by Crash Barry

The Road to Hell Is Paved

“Everyone thinks I ran cocaine,” said Wilbur the Alpaca Farmer. “Never did. Not once.” He nodded and sniffled. “Snorted a mountain of blow, but never really sold any.” He laughed. “Just smuggled pot. Tons of it. Hundreds of tons, actually.”

We were driving north to Eastport and the van was loaded with bags of alpaca feed. Wilbur’s boasts about running weed seemed to confirm rumors I’d heard that his fortune was built upon cash he made drug-running. All the while, he was buying real estate, turning himself into a legit businessman — at least in the eyes of those who didn’t know him from the old days.

He had told me his latest venture, the alpaca farm, was just a short-term tax shelter, a good way to spend lots of tax-deductible money — improving his 40-acre saltwater farm, transforming it into a sprawling compound of small buildings and secret hiding places.

“Tractor trailer-truck loads of ganja,” he continued. “From Mexico, mostly. But we got pot from all over the Caribbean. Jamaica. Dominican Republic. Haiti. Smuggled in planes. Boats. Burros.” He sighed and smiled. “We used everything but submarines.”

We were halfway home. As a favor to Wilbur, I had delivered two alpacas and a llama to a faux farm in Falmouth. He was driving us back Down East. I was hoping Wilbur was gonna hire me to work on his farm, because the Mad Scientist needed help and I needed cash. Desperately.  My sweet wife and I were broke and in debt due to the failure of our short-lived Eastport art gallery. Autumn was fast approaching, and I was ruled by worry. Surviving another hardscrabble winter in Maine’s poorest county was gonna be tough. And getting a gig with Wilbur, who I’d known socially for a couple years, would eliminate lots of anxiety.

“In Haiti, we ran over some poor son-of-a-bitch. Killed him,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I always wanted to know why the fuck he was walking in the middle of the road in the middle of the night. The cops made us pay $275 to the dead nigger’s family.” He snorted. “They based the fine on the nigger’s projected lifetime earnings. Imagine that!” He laughed maniacally. “Only 275 bucks. We were glad to pay, too, considering all the drugs we had in the van.”

I grunted. Speechless. He knew I’d spent a lot of time in Haiti when I was a young man in the Coast Guard. He knew my distrust for the American government grew from my experiences witnessing how poorly we treated our Caribbean neighbors. And, most ludicrously, he knew I was a writer.

“Those were some crazy times,” he said. “Nutty things happened constantly.”

He went on and on. I stopped listening. I focused on keeping my trap shut. I’ve never been a yes man. But here, in the grip of the fear of a fourth consecutive Eastport winter, Wilbur seemed to be my only hope.

“So,” he said, “enough of the old stories. The Mad Scientist could really use a hand getting some projects done. Removing sod from the side pasture. Getting a water line to the lower barn. Gonna have to jackhammer through ledge. At least a month’s work. Maybe more.” He smiled. “Ten bucks an hour. Cash.”

“Sure,” I answered without hesitation. Without thinking. Without considering what it would really mean to work for Wilbur. “Great.”

“Awesome,” he said. “Things are gonna start coming together. I can see it. In my brain, I see it!”

“I’m really looking forward to working on the farm,” I said, suddenly feeling very slimy. “When do I start?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, pulling out his cell phone and pressing a button. “Did I tell you about my new woman? Man, she’s something special. Not like the other girls. All the rest of them are just holes and heartbeats. Not her, though. Special.” He paused. “Hello, beautiful!” he said into the phone. “Whatcha doing?”

I leaned my head against the window and stared at the trees passing by. Relieved to have work, but still worried. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling that I’d just sold myself cheap to a rich man.

If I had only known the future. That I’d quickly become complicit in Wilbur’s world of deceit and deception. That I’d witness family dysfunction and dishonesty at their highest levels. And that I’d willingly turn into an asshole, a thug, a heavy, and an alpaca breeder.

All in the name of money. And not much money, either.

Crash Barry’s new memoir is Tough Island: True Stories From Matinicus, Maine. He appears at the Bangor Book Festival on Sept. 30 and Oct. 1.