Isolation and Other Stories 9781935790266, 9781888570489

Citation preview

Isolation and other stories

robert Greer

The Davies Group, PUblishers Aurora, Colorado

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USA

Isolation and Other Stories

The PenMark Press

an imprint of

The Davies Group, Publishers P M PO Box 440140 Aurora CO 80044-0140

Copyright © 2002 Robert Greer All rights reserved. No part of this publication, including but not exclusive to, the text, the illustrations and the design art, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the express written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Greer, Robert, 1944Isolation, and other stories / Robert Greer. p. cm. ISBN 1-888570-48-2 (pbk. : alk paper) 1. United States--Social life and customs--20th century--Fiction. I. Title. PS3607.R47 I8 2001 813’.6--dc21 2001028684 Lyrics to “Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight” © 1953 Arc Music Corporation. All Rights Reserved. Used By Permission. International Copyright Secured. Design: The Davies Group Illustrator: Jeff Hall III Printed in the United States of America

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234567890 January, 2003

Dedication For Leslie Epstein, who taught me more about short story writing in a year than I could have learned elsewhere in a lifetime.

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Acknowledgments Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following publications and publishers in which some of these stories initially appeared: South Dakota Review, Metrosphere, Black American Literature Forum, Crazyquilt Quarterly, Writers’ Forum, New Mexico Humanities Review, Agni, and Warner Books, Inc. In all occurrences

and on all occasions the support of my writing has been important beyond expression. I would like to thank Kathleen Hoernig for judiciously typing the manuscript of Isolation and Other Stories. The extraordinary effort expended by James Keith and Elizabeth B. Davies of The Davies Group is appreciated. The keen eye and second looks given the stories included in this collection, by Elizabeth Davies in particular, helped make each individual story a truly unique part of the greater whole. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then the exquisite illlustrations by Jeff Hall that accompany this volume add a worth beyond measure.

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Contents Foreword .................................................................... ix The Ride .......................................................................... 1 Backup .......................................................................... 25 Spoon ............................................................................ 45 prime .............................................................................. 83 The Can Men ............................................................. 93 One-on-one ............................................................. 113 Isolation ................................................................... 125 Grief .............................................................................. 137 Red-Nickel Rhythms ........................................... 145 Choosing sides ....................................................... 159 The Real Thing ...................................................... 169 Revision ...................................................................... 181 End Notes ........................................................... 195

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Foreword The stories collected here are stories of family and friction, race and gender, friendship and fear, discovery and despair. These stories — set against the vast diversity of America’s big cities and small towns, and mountains and plains — are intended to shape their characters ranging from homeless people to ticket scalpers, from cowboys to youthful voyeurs on the run, from mentors and teachers to searchers and loners. Isolation is about men and women, both young and old, looking for their identities and seeking direction. Above all, these stories are about the human spirit, soaring or desperately trying to land. Included in these pages are tales of daily life, stories of love, faith, desire, disappointment, humor and luck. The characters who live within the pages of this book struggle to find meaning in their disparate, sometimes stark, and always complicated lives. Faced with the necessity of choosing, or having made a choice, they find themselves, sometimes supported by friends and sometimes alone, at one of life’s decision-making junctions.

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The Ride

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The Ride

THE RIDE

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HE

DESOTO WAS A JUNKER — a candidate for cinder

blocks. It appeared at Raymond’s Garage on one of those sultry, east Texas dog-days of August 1962. The next day Monroe was washing it in one of the repair bays and referring to it as his Ride. A week passed before I realized that it didn’t have an engine. When Monroe caught me peeking under the hood, he nearly took my head off. “Darryl, what you lookin’ for? You lose a motor?” “No, Monroe. Just checkin’ out your Ride.” “Well, check from outside on the service island. You’re here to pump gas, not mechanic. Why Raymond hires you college boys for the summer beats hell outta me. Shit, don’t one’a you know fat meat’s greasy. You spend all summer learnin’ to break down a tire and do a oil change, then it’s 3

Isolation and Other Stories

September and you split. Just throwin’ money away if you ask me. But it ain’t my garage. Ain’t Raymond’s neither. The Man owns this place, like everything else. Raymond’s just rentin’. What you still standin’ there for, Darryl? Get your ass in gear and hit that ramp. You got three cars waitin’.” I glanced back at the motorless DeSoto. Monroe slammed down the hood, gave me one of his don’t-screw-with-it-again looks and then disappeared into the garage. Old man Wilford was waiting for me by the pumps, impatient as usual, chewing on one of his cigars. “Fill her up, Youngblood, high-test, only the best. And check the tires, thirty-two pound, all around. Even ’em up for me. I have to drive over to Beaumont tomorrow, and I don’t want the front end pullin’ to one side. And, check that battery while you’re at it.” He flipped me his keys. Wilford kept the hood of his New Yorker chained shut with what he claimed was the most secure padlock money could buy. He also had a burglar alarm under the hood. The chaining had started after one of the neighborhood thugs tried to steal his battery. Wilford had caught him in the act and held him captive by holding a crowbar to his head until the police arrived. Monroe always said one day Wilford’s stupidity was going to catch up with him. Wilford showed up at precisely 10 a.m. every day. His routine was always the same. He’d leave his car on the drive, where it blocked everyone else’s, and head into the garage. First stop was the Coke machine, where he’d look for an audience and offer up his standard complaints: one, that the sodas were too warm, and two, that for a quarter Raymond 4

The Ride

should’ve been stocking the machine with twelve-ounce rather than ten-ounce cans. His grumbling usually ignited some form of banter from the chorus of freeloaders who always seemed to be hanging out at Raymond’s. Some of them were there to gamble and play the numbers; others were dodging their wives. Most were there just shooting the breeze. They’d do a fair amount of drinking, but for the most part Raymond kept that under control. He didn’t seem to mind their loitering, since they accounted for a large measure of his business. But, if he caught them cursing in front of a female customer, or if one of their poker games turned sour and ended up in a fight, he’d send them all packing. When I went back into the garage to return his keys, Wilford was bragging about winning a bet from some white man he worked with. “It was a real sucker bet. The dumb redneck went for it. I took him for a easy hundred,” laughed Wilford as I handed him the keys. “I checked out everything you asked me to, and I took a look at your front suspension and fluid levels too. When I rocked the front end there was a little bit of rebound and play. You may need shocks. You were just over a pint low on transmission fluid, so I added some.” “Did you wash it, too, and wrap it in a bow?” asked Monroe from over in the third repair bay, where he was working on a car. “Leave the youngblood alone, Monroe. Least he knows a car when he sees one. That’s more’n I can say for you. Ever seen Monroe’s Ride, Youngblood? Saw him comin’, didn’t they?

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Damn thing doesn’t have a engine. Half the body’s plastic, the other half’s rust. You’d think Monroe would have more sense, bein’ a mechanic and all. Maybe his brain only works part time, like that spastic leg of his. Whadda you think?”

I’d learned the hard way not to respond to Wilford’s comments. He had a way of twisting your words. When he repeated them, they always came out just a little different from the way they left your mouth. There was no point in giving Monroe a reason to have me clean the diesel stalls and grease-pits for two straight weekends, so I ignored Wilford and headed for the front office. A narrow, ten-foot-long corridor connected the garage and office. The ceiling had one rusty light fixture with a bulb coated by insects and dust. The office was a cramped, grimy cell. A cash register, with years of greasy fingerprints, sat on a rickety plywood counter lining one side of the room. You had to squeeze between the wall and counter to operate the register, and each time you did, regardless of how careful the approach, you invariably touched the wall, and your shirt absorbed a new spot of grease from the film of oil that seemed to cover everything. A pinup calendar was nailed to the wall behind the cash register, and although it was August, the calendar still displayed an abundant Miss June. I was making change for two neighborhood kids when Monroe came in from the garage. “Finish with those kids and come out back and give me a hand with some parts for my Ride.”

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“Sure thing. Maybe I can help you rebuild it. I’ve been boning up on the internal combustion and readin’ Mechanics Digest. Intake, combustion, power, exhaust, that’s what it’s all about. Right, Monroe?” “What the fuck? Just come on, would ya?” Wilford was still regaling his audience as we walked back through the garage. He started laying it on heavy the instant he caught sight of Monroe. “All the parts in the world won’t help that wreck of yours, Monroe. That’s a no-tit cow you got. Ain’t no use milkin’ her.” Monroe ignored him and just kept walking, straight through the garage and out the back where hundreds of car parts were sitting in the alley behind the garage. Some, like the windshield, were new, but most were retreads — parts salvaged from other junkers. Monroe had gathered the entire infrastructure of a car, down to a brand new cigarette lighter. “Lookin’ won’t move ’em, Darryl. It’s gonna take some muscle. You a college boy. Figure it out. I want ’em all in the first bay next to my Ride. And, be real gentle. Handle ‘em like one of those sweet young things that comes in here lookin’ for you ’round quittin’ time.” I studied Monroe carefully as we traveled back and forth, lugging parts to the bay. He had a gimpy leg that made him list to the right when he walked, causing the opposite hip to always appear elevated. Wilford and some of the garage do-nothings called him ‘High Butt.’ But as we moved the parts, I noticed how good Monroe was at compensating for gravity and using his bad leg as a wedge. He could look at a part, calculate his

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mechanical advantage, lift a hundred-pound load, and make it look easy. After six trips his parts were stacked in organized piles. Mine were scattered all over the bay, my undershirt was pasted to me, and my lungs were aching for air. Monroe hadn’t broken a sweat. “Let’s take a break,” I said, breathless. “Not yet. The engine block’s comin’ this evenin’. We need all the parts laid out before. Just keep humpin’, Darryl. It’ll do you good.” On our last trip we moved the transmission and four sets of springs, all precisely balanced on a mechanic’s creeper. Only Monroe’s ingenuity had enabled us to move them at all. When we’d finished Monroe surveyed our handiwork, smiled, and opened the Coke machine using a key only he possessed. “Want a beer?” he asked, pulling out two Buds from the bottom shelf. “Sure.” I took two huge swallows and frowned at the bitterness, knowing that what I really wanted was an ice-cold Coke. We sat there breathing hard for a while, not saying a word until Monroe finished his beer and I broke the silence. “If you don’t mind my askin’, Monroe, why didn’t you just buy a car?” Monroe’s disappointment at my question was clear as he shook his head from side to side. “Ain’t you got no street sense?” “Well, uh, I think...” “Well, my ass. And don’t think! Just listen for a change. You never buy nothin’ when you can bargain for it, and you

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The Ride

never bargain when you can scrounge. Summ’a these parts were owed t’me, like the tranny, for instance. The evenin’ man over at B and K Auto pulled it off one of their junkers on account of me steerin’ all Raymond’s parts business their way. All the electrical come from Ben’s Electrical Supply. Some sucker ordered ‘em but never picked ‘em up. I waited for six months until Teressa, that firm-butt little bookkeeper’a theirs — who loves her some Monroe — said the stuff was ‘off their books.’ Returned, but not returned, if you know what I mean. Then, she sent it all my way. The rest, ’cept for the engine, Willie B. and Sweet Roy got for me by way of Midnight Parts and Autobody.” “How about the engine?” “I bought that cash, mainly ’cause’a the serial-number thing. The Man always keeps track of engines, taxes, and his women. Some things you just have to buy. But I got the whole package now, and come Labor Day, we’ll be cruisin’. Just in time to send you back to that white college. Hell, you’ll have plenty t’talk about up in Dallas. You can tell ‘em how you watched your homeboys rebuild a car. I’ll even let you study the whole thing, start to finish. Just don’t touch nothin’, unless I tell you to, and keep an eye on Sweet Roy for me. I don’t want his drinkin’ to spoil this job. If you see him drinkin’, you tell me. And, one last thing: keep Wilford outta my hair. The next four weeks I don’t want to catch one whiff’a that ole man’s cigar.” “I’m your man, Monroe,” I said, thrilled that I would be part of the team. 9

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Willie B. and Sweet Roy showed up about 7 p.m. with Monroe’s engine stuffed in the trunk of a yellow cab. Sweet Roy’s brother-in-law, Otis, drove for the company and they had talked him into letting them use his cab for the evening. The engine was strapped in with three or four belts, several sets of nylons tied together, and a ten-foot extension cord. The cab’s rear bumper was only about eight inches off the ground and the weight of the motor had almost flattened the tires. “You sprung Otis’s trunk, Willie B. He’s gonna have your ass,” said Sweet Roy. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. Darryl, get me a hammer.” “Fix the damn trunk later,” shouted Monroe from across the repair bay. “Darryl, give them a hand unloadin’ that motor and move that winch over here.” Unloading the engine was easy, since we had access to a winch as well as Willie B. He was six-foot-five, with an enormous head, no neck, and shoulders that made it look like he was always wearing football pads. Twice I had seen him lift the back of a pickup truck a foot off the ground. Monroe claimed to have seen him do a one-armed clean-and-jerk on the Coke machine just to get a quarter that had rolled underneath. Sweet Roy had been a pimp until his drinking got to the point that he couldn’t take care of himself, or his ladies. Now he lived up three dark flights of stairs above the Dixie Dairy and survived on a part-time job hosing down the dairy’s milk tankers. He was also a journeyman electrician, but no one would hire him because his drinking had made him mistake-prone and undependable. The name Sweet Roy, short for James Roy

