The Same River Twice by Chris Offutt Page A

introduction.
    â€œMy name’s Chris.”
    â€œWi’er.”
    â€œLike winter and summer?”
    â€œLike loser.”
    A fence flowed by the window, tracking my attention. I should have kept the spider. A few miles later Winner cursed and spoke.
    â€œAwake two days straight since getting laid.”
    â€œMmmm.”
    â€œIn the backyard on a picnic table. Preacher’s daughter.” Winner laughed, a chain saw hitting an embedded spike. “Had to strap a two-by-four across my back to keep from falling in. She worked my kickstand all night long.”
    Winner had left at dawn with a half-gram of crystal Methedrine that was beginning to wear off after thirty-eight hours.
    â€œWhat’re we hauling?” I said.
    â€œMy scooter. Going home to take care of Mama. Scooter took a fall same day she broke her hip. Have to leave this truck outside of town and ride in. Won’t look right me coming home in a truck. Got to be on my scooter.”
    â€œSure, Winner. Just like I got to be on my thumb.”
    His grin exposed battered teeth. “Ya fucking A!” he screamed, and backhanded me across the chest.
    As I struggled to breathe, Winner withdrew a revolver from under the seat and fired out the window. The sound roared against my ears. He winked at me, kissed the shiny wooden grip, and tucked the gun away. The truck cab stank of cordite. Sweat trickled down my sides and I took long, careful breaths. The pistol shot had ignited the final flecks of speed twitching through his body. An extended monologue ensued, difficult to follow at times, littered with laughter and an occasional backhand to my chest. When I saw one coming, I exhaled ahead of impact.
    For the past six years Winner had been “in the field” packing grease-soaked weapons in aluminum boxes. Some caches were in caves, others down a well, or simply buried. All over the nation, guns and ammunition lay snuggled in the earth awaiting World War III. Winner was one of many soldiers laying siege to an awful future. He reported the sites to his superiors twice a year, once in Ohio and again in a bayou town of Louisiana.
    â€œWe got gasoline and water, food and weapons,” he said. “They don’t fuck with a machine gun!”
    â€œWho, Winner?”
    â€œThe commie pricks and mutants, that’s who! If you got food and water, everybody will want it. The mutants first because the commie pricks will be a while getting here. They got to wait for things to settle down. It’ll be messy the first couple of years.”
    â€œBut not you.”
    â€œYa fucking A! I’m a patriot. I’ll have my gas mask and M-16. On the lookout.”
    â€œFor commies?”
    â€œFor women!” he roared, belting my chest.
    Winner launched into an anticommunist diatribe that encircled the globe. Every country was in cahoots against us. They wanted our money, our women, and our motorcycles. Any day we’d be maced by a few hundred rockets, a flock of lethal birds flying west for a long winter. Only scooter shops and girls’ schools would be spared.
    â€œThey’re smarter than us, the fucks. The enemy always is. You got to think that way, see. They’ll nail us first, and only one place will be safe.”
    â€œKentucky?”
    â€œShit no! They’ll crack Fort Knox like busting a rubber. The only state that won’t be full of fallout is Idaho. Experts figured it out. And Idaho,” he dropped his voice to a ragged whisper. “Idaho is the mother-hole. We got guys there all the time. A city underground.”
    â€œJust getting ready?”
    â€œYa fucking A! You wanna be a mutant with half a face and green hair. Your kids born blind with no pecker. Living like pigs. It won’t be me!” Winner caressed the knife at his hip. “See this blade, brother. It’s a hollow handle. Inside I got me a couple of Liberation Pills for radiation. If I’m shit creek, all I gotta