers. It gets really loud with all the little shits running around the house with jingle bells and crying to open their presents. I had to step outside every ten minutes or so just to clear my head. Right before dinner, Dad, Uncle Karl, and me all sat out on the porch a good half hour in sixteen degrees and wind. Passed around the Seagram's and chopped beef till they called us in for dinner at ten. Uncle Karl couldn't hardly walk by then and the raw beef and cracker crumbs were frozen to his moustache. Aunt Julie was so embarrassed she grabbed him by the ear and drug him into the back room. Later on, Karl kept telling me, "See what happens when you get married? Don't do it, Buck." He must've said it about twelve times and Julie kept giving him that look like he murdered her sister or something. Bet Karl got it good back home. Sure as hell didn't get laid.
We're still a half hour from the house but I can taste the cedars and the evergreens, the fresh Lake Huron water. Down below Johnny's side of the bridge is Fort Michilimackinac and on my side the public access beach, at least a hundred people running around with coolers, barbecue, beach balls and beer. There's sailboats and freight ships under the bridge where Lake Huron meets Lake Michigan and the ferries spray white foam from their engines on the route to Mackinac Island.
"Ever wonder why the Mackinaw is spelled with a "W" in Mackinaw City and every time you see Mackinac on the other side of the bridge, it's spelled with a 'C'?"
"It's so the Buckeyes, Fudgies, and Trolls learn how to say it right fore they cross the bridge," says Dad.
I've been a lot of places in the last four years and there's nothing so clean, nothing so green, blue and fresh as the U.P. shoreline. There's a few less people up here now than when I was a kid, but the population's pretty much been the same for a hundred years. In some towns around here, like ours, they got no-franchise laws. It keeps everything like it was in the old days, but there's not many new jobs and no new business. When I was a kid, places like St. Ignace seemed big, but across the bridge all we'll see is a town smothered in spruce and birch, no city sprawl, just small blue and white houses scattered in dark green hills.
"See that cement support there," says Dad. "There's a body in there. Under the tower. Mason fell in when they were pouring cement. Nothing they could do but keep on pouring. My old man worked with a guy, Steve Pitt. He seen it happen."
Dad's been moonlighting—working construction and down at the loading docks again. There's been steady work there for a few years now. When me and Johnny were kids, he used to do a lot of odd jobs on the side. For a couple years, he worked the woods steady. He'd pay Johnny and me five dollars each to go with him and trim the limbs off the big trees with a bow saw and then stack the firewood. One summer he was working out by Bear Creek. Johnny and me would bring our poles and flies and go after trout when we finished the firewood. A couple times, Dad even joined us when the chainsaw dulled. That's the first time he really started talking to us. Mom always said you could never shut him up before he got drafted. He mostly talked to Uncle Tony after the war, but with Tony gone, guess he went back to his old self.
"It's your first day of freedom. We should keep this buzz going. Hit the Skunk House or the Channel Marker. It's still happy hour."
"Maybe we should get back and see everybody," I tell him.
"Your Mom's working till later and your little brother Tommy's fishing with your uncle Karl. You'll see everybody else soon enough. Plenty of time."
"We should go to the casino," says Johnny.
"How you gonna get in?" Dad asks him. "You ain't twenty-one yet."
"What casino?" I ask.
"I got it covered," Johnny tells Dad.
"There's casinos up here now. At the reservations," says Dad. He grabs Johnny by the sweatshirt sleeve. "Where did you get a fake ID you little son-of-a-bitch?" Dad lifts his hand to cuff him but he slaps his own knee and starts to laugh. "Just like your old man," he tells Johnny.
We take the scenic route through St. Ignace, downtown, past the bus stop where I left for the Army almost four years ago. We stop at the IGA for a twelve pack and sandwiches.
"Just enough to get us there," says Dad. "They got free drinks in the casino. Made it past the bridge—guess you can have a couple now," he tells Johnny.
Johnny cracks his second Busch by the time we pass the exit for home. He keeps the Oldsmobile on a straight course north to the Sault.
