40 X 491

By A. M. Langston

40 x 491 tells a modern western tale of how life-long friends Donovan, Arthur, Beatrice, and Colt deal with the putrid reality of a small town left to rot in the middle of the American desert. They bear witness to and struggle with domestic violence, substance abuse, and people trying to take advantage of them around every corner, all while simply trying to get by.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. M. Langston
• Release date: Sep 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005044527

A. M. Langston

A. M. Langston is a restless millennial searching for meaning inside the wires and waves that make up the technology surrounding us during our every waking minute. Born in Illinois in 1988 and raised across the United States, he has called New Mexico home since 2004. "Couch to Couch, Never Leaving the House", Langston's first poetry collection, was published on June 21st, 2017.

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40 x 491

a novel

A. M. Langston

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 A. M. Langston

Cover illustration © 2018 A. M. Langston

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

www.amlangston.com

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition, 2019

Prologue

A century after the death of Wild Bill Hickok, the American Wild West continued to eat men alive. A darkness thrived there the rest of the world would never know. Inside that darkness, my hometown sat like a fat ass black hole that sucked in the unsuspecting. If you looked closely, you could see it emitting a feint green glow of hatred, sickness and death. It was a plague. In that town, people's vices were chosen by unseen forces, their problems stuck to them. Some of us bled oil and picked slivers of gold from beneath our fingernails like they prospectors and miners did in the old days. The less lucky among us inhaled, swallowed, and waded in the vile green uranium waste, storing it deep in our guts until it grew into cancer and ate us alive.

Those who wandered about unscathed by the radiation of nuclear waste spills would perspire the stench of whiskey. And for the boys, when our mothers put a plate on the table in front of everybody but them, it was time to leave. Daddy wasn't paying for their mutton anymore. That was the time most of us chose between the pipeline and the bottle. Not many of us chose the pipe. Our small, sun-burnt town had lost more people to the bottle than any outsider will ever understand. Before the day came for me to leave, I saw a lot of kids die. I didn't know all of them well, but I knew they weren't old enough to be forever gone.

When I was fourteen, I sat next to a girl in class who had been raped by her uncle and her brother. Her family took care of her little boy while she attended school. When I was fifteen, the first person I knew to commit suicide hung himself out behind the gymnasium. In every serious and sincere sense of the word, the west was still wild.

Donovan went to the same high school as I did. While my friends and I were running out of grocery stores with a bottle of whiskey in each hand, Donovan hid in his bedroom, writing. We would be out in a red canyon, dancing around a fire. Donovan would be painting. Around seventeen, the tiniest bit of sense got knocked into me. I started volunteering at the youth radio station hosted by our college campus. I found new friends who helped clean up my act. We still smoked pot and had a drink or two now and again, but we behaved well enough overall. That was around the time Donovan crawled out of his hole. He met us outside the station one night, asking if he could help. Being so close to graduating high school, the friendship that began that night was brief.

I didn't walk in the graduation ceremony with everyone else. I remember that, at the time, I didn't believe I'd actually made it out of school. When my older brother flew back across the country to start his last year of college, I went to the east coast with him. I left my job, my friends, and my girl. It almost felt like I'd abandoned them, but it was the right thing for me to do at the time.

Donovan got his diploma and went straight to college, majoring in journalism. He stayed in town to take advantage of the state lottery scholarship. His apartment was a yellow place at the center of town, atop a small hill and behind a handful of shops. Despite the free ride through school, he spent too much of his time socializing during his sophomore year. His grade point average dropped below the requirement. He lost the money.

To continue going to school, Donovan took out loans from a place called Cash Clown. It was the only business that would loan him enough money. They were notorious for stomping locals into poverty. There's a joke out there that I don't appreciate but helps the folks laugh at their own hopeless misfortune. Frybread doesn't grow on tumbleweeds. Donovan knew from the beginning that it wouldn't end well. Payments were to begin the day after his graduation ceremony.

At the time, I wanted to be a poet. I got a job at a small bookstore in Charleston, South Carolina. It was all thanks to an older lady who I assume thought I was cute. Donovan had a passion I didn't understand. It led him to work in a casino bar. Contrary to what the town's folk would say about pretty much every bartender in the area, his passion wasn't for being drunk. He, like many others in the small town, was one hell of a patriot. At first I thought it was mainly because of poverty, but I soon realized kids around us were joining the military left and right because they felt a sense of duty. When they had enough time during their leave, soldiers who used to be our high school buddies would come to the casino bar. They'd bring either a brother or a close friend, drinking themselves into a stupor. One of them would tear up about how much they missed the other. They'd fall off their stools while drawing in the air. They drew all kinds of things. Explosions that killed their peers. Flaming trucks they crept behind to return fire. Things that made their stories special, but also sad.

