In the Mountains with Docker, Mormo, and Docker's Minions.

 Mormo braked next to a grove of scrub trees and bushes over which was thrown a green, nylon-cord mesh, covered with branches, under which a few dirty, battered vehicles sat.  Docker climbed out, carrying a black briefcase I hadn't seen before.  I followed--cool, piney-flavored air stinging my nose.  He strode way ahead of me down a long, narrow trail winding through towering firs to a distant earth-cabin, built partway into the base of a formidable mountain.  "Warm in winter, cool in summer," Docker told me later, "natural insulation."

I quickened my pace, caught up with him, and stopped in my tracks.  A bunch of people were sitting in front of the cabin porch on blankets on the ground, on decaying tree trunks and stumps: bearded men in camo, denim, and dark wool caps; women with long straggly hair, wearing faded, ripped jeans and sheep-lined denim jackets, and three or four children about Docker's kids' ages.  They all rose as one and hailed him as he approached.  He shook hands with some of the men, clapped others on the shoulders.  The women and kids hung back.  I had the feeling they'd been waiting for some time.

"I thought we were going to be alone," I said.

"Think again, kiddo, and cut the whining."  Docker took my hand.  A man complained, "When do we getta go in and hang with you, Doc?"  Mormo, lumbering behind us, without looking at the guy, sideswiped him with an arm the size of a prize ham, and making that peculiar growl again, said, "No one calls the Docker 'Doc'."   
       

Photo: Chris Huber, Journal staff. Used without permission.

The giant's watery sad eyes followed me everywhere.  We pushed through the waiting bodies and Docker shoved open the door.  He was drunk, had been drinking and popping pills the whole drive up.  Inside, the place was clean and bare.  No furniture except for a heavy rustic bar over on one side with a propane espresso machine bolted to the top of its thick, knotty-pine plank; a couple of crude wooden stools stood in front, an oak table and a few chairs across the room in the corner.  His kids dashed past us and climbed a wooden ladder up to the loft.  Still hours before sunset, yet so tired from the trip, they probably couldn't wait to sack out.  I wanted to follow them.

Carrying the briefcase, Docker went directly behind the bar, sighed deeply, and threw himself into a rough-hewn stool, built like an oversize high-chair, with arms and back, and set the case on the floor.  He fixed us espressos, adding a dollop of whiskey, and handed me mine, "When you operate this machine, be careful because this valve sticks."

"You mean I'm going to make espressos for all those people out there?"

"All I'm saying is watch it 'cause of this valve, that's all.  I ain't asking you to do shit."  I heard that weird growl again and soon learned that Mormo prefaced everything he said with it.

         "Gonna put the car in the compound."  The huge man ducked through the door and slammed it after him.  Docker leaned back and closed his eyes.

         "We are alone," he murmured under his breath.  "You're alone, I'm alone.  Each and every one of those dudes out there is alone.  We are all locked in our own private universe.  Don't forget it.  We are born alone and we die alone."  As he spoke he let out his breath slowly in one long sigh.  I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it.  His black lashes fanned out on ivory cheeks, full lips unnaturally red.  Moments passed in stillness.  I propped my elbows on the bar and looked at him good for the first time in ages, then stepped around the bar to touch him, make sure he was real.  A gust of mountain breeze blew in as a thin, weary-looking couple threw open the door.  A little red-headed boy, with a face like wintergreen paste, brushed past them and made for the loft.  I looked at Docker,
          "I don't think he's ready --"

          "It's okay.  Only these guys, that's all," Docker mumbled, eyes closed.  Mormo followed, closing the door on a mass of desperate faces.  He lumbered by and climbed the ladder to the loft.  It creaked under his weight.  The couple sat on the stools and propped their elbows on the bar.  I leaned on one end, close to Docker.  Later, he would take me up to the loft and show me where we'd sleep.

          The four of us sat at the bar and talked long into the night.  I should say, they talked.  For the most part, they ignored me; I didn't care.  I liked listening to Docker's voice -- soft, with a burr to it like sawing velvet.  The woman-a heavily moussed blonde in a beat-up leather bomber and creased jeans-kept throwing me dirty looks.  Her man's fingers, like larvae, hung limp in the crotch of his grimy, faded camos.  Her name was Linda; never got his, unless it was Pal or Babe.  He sneaked glances, and, rubbing his hairless chin, managed a wink.  I looked away fast.  The people outside were quiet, but their kids made a racket-screaming and laughing.  We drank.  Docker and the couple did drugs.  I did some coke; we passed around joints.  Hours later, despite the coke, I was beat, ready to crash.  I took my bag into the bathroom (no hot water), did the usual, brushed my teeth.  When I came out, the couple was gone.  Docker slumped in his chair with his feet up on the bar.  His glass slid from his hand and crashed to the floor.  I left him there and climbed up to the loft.  He'd crawl in beside me in the grey light of dawn and it would be like it was when we were together for those two exhilarating weeks before he disappeared for a year.