When I was nineteen, we did a training mission out in Death Valley, California, at the NTC. It was my second trip out there. First time we flew, the second time we came back on buses. We stopped in Vegas for a few hours and most of the guys hit the casinos or the whorehouses. Since I was a minor, I couldn't get into the casinos, but there were slot machines everywhere. I played slot machines at a McDonalds and a couple in a gas station. Sergeant Sullivan said it wasn't a problem unless I won a big jackpot, then I'd need somebody to claim it for me. If that happened, he said we'd split it. I never hit the three lines. Lost my last twenty-five bucks, except for a quarter. I bet that last quarter and won back five bucks. Didn't push my luck from there, cause it was enough to get food. When the buses lined up to leave for Georgia, Sergeant Morgan didn't make it back to the convoy in time. They said he was with some red-haired midget prostitute. Next time we saw him he was Private Morgan.
The Sault casino is darker than the ones in Vegas, but there's enough glass and bright lights to make it glow purple in the night sky. The hotel that's connected is bigger than any I've seen in this city, even though it's half the size of the smaller Vegas casino hotels. The electric beams around the lower section light the outer doors like gold.
"Who's feeling the luck tonight?" Dad asks.
"I'm gonna tell you guys something, but don't get pissed," says Johnny.
He shows us the fake ID and it's my real drivers license that I thought I lost two summers ago when we were swimming out at Detour State Park.
"You little cocksucker." I grab his collar and Dad grabs my arm.
"What's done's done," says Dad. "Johnny, you're gonna sit your ass in the car a good hour, then you try to get in. Can't have two people with the same name and birthday come in at the same time. You get arrested, we ain't bailing you out till we got our fill of free drinks, got it—dumbass."
The casino is bigger inside than I thought it would be. Except for the cigarette smoke, it smells clean and new, like cedar and carpet shampoo. The floor is red, gold, flat and hard. The entry looks like the fancy hotels where we had our battalion Christmas parties. Instead of dress blues there's workers all around in their white shirts and dark red bowties. Most of the gamblers wear t-shirts, ball caps, jeans and flannels. The security guard stares at my ID and looks back at my face a few times before he lets us in. Johnny might have a problem when he tries to get in. There's animal mounts all around the front area and a statue of a Chippewa warrior next to some steel-framed display cases with old black and white pictures of Ojibwa Indians fishing the St. Mary's. Besides that, it's not much different than the Vegas casinos, what I saw from the lobbies.
"Let's hit the Blackjack table," Dad says. "Slot machines are for suckers. Don't tell the old lady, but I lost my overtime check on those quarter slots last week. Least with Blackjack you got a fighting chance."
Soon as we sit down, there's Johnny at the side of the Blackjack table.
"Told you to wait a while," says Dad.
"It's cool. Heather works here. Saw her coming in for her shift and we walked in together from a side door. Lend me a couple twenties. I'll double it in an hour."
"I'll give you twenty. Only got forty here. Need to hit the ATM."
Dad and I both change twenty and bet the two dollar minimum. Johnny goes straight to a dollar machine. It's not long before Dad's down to his last four bucks. He gets a pair of sevens and the dealer's showing a four.
"Split 'em," he tells the dealer. He draws fours on both. "I need to double down on these," he tells me. "Johnny, give me back my twenty, you motherfucker," he yells out toward the dollar slots. Johnny doesn't hear with Bob Seger cranking from the lounge speakers and the rings, rhythms and clicks of the dollar machines."
"Sir, we're gonna need you to calm down," says the dealer. He waves in the security guard.
"What you need, four bucks? Here." I slide the tokens toward him.
"Sir, there's no exchange of tokens at the table. This is your warning."
Dad cracks his knuckles. "I see how it is. You don't want me to double down. Just hit 'em you little prick."
The fat security guard with greasy hair taps Dad on the shoulder. "You're cut off sir. Any more language like that and we're gonna have to ask you to leave."
Dad draws a jack and an eight. The dealer busts. "You motherfucker," Dad says. "I should've won double."
