Mountaintop Removal

by cabledog

Posted to Stories on 2003-09-10 18:18:00

1

I’m on my way to visit the Faulty Pipelines Appalachian Theater Council- a group of misfit playwrights who’ve decided to attempt living outside the mainstream by starting their own coal mine in the foothills of West Virginia.

I’d like to say I’m sitting in the back of a rented Jeep provided by National Geographic, testing the light for my lenses, smoking a cigar, and running a hand through my sleek mane of dashing photojournalist hair- instead I’m bald, sitting in a bar, and trying to trade a pair of L.L. Bean moccasins in exchange for a ride to the mining camp 15 miles away. As 2 drunks compare tatoos I score a ride.

The hills have a certain softness at sunset, the mountains are like a tired man who’s relented to having a blanket placed over his shoulder. Eventually he’ll get cold and pull over the entire blanket. Beautiful, but since I’m riding on the back of Harry’s 4-wheeler and Harry’s attempting to pop wheelies and actually veering off the trail in search of logs and rocks to test his driving prowess, it’s hard to appreciate.

“Yeah I prefer 3 wheelers though, there’s a certain kind of handling you get,” Harry shouts back at me, bits of spit hitting my face as I lean closer to his shoulder. “Look at that sunset- it’s like the trees are forks stabbing an over-easy egg- I’m hungry.”

12 beers has brought out the poet in Harry. Stopped by a fork in the path, I stare at Harry’s titled head.

“EIEIEIEIEIEIEIYEYEYEYEYEIEIEIE” We’re surrounded by Indian scouts. 3 bare footed, half naked boys, with berry juice striping their faces are war whooping and waving sticks and bows.
“We’ve been ambushed, I can run ‘em down,” Harry says.

“Hand over the loot!” One of the boys taps a stick against his opposite palm like a prison guard or impatient schoolteacher.

“Toro Toro!” Harry yells, gunning the 4-wheeler toward a boy. I want to jump off, wondering if I could somehow be implicated as an accessory to child man-slaughter.

Boy stood his ground and realized he had become the matador facing a mechanized rampaging bull. He steps aside swiftly and soon all the boys have their chance to dodge and taunt.

“Grrrrr.” The 4-wheeler idles as the boys run at Harry’s side. “Thomas, Beckett, Jean-Paul- what are you noble braves doing out here?”

“Chores are finished- it’s Saturday,” the tall one says. The others glare at him as if he stated the obvious.
“Oh Ho, Saturday night in Indian country. Did you remind the mothers to lock up their daughters?”

“Harold is old.”
“Not so bold.”
“He eats toads,” the small one chimes.
“Be back before dark,” Harry says as we roar away. “Curious imps roaming the forest tonight- there’s magic in the air.”

It was like yelling into a vacuum as I questioned Harry.
“So you’re one of them?…”
“In the flesh.”
“And pretending to be a local yokel?…”
“Call it performance art.”
“The 12 beers?…”
“Call it method acting.”

Camp has the plain-spoken simplicity of a black & white photo; two rows of shanties, scattered toolsheds, worn dirt trails leading to 2 outhouses and a tool littered path heading over a hill and presumably to the mine.

Characters: Harry, Hans, Penny Lane.

Hans Christian is sitting on the concrete steps of a shanty, a rabbit in his lap.
“White rabbit, nice touch.”
“What’s up,” Hans says, focusing most of his attention on a space 3 feet above my head.
“I’m a reporter- not one of those creepy investigative journalist types- I’m more like a documentarian.” Because Hans doesn’t make eye contact I feel like I have to talk more.
“So this is like a 60’s commune kind of thing? You guys are disgruntled suburbanites trying to revive Socialism under the guise of drug-induced spirituality?”
“Sounds like someone has an ax to grind.”
“I need an angle. A soundbite. Like, we are not going to play the roles society has assigned us- our life is our craft, something something.”
“Its not like that, mannn.” He stresses the man, making it sound stoned and mocking.
“No gurus or hippies here. You’re welcome to stay, but any longer than 3 days and you have to start working.”
I’m going to explain that I already have a job- but decide to find Harry.
He’s cleaning out a wheelbarrow, soot up to his elbow.

“Harry, what’s up my man?”
“You can call me Harold.” He doesn’t look up.
“I prefer Harry, I wanna talk to Harry.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I get it- the characters are the only ones who can tell the truth. The real personality is actually an actor. Kind of a flip flop- I get it, it’s groovy.”

“There’s nothing to get.”
“This is The Faulty Pipelines Appalachian Theater Council, right- I haven’t stumbled into some kind of militia camp? Although it would be fine if you are- I mean, that’s a story too.”
“Yeah, the right place. But I’m not sure why you’re still looking.”
“Yeah, the Zen koan kind of thing- so it’s like a wisdom cult. Are you the leader- are you blessed with supernatural charisma? I could feel it, really.”
“No, we’re pretty much playwrights who run a mine- I wish I could give you more but-”
He’s grasping for words, but stops, focusing all attention on scouring a bolt that’s rapidly becoming silver.
“Maybe I could spend the night here…get a feel for the place?”