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The Ride

Williams Jensen, had been acquired because of his good looks and persuasive ways with women. Monroe called him ‘the snake charmer’ and claimed that he would never kick his drinking habit until he got deep-down-inside-comfortable with himself. For some people the penalty for being born pretty was worse than the penalty for being born black, according to Monroe. Monroe handed each of us a sheet of paper from the legal pad he had been writing on while we were moving the engine. “That piece of paper spells out your job. Everybody has to do theirs just right for this thing to work.” “Why’d Darryl get one? He ain’t in on The Ride.” “Darryl gets one so he knows his job, Sweet Roy. And part of his job is keepin’ you sober.” “I don’t need nobody to keep me sober, ‘specially some college kid. I’m on the wagon anyway.” “You want your fifty bucks back, fine. Come September, Willie B. and I’ll do all the cruisin’. And when we see you footin’ it down the street, we’ll hail you a cab. Now, you in or out? Make up your mind. We ain’t got all night.” “OK, I’m still in as long as Darryl ain’t got a piece of The Ride. And so long as he stays out of my way when I’m working. Only thing he does is watch.” “You hear that, Darryl? You get to observe the master e-lec-trician at work,” Monroe said with a smirk. Then, eyeing me intently, he added, “Like I said, your job is watchin’ Sweet Roy. “Here’s our schedule. We rebuild this sucker in three weeks, got it?” We all nodded. “I’ll do the motor, startin’ with

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regrindin’ the valves. While I’m doin’ that, Sweet Roy and Willie B. finish out the suspension. By the end of the week we should be able to drop the motor in without it falling through to the floor. That is, if Willie B. don’t screw up the motor mounts and struts. If you have any questions, Willie B., ask Darryl. He knows all about physics and how to distribute weight,” said Monroe, glancing in my direction and smiling. “Okay,” said Willie B. “Okay? Is that the only word you know, you dumb-ass Bama? Bring your problems to me! Darryl don’t know nothin’, ’cept what I tell him — just like you. Monroe took a deep breath. “The second week we work on the fuel and exhaust systems. I’ll do the carburetor, the fuel pump, and all the fuel-line splices. Willie B., you and Sweet Roy take care’a the muffler, pipes, gas tank, and manifold hookups. Darryl, you make sure there ain’t no gas in that tank before they strap it on the underbelly. I got a little spot-weldin’ to do on the body before we finish, and I don’t wanna end up scattered all over the garage. “The last week we do the electrical,” said Monroe, looking directly at Sweet Roy. “Most of the wirin’s routine, but this Ride’s got rich man’s conveniences that’ll take us a little extra time. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s full power.” He patted the DeSoto’s hood. “The windows, seats, even the door locks are power, so don’t rush your wirin’, Sweet Roy. She’s a lady, not one of your streetwalkers, and you gotta take time with a lady. “Remember, Darryl, I don’t want to even imagine I smell a cigar the whole three weeks. So, keep Wilford outta here. We’ll meet here every night, 7 p.m. sharp.”

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The Ride

“I can take care of Wilford. He’s light action. Will I get a chance to work on The Ride?“ “Seven p.m., sharp,” repeated Monroe, ignoring my question. The first week went without a hitch, and so did the first three days of the second. It was about 8:30 Thursday night when I smelled the cigar. I looked up from helping Willie B. bolt on the muffler, and there was Wilford standing just behind the lift, tapping his ashes on the floor. “You boys’uv been real low profile around here, Monroe. Like you don’t want me t’know what you’re up to. But I got ears.” He strolled around the car, giving it the once-over, while I tried to figure out how he had gotten in. “Not bad for amateurs. But it’s still a junker,” said Wilford. Monroe shot me a full-faced scowl. “Don’t stare down the youngblood, Monroe. I come in with Raymond. The youngblood’s been doin’ his job. Tell you what, Monroe. I wager that when you’re done, this heap won’t ever make it ‘round the block.” Glancing at Willie B. and Sweet Roy, he added, “You and these two losers’ll never get it to budge.” Willie B. took a step toward the old man. I grabbed the back of his belt, knowing that if he really intended to go after Wilford, no amount of belt holding was going to matter. I let go of Willie B.’s belt when Monroe stepped in and said, “You got money to stand behind your mouth, old man?” “I’ll do better than that for stakes. You get this thing to run, and I’ll pay for fillin’ the tank with gas, for a year, and foot the

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bill for a year’s worth of oil changes and lubes to boot. It has t’be running by next Thursday, though, and I have t’be here to verify it. I’ll even settle for three complete trips around both the service islands as proof.” “Suppose it ain’t runnin’ by then?” asked Sweet Roy. “That’s the interestin’ part. If it’s not runnin’ by 7:30 p.m., we haul it over to Drucker’s Salvage Yard and dump it in the crusher. I’m sure we’ll have plenty’a people on hand who’ll want t’bear witness.” “The deal ain’t square. I stand to lose my Ride,” said Monroe. “Besides, I don’t have to pay for lubes and oil. You ain’t offerin’ me much I don’t already have. How ’bout you try this for size. You give me the cost of my engine, you pick up the tab for a paint job and the gas, and you give us three more days to finish, Sunday instead’a Thursday. Then, it’s a deal.” Wilford chewed on his cigar for a moment, stroking his chin. “I’ll give you everything but the three days. Take the deal or leave it,” he said, grinning. “Or maybe you don’t have confidence in your team.” “Take him up on it, Monroe,” said Willie B. “We’re almost there now.” “Gimme a minute to think it over.” “Don’t go bettin’ everything on the come-again, Monroe,” said Sweet Roy. “Remember what your gamblin’ has cost you before.” Even I knew that Monroe’s betting had caused him to lose his half-interest in the garage, and most people said his gambling had ended up costing him his wife. It was hard to understand why a man who was so methodical when it came

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to repairing automobiles seemed to enjoy leaving everything else in life to chance. “Not one of those Earl Scheib paint jobs; it has to be lacquer, two coats, and I choose the color,” said Monroe. The long moment of silence was broken when Wilford and Monroe said, “Deal,” at the same time. Then they shook on it. That handshake brought me eight full days of grief. I continued working the day shift at Raymond’s, while Monroe had me baby-sitting Sweet Roy and serving as a lookout for Wilford at night. The next three times I went to pick up Sweet Roy, he was drunk. I brought him around each time by filling him full of coffee and walking him up and down the three flights of stairs above the Dixie Dairy. The fourth night he had the DTs, and I didn’t know what to do until Vivian, one of Sweet Roy’s former hookers, showed up at his place looking for her color television. “What has this man done to hisself now? Such a waste. He still pretty, though, even lyin’ in a pile and shakin’ like a leaf. Ain’t he a sweet picture, Darryl?” said Vivian, giving me a wink. “It’s a shame to see a body do this to hisself, a natural pity.” She stepped back, looked at Sweet Roy for a moment, and then started barking orders. “Gimme some blankets outta that chest over there, and get over to Billton’s and buy a bottle’a lemon juice, some Karo syrup, and a bottle’a aspirin. Hurry up!” When I came back, Sweet Roy was wrapped in the blankets and Vivian was heating a pot of water on the stove.

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She added half of the bottle of lemon juice and a full cup of syrup to the boiling water, stirred the concoction for a couple of minutes, and forced Sweet Roy to swallow two full glasses of it along with six of the aspirin. Then she sat and rocked him gently until I said I had to get back to the garage. “I heard about the bet,” she said just as I reached the door. “Ole man Wilford’s spread it all over town. When you get back to that garage you tell Monroe he’s got Sweet Roy under too much pressure. He don’t perform well under pressure. You can’t wind Sweet Roy too tight. He’s like a fine watch. Wind him too tight and he breaks. You can see that can’t you, Darryl?” “Sure.” ‘Well, you tell Monroe to lighten up on Sweet Roy or he’ll be doin’ more’n giving ole man Wilford free gas. Wilford says Monroe ain’t made a alimony payment in eight months. I know he don’t want that out — ’specially to one of those ‘hard-time’ Beaumont judges. And he don’t want Raymond findin’ out neither. You know how Raymond is about playin’ it straight with women.” She went back to rocking Sweet Roy and told me to turn on the radio as I left. “Turn to that soft kinda music,” she said, giving Sweet Roy a gentle kiss. When I came to get Sweet Roy the next night he was ready to go. Even had a thermos filled with coffee tucked under his arm. “I’m back on the wagon,” Sweet Roy said with a wink. “What did Monroe say about last night?” “Not much. Just that it was a minor setback and reminded us that we still had plenty of time. Actually, he was okay.”

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“I’ll get The Ride wired, I promise,” said Sweet Roy, adjusting the thermos. That night we stayed at Raymond’s until 3 a.m. Sweet Roy teased out the upholstery in the door panels and the ceiling. He even removed all the carpet until the car’s interior became a maze of red and white wires. He had wires running everywhere. I could see wires going from the power seats to the glove box and from there to the light in the ceiling. Sweet Roy completely rewired the electric windows and the power door locks. He even had a wire running to the little bulb that illuminated the rear license plate. “Just pretend they’re nerves, Darryl, runnin’ all around inside you. We all got wires like these, y’know. They just ain’t color-coded. Cut one, like this one here, and your eye don’t work. Let me show you. Check that right headlamp. I guarantee it won’t come on.” He pulled the headlamp switch to demonstrate. “Splice it, like this, and your eye works again. Now you try it.” I connected the wires the way Sweet Roy had shown me and the headlight flashed on. “Slick, ain’t it?” he said with a grin. “I tell you, I could’ve been a brain surgeon with these hands, sweet talkin’ all those nurses every day and takin’ home a pocket full’a money every night.” We finished up the next night. I made sure the gas tank was empty. Willie B. strapped it on the DeSoto. Monroe completed his spot welding, and Sweet Roy put every stitch of carpet and upholstery back in place. The DeSoto was no longer a junker. Now, it was a car.

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Monroe spent all of Thursday morning detailing the car, getting it ready for that night’s showdown with Wilford. When he finished, he called me over for some last minute instructions. “I told Willie B. and Sweet Roy to meet me here at seven. The three of us are going for the first Ride. You can catch the next one,” he said. “No way! I deserve to go on the first Ride, too. In the past three weeks I’ve been your sentry. I’ve been Sweet Roy’s chaperon. I’ve been an engineer for Willie B. I held up my part of the deal the whole damn time. Now all I get to do is watch? Hell, no!” “Sorry, Darryl,” he said matter-of-factly. “This one’s for home boys; you get the second Ride.” Under my breath I mumbled something about his high butt and stormed out of the garage, knocking over a display of oil cans on the way. I was moping outside by the high-test pumps when Wilford drove up at 5 p.m. “Can I fill ’er up?” I asked, trying not to look dejected. “No, Youngblood. Just set me up a chair right in front of the garage doors. I need a good seat for the show.” I found a dusty folding chair in the garage and gave it to Wilford. He wiped the chair off with a handkerchief and set it up on the drive, directly in front of the door to the diesel bay. Then he sat down and lit a cigar. Sweet Roy arrived at six wearing a three-piece sharkskin suit, a gangster hat, and a pair of Stacy Adams pointed-toe shoes that were spit-shined to a mirror-gloss finish. He was carrying a brown shopping bag that contained a set of fuzzy

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dice and two bottles of Old Granddad. He placed the liquor on the back seat of the DeSoto and was attaching the dice to the rearview mirror when Willie B. strolled in. I’d never seen Willie B. in a suit before. It was funeral-black and heavy worsted wool. His bulk caused the coat to gather at the shoulders so that the sleeves inched up his arms. The coat’s back vents were spread wide open and Willie B. kept tugging at them trying to adjust the jacket’s fit. Monroe had changed in the bathroom. He came into the garage immaculately groomed, wearing a seersucker suit topped off by a panama hat. He carried a case of Budweiser under one arm and a six-pack of Coke under the other. A blackand-gold streamer dangled from his front coat pocket. He put the drinks on the back seat and attached the streamer to the car’s antenna. Then, as he slowly completed a final visual inspection of the DeSoto, Wilford walked into the garage, looking at his watch. “It’s 7 p.m. You boys ready?” he said. “Ready to stomp your ass, old man,” said Monroe. “Crank it up, then,” said Wilford. He walked out of the garage and took his ringside seat on the drive. “Willie B., you ride in the back to balance the load. Sweet Roy, you ride shotgun. Darryl, watch our smoke,” said Monroe. They took their positions, and Monroe turned the key. A backfire exploded from the tailpipe, and I thought that the whole thing was going to end in failure right then. But, in a few seconds, the engine began to run smoothly like the big eight-cylinder it was, and they were all slapping hands and shouting.