Donovan felt a connection with the men who had seen real war. He looked up to them. The moment one of his old high school friends stopped to ask the hostess for a table, Donovan could tell whether they'd taken fire. The shit most of them had been through was the reason he became a bartender. I always thought it was stupid, but he wanted to make his heroes the perfect cocktail. He believed in the power of the experience. It would be something the soldiers bragged about on their way to wherever they were shipped off to next.

Being older now, I'm jealous of that experience. The blue and yellow lights, late nights, cigarette smoke, cash being tossed around. If that casino, like all the others, hadn't driven its own community into the dirt, I would call that scene romantic.

I worked at that bookstore for almost eight years. Donovan only really worked at the casino for a little over a year after college. It wasn't enough time to count it at all in the long run. That was another thing that I was jealous of. The things that happened to get him to where he is today, I'm not jealous of. First, his income didn't cover his loan payment. It turned out that people in town didn't care much for those in the service industry. This was especially so because the bar he tended was inside the casino, a place where parents lost their family's entire life savings in only a few short, cigarette smoke filled hours. We wrote each other a few years after college. He told me the story of what happened to his best friends.

One

On the last day of high school, Colt and Donovan left class a few minutes into the second period. Colt's parents were out of town. There was a bottle of tequila at his house. They'd already been drinking Southern Comfort out of the soda cans they carried with them. When the breakfast burritos accompanying their drinks were gone, there was no reason to stay in class. It was a habit Colt had picked up two years earlier, during his second attempt at a junior year. He was two years older than Donovan. They pulled out of the parking lot in Colt's father's gold pickup. No guard was in the shack to stop them. None of the adults showed the least care the boys were leaving. Two classmates were across the street from the campus smoking. They waved at Colt and Donovan as the truck passed them. A dusty wind blew at the school from the fields surrounding it on all sides. It was a spring gust that seemed to circle the buildings non-stop. Swept up leaves and grit followed the gold truck back to town.

Five buildings stood where the dirt road to the school intersected with the main street. The group of motels and restaurants stood tall enough to block the wind in the area. Donovan thought about the time he almost choked to death at one of the restaurants.

Colt turned the truck left, towards his trailer park.

A mile down the road, they stopped to pick up

Johnson. The boys had been spending more time with him lately as one of their best friends, Arthur, Johnson's brother, older by four years, and one of Donovan's best friends, was away at the time. Every so often, their father, Dickie, would send one of the brothers off to live with family in another state, spending a semester another school. It was a punishment for neither of the boys being the son Dickie wanted.

Johnson climbed into the back of the truck. As they got closer to Colt's house, he slowed pulled off to the side of the road.

Don, we should hit one of those junk stores. We should grab a few golf clubs.

Golf clubs? Donovan asked.

Yeah, dude. My dad's got a ton of balls. We could hit them all morning.

Fuck, sounds alright. Let's do it.

Hey, Johnson, Colt said, sliding open the window above the truck's bed. We're gonna hit one of those junk stores to grab some golf clubs.

Whatever, man. I'm down.

Colt pulled the truck back onto the road, heading in the opposite direction. He and Donovan lit cigarettes. Donovan turned the radio to the country station.

The worn golf clubs cost them a few dollars each. Colt picked out a replica revolver for himself. Donovan bought a flask. The two exited the store to find Johnson doing jumping-jacks in the truck bed, smoking a cigarette.

Store's a fuckin' junkyard, huh? Johnson asked.

Dude, it's packed to the fuckin' ceiling with trash. I don't know who even comes here, Donovan said. Stuck up fuckers. We do, Colt replied, getting into the truck. Sit down, fucker! he shouted back at Johnson, who was still doing jumping jacks.

That kid is on something, Colt said quietly to Donovan.

I can tell.

The three boys pulled up to Colt's trailer in a few minutes. They each took a shot of tequila in the kitchen. A few buckets of golf balls sat in the dirt out back. Colt dropped a few on the ground. He hit them into a sheet strung up against a chicken wire fence. Donovan and Johnson followed suit. The neighbor's dog barked at them for making so much noise.

Shut up, you dick, Donovan said.

He started walking towards the bucket to pick up another handful of balls. Colt hit one of the balls he'd dropped on the ground towards Donovan, trying to startle him. It struck Donovan's thumb, instead.

Fuck! Donovan shouted, dropping his club. He grabbed his hand to make sure his thumb wasn't broken.

"Shit, dude. Just trying to keep you on your toes.

Sorry man," Colt said.

That hurt, said Johnson.

Come inside, Don. We'll make sure you're not hurt bad, said Colt.

Oh, thanks man, Donovan said, sarcastically. The three boys went into the trailer. They each took another shot of tequila. After taking his, Colt poured another for Donovan.

I think I'm going to throw up, Donovan said.