“Yeah, um, talk to Penny Lane- she should be by the chicken coops.”
Hands in pockets I start to turn. Over shoulder: “So is there a big dinner tonight and then a play afterwards?”
“No.” He looks up, smiling, shrugs his
shoulders, continues cleaning.

****

I’d like to say I’m sitting in non-conformist squalor, amidst naturally born babies, surrounded by Terrance McKenna essays, picking dirt out my “square” journalists flattop, arching an eyebrow at a frolicking swirl of tripping bare-breasted beauties- instead I’m knee deep in slag, admiring a patch of water growing on my shoulder as Penny Lane takes me on a tour of the mine. Last night I talked to her outside the chicken coops. We had a dinner of dry corn flakes, and I spent the night on the floor of her shanty, using burlap bags as blankets. We were next to each other, sharing body heat- at one point I tried to rub her shoulder.
“Free love?”
“Fuck off.”


2

“Agggggggggg–cough–gggggggggggggggggggg.”
“That’s a bit over the top, Janet.”
Doctor Retnus continues holding the photo in front of Janet’s face.
“1957. 7 harnessed dogs exposed to severe cigarette smoke for 9 days. Want to know what happened?”
“Yeah, just take your wallet elsewhere.”
Doctor Retnus closed his wallet, put it in front pocket of his lab coat.
“Deep down the dog’s were not addicted- greatest scam of the 20th Century, Janet, addiction. The dogs were simultaneously exposed to Faulty Pipelines and nicotine. Weak budget that year, remember? Faulty Pipelines is actually addictive, not cigarettes.”
“I’m confused, doctor.” Saying like girl friday in a black & white movie.
“Dope the dogs then read them the Faulty Pipelines Story. Mess ‘em up big time.”
“But wasn’t the story written in 2003?” She removed her stockings.
“It was written in ‘57 darling. See, now your falling for it. Come here.”
Doctor Retnus kissed Janet gently; he’d been practicing on envelopes. Lab coats fell to the floor and they stood as scantily clad silhouettes outlined against rows of automated information systems. She caressed his shoulder blades, kneading his bones.
“An addictive story–one where you have to keep reading it?” She unclasped his belt buckle and teased his earlobes with her tongue.
“Yes,” Doctor Retnus said. “Yes.”


Mine Exploration

“There really isn’t anything deeper going on here, huh?”
“Well, we might expand some of the shafts, maybe next year- depends on the weather, sometimes grounds too cold for digging.”
Because there’s nothing out of the ordinary here it’s not surprising to turn a corner and see rows of babies in leather harnesses strapped to a wall. Penny Lane explains the process of strengthening newborns resistance to Black Lung. A flock of canaries swarms by, flecks of gold disappearing into shadows.
What we have here, besides flagrant violations of child health and labor laws, is a group of simple playwrights operating a mine in the remote West Virginia wilderness. Penny Lane’s maternal endorsement of structures and systems, Hans Christian’s disaffected tone, Harold’s reluctance to find deeper meaning in his work-a-day rhythms- it’s startlingly normal here.

The cloning and child sacrifices have been going on for months, this according to 3 boys who may or may not be the Indians I saw my first day. The past 2 days kids have been appearing everywhere- this morning I walked out of Penny Lane’s shanty and 6 children were on the roof. I nearly tripped over 14 more on the way to the outhouse. There were 25 playing in a garden and 15 strapping on lanterns and knapsacks for a day of work in the mine.

****

I’m washing 2 ears of corn in a stream when 3 boys appear in an oak tree, like squirrels. They climb down and sit next to me.
“So, what’s it like here? Why are there so many kids- what happened to the adults?” Harold, Penny Lane, and Hans Christian: only adults I’ve seen.
“FFFFFEIFFE” The smallest boy making a noise and sticking out his tongue.
“There are no adults here,” the tallest one shouts.
“Of course, right, there’s some kind of Fountain of Youth in the mine, right? This is some kind of performance slash meditation on aging or intangibles- inevitability’s, right?”
“Adults have their drinks before dinner at 5, dinner at 6.”
I study the flowing water, rocks that spawn little rivulets, streams within a stream.
“Wait, I’ve got it. Hans Christian has the rabbit because you’re using them to study breeding, to perfect techniques- and the canaries in the mine- it’s a reverse–?–you believe the canaries are using you to test the world, for safety? It’s reverse thinking- putting animals before yourselves. Very eco-oriented, I’m getting it now.”
Walking back to camp all the children have become adults. 25 middle-aged men and women digging in the garden. 15 gaunt men and haggard women returning from a day in the mine. I have become a scientist studying fruit flies.

3

“…hot hot hot hot hot hot hot”
“the half phone the half phone the half phone”
“you want one side of the story–?–”
“getting with educated acts of physical fitness”
“excellent block structures, diving as a means of surveying”
“has anyone plotted the points of currents?”
“revisiting foreign depots, if only I could kiss the ocean
and you could intercept the tide-”
“some need it more than us, eh?…”



4

Epilogue

Within 3 years the theater council craze begins to catch on: The Granny Gear Rocky Mountains Senior Motorcross Guild, the Straight Ticket Wisconsin Conservative Assembly, the Pick a Deli New York Sandwich Juggling Troupe. Somewhere in this article I’ll toss a salmon reference, but now’s not the time.