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Monroe backed the car out of the bay into the approaching twilight and looked out at me standing dejectedly by the door to the diesel bay. As the power window on the driver’s side descended smoothly, he stuck his head out and said, “I’ll go around the pumps three times, then we’re outta here to party. Vivian’s got us some girls.” He winked and gave me a thumbsup sign. Then he turned, looked over at Wilford and added, “I’ll settle up with you t’morrow.” Monroe made a wide, slow figure eight the first time around the pumps, testing the engine. On the second pass I could see that Willie B. had popped the tops on a couple of cans of beer and was handing them around. The trouble began at the top of the third loop over by the high-test pumps. I saw Sweet Roy’s window start down and just before it disappeared, sparks flew up from inside the door. Willie B. and me were the only ones who seemed to notice. The DeSoto passed directly in front of me as Willie B. reached over the seat back and poured beer down the window track. I saw Sweet Roy turn his head and look back, but by then the damage was already done. The whole electrical system must have shorted out, and that started the fire. There were no flames at first, just the smell of burning rubber and smoke rising from under the hood. The car was still moving when Sweet Roy jumped out. His door sheared off cleanly when it met one of the gas pumps, seconds after his exit. Wilford was laughing uncontrollably when the DeSoto’s door snapped off. His laughter died down considerably when the door took two bounces between the high-test pumps, jumped to the other side of the service island, and clipped the

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The Ride

chain wrapped around the hood of his New Yorker. A few links dropped to the ground, and the broken chain whiplashed, lock and all, into the car’s windshield. The windshield shattered, the hood popped up, and Wilford’s alarm went off, all at the same time. “What the shit have you S.O.B.s done?” shouted Wilford, running toward his car. Monroe finally brought the DeSoto to a halt no more than fifteen feet in front of me. By then smoke was pouring from the front and rear. He leaped out with Willie B. right on his heels. Monroe ran to the front of the DeSoto and attempted to open the hood, but when he touched the metal he jumped back. “Shit, this son of a bitch’s red hot! Get a hose,” yelled Monroe. “No, not on an electrical fire,” screamed Sweet Roy. “Get the fire extinguisher from the diesel bay.” I ran to get the extinguisher and came back to see flames leaping from every part of the car. “Too late,” said Willie B. Monroe grabbed the extinguisher and covered the car in foam, but Willie B. was right. The DeSoto was finished. The car continued to smolder as the pungent smell of burning rubber and plastic filled the humid summer air. For what seemed like forever no one uttered a word. The only sound I heard was the high-pitched whine of Wilford’s alarm. “Hell, it’s not a funeral,” said Monroe, breaking the silence. “You gotta learn t’go with the flow.” He was looking in my direction as he walked over to The Ride, opened the rear door, and grabbed a can of beer from the back seat. “The beer’s a little warm, but it’s still wet.”

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Isolation and Other Stories

Monroe tossed the can to me, picked up two others and tossed them to Willie B. and Sweet Roy. Sweet Roy took a long pull on his. “Damn sure is, Monroe, and it ain’t changed from alcohol neither.” “Help me get this stuff off the back seat and don’t touch the metal. It’s still hot,” said Monroe. A steady stream of water was flowing from the DeSoto’s radiator, and a large pool of oil was spreading out on the driveway beneath the transmission. They finished unloading the back seat, and suddenly all three of them were laughing, accusing one another and assessing the blame. “You dumb-ass Bama, your half-assed wirin’ could’ve killed me,” said Monroe to Sweet Roy. “Both of us,” said Willie B. “He could’ve killed both of us.” “Bullshit! Anyway, you’re the one that caused it, pourin’ beer down the window like that,” Sweet Roy said in selfdefense. “Don’t matter. It wasn’t our time. Just like it wasn’t our time to have wheels,” said Monroe. “Ain’t no lie,” said Willie B. “Surely, ain’t no lie.” “Let’s go, we still got plenty’a time to party,” said Sweet Roy. Wilford was standing beside his car, looking at the windshield. The alarm was still screeching. Every few seconds he’d look down, pick up a small piece of broken glass, then look back up at his car. He never stopped shaking his head. “You assholes are gonna pay for this,” he finally said. “I’m tellin’ you, you’re all gonna pay.” He shook his fist at the DeSoto.

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The Ride

I looked at the DeSoto sympathetically. “You’re not just going to leave her here like this?” I said to Monroe. “That’s t’morrow’s problem, Darryl. You the college boy. Figure it out.” I watched them head up the street, then glanced back at the still smoldering DeSoto. For a few moments, as I stood there looking at The Ride, l could still hear their voices. When I looked around again Monroe, Willie B. and Sweet Roy were gone.

“The Ride” was first published in Black American Literature Forum, Vol. 23, #2, Summer, 1989.

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Isolation and Other Stories

24

Backup

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Isolation and Other Stories

26

Backup

BACKUP

M

Y BROTHER,

LAMAR, STEALS. Ma says thieving’s

in his genes, passed down from our pa. “You’ll do time, Lamar. You ain’t no different from him,” is what she says. Lamar ain’t stole nothin’ that amounts to much. I saw him take a car radio from Hester’s Auto Supply one day, slick as shit, while old man Hester was sellin’ some black man the wrong size battery for his car. Lamar claims Hester does that a lot, and when the customer comes back for a refund or to get the right part, Hester points to a sign on the wall that says, “No Refunds, No Exchanges.” Like I said, Lamar ain’t never snatched nothin’ big, like a car, or I’d know. The only other thing for sure about his stealin’ is that it’s regular. And, it got a lot worse after Rufus Hawkes 27

Isolation and Other Stories

got himself killed. Since Lamar ain’t but twenty, I expect his real thieving won’t come till later on, like Pa’s. “Clara Jean, you get your narrow butt in here right now. I need you to help with fixin’ supper.” That’s Ma and she’s hollerin’ at me again from the back porch. I saw her the minute she stepped outside, just didn’t let on, that’s all. I was busy snaggin’ a real nice Monarch butterfly with my net. I knew any second Ma’d be shoutin’. It’s part of her style. “Give me a minute. I still got a few more leaf hoppers to collect.” “I’ll give you the back of my hand. Get in here. I ain’t spent eighteen years raisin’ you proper and just graduated you from high school so as you can sass. Besides, spendin’ all your free time collectin’ bugs and starin’ up at the sky predictin’ rain ain’t healthy. No wonder all the boys shy away. Actin’ skittish like that don’t sit well with people ’round here — never has.” I dusted a bunch of aphids off a leaf into my cigar box and closed the lid. Walkin’ back up toward the house I could see the thunderheads that had been buildin’ to the west most of the afternoon. I could smell the rain that was comin’. I felt good. Everybody has a best time of the year, you know, a time when you feel the most alive and like you might just pop right outta your skin. Long as I can remember, early summer, like now, always’ been mine. The five acres of land behind our house slope down to a marsh thick with willows. Along the top fence line, Pa and two of his minin’ buddies had built our split-log house. The whole place ain’t nothin’ much but a swamp, and the house itself is

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Backup

just a termite box. But, for collectin’ insects, all five acres are a pot o’ gold. Over the years the planks makin’ up our back porch had weathered real bad and most had popped up at the seams. Now they made a strange crackin’ noise when we stepped on ’em. Lamar said it was because Pa, and the men that laid ’em, used green pine. “Unseasoned, just like you, Clara Jean,” is the way Lamar put it. Ma was standin’ at the stove cookin’ collards when I walked in. Her hair was fixed up nice. She’d been into Bluefield three days before and had it done, but she didn’t like the style. Ma’s never satisfied when it comes to her hair. She don’t look nowhere near thirty-eight. Not a gray hair in her head, and she still has the body to bed down a man easy as any twenty-year-old. In this part of Logan County it’s no secret about Ma still wantin’ to have fun. She has the need and the knack. Like Lamar has for shootin’ a basketball and stealin’, and me for collectin’ insects and predictin’ rain. Around here they call women like Ma “redbones,” on account of the way they look, well as the way they act. Nearly all of ’em’s real sizable-chested and big-framed, with loose wet lips that are all the time flashin’ a TV commercial smile that says, “Try me.” And most every redbone has a thick auburn head of hair that’s hard as hell to comb. Lots of men say, “Redbones are good breedin’ stock,” or, “You ain’t had a woman till you had a redbone.” Once I even heard Lamar say pretty much the same and right in front of Ma. She didn’t even look up, just let out with, “Butterflies fly, Lamar.”

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Isolation and Other Stories

I pulled a stool up to the kitchen counter and started peelin’ sweet potatoes over the sink. Ma did the same. In between every few taters she reached for a bottle of hand cream she kept next to the faucet and pumped a couple of dabs into one palm. She rubbed the cream in real slow, then held her hands up to the light, starin’, turnin’ ’em back and forth, just like old ladies in church move a fan. “Ain’t a Coca-Cola in this house, Clara Jean. You been drinkin’ ’em all agin?” She slid the bowl full of sweet potatoes over to me. “No, Ma, last Coke I had was yesterday.” “How about Lamar?” “Can’t speak for him.” “Well, it don’t really matter which of you done it. You both know I can’t drink my Bacardi without my Coke. When Lamar gets back, have him run you into Bluefield and pick me up a few.” “Can’t I just go over to the ShopStop? It’s a whole lot closer.” “No, ’cause I need some makeup base and that special color eyeliner don’t nobody sell but Bluefield’s BlueMart. You can spend a little time helpin’ your momma. Won’t hurt you none.” “It’ll take a hour to drive all the way to Bluefield and back.” “You got anything better to do? You ain’t workin’, and I’m payin’ a precious sum to send you through that beauty school. Least you can do is help me out by goin’ to the store.” Ma has a way of takin’ you down. She can put you under a rock with one look if she has a mind to. It’s nothin’ you can’t

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Backup

recover from, though. Just her way of lettin’ you know who’s in charge. “OK. What else you need?” “Hand me that list over by the stove so I can add a couple things.” When I got up to get the list I could see Lamar’s truck through the kitchen window. It was headed up the drive. He stopped halfway up, hopped out, scooped up a rock, and tossed it at the back of the house. The thud made Ma flinch. Next instant she was up, running for the back door. “What on earth you throwin’ rocks at the house for?” she called to Lamar. “Just lettin’ you know I’m here, that’s all.” He stepped up onto the porch. “Ain’t no need to throw rocks when all you got to do is walk in and say hello.” “Too ordinary,” said Lamar. Ma gave him the most spiteful look ever, then turned around and walked back in the kitchen. The screen door slammed behind her, barely missin’ Lamar’s head. Lamar is tall and thin with loopy-poor posture, a lot like me, except at six foot three he stands a head taller. His skin is always pale, summer and winter. And he seems bent forward a little, like he’s forever walkin’ against the wind. His hair is a constant mess, but it’s not auburn like mine and Ma’s. Lamar’s got this habit. When he’s nervous, or trying to be funny, he sucks air through the little gap between his top front teeth. It makes a noise like you hear coming from a soda straw when you draw on it at the bottom of a nearly empty glass.

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Isolation and Other Stories

“I need you to take me into Bluefield. Ma gave me another one of her lists,” I said. “Don’t spout me orders, Clara Jean. Keep practicin’ and you gonna end up just like her.” “Wasn’t my idea, drivin’ all the way to town. It was Ma’s.” “Where’s the list? I wanna see what’s so important it calls for a fifty-mile ride.” “Go inside and ask her for it yourself.” Lamar picked up a stick and scraped some mud off the heel of one of his boots. He knew better than to add trackin” mud into the house to his rock-throwin’ episode. Lamar’s not a bad sort at all, except for his thievin’. Most people say he’s just a kid from the hills bouncin’ around the circuit with his life stuck on idle. I say he’s tryin’ to figure out how to be a man. In high school Lamar’d been a basketball star. Him and that black kid, Rufus Hawkes, took Overland High all the way to the state basketball championship. Regular West Virginia playground legends, them two. Right up there with Dizzy Dean. Both of ‘em signed to go to Penn State, and everybody in the state figured they’d make it to the pros. That’s all Lamar talked about his senior year. How one day him and Rufus was gonna be playin’ for the Knicks, rainin’ jump shots outta the sky and livin’ like kings in New York City. But the summer after graduation, Rufus got himself killed over in Brimerton. Shot dead in a bar, right in the middle of the day. That killin’ did something to Lamar, sort of slid him into neutral out of drive. Ma said the only thing it done was take away someone feedin’ him the ball and that they had plenty of

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Backup

colored boys at Penn State could do the same. She hustled him on a train to college in September, but when he came home for Christmas, he didn’t go back. “Come on, Clara Jean, let’s go. We got a hour’s drive lookin’ at us on account of some damn hair curlers and Indian paint,” said Lamar. He pushed open the screen door, slamming it hard against the house, then walked over to the top step of the porch and ran the sole of his boot across the edge. Another cake of mud dropped off. He grinned like he did when he hit one of his jump shots and headed for his truck. I followed, shakin’ my head. “You got it straight now, don’t you, honey?” Ma shouted through the screen door. “It’ll say right on the package: Healthy Curls. And don’t drag your feet. I need them curlers before I can go out tonight.” Lamar hopped into the pickup, slammed the door, which he hardly ever did on account of that truck being his second home. He started up the engine even though Ma was still talking. “Get in and join the parade. Ain’t no reason for you to stay around here chasin’ bugs,” he said. I jumped in, but before I had a chance to shut my door, Lamar threw the truck into reverse and the door flew wide open. “Pull it closed before I knock it off on a tree,” he shouted. We were halfway down the driveway before I got control of that door. “Don’t bust a vessel, Lamar. One hour outta your day doin’ somethin’ for Ma won’t blind you. What you got to do anyway?”