Nah, it's just the pain. You'll be okay, fucker, Colt said, trying to comfort him. Here, take one of these.

Colt went into the bathroom. He came out with a small orange bottle of Percocet.

You know what, have two. My bad, man. Colt said.

Donovan took the two pills. He leaned against the edge of the counter to relax. Colt put a handful of ice cubes into a small rag. Donovan put the ice against his hand. Johnson and Colt went back outside to continue hitting golf balls. A few minutes later, Donovan came outside.

Hey, dude. Can you take me to the parts store? he asked.

What kind of parts? Colt replied.

Car parts. I need some stuff for my jeep, Donovan clarified.

Sure, buddy. Johnson, let's head out. Man, I think I'm gonna go back to school, Johnson said.

Why? Colt asked.

Fuck it, Colt, Donovan said. He's no Arthur, anyway.

Oh, fuck off, Donny, Johnson said, tossing his golf club to the ground.

Whatevs, dude. Later, Colt said, shaking Johnson's hand.

Donovan waved and Johnson walked around the corner of the trailer, then off down the street. Colt and Donovan hopped back into the truck. A few minutes later, Donovan had everything he wanted to get from the auto parts store. He walked up to the cash register with sunglasses and a pack of air fresheners. Colt walked up behind him, slapping Donovan on the back.

That's what you needed? Coconut trees? Colt asked.

Yeah, dude. There's nothing wrong with your car smelling good, Donovan laughed.

Donovan paid and turned around to leave. With his second step towards the exit, he knocked over a display of buckets, paper towels, and oil. Colt scolded him, laughing, then helped him pick up what had fallen. He tried to help Donovan pick up some of the supplies to stack them up in the display again but noticed that Donovan was barely able to stand up straight. The clerk walked around the counter toward the display. Donovan's shirt tore a bit as Colt tugged it, leading his friend out the door, into the parking lot. They got back in the truck and started back towards the high school. Donovan put on his sunglasses. He opened the pack of air fresheners and hung one on the rear-view mirror.

Should be about lunch now. At least the day's almost over, Colt said.

Shit, I don't fuckin' care, man, Donovan said. These are neat shades. All the glass is color changing.

Retard. They're polarized, Colt chuckled. Colt pulled the truck into an empty parking space next to Beatrice's car. She was sitting in her open trunk with a few friends, smoking pot.

Hey, guys, she greeted.

Howdy, Bea, Colt said.

Donovan got out of the truck slowly. He stumbled over to Beatrice and her friends. Colt let Donovan lean against him so he wouldn't fall over.

Drunk? Beatrice asked.

Percocet. I hit him with a golf ball, Colt explained.

Donovan held up his hand, then stumbled over to the back seat of Beatrice's car. He climbed in and laid across the seats. It took him a few seconds to realize he'd laid his head onto the lap of a girl who was sitting on the opposite side of the car.

Oh, hey, he said.

Hey, Don, she replied. You excited about graduation?

Yeah. Not right now, I mean. I will be later today.

Why not right now?

Drugs.

Oh, nice, the girl said. You got a job lined up for summer?

Nah, I'm getting the lottery scholarship. I'm gonna free-ball it for the summer since I don't have to pay for classes.

Must be nice, she said.

I like it.

You like what?

Oh, I guess life, Donovan said.

A bell rang and the group went back into the school building. Donovan's pain pills and alcohol hadn't worn off, yet, so he stayed outside in the back seat of Beatrice's car. Before falling asleep, he opened another one of the air fresheners. He tossed the yellow palm tree beneath the passenger seat. You're welcome, he said to himself, closing his eyes.

When school let out, I left with my classmate James to meet our mutual friend, Juan. James was smarter than I was. Juan wasn't smarter than anyone, but he was good at breaking the law. Our plan was to find liquor. There was going to be a party after the ceremony. The three of us were going to meet at our friend Raina's house. Her parents were also out of town. Most of our friends, along with their friends, were going to be there.

James and I had been in a car accident a month earlier. We'd left school early and a woman in an over-sized brown pickup truck totaled his little gray sedan. His brakes quit working right before a left turn, so she hit my side of the car. I thought my arm broke in the accident, but I never found out for sure.

I was driving this time. My car was old, but I was confident its brakes were not going to fail. We met Juan outside of James' house. He was with his friend Charles, whom everyone called Woody.

A week earlier, Juan, Woody, and I stole the flags on the golf course behind my house. Juan and I threw them into the backyard of a doctor's house across the street. Woody disappeared for two hours, not answering his phone. He walked upon us as we smoked cheap cigars on my back fence, bordering the course. I could see his teeth in the dark. They shined through a massive grin. The next Monday, Juan and I saw a report of our deed in the local paper. Someone stole the flags from the golf course and took a crap in four of the holes. We laughed about it, but I knew after that