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.