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Isolation and Other Stories

“I got other things cookin’, Clara Jean. You know how I am about wastin’ time.” “Yeah, it’s all you do.” A trail of dust kicked up behind the truck and we bottomed out good a couple of times on account of Lamar drivin’ so fast. At the state highway junction I told him to slow down, but all he did was step on the gas. The scenery around Logan County valley is all pretty much the same — coal country, from Bluefield to the mouth of Princeton Hollow. But this part of the state is dying ’cause the mines have petered out. Everywhere you look you see stacks of empty soot-stained houses hangin’ off the mountainsides, like balcony seats at the movie theater. We were runnin’ route 108 along the switchbacks outlinin’ Willabuck’s Creek. Ever so often I could see new pavement replacing road washout from the winter before. No one had bothered to put down another center line. Tree limbs from seventy-year-old creek-bottom oaks were hanging over the road, blockin’ out the sun. The creek was high and runnin’ so fast you couldn’t see it was full of silt. Chokin’ to death on coal dust from some strip-minin’ slag-heap twenty miles upstream. For fifteen minutes Lamar didn’t say one word. Halfway into Bluefield, he reached over into the glove box, pulled out a tape, and slipped it into the deck. Before I heard a sound, I knew what was comin’. After a grainy lead, Patti Page started singin’, “Cry Me a River.” “You gonna wear that song out, Lamar.” “Don’t matter. I got another. Reach up under your seat.”

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Backup

I fumbled under the seat till I felt what he was talking about and pulled out a brand-new tray of tapes. Twelve of ’em, exactly the same, still wrapped in cellophane. The orange sticker on top read, “Patti Page’s Greatest Hits.” “Where’d you get all these?” “Whadda you care? Only thing important is to always keep a backup. Hand me one of ’em.” I opened the package and passed him a tape. Lamar pushed the eject button and flipped the old tape out the car window. Then he popped the new tape into the deck. Mournfully, Patti started singing “Cry Me A River” all over again. Except for a clean lead, I didn’t notice any difference. We rode along just listenin’ to the music for a while. Up near the number six Henderson mine Lamar turned the music down. “You got a backup for them bugs of yours in case one day the house burns down, or they all decide to get up and fly away?” He laughed a real full laugh, then sucked on the space between his teeth. “Don’t make fun, Lamar. And no, l don’t have no backup.” “How come?” “Because I can replace most of my insects anytime. They’re part of nature.” “Don’t you have no special ones — hard little buggers to find, tough ones to substitute?” “A few.” “Then you need a backup for them few.” “Is that your excuse for stealin’, Lamar, so you can have two of everything?”

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Isolation and Other Stories

“You missin’ the point, Clara Jean. You only have backups for your very special things. Things you can’t never afford to lose. Everybody needs ’em. Like Ma with them hair curlers of hers. Don’t tell me she ain’t got other rollers around that house. But she’s convinced the ones she’s got us chasin’ after are gonna make her beautiful. See what I mean?” “Maybe — a little. But that still don’t explain your stealin’. You better cut that shit out or you gonna sure enough do some time.” “Let me worry about that. It ain’t your concern.” He reached over, punched the button to reverse the tape and turned the sound back up. In a few seconds “Cry Me a River” was playin’ again. We hit the Bluefield city limits about 5:30. First place Lamar wanted to stop was Lomack’s Pizza. It wasn’t nothin’ but a narrow storefront squeezed between an alley and Barstow’s Drive-Thru Liquors. Pizza in a closet, we like to say. “You want pepperoni or sausage?” asked Lamar pullin’ into Lomack’s. “That’s the only two kinds you can get on the spot. Otherwise we gotta wait.” “I know. It ain’t like I never been in the place. Pepperoni’s fine, and if Letha Ann’s workin’, tell her to send me out a couple empty pizza boxes. The large kind.” “What you want ’em for?” “My insect collection.” “I thought you kept your bugs in cigar boxes.” “I do, but pizza boxes are better. There’s more room to spread things out. With cigar boxes everything’s too cramped, like in a museum.”

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Backup

“Don’t nothin’ look real with a pin stickin’ through it if you ask me. I never did like biology anyway — too much bullshit to memorize,” said Lamar. “First off, insect collectin’ ain’t strictly biology. It’s part of zoology and there’s a proper name for it, entomology.” “You can call it any name you want for all I care. Collectin’ bugs is still one hundred percent strange. Why you learnin’ all them silly names anyhow? They ain’t no use to a flat-chested redbone who’s goin’ to hairdressin’ school.” “Don’t make fun, Lamar. I never laughed at your basketball playin’ or at the way you nearly pee your pants every year the first time you see some new model truck. Besides, I’m gonna take a zoology class at the community college, startin’ in the fall.” “Ma’s gonna love to hear that,” he said sarcastically, opening the door to get out. He started walkin’ toward the front door of Lomack’s but two steps away from going in, he hollered back, “I won’t tell ‘em what the boxes are for ‘cause I don’t want people around here thinkin’ my sister’s nuts.” Lamar came back carryin’ one box. He put it on the transmission hump in front of the gearshift lever, flipped up the top, and handed me a pizza slice. “Letha Ann ain’t there, just Lomack’s son. What’s his name, Willis? Anyway, he wouldn’t give me any extra boxes. Said they cost too much to give away. I would’ve snatched some when he went in the back, but it meant jumpin’ the counter and just then two more people came in the store.” “Thank God you didn’t make a major production out of it. Let’s just get the stuff for Ma and head back home.”

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Isolation and Other Stories

The Bluefield BlueMart parking lot was close to empty. No more than a handful of cars and trucks near the front doorway when we drove in. By 6 o’clock everybody had finished buyin’ their last-minute needs for Saturday night. Lamar waved at a couple of tenderfoot miners in a pickup as we drove past. A Bureau of Land Management truck was parked at one end of the lot. Reclaimin’ the land has turned big in Bluefield. The BLM people are serious enough, but it seems like they’d know you don’t get back ten minin’ jobs by one man plantin’ a tree. Sooner or later Logan County, maybe even Bluefield, was gonna end up like the back of every other West Virginia country hollow — just a dead end. “Hand me that backpack from behind the seat, Clara Jean,” said Lamar. He turned off the engine. The truck half straddled the handicapped space right next to the door. I, just shook my head, reached back and pulled out the empty backpack. It was stained with dried-up motor oil. “Overland High School Mustangs” was printed across the back. “This thing‘s filthy, Lamar. Looks like it’s been sittin’ back there for years.” I tried to brush it off. “What do you need it for anyway?” “Never you mind. Just give it here, and when I get in the store don’t go followin’ me around. Get Ma’s curlers and Cokes and meet me back here.” “I know what you’re up to, Lamar. They catch you, you ain’t no kin of mine.” “Be quiet and do like I said.”

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Hardly anybody was in the store. A checker at the front register and a couple of people over in housewares was all I could see. Findin’ Ma’s curlers and the things she wanted for the bathroom was easy. I even picked her up an extra box of curlers, like Lamar said, for backup. But there wasn’t one sixpack of twelve-ounce bottled Coke out on display and those were the only kind Ma would drink. She claimed they were a perfect two-tumbler size, and she believed the bottles got colder quicker and gave her Bacardi a frosty taste. I headed for the back of the store looking for somebody to ask about the Cokes. Near the middle of aisle five, two women were siftin’ through a sale barrel filled with marked-down pantyhose. At the end of the aisle, I caught sight of Lamar. He was stuffin’ his backpack with socks. It surprised me so much I almost hollered out for him to stop. When he saw me he went around the corner quick as light. The two women never even looked up. I decided to follow him down the next aisle, tryin’ to stay out of sight. He didn’t take a thing there. I stayed with him into Men’s Clothing, He put a shirt into his pack. Over in Sporting Goods he dropped in a couple of baseballs and a generous handful of fishing spinners. Each time he moved from a department he slipped the backpack on again and headed for the next aisle. And I’m sure I missed his first couple of stops. By the time he finished the pack was full, but not so crammed that you would ever take notice. Lamar checked out just ahead of me, never once lookin’ back. All he bought was a bottle of shampoo. He gave the cashier a five. She handed him back his change and thanked

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Isolation and Other Stories

him for shopping at the BlueMart. He was all the way to the exit and the automatic doors had sprung open before he turned back and gave me one of Ma’s spiteful looks. That’s when, I realized I didn’t have Ma’s Cokes. The cashier said I could find the bottled kind at the end of aisle six. I told her to hold on a second while I ran to get them. When I got back, the two pantyhose ladies were standing at the checkout counter behind my items. I squeezed past. “You’re holdin’ things up, sweety,” said one. “Least you can do when you come shoppin’ is come organized. Next time bring a list.” Lamar was sittin’ behind the wheel and the engine was running when I got back to the truck. He was sippin’ on a stolen soda. “I know you’re crazy now,” I said. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” answered Lamar. “You sure do. Else earlier you wouldn’t have sent me that terrible look. You damn near stole from every department in that store. I watched the whole thing.” “Wasn’t but half the store, and it ain’t nothin’ a big store like BlueMart’s ever gonna miss.” “Don’t matter. Point is, it’s stealin’.” “Point is, I didn’t get caught.” “Well, you will.” “Not around here, not by these slow-thinkin’ country loads. They ain’t even smart enough to check a backpack.” “Maybe that’s ’cause they trust people. You ever think of that? Ma’s right. You gonna end up just like Pa, sittin’ in some jail dyin’ from T.B.”

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Backup

“Maybe so, but right now ain’t my time.” Up to this point Lamar had been wearing one of his knowit-all, half-slick grins and taking a sip from his soda ever now and then. All of a sudden he looked real serious. He switched off the engine and put his can of pop down over a little butterflyshaped grease spot on top of the empty pizza carton. “Clara Jean, you ain’t no different from me except for bein’ a girl. Your ass is caught right here with the rest of us, to stay. And sooner or later your true redbone’s gonna surface. Right now we just passin’ our time in different ways.” “That ain’t true.” Lamar didn’t answer. He swallowed his last sip of soda and tossed the can on the floor. The backpack slipped off the seat and fell over on my side of the cab. I stuffed it back behind the seat. Rain clouds had moved in, just like I knew they would. The sky had turned overcast gray. We drove off, leavin’ one pickup still sittin’ in the lot. Lamar was drivin’ out of town slow, huggin’ the center line. “Run me back by Lomack’s. I still need them boxes,” I said. Lamar didn’t pay me any attention. He just kept drivin’ slow with his thumbs hooked over the bottom of the steering wheel. “Come on, you done your thing, least let me pick up somethin’ I need.” He looked at me, shook his head, and gave the truck a little more gas.

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Isolation and Other Stories

“You better hope Letha Ann showed up ’cause Willis ain’t about to give you shit,” he said. I didn’t say no more to Lamar. When he stopped in front of Lomack’s I hopped out fast and headed inside. The place was dingy. And that sour-meat smell it always has was strong as ever. Willis was standing behind the counter mixing up a batch of sauce. The front room was only big enough for one table and an old-fashioned soda dispenser, where the bottles sat in murky ice water all the time. The face of the counter was full of kick marks that began at the floor and continued halfway up the soft pine front. Behind the counter, in one corner, four stacks of pizza cartons were piled on top of a choppin’ block. The pizza ovens were in a room in the back. A rusted storm door separated the two rooms. Whenever it swung open a roll of smoke drifted out into the front. I didn’t see how Letha Ann could stand workin’ in the place all day. “Letha Ann come in yet?” “She won’t be in today.” “How about two slices, with pepperoni and extra cheese?” “For extra cheese, you gotta wait.” “Just pepperoni then.” Willis spent another minute or so behind the counter rollin’ out dough, then disappeared into the back. The room was quiet except for the soda dispenser’s low-pitched hum. A tussock moth darted around the greasy fluorescent ceiling bulb. I watched the moth while I gathered my nerve. When I was ready I jumped over the counter, landin’ on the other side, catlike, real soft. I grabbed two cartons and placed ’em on the

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counter. Then I decided to take one more. I was back over the counter so fast the whole thing seemed second nature. I didn’t even have to think. I was breathing heavy and feeling real lightheaded. I took all three boxes off the counter, stood them on end, and clamped them between my calves just as Willis came back out front with my two slices of pepperoni, in a box. “Buck eighty-five,” he said. I pulled five dollars out of my pocket. He slapped my change down on the counter and went back to his same spot, rollin’ dough. Then I realized that I needed him in the back room again before I could walk out the door. “Mind if I eat a slice at the counter right here?” He looked at me strange and said that would be fine. I flipped open the box, pulled out a slice, and took a tiny bite, then another. I chewed each bite real slow. I didn’t know how long I was gonna have to work on that one wedge. After a few minutes, he stopped rollin’ dough and headed for the back again. When he disappeared, I grabbed the pizza boxes from between my legs and stacked them back on the countertop, adjustin’ them as neat as I could before I rushed out the front door. Outside it was rainin’. I ran for Lamar’s pickup, clutching my half-eaten wedge of pizza in my free hand, thinkin’ of Pa, and hopin’ it wouldn’t be one of those long lastin’ West Virginia hill-country rains.