The security guard grabs Dad's shirt collar and jerks him out of his chair. Three more security guards come running over. Dad's chair falls to the gold and red squares on the carpet and his beer pours out onto the green blackjack table felt.
"Look what you done," says the female security guard. "Get his ass out of here before I call the cops."
"He didn't do shit. It was your boy here," I tell her.
"You need to leave too," she tells me.
"What did I do?" She doesn't answer. I look at the dealer and he just looks away. "You can't do this—it's not right," I say.
"Are you gonna leave the premise or do we need to escort you out?"
"Check the cameras," I say. The dealer and guards ignore me.
I grab what's left of my tokens and join Dad in the parking lot. Johnny's nowhere around. The fat-ass guard and the other one who kicked out Dad are still walking back to the door.
"I'll be seeing you around, you fat bitch," I tell him. He reaches for his club but the other guard stops him.
"I'll be looking for you," he tells me. His body starts to shake but he's not afraid. Wants to prove something here and now.
"Go sober up," says the other one. "It's not worth it," he tells the fat guard. "They're not worth it."
One night, down in Columbus, Georgia, a couple fat-fuck bouncers like this guy kicked my friend Doug out of Ernie's Roadhouse. Opened the door with Doug's head. Me, Roberts, Morgan, Diaz and Rizzoli waited till they closed up and we followed one of the bouncers to his apartment. We put his bald head through the window of his own Camaro. His scalp was hamburger by the time the glass cracked and shattered. He curled up on the sidewalk like a baby and just started crying.
When all the apartment lights started coming on, I thought we'd be busted for sure but we squealed out in Rizzoli's truck just when somebody opened the door and started yelling at us. My chest got real tight and I had a hard time breathing. My hand was cut and bleeding from the glass from the bouncer's Camaro. We passed a state trooper on the way back to Fort Benning, and I thought for sure we'd get pulled over. Somebody must've seen the truck and the plates. By the time we got back, my buzz was gone and I couldn't sleep. I haven't slept right since. The bouncer had it coming. I never felt bad about what we did. It's just scary to think how easy it is for somebody to come after you when you don't expect it.
That's how it is too, like that kid in Bosnia, Samson. He was alert to everything in the field, but he didn't see it coming when that fuel truck ran him over. A few feet here or there, could've been any one of our sleeping bags. There's just too much shit like that to think about. Most the time, I have to drink myself to sleep if I can sleep at all. Then I wake up sudden like the time the blue Kevlar fell from the ammo shelf in that Bradley, right on my forehead and damned near knocked me unconscious. I'm shaking good now, and breathing heavy, but it's not fear—more like the opposite.
Dad and I wait by the car for a good half hour but Johnny never comes out.
"Let's get a drink," Dad says.
There's still a mismatched seven pack of Busch and Old Milwaukee in the backseat of Johnny's car but we don't have the keys. We walk out to the gas station across the road from the parking lot. Dad wants Kessler's but they don't sell liquor.
"Let's go into town and get a pint," he says. "We ain't got nothing better to do."
It's at least a couple miles to downtown, but we head out into the dark down Shunk Road.
"Your Ma gets home in an hour," Dad tells me. "Gonna be pissed we're not there yet."
"Maybe the casino wasn't such a good idea," I tell him. "Johnny might be in there all night. What's that on your arm?" It's the first time I notice the blood on his sleeve. It looks purple on his faded red t-shirt.
"Must've happened when that fat fuck pushed me out the door. He's lucky I'm so drunk or I would've kicked his ass."
"We could give him some payback."
"I'm listening."
"When we get back to the casino parking lot, we'll stake out the place, figure out what car is his. Then we -"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from North Dixie Highway by Joseph D. Haske. Copyright © 2013 Joseph D. Haske. Excerpted by permission of Texas Review Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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What People are Saying About This
“Lyrical, passionate, unflinching, Joe Haske’s fiction grabs hold of you and shakes you to your core. He is one of the most exciting young American writers of his generation.” —Richard Burgin, editor, Boulevard and author, Shadow Traffic and The Identity Club