          A crescent moon shone through the free-form skylight revealing the couple lying naked, entwined in blankets on the mattress Docker and I were supposed to use.  His two kids were on the other one, their little boy snuggled between them.  I was startled to find Mormo squatting in a corner, dozing.  At the slightest sound, his eyes snapped open.  

.  He covered the kids when their blankets slipped from their thin shoulders.  I stepped over Linda and Pal (or Babe) to a closet and found some blankets.  They were clean.  I was impressed.

            Outside, I picked my way through sleeping bodies and found a clear level spot to spread my bedding and settled down to sleep.  I dozed off.  The sound of his name woke me.  I strained to hear what they were saying.

"I'd do it in a flash, man," someone said, "They found her dead.  They didn't do fuck about it 'cause a what she was.  So the Doc offed 'em."

"He done it to her.  She'd a done anything for him, y'know."

            "Darlene wasn't his type.  She got hooked 'swhat happened.  There wasn't anything she wouldn't do.  All the stuff he'd done with the Members back then, she went along.  It was all outta her league.  They started comin' for her to get to him."

            "What's he gonna do now?"

"She's dead.  She's dead.  Now, she's dead --  They'll come for him, now.  We gotta keep our eyes peeled."

"Up here?"  I heard sleeping bags rustling, like someone sitting up.  "This place is god-forsaken fuckin' nowhere, man."  A jet droned high overhead, its lights winking among satellites, space stations and flashing stars.  "Fuck!"  More rustling.

            "We just gotta stay cool, man.  Keep our eyes peeled."

            "Yeah, but yah know that new cunt he brung with him --"  Their voices trailed off.  I heard matches striking; flares burst in the darkness, dimming quickly in cupped hands; the smell of pot wafted on the cool night air, bottles clanked, sounds of tearing coughs.  Voices strained under breath held deep in the chest, making it even more difficult for me to hear.  A wind rose, carrying away their talk.

Dark thoughts kept me awake:  The new--I couldn't say it; did they mean me?  Would they, whoever "they" were--the Members?--come for me next?  But they said 'he did it.'  Who?  Docker?  Subdued conversations intruded into my dreams; reality merged with fantasy.  Someone spoke jokingly of bullying another into chopping the hand off a guy called Voltage.  In prison now, he wears a hook a friend made; he'd become fearless.

"The Doc's got somethin' man," another said, "Wished I had it.  He gets the babes."

            "Hell, he looks like a fruit," a voice responded.

            "Shut up, man.  He'll hear yah."  Guffaws floated with the sounds of soft pummeling, groans and chuckles.  Then another voice overrode the others, recounting how Docker'd shut him up in a dry well for just looking at Darlene.  Once.  "Couldn't remember how long 'cause I lost all track of time;" I heard him say.  He went on, " He'd lower food and water, and haul up my bucket of shit, y'know; well, probably not Doc himself." Others laughed.  For hours into the night the odor of stale beer, dirty bodies, and urine rose from the crowd.  Pot and tobacco smoke formed a haze, caught like a tattered scarf in the low hanging pine boughs.

Earlier, just after we'd arrived, Mormo and Docker had tromped through the crowd, warning, "No fires."  Now, as the temperature fell to near freezing, I tucked my blankets under my chin, made a hood, and pulled my knees up to my chest.  Huddled on the soft needles beneath the trees, I kept telling myself I'm getting material.  But these people--what they said.  I'm scared.  Docker ignores me.  It's like I'm not even here.  What does he want me for anyway?  I had to make him talk to me, ask him how I fit into to his plans.  My heart beat wildly at the thought of what he might do to these men--to me--if I told him what I'd heard.

I awoke awed by a scene of incredible splendor.  The sun had risen above the sheer, snow-covered granite peaks, their sides below the tree line thick with dark pines which, though it was late autumn, glowed with luminescent shades from bright chartreuse to a green so deep it shone like polished ebony.  The clear sky was an intense lapis-blue.  Everything seemed touched by the shimmering, translucent golden sun in the eerie stillness.  Then, blue jays squawked, thrushes sang, while a hawk drifted high in lazy spirals on lofty air currents.  I couldn't believe evil could live in all this beauty; I must have been dreaming. 
It wouldn't be the first time during my stay I'd have trouble separating dreams from reality.

Docker Takes Mist aka SallyHamilton into the Mountains: and What She discover . . .

     I settled into the back seat next to Docker in a low-slung four-door sedan about as old as me.

     "Awright, Mormo, move it," he barked to an enormous man behind the wheel, a man so huge he had to duck to see out the windshield.  Docker's two kids, about three and six, asleep, snuggled next to this giant.

      "Who told you where I was?" I said, slipping my arm through his.

      "That's not important.  We're together, now."  He pressed my arm to his side and kissed my cheek.

     "Where are we going?"

     "To the mountains, like I said."

     "In this?"  He didn't answer.  "Well, how long are we going to be away?  I--"

     "Baby, I'm telling you right now.  Cool it with the questions."  He looked straight ahead and put his arm around me. 

     "Where've you been?  What've you been doing?  I never heard a word--You never called, dropped me a line.  They wouldn't tell me anything at the bar."

           "Shouldn't've done that."  I couldn't see his face in the dark.  Couldn't tell if he was looking at me.  The tone of his voice warned me to keep mum about Darlene.

            "What were you doing?" I said.

            "Hnh?"

            "I asked you what you did while, you know, for the year--"
            "Was it a year?"

"More--a year, a month, two weeks, and three days.  We met in late August, last year.  I remember 'cause a couple of weeks after you left, we had to change from DST to PST--"

            "You lost me."

"Daylight Savings Time changes to Pacific Standard, you know, 'Spring forward, Fall back'?" 

"Ha, ha!" Docker guffawed, "Oh, that.  Sure, I know.  Who do you think I am?  DST to PST, PST to DST," he sing-songed, "You are really something else."

"You don't know anything about me.  But I intend to find out everything about you."

            "No.  No.  You won't find out anything.  There's nothing."

            "Don't you want to know what I did all last year?"

            "No, not really.  I don't give a shit.  I live in the Now, baby.  I'm a Now person.  There's no such thing as then, or even the next minute.  We could all be dead."

            "Docker!  That's morbid."

            "No.  It's the truth.  Someone could come along with an assault weapon and blow us all away."

            "You've seen too many movies."

"Never go to flicks.  Too phony.  Here!" he said, slapping the seat beside him, "Here's what's real."  He lifted his hand, "Right here's all I give a fuck about."

            "Stop it, Docker!  You're hurting me!"  I grabbed his wrist, "Get your big paw off my boob, you fucker!"  He pulled his hand away, laughing,

"Oh, God, babe.  I'm sorry."  He leaned over and kissed my breast.  I could feel the moist warmth of his breath through my sweater.  He raised it and kissed my bare skin and sucked my nipple.

"You know what I remember about you?  Remember I told you the first time we made love that the tip of your prick felt as soft and as smooth as a ripe apricot, my favorite fruit?"

"Get outta here!"

"Really.  The next day you brought me a whole basket.  You never told me where you got them so late in the season." 

"You never asked."  He caressed me, sucking.  I dug my fingers into his lush hair, exuding a fragrance of musky spice, and massaged his warm scalp.  He moved his hand between my thighs.  I found the belt buckle on his black twill pants.  Suddenly, he sat up, and with a sharp exhale, rolled down the window.  Mormo wiped the windshield with a crumpled bandanna hanky.     "We'll have plenty of time for fucking and messing around," Docker said, "and no one to bother us where we're going.  Now let's us try and catch some Zs."  I heard the clank of a bottle and saw his profile against the window as he upended a pint to his lips.  He passed it to me.  I took a couple of hits and handed it back.  One more swig and he pulled his leather flight-jacket around himself, drew me close, threw his head back and dropped off.  I tried closing my eyes, but every few minutes they'd pop open.

            Mormo drove on.  Whenever I caught his eye in the dim light of the rear view mirror, his thick upper lip curled.  The little boys, breathing softly, barely stirred.  I must have dozed.  Half-asleep, I heard Docker say, "Mormo, stop at the next place for another bottle."  In a low voice, thick with saliva, the big man emitted a low growl, then said, "Gas, Doc.  We need gas."  Still on the road at dawn, we stopped at a Gas 'N' Charge for fuel and a quick plug-in, took a pee break, and bought coffee, bagels, and orange juice.  The tow-headed kids sat quietly in the front seat eating and drinking their juice, as we barreled along.  They cuddled next to Mormo who, I now saw, wore a full beard and braided black hair in one thick plait down his back.  They never spoke.  I pulled my cell phone from my jacket on the seat beside me.

            "What the fuck're you doing?"  Docker snatched it out of my hand.

            "Calling work!  Give it back!"  He rolled down the window and tossed it out.  I couldn't have been more shocked if he'd punched me.

            "Man!  Why did you do that?  They'll wonder what happened."  My blood rose.

"They'll figure it out.  Nobody's indispensable.  You won't need it where we're going."  He gathered me to him, kissed and caressed me.  "Relax, baby.  You're with me.  Forget about work.  We're in the Now."  I went limp, closed my eyes.  The sensuous smell of his leather jacket made me dizzy.  I'll just take each moment as it comes, I told myself; que sera.

Jolted out of a deep sleep, but  not fully awake, my eyes still closed, I was hazily conscious of being carried along by the steadily humming engine on an interminable ride, bumping along a winding, narrow rutted road.  I cracked my lids enough to see stands of gigantic trees obliterating the late afternoon sun.  Limbs and shrubs scraped the top and sides of the car.