“Backup” was first published in New Mexico Humanities Review, Vol. 35, 1991.

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Isolation and Other Stories

44

Spoon

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Isolation and Other Stories

46

Spoon

Spoon

L

AST

AUGUST,

ON THE OUTSKIRTS of Hardin, Mon-

tana, riding along I-90 on the crest of a downslope Chinook summer wind, I picked up a hitchhiker wearing a $250, 5X beaver, Resistol cowboy hat...and no shoes. He told me his name was Spoon. “T. J. Darley,” I told him in return. His hat was snow white with a Tom Mix block, and he wore it tipped forward on his head, just enough to fully shade his eyes. When I asked him what happened to his shoes, he said, “Shoes can be excess baggage when a man’s in a hurry.” He told me he was a half-black, half-Indian cowboy searching for his roots. That he had just been fired from a ranch eighty miles back down the road. He said he was hungry, and if we ran over a jackrabbit we could build a fire and roast it on a stick. When a jackrabbit popped up along the shoulder Spoon yelled, “Hit that long-legged S.O.B.” 47

Isolation and Other Stories

Hardin is Custer country. Rolling grasslands and sagebrush-covered hills rim the town and the green river valley where Custer made his stand. The Rosebud Mountains rise in the distance, highlighting the site of America’s final Indian war. On wind-silent, ice-clear summer days, when the sky is gemstone blue and a few orphaned alabaster clouds hang motionless overhead, you can look from the western bluffs that border the four thousand acres of my father’s Willow Creek Ranch and see the Custer Battlefield Monument rising from the Bighorn River bottom in the distance. Those are the days that make me wonder how my father will keep the whole thing going. The old animal-centered agricultural ranch he grew up with has passed him by. Modern ranches are nothing more than a machine for feeding cows. He won’t hire anybody who cares enough about mechanical work or irrigation to do either one right, and he never planned to count on me. He says I dream too much, like every second son. My mother, the glue and buffer between us, suffers in her own way as we reach the climax of a Montana ranchland culture that’s fading like ripples in a stream. Spoon twisted toward me in his seat. The vinyl squeaked. He tipped his hat back, brown eyes gleaming. “Got any idea where there might be a job for a first-class hand?” “What’re you good at?” “Anything to do with cattle, but calving’s my thing.” I shuddered, thinking of all the icy winter nights I had slept in the calving barn tending a mother cow trying to calve, remembering the helpless times I had lost one of them, or both.

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“Are you a chain-puller or a wait-and-see kinda man?” I asked. “Never used a chain to pull an animal in my life. Would you want somebody usin’ a chain to yank you into this world?” Spoon paused, looking for my response, then took right off again. “I talk to an animal soft, sugar-sweet, or use Spoon’sGentle-Persuasion. Never no chains. Mostly, I trust my head and hands.” Spoon shoved his callused palms toward me, turning them from side to side. The backs of his hands were cocoa brown and butter smooth. “How are you at irrigation?” I asked, following the curve of the interstate. “Not bad, but like I said, birthin’s my game.” “Have you ever heard of the Willow Creek Ranch?” “Can’t say that I have.” He leaned back against the truck’s door and stroked the midline cleft in his chin. “We might have somethin’ for you there.” “Do you own the place?” “No, but my folks do.” “Then you don’t have a job to offer.” He tipped his hat back down over his eyes and smiled. “Take me to the source. You never know, I might be able to do your folks some good.” My father brought my mother to Willow Creek from New York at the end of the Korean War. They had been married for only sixty-five days. She had been a June Taylor dancer, the tallest in the original pre-TV troupe of seventeen. My father had been a navy demolitions chief on a minesweeper in the Sea of Japan. Back then he was a teller of tales. My mother

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says his stories all had a dash of yeast added to allow them to rise. One of his best, the one that first sparked my mother’s interest, detailed how he got into demolitions. He told my mother that during the early 1900s his father had been a leading Montana citizen building a half-million-acre cattle empire on the banks of the Little Bighorn. In doing so his father had created his share of enemies, so he built a ranch house where every room had an outside door and the dining room offered views in all directions. A panel in the living room fireplace led to an underground hideaway connected to a two-hundred-yard tunnel running west. According to my father’s tale, my grandfather kept ten sticks of dynamite in a ventilation pipe in an underground room. If enemies were to enter the house, a family member had instructions to bang on the bedroom floor with a broomstick. In the room below, my grandfather would light a stick of dynamite with an extra-long fuse. Then he would ring a cowbell, a signal for his family and allies to vacate the house. He would leave himself just enough time to crawl through the tunnel to an outbuilding where a horse was saddled, ready to fly. My parents traveled first class by train on the El Capitan from New York to Montana in the spring of 1954. When my mother saw the original Willow Creek homestead, a two-room mud-and-split-log cabin surrounded by 250 acres of chickweed and sage, she refused to eat for three full days. My brother, Jimmy, was born in 1954. He died trying to swim across Willow Creek in 1969. When Jimmy died, my father’s far-fetched tales smoldered to an end. For a while Willow Creek filled his void, but then he soured, letting the land

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slowly drift to seed. I was born in 1972, a mid-life replacement, too late to resurrect his fire. In the nineteen years since, his bitterness had turned to raspy-voiced distrust. The sun was setting, its slow arc west nearly complete, when I eased the nose of my truck up to our ranch house back door. I left Spoon sitting in the pickup and promised him that if I couldn’t get him a job, at least I would round him up a pair of shoes. I stepped into the darkened mudroom and tripped over a cluster of Mason jars filled with wild blackberries my mother had picked early that afternoon. The sound of broken canning jars echoed through the room. “Bill Darley, if you broke the skin on a single blackberry, I’ll have your head,” my mother called from the kitchen. “I’m goin’ to need a broom. There’s been a blackberry disaster out there,” I said, stepping into the warm glow of my mother’s kitchen. “T. J., I thought you were your dad. I didn’t hear you drive up.” “I drifted in on the wind,” I said with a smile. “Well, drift back out there and clean up your mess, and don’t dare use a broom,” she said. She handed me a plastic bag and a roll of paper towels. I popped a couple of blackberries into my mouth and started picking up the rest, slowly, one by one. “I’ve found someone I think can help with calving and maybe irrigation too.” “I’m not the one you need to convince,” she said, her voice straining like it always did when it came to making decisions about the ranch.

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“He’ll have to hire someone or we’ll go under. The place is too much for the three of us to handle alone.” She looked through me, sad-eyed. “He’s stubborn, T. J.” “So was Custer,” I said. She brought her index finger up gently across her lips, and I knew not to say another word. Spoon was sitting on the tailgate of my truck, hunched over, knees to his chin, massaging his feet when we came out of the house. It was nearly dark. Next to the truck, a stand of aspen rustled in the breeze. When Spoon caught sight of my mother he jumped to the ground and took off his hat. “Arcus Witherspoon,” he said. “I’m Marva Darley,” she said, placing the same forceful emphasis on both names. “You’re an irrigating and calving man, I understand.” Spoon shot me the kind of look that said he wondered what else I might have said. My mother looked down at Spoon’s shoeless feet. “Mr. Witherspoon, if you don’t mind my asking, do you irrigate with or without your shoes?” “It’s Spoon, ma’am, and I can do it either way.” “And calving?” asked my mother. “I always take special care with mothers and their babies. It’s the only way.” My mother smiled, then gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Convince your dad,” she said. Spoon sat back down on the tailgate. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Witherspoon.” She was halfway to the house when she turned back to me. “Run over to the tack room and get Mr. Witherspoon some boots, T. J. You never know when there might be some irrigation to do.”

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Once a horseman’s jewel, the tack room had crumbled from neglect after Jimmy’s death. My mother called the room one of my father’s confusions. It was a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot hot box, connected by a breezeway to a decaying bunkhouse that hadn’t been used in twenty years. Yellowing boxcar siding covered all the walls, and years of spur tracks had bruised every square foot of floor. A hodgepodge of aging saddles hugged rickety sawhorses that were scattered around the room, and weathered leather bridles hung looped over wall-braced twoby-fours. A mildewed heap of saddle blankets and rugs stood lumped next to the door while boots, some still caked to the heel scallops with dried-out mud, lined every wall. Spoon immediately gathered a cluster of boots around him, sat down sidesaddle on a rickety sawhorse, and began trying boots on one by one. “What’s a man need with all these shoes?” said Spoon, tugging on a fancy boot with inlaid jingle bobs. He struggled to free his foot with a loud grunt, and the boot fell to the floor, jingle bobs ringing. “Boots just seem to accumulate in here,” I said. “Hired hands leave ‘em behind. People outgrow ‘em. The ones over there in the corner — the almost new ones — those belonged to my brother, Jimmy. A few around here are even mine.” “That sucker I just tried on pinched like shit,” said Spoon, tugging on another boot. “Too big,” he sighed, tossing the boot aside. He tried on three or four more, frowning at each fit. While Spoon continued, I walked over to the musty pile of saddle blankets, nudging them with my toe, then bent over and started smoothing out a frayed Indian blanket with an

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intricate zigzag design until my thumb punched through a raveling moth hole. “Damn, these fit,” said Spoon, jumping off the sawhorse, smiling down at a pair of run-over boots. “Let me have a look.” He walked over to me slowly, arms swinging at his sides. The boots were roughcut cowhide, cracked from heel to toe. On the right boot a braided strap held on a tarnished silver spur. “Those belonged to a buckaroo. All you need now are chinks and a silver bit for your horse,” I said, holding back a smile. “You mean these didn’t belong to no real cowboy?” asked Spoon, a look of disappointment crossing his face. “Yes and no. Real cowboys wear full-length chaps, and they never sport silver. A buckaroo is what you might call a cowboy yuppie.” Spoon smiled. “Yuppie, don’t think I know the word.” He jiggled his pants down over the boots and walked around the room, testing out their fit. “Nice, real nice.” After a half dozen circles around the room Spoon eased back down on the sawhorse and stretched out his right leg. The spur spun backward across the floor. “Thanks,” he said, slouching down, rubbing the new spur track into the floor. For a while the room was silent except for the sound of the spur clicking back and forth across the pine. “You know how I lost my shoes?” asked Spoon, finally sitting up straight. “Haven’t got a clue,” I said.

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He leaned the sawhorse back against the wall. All four legs wobbled out of sync, like legs on a newborn colt. In a mellow, day’s-end, storytelling kind of voice, Spoon whispered, “Playin’ cards. And, to make matters worse, I lost them to a couple’a down-and-out Crows.” His voice rose an octave. “And I don’t like Crows. The S.O.B.s scouted for Custer, and to top it off they had dumb-assed names.” He looked at me for confirmation. I didn’t say a word. “Well, they did,” he said. “Would you let anybody stick you with a moniker like White-Man-Runs-Him or Chicken Heart?” I shook my head. “The mistake I made, with my boots I mean, was tellin’ them up front I was part Cheyenne. There’s no love lost between Cheyenne and Crow. One of ’em said I looked more like a bug-eyed colored boy than any Indian he’d ever seen. I bit my tongue, like I always do when I try to check my temper. Then, reached in my back pocket, pulled out my wallet and showed the Crows my card. All real Indians carry a card,” said Spoon, pulling a card from his wallet and handing it to me to emphasize his point. I flipped the Bureau of Indian Affairs green card from side to side and handed it back. “Those two Crows looked my card over, just like you. The one who called me bug-eyed let out one of those so-what kinda grunts, and in a few minutes we were playin’ poker and drinkin’ 151 proof rum. Forty-five minutes later I was up a hundred-and-a-half. About then the other Crow, a Indian fancy dancer who claimed he won hundreds of dance competitions on reservations all over the West, started to cheat. I caught

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him turnin’ the edges of his cards so he could watch for them on the next deal. When I called him on it, the fancy-dancing bastard pulled a knife. The next thing I knew his buddy was down on all fours, pullin’ at my feet. By the time they left they had my boots, my belt, my socks, and my last hundred and eighty bucks in this world.” Spoon pulled a miniature tenth of Barcardi, the kind the airlines use, from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. I took a swallow, recapped the bottle, and handed it back. He pulled a half-dozen more from his pockets and lined them up in front of us on the floor. In the next half-hour I learned that Spoon had been a combat medic on a 125-foot Coast Guard boat patrolling the Mekong River during the Vietnam War, that he had lost a brother and cousin during the war, and that he had been drifting ever since. “I wore my hair short during ’Nam. My captain would shit a brick if he saw it now,” Spoon said, tugging at his shoulderlength hair. “I read a lot of Malcolm X on those river floats and pissed and moaned that come separation day I was headed back to the States to find my roots and get my rights. But after Cisco and Davey-Boy got killed, I sorta lost my way. For three years after Vietnam I drank like a brain-dead wino. When I wasn’t drinkin’ I drifted and said I was tracin’ my roots. The only thing I knew about my family, besides us being half-andhalf, that is, was that my great-grandfather had been part of a band of freedmen filing homestead claims in Kansas about 1878.” Spoon got up from the sawhorse and walked to the rug and saddle-blanket pile. “You shouldn’t of let the moths get

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to this one,” he said, tugging at the corner of the blanket I had straightened out earlier. “It’s a turn-of-the-century Navajo weave. Without the holes, it might bring eighteen hundred bucks.” “I’ll talk to my dad about it,” I said, eager for Spoon to finish his story. He fanned the blanket out on the floor, then sat on it, legs crossed, making sure his boots never touched the decaying wool. “There’s an all-black town in Kansas called Nicodemus. Three days short of turnin’ twenty-five I met an old woman sellin’ sweet corn at a roadside stand outside town. Her silver hair hung to the small of her back in three long, thick braids. She wore dentures, the kind that fit over the top of rotted-out teeth. The dentures were too big, so the old woman’s face was fixed into a constant smile. We dickered on the price of the corn. I told her who I was and that I was tracin’ my roots. She said she had known my grandfather. Then she laughed and called him a rascal with a fancy for Indian women. She told me he had married a Cheyenne woman who had the charm.” I frowned, unfamiliar with the term. Spoon spelled out “C-H-A-R-M,” speaking each letter while using his index finger to write in the air. “My grandmother could see things,” he said with a wink. When I still didn’t understand, Spoon threw his hands up and rolled his eyes. “Into the future, T. J., don’t you know nothin’ at all?”

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“Oh, sure,” I said, nodding. Spoon snickered, readjusting himself on the rug. We finished the last of the Bacardi, and I told Spoon he could sleep in the bunkhouse for the night. “No need for me to move in there. This pile of blankets will do just fine,” He patted the blankets, sending ribbons of dust into the air. I left him straddling the wobbly sawhorse, pulling off his boots. My father had no use for hired men. He claimed that most of them didn’t like their work and that any man who hated his work probably disliked himself even more. When I was ten a hired man had run my father’s best cutting horse into a snow bank and shattered her leg. My father put the big mare down with one shot above the ear. Later another hand, one my father had known and trusted for twenty years, stole the Willow Creek tally book during the summer, made a duplicate, and shorted us thirty yearlings at auction that fall. My father broke the man’s leg with a branding iron when he found out. The mountain air was unusually humid the morning I asked my father to hire Spoon. Afterward, we stood together on the porch in silence, staring at cloud-capped mountain peaks in the distance while we waited for breakfast. A late summer fog had settled over the heifer meadow pond. Down along the road a group of five mother cows brushed against one another like sleepy-eyed strangers. I wondered how Spoon had slept and whether, during the night, he had let his feet edge up onto the moth-eaten strands of the tattered Navajo blanket.

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“He’s a con man,” my father said at breakfast. “Now’a-days they always are.” He bolted down a spoonful of cornbread that he had crunched up in a buttermilk-filled Mason jar. “I don’t think so,” said my mother. “I’d give him a try.” “So he can sucker-punch us six hundred a month plus room and board. No way.” “He would sure be a help with our second hay cutting, and I could use a hand riding fence line the rest of the year,” I said. “We can do those things ourselves. No need hirin’ ’em out.” I looked over at my mother. Her eyes told me not to push too hard. “Give him a trial, a month or two. It won’t break us, Bill,” she said. “It’ll shove us a damn sight closer to losin’ the place, that’s all.” “At least talk to the man,” I said. “He’s willin’ to give us a try. That’s more’n most locals will do.” My father gave me one of his penetrating stares, the kind he saved up for when he had reached his limit. “Local folks know what I pay, and what I expect, if they decide to hire on here. This ranch was laid out for family, not for driftin’ hands.” I watched the elevated scar on his cheek flush salmon pink as it always did when he was about to lose control, and I knew it was time to end the debate. My mother walked over and smoothed down the collar on his rumpled chambray shirt. Her hands slipped onto his shoulders, then down his arms till they met the backs of his weathered hands. Rubbing his hands gently, she said, “He’s

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an extra body and he’s willing, Bill. You know the three of us can’t manage six hundred cows. We can’t keep running against the wind forever.” My father stirred his spoon around slowly in the Mason jar. The buttermilk and cornbread had turned to a thick, gummy mixture he liked to call his fortified wheat. He drank the mixture down halfway and set the jar aside. “Does he know one damn thing about ranchin’?” “He says he does.” “We’ll see.” He stood up and adjusted his belt. Then his right knee gave out, same as it did a couple of times every day. Before he could straighten back up, my mother had her arm hooked in his, and she began slowly walking him toward the door. “We’ll see,” he said. I winked at her and followed. Even with my mother softening him up, my father would never have hired Spoon if it hadn’t been for Spoon’s insistence that he knew how to balance water —and, of course, there was Spoon’s dare. Spoon told my father he could cut a 180-acre field of alfalfa and tame hay, five-wire-bale the cuttings, pick the bales up from the field, and mechanically stack them neat as a pin, all within twenty-four hours. My father said it was impossible, emphasizing that if Spoon could come within four hours of the time, he had himself a job. Spoon’s only requests before starting the job were that we give him five quart jugs of water, that he be allowed to start after dusk, and that we flood the field with light.

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At 8:30 that evening my father had our two backhoes sitting catty-corner from one another, one at each end of the field, diesel engines humming, headlight beams on high. I centered the 350 John Deere Jr. we used for cutting the grass around the house along the fence line at midfield. Directly across from it, eight yards away, I lined up my pickup and snapped on the lights. At 8:45 sharp, Spoon pulled up to the field in our red and green McCormick, pulling a rusting twenty-year-old swather and kicking up a trail of dust along the gravel road. His face was wrapped in a white bandanna pulled up to within an inch of his eyes. In the glare of the headlights, with streams of county-road dust rising in the air, he looked like some heavymetal rock musician ascending center stage in a dry-ice mist to begin his act. “Twenty-eight hours,” said my father, looking up at Spoon, shouting above the tractor’s hum. “Four hours are on me.” “I only asked for twenty-four,” said Spoon. “But I’ll take the extra.” The tractor lurched forward, clanking over a cattle guard and into the field. Spoon stopped for his second quart of water about 8:00 a.m. By then three quarters of the field had been leveled. He cut the tractor’s engine to wait for the freshly mowed alfalfa to dry in the morning sun for easier baling that afternoon. The air was still and the field strangely quiet, except for the sad call of a half-dozen mourning doves looking down on us from the telephone wires along the road. I had stayed all night. My father had watched for ten minutes and left. From my pickup bed I watched Spoon undo his bandanna and wipe the sweat

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from around his neck. Everything looked smaller than the night before, as if I were somehow seeing it through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. What if Spoon couldn’t finish? The way Jimmy couldn’t finish swimming across Willow Creek. My father had told Jimmy not to try it, that no one could swim across Willow Creek at high water, and he hadn’t been there when Jimmy tried. Since then my father’s victories had always seemed to be the same, the melancholy kind that came from knowing he was right. The tractor’s engine kicked back on. A loud belch of black diesel exhaust rose in the air. Spoon’s bandanna was back over his face. A new row of alfalfa started dropping in the swather’s wake. The morning sun had heated the pickup’s bed, and I could feel the warm corrugated metal through my jeans. I stood up, slowed by knotted muscles and cramps. The sweet molasses smell of freshly cut alfalfa filled the air. About 10:30 I backed the pickup from the field onto the road. Spoon was cutting the last row of alfalfa next to the quarter-section fence. I got out and waved at him, crossing my arms back and forth above my head in wide arcing semaphores. I didn’t think he saw me until I eased the truck into first. “Shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits” echoed from the tractor’s horn. I spent the rest of the day repairing a broken head gate on the number 4 irrigation ditch and plowing under fifty acres of dry meadow we had lost to gophers and sage. It was close to 5:00 before I got back to Spoon. He was midfield, baling four-by-six-foot bales of hay. The wind kicked

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up, and a dusting of alfalfa pollen covered my windshield as I bumped across a tier of tractor ruts Spoon had left in the freshly mowed field. Spoon still had to stack the hay onto a flatbed semi-trailer near the end of the field, but if he finished baling by 7:00 I knew he stood a chance. I realized right then that he was at least as pigheaded as my father. By the time Spoon started stacking hay it was nearly dark. A full moon, his tractor lights, and my high beams were his only light. Spoon passed in front of me and nodded when I first switched on my lights; other than that he didn’t say a word. The lowboy flatbed loader he was using had been around the ranch for close to thirty years. Metal grated against metal each time the loader uncradled another half-dozen bales, and I wondered whether each trip back to the field with the ancient loader would be Spoon’s last. My father showed up just before 8, his longnecked flashlight swinging at his side. Spoon topped off the flatbed’s twelve-foot high hay crown at 8:22. He climbed down from the hay puffy-faced, his skin a muddy river-bottom brown. Hay welts crisscrossed his arms, and alfalfa pollen had stained his bandanna golden brown. He tossed me his sweat-stained hat. A three-inch dusty ring of salt circled the crown. “I could use some water,” he said, out of breath. “I ran out a little before five.” He reached up on the flatbed and handed me one of his jugs. I ran to the pickup and filled it from my own thermos. When I returned, Spoon was lying on his back. A pillow of alfalfa rested beneath his head. My father was a couple of feet away, leaning on the corner of the semi-trailer, his flashlight wedged between two hay bales and shining into the sky.

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“I figured you’d make it when I drove by about six,” he said, looking down at a motionless Spoon. “I guess I gauged it pretty close.” Spoon didn’t answer. “Five hundred a month and board,” said my father. “Six,” said Spoon, his voice floating up from the ground. My father hesitated a moment, then nodded okay, grabbed his flashlight, and walked away. Spoon raised himself up and leaned into the semi’s tire. Then, resting his head against the greasy hub, he looked at me and said, “Just pour the water over me, T. J.” The water splashed down over his head onto his face and into his ears. “How ‘bout another jug full,” he said softly, shaking his head back and forth like a wet puppy drying off in the summer sun. On the second return from the truck, the realization that we finally had some help began to sink in. By Thanksgiving Spoon was settled in. The old bunkhouse bore his stamp. He had stripped, sanded, and polyurethaned the floors to a mirror-gloss finish. A half-dozen decaying Indian blankets were nailed to the walls. I helped him hang a five-point antelope head above the room’s potbellied stove. Spoon left the ranch each Saturday night and went to town. My mother claimed he gambled. My father said he drank. Whatever the vice, we hardly ever saw Spoon until midday Sunday, his one day off. Aside from his Saturday night absences, Spoon picked up his job ticket every day, and he never failed to carry his load.

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Spoon and my father didn’t talk much, and when they did their conversations always had to do with work. Spoon usually ate alone. On those rare occasions when Spoon took his meals with us, my mother would usually ease the tension, talking about the weather, growing blackberries, or recalling when she used to dance. Spoon ate fast, never looking up. My father did the same. Their rushing usually left my mother and I alone to finish our meals. After one meal during which neither man uttered a word and my mother and I once again were left alone, she offered a rare observation: “Spoon and your father are like wounded hawks scanning the rock edge of a cliff, looking for a perch, but never quite finding a safe place to land.” Winter hit quickly. Two snowstorms counter-punched the ranch, covering the entire valley with a three-foot blanket of snow. Spoon and I spent our evenings in the old bunkhouse, mending tack and shooting the breeze. During the day we traveled our winter range on snowmobiles, dragging food sleighs for the cattle filled with cottonseed cake. During our first subzero, hard winter freeze, Spoon and I spent all day tossing cake to half-a-hundred stranded cows. We had just finished running a cottonwood break and I had cut my engine near the break’s open end. Spoon coasted up next to me, engine off, and scooped up a ball of snow. He packed it lightly with both hands, stood up in his seat, and tossed the snowball into the wind. The snowball broke apart, twisting away on the breeze. Spoon tilted his head back and sniffed the air. “We better get back to headquarters,” he said, slipping back down into his seat.

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“After a couple more runs,” I said. “Not today. It’s gonna dump.” To the north I spotted a cloud bank, but otherwise the sky was clear. I could even see wisps of smoke rising from houses along the foothills. “We’ve got time,” I said. Spoon shrugged and started his machine. “You’re the boss,” he said. It took us close to thirty minutes to return to headquarters, pack up our sleighs with another load of cake, and get back out to the cows. By then, a slate-gray ceiling of snow clouds hovered above the valley floor. A stiff twenty-knot wind had the cattle tightly bunched. Spoon and I rode along the edge of the bunch dropping feed, the noise of our snowmobiles echoing on the wind. The smell of gasoline and cottonseed filtered through the air. I noticed Spoon continually checking the sky. When we dropped the last of our feed, I motioned for Spoon to head back for one more load. “Last run,” I hollered, bringing my snowmobile to a stop. Spoon shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he shouted, pulling up even with me. “We better move these twenty head into the cedar grove and take off quick.” The first wet flakes of snow dusted my snowmobile’s warm engine bonnet. A few tears of water streamed down its side. By the time we had moved the cattle into the trees, the snow was coming down in relentless sheets, blowing sideways, driving into our faces like the sharp edge of a knife. Ground blizzards kicked up, peppering our eyes with snow until our eyebrows turned to icy cauliflower stubs. Our twenty head of cattle were

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huddled side to side and head to butt, crunched together in a solid block. We ditched our feed sleighs and tied the two snowmobiles together with a four-foot rope. Spoon pulled me from the lead machine and hollered, “Get in the back.” He jumped back in and took off full throttle, snapping me into my seat. It took us nearly an hour to travel the two miles back to the house, with Spoon carefully threading his way around treacherous, frozen irrigation ditches and eight-foot gully drop-offs all the way. Most of the time he stayed hunkered on his knees, leaning into a thirty-knot wind, trying to keep the wind from blowing us both into an icy grave. By the time we reached the bunkhouse we were plaster casts of ice and snow. Later, in the cherry glow from the fully stoked potbellied stove, Spoon and I watched heat shadows dance around the room while we both tried to stroke some hint of circulation back into our feet. Spoon’s frozen eyebrows moved up and down in unison as he massaged the ball of his foot. “I told you it was gonna dump,” he said. They were the only words he spoke to me the rest of the night. The storm lasted three full days. We lost fifty cows, a couple of quarter horses, and thirty tons of hay as the valley struggled without power for nearly a week. My father called it the devil’s work and cussed at the sky. In the spring, when we’d feel the money crunch from a shortage of calves and feed, I knew he’d curse the blizzard even more. Two weeks after the storm, during a 50-degree mid-January teaser thaw, my mother came home from church and

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announced that she was certain that Spoon had a clairvoyant gift. “How else could you explain him knowing in advance about the storm, or that we’d lose two horses, or that our electricity would be out exactly thirty-five hours?” she said. “A blind man could’ve predicted that snow,” grumbled my father. My mother looked at him as if he couldn’t have been expected to understand. From then on, whenever she passed out the daily work chits, she asked Spoon if he expected bad weather or good. When calving season arrived our cows never had a problem birth and we never pulled a single cow. I watched Spoon sweet-talk 1,200-pound cattle, slapping them affectionately on the rumps when they refused to move. Sometimes he even whispered into their ears. His specialty was coaxing cows in labor, pleading with them to deliver while down on his knees looking at them eye-to-eye. When I told him he should have been a vet, he said, “How do you know I’m not?” One blustery March afternoon, while walking a windcleared meadow of stubble hay, Spoon taught me not to worry and, like my mother, I began to wonder about his clairvoyance. We were double-checking ear tags and brands. The Federal Land Bank had sent my father a past-due mortgage notice a couple of days earlier, and we were busy tallying up the exact number of cattle in the herd. The ground wasn’t quite frozen, and our boots left shallow imprints in the grass. “Your father worries too much,” said Spoon, who I was certain knew nothing of the bank notice. “Don’t conjure up

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monsters and they won’t eat you in your sleep. I tell myself that every day.” “He’s doin’ the best he can,” I said, surprised at how quickly I came to my father’s defense. “Things’ll smooth out,” said Spoon. We walked on in silence, weaving between cattle to an open sunny spot in the middle of the field. “See that cow over there? She’s gonna twin,” said Spoon, freezing in his tracks and then pointing out a Black Bally cow scratching her rump on a sagging corner post. “And the one next to her, she’ll lose her calf. You any good at graftin’?” Grafting is a way of fooling a cow into mothering a calf that’s not her own. We hadn’t grafted a calf in years. My father called it witchcraft. For him grafting a calf was a time-consuming, bloody mess that never seemed to work. Spoon said the secret to grafting was simple — knowing what to do ahead of time and sticking to it. That night the Black Bally had twins. The other cow Spoon had pointed out delivered a stillborn. I watched Spoon drag the stillborn carcass to the calving shed and skin it from the shoulder to under the tail. Using a nail for a needle and baling wire for thread, he sewed the dead calf’s skin to one of the Black Bally twins, then ushered the grafted calf back out into the corral. The mother of the stillborn sniffed the grafted calf from head to toe, licking at the awkwardly fitting coat. After a few minutes of indecision she finally let the calf begin to nurse. In silence Spoon walked back into the shed and started cleaning up. He brushed bloody clumps of sawdust and cedar into a single pile and tossed them into an oil drum by the door.

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Next he raked fresh cedar chips in to fill all the voids. Finally, he covered the floor with a layer of sawdust, threw what remained of the calf carcass into the drum, and walked over to me with a smile. I looked at the spot where he had worked so feverishly to graft the calf. Footprints in the sawdust were the only evidence of his work. The next morning my father and I stood on our front porch sipping coffee and talking. Steam rose from our mugs, evaporating in the crisp morning air. “Graftin’ is a matter of luck,” he said, swirling coffee around slowly in his mug. “Spoon’s a gambler who’s got a damn good relationship with luck. Remember, I hired him on a dare.” Spoon came walking toward us from the tack room in long, measured strides. His boots were caked with mud and a layer of dried blood. He tugged at his work gloves as he approached. Spoon wasn’t very talkative in the morning, but when he stepped up onto the porch the look on his face told me he had something to say. “Better think about a new way of irrigatin’ this spring,” said Spoon, looking at my father before scraping a clump of mud off the side of his boot. “We’re gonna have trouble with water for sure. Your irrigation ditches are way outta balance.” Ignoring Spoon’s comments, my father stared off into the distance. Spoon cleared his throat. “Your water’s not balanced,” he said, louder than before. “You read palms too?” asked my father, looking back at Spoon.

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Spoon kicked a cake of dirt from under the heel of his boot. The dirt cartwheeled down the steps. “You’re out of balance, and we’re in for a drought,” he said matter-of-factly. My father clenched his teeth and covered his mug, trapping in the steam. “I’ve run water in those ditches for over twenty years and I’ve never had a problem. I think I know what I’m doin’, Mr. Witherspoon. You can keep your fantasy to yourself.” It was the first time I’d ever heard my father use Spoon’s full name. They looked at one another, both ill at ease. My father tossed his coffee out into the yard, tuned, and disappeared into the house. He was back quickly, waving Spoon’s job ticket in his hand. “You’re workin’ motor pool the rest of the week. Think it’s time you leave the ranchin’ to me.” Spoon stuck the chit in his hatband and walked expressionless back up the drive. The problems with our hay meadows started late that spring. The Willow Creek runoff was a ghost of its normal amount, and every irrigation ditch on the place ran close to creek-bottom dry. Only one ditch in ten had topsoil firm enough to grow a patch of weeds, and the berms along the edges were turning to granular mounds that blew across the hay meadows like pollen in the wind. Spoon and I worked the cattle on what little native grass we had, moving them like checkers, hoping to cut down on overgrazing, looking for a runoff we knew would never come. My father complained that without water it was only a matter of time before the banking bureaucrats fanned

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out like a swarm of insects and took back not only our place but the whole valley floor as well. The last ten days in April I checked our Willow Creek head gate twice a day. By the tenth day the water level had dropped a foot. By the first of May every rancher in the valley was whispering drought. Late one evening during the first week of May, I was fly-fishing in a shallow Willow Creek pool normally filled with twenty-inch browns. Mayflies rose from the water’s surface, drifting off in the dry twilight air. I heard a truck on the road and watched Spoon bump toward me, the truck’s worn-out shocks squeaking all the way. He pulled up and stopped twenty yards short of the stream. “I got a remedy,” he shouted from the cab. “For what?” I asked. “For the drought.” He lowered his voice. “Come take a look.” I tugged at the suspenders on my hip waders and walked up the bank across a grassy slope toward the truck. Spoon was at the back of the truck, fidgeting with the tailgate chain. The truck bed was filled with eight-inch PVC drainage pipe. “If you can’t bring Moses to the mountain, you gotta find another way,” said Spoon. “We’ll pump the damn water down.” I laid my rod in the truck bed and shook my head. “You’ll see,” said Spoon, slamming the tailgate. “You’ll see.” The next morning, an hour before dawn, Spoon shook me from a fuzzy twilight sleep.

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“What’s up?” I said, blinking, shaking off fragmented dreams. “We need to get started before your dad passes a job ticket my way,” whispered Spoon. “I told you yesterday, we’ll just be spittin’ into the wind. There’s not enough water in Willow Creek to douse a campfire.” “Not from the way it’s set up now, usin’ gravity feed, but there’s plenty of water if we pump it down the hill. Come on outside and see what I got rigged up,” said Spoon. I struggled into a pair of jeans, still damp to the knees from mucking irrigation ditches the day before, and spread a dab of toothpaste on my thumb. Sucking the paste between my teeth, I inhaled the minty flavor and followed Spoon outside. Years before, my father had bought a cable-drum Caterpillar RD-6 tracklayer. He had been using it to backfill around a foundation the day Jimmy died. The next day he had parked it in the machine shed and covered it with an oily tarp. I stumbled behind Spoon into breaking daylight to find the RD-6 in the driveway, a dozer blade on the front and a backhoe attached to the rear. “Where’d you get the blade and the bucket?” I said. “Sometimes the Crows beat you. Sometimes you beat the Crows,” said Spoon, holding back a grin. “Hop on, we’re going for a ride.” The stretch from our first hay meadow to the head of Willow Creek was a two-mile uphill grade. On the way Spoon told

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me he was going to build a diversion levee that would carry water to every hay meadow on the ranch. “You got first water rights; I checked it out in Hardin,” said Spoon. I knew my father hadn’t looked at our water rights in years. He used to carry every bit of water information around in his head, down to the precise hour we had to pass the water flow downstream. And once he knew every ditch rider in the state. But times had changed. “Does my father know your plan?” I said. “No.” “He’ll blow a fuse.” “Not if he doesn’t know,” said Spoon. “I figure the levy will take us a couple of days, includin’ the backfill and settin’ the pump. Besides, it’s two miles back down to the house and your mother said she would help.” “You conned her too?” Spoon looked hurt. “She’s just gonna guide your dad’s work the opposite direction from ours. We’ll be done before he knows.” “He’ll can you when he finds out.” “I don’t think so, but if he does, won’t be nothin’ new.” “What if he looks for the Cat?” “I threw the tarp back over sixty bales of hay. Shaped ‘em up to look like the Cat. I just hope he doesn’t hear us grindin’ our way up this hill,” said Spoon, easing the RD-6 into a lower gear, kicking up a shower of dirt. The backhoe bucket swung back and forth in a lazy U until we were on a level spot a third of the way up Willow Creek 74

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grade. We crossed the creek no more than a few yards from where Jimmy had drowned. During irrigation season my father had me check all the high-country ditches, and because of Jimmy he rarely ventured up the hill. I watched the creek’s low, clear water thread its way around a couple of boulders, then scissor into an undercut along the bank and thought how right then, Jimmy could have walked across the stream. “We won’t have to worry too much about my father coming up here,” I said. Spoon didn’t comment until a few minutes later. “If you don’t face up to the shadows in your life, sooner or later they’ll block out all the light,” said Spoon. During a normal spring runoff, the Willow Creek headwaters thundered unrestrained down the steep grade to the valley floor. But today at the headwaters, we were greeted by the peaceful sound of a meandering brook. There hadn’t been snow pack in the mountains for over two months, and the water table was at a sixty-year low. Spoon pulled the Cat to a halt, and then turned it around in a slow half circle until the blade pointed back down the hill. “We’re gonna run a four-foot-wide ditch all the way back down,” he said, shading his eyes, gazing down at the ranch below. Greening willows followed the dry creek bed in a lazy S before folding out into the meadow below. “Starin’ won’t get the work done,” said Spoon, tossing a six-foot length of pipe at my feet. We started back down the hill, staking out our levy, setting wooden stakes every thirty feet. By the time we hit the meadow

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below, a dull ache followed the curvature of my spine. It was close to noon when Spoon said we had to get back up top. We walked back up the hillside counting our stakes. Halfway back Spoon said, “I got a Crow comin’ to dig a well and help us set the pump.” At the top of the hill a tall, rail-thin Indian was standing in the ditch. His skin was scarred from acne, and he didn’t show any sign of recognition until Spoon was within a couple of feet. “The pipe’s in the truck,” said Spoon, looking the man square in the eye. A drilling rig sat cockeyed on the hill, looking as though it might topple any minute. The rig’s cab was pockmarked, and its rocker panels had rusted away. “Pull your rig over here,” said Spoon, pointing to a level spot near the stream. The man hesitated and shook his head. “Too dangerous.” “Don’t run chicken on me,” said Spoon. “You won’t need to move it more’n twenty feet. And, you owe me, or have you forgot?” “Then we’re even?” asked the man. “Even as you ever get in life,” said Spoon. The other man pulled the rig over to the clearing, and after thirty minutes of leveling, cranking, and adjusting his drill he started the hole. He hit water at about forty feet. Spoon made him drill to sixty-five. The Indian drove casings into the hole, set the pump, and in an hour he was done. When he started to cap the well, Spoon walked over and told him to stop.

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“No need for that,” said Spoon. They said something to one another in a whisper. The Indian gave Spoon a nod, then got back in his rig and headed down the backside of the hill. Spoon started back down the front of the hillside with the blade. I followed, walking along in the Caterpillar’s track, inhaling the scent of diesel and sage, squaring up the blade’s shallow ditch with a shovel. Spoon ran the Cat in low, carving a path between our stakes all the way down the hill to the open eight-hundred-acre meadow below, never taking out a single stake. A narrow scar was left in the Caterpillar’s wake. He pivoted the Cat and then started back up, digging a trench with the backhoe at the Cat’s other end. I followed with a shovel and a rake, leveling, squaring, and smoothing the overspill. We stopped close to sundown about halfway up. Spoon said we could finish our trench, hook up the pipe, and run our test water the next day. A fine mist settled over the valley as we began our slow walk home. The next morning we started at dawn. Dew covered the Cat. Within a half hour the faded yellow Cat shimmered in the sun. “We’ll finish today,” said Spoon, glancing up at the sun. He hopped up into the cracked leather seat and revved the Cat. We trenched our way back past where Jimmy had died, through a stand of rough-cut timber into a warm-spring glade, and finally back to the mouth of Willow Creek. Spoon scooped out his last bucket of earth in the warm afternoon sun. I padded up a final berm of dirt, rounding off the edge. My back muscles felt as tight as steel. I straightened up, rubbing my side, and looked

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back down the grade, following the levee until it disappeared into the hay meadow below. “Nothing to do now but hook’er up,” said Spoon. I watched Spoon jerry-rig a generator and battery system to run off the engine of the RD-6. He mounted the whole thing with floodlights, claiming that with fuel his makeshift generator could run twenty-four hours a day. “There’s plenty of water up here. I guarantee we’ll get two cuttin’s of hay. Plenty for feed — plenty to sell,” he said. An hour before sunset we had our first trickle of water. Fifteen minutes later there was a steady stream. “Better any day than some temperamental creek,” said Spoon, slapping the side of the Cat. “No question,” I answered, watching the water roll back down the hill. “Next we’ll ditch out the south pasture, then the west-end flats,” said Spoon, breaking into a quick, satisfied grin. Just as suddenly the grin was gone. “I haven’t quite figured out how to break it to your dad,” he said. “I might need a little help with that.” “What can he say?” “Things both of us don’t want to hear,” said Spoon. We started our walk back down the hill, Spoon carrying a shovel, while I drug a rake. Thin, wispy clouds drifted by like campfire smoke rising in the evening air as the lone spur on Spoon’s right boot jingled out a cadence. I didn’t see the horse and rider closing in the distance until I heard the sound of hoof beats thirty yards away. My father brought his horse to a halt two feet from the trench. Spoon

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and I continued walking his way. We were in the flats where Jimmy had died. My father dismounted. His horse took a long, slow drink from the new ditch. In the level glade the ditch ran more slowly than at the top, and the water just seemed to meander by. “Somebody went to a hell of a lot of work to run this trench,” said my father, looking at Spoon, then at me. I smiled, hoping my smile would flush him out, but it failed to break his cold, hard stare. “You should’ve put more effort into making sure I wouldn’t know,” he added, staring at the water as if he expected it to stop. “Was any of this your idea, T. J.?” “I had to drag him kickin’ and screamin’ all the way,” said Spoon. My father paced back and forth along the trench in broad, measured steps. He was nervous, walking ground he hadn’t seen in years. He looked around the clearing, scanning it slowly as if he needed permission to be where he was. “What if the sky opens up and we break this drought? What good is a penny-ante levee to us then?” Spoon answered quickly, as though he knew the question before it had been asked. “We can cut back the pump from 150 gallons a minute to any number you want. But, we’re in for a low-water mark around here for at least a couple more years.” “You’re sure of that?” said my father, staring directly at Spoon, challenging him with his eyes. “As sure as my name is Spoon.”

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My father walked over to a quaking stand of aspen. The tree closest to him was thirty feet high. Elk had antler-notched the trunk just above my father’s head. He picked at the trunk, snapping off a piece of bark. His eyes looked sad and strained. “These trees were no more than saplings thirty years ago. Seems like you can’t hold back something when it decides it wants to grow. Come over here and I’ll show you something,” he said, motioning to me and then to Spoon. We crossed the dry creek bed and walked over to a small island between our new irrigation ditch and Willow Creek. In the middle of the island a two-ton boulder jutted out at us. “This boulder must sink down pretty deep,” said my father. “Time was, it was sittin’ in the middle of the creek. Now it’s out here by itself. Guess it’ll never move.” “It might not be stuck down as deep as you think,” said Spoon. My father stared at the rock for a while. Then he put his shoulder into it, trying to move it by himself. The boulder didn’t budge. Spoon and I offered a hand. All three of us struggled with the rock until a circle of dirt broke around the base. We stepped back, out of breath. “We can try it with the Cat,” said Spoon. “No,” said my father. “All it needed was a little loosenin’ up.” My father walked over to his horse and gathered up the reins. “Did I ever tell you about my grandfather’s cattle empire?” he said to Spoon. “Nope,” replied Spoon.

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Spoon

“Well, maybe I’ll fill you in when we get back to the house.” We started walking down the hillside three abreast. After a while my father handed me the horse’s reins. I felt the mare loping along easily behind me, warm breath from her nostrils pushing all three of us ahead.

“Spoon” was first published in Writers’ Forum, Vol. 18, 1992.

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Prime

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Prime

PRIME

M

Y SISTER KIM is a ticket-scalping pro. She’s been

a scalper since she finished college, nearly eleven years ago. I want her to stop, but she says the money’s just too good. I worry that something catastrophic might happen to her, that she’ll be arrested, attacked by some disgruntled buyer, mugged for all the money she carries around…maybe even worse. She counters that I worry too much, that she’s just a middleperson, like a specialist on the stock exchange floor, helping money seek the proper “mark.” She says there’s a price for everything, even for a moon-rocket engineer like me. Kim has a yearly scalping schedule. It’s taped neatly to the inside of her bedroom closet door. She does East Coast events in the summer and fall because it’s warm and people 85

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want to be out and about. “Besides, that’s when I can show my legs, and legs have always sold,” she says. During the winter she travels west, shuttling back and forth between Dallas and L.A. She keeps track of her transactions in a ledger she calls “the bank.” She can get you a secondbalcony Lakers ticket for $10 over face, but it’s $100 over face if you want to sit courtside near the stars. World Series tickets run anywhere from 3 to 5X prime — ‘X’ being Kim’s multiplier shorthand for $30 to $500 over face — depending on the event. Kim roots for the Cubs. She says some Cubs fans would exchange their homes for Series tickets, but first the team would have to win a pennant, something they haven’t done for over fifty years. Kim’s patiently waiting. I know she’ll take some houses in the end. I’ve asked Kim, who are all these people who are so eager to pay? She answers that they’re the off-center dreamers and drifters of the world. People who want to be something they’re not, close to someone special, near the pulse of the land. She keeps a list of her clients in a leather-bound book, neatly alphabetized and highlighted by event: Hard Rock, Super Bowl, Broadway Opening, Soul. Every client’s name has been entered in her neat calligrapher’s hand. Some of the names you would recognize for sure. New Yorkers, she says, are the easiest to tap — but not the man or woman on the street. According to Kim, those people are too busy trying to eke out a life. Kim says it’s the wanna-bes who make her day. I’ve seen her book. It bears her out. New York City clients fill pages one through ten — like the man with

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perfect pitch who wanted tickets to hear Leontyne Price sing at the Met. He harassed Kim for weeks, demanding a front row seat. Dead center, nothing less, he said. He told Kim that he and Ms. Price had studied voice together when they were both barely into their teens. He sang for Kim over the phone in a gravelly baritone. Kim finds out things about the people she scalps and then enters stars in her book beside their names. One star means a one-time sale. She’ll never see the person again. Two stars and they may be back. Three stars indicate they’ll definitely do business again. It turned out the man with perfect pitch actually owned a string of french-fry concessions, Danny’s Deep Sweet Fries, famous along the Jersey coast from Cape May Landing to Perth Amboy. Perfect Pitch got his tickets for 3X prime. Three stars are neatly stenciled beside his name. Kim keeps saying that she’s going to head down South soon. She says Southerners aren’t as slow as they seem. During southern swings Kim has to really toe the mark. Two years ago she had a dozen 3X prime tickets for a Dolly Parton concert — in the Astrodome itself. The tickets turned out to be counterfeit stamped. She had already sold them to a group of oilmen from Galveston. The Houston police knew that bogus tickets were making the rounds. I’m sure Kim would have been arrested, maybe even done some time, but, luckily, a lawyer she had dated in college worked for the Houston D.A. At a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new shopping center, where Kim was working the crowd, he passed her the inside word. Kim couldn’t get the tickets back from her marks until she convinced them she might

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end up going to jail. In the end, she had to pay the oilmen 4X prime. She was a steampipe full of anger for the next three weeks. Scalping is a business. It has recessions like everything else. Kim says right now business is a little slow. “People don’t spend money on fun when their butts are in a sling,” she says. I know the feeling. I’ve had to cut back myself since the aerospace industry hit a slump. Middle-management engineers are always the first to go. No one at work has said a word, but I’ve been through turndowns before. I know the signs. Kim says one of the things you have to do during a down turn is cut back on your stock. She says the people who supply her with tickets are hurting, too. I’ve taken Kim to lunch meetings with her suppliers lots of times. Three gray-flannelled men with artificial smiles. They wear their hair slicked straight back and sport thousand dollar suits. At lunch they joke and call me “Rocket,” or “Dr. C.” Kim sends me eye signals to make sure I stay cool. Whenever we meet with them Kim wears her most seductive model’s smile. Sometimes, I think her face will crack. By the time we’ve finished lunch, Kim always has the suppliers eating out of her hand. They pick up the tab and end our meetings, saying, “Keep up the prime.” Our father wanted to be an engineer. Instead he worked for Baldwin Piano in Cincinnati for over thirty years. The factory overlooked the city, neatly pocketed into the side of a hill. He was a scale design stringer for baby grands. Every day for three

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and a half decades he would calculate the piano-wire tension needed to produce a single perfect note. Everyone called him Keys. He could play a trumpet like Satchmo, but he never chased his dreams. My mother threatened to leave him if he did. Mother called me Chip, and Kim, her Precious Jewel. Kim modeled her way through college doing underwear shoots for mail-order catalogs and location promos for whiskey and wine. She was in the Marshall Fields catalog three years in a row. They didn’t show her face, but it was her body just the same. During college she used to bring cases of California cabernet back down to San Diego because she knew it was my favorite wine. Sometimes we would open a bottle after Kim had been on her feet all afternoon hawking wine coolers and gin. Kim would kick her shoes into the air, rub her feet, and fold into my beanbag chair, saying, “Nothing sells poison like wholesome looks.” I would have gotten married once if it hadn’t been for Kim. Halfway into the relationship she said my fiancée had battery acid in her veins. After that I started to question Julie’s every move. Julie asked me why I was suddenly second-guessing everything she said. I backed off a bit, and our romance started to inch uphill. Things were nearly patched up until the three of us went to see The Temptations at the Detroit Twenty Grand. With Kim’s connections, we were seated almost on the stage. Julie said it made her feel too closed in. The Temptations were in the middle of their act when Kim and Julie started flashing each other icy stares. By evening’s end they were into an allout glaring war. For the next two months Julie and I coasted downhill until we finally bottomed out.

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Kim’s had men in her life, but they never seem to stick. I think she intimidates them too much. One was a baseball player in the minor leagues. He had a hillbilly accent and dipped Copenhagen snuff. Kim liked him a lot, but she said he didn’t light her fire. He never made the big leagues, but he still writes her every now and then. I’ve seen the letters on her dresser and in her drawers. An engineer I work with, Jimmie Leed, has seen me with Kim. He’s forever saying, “Man, your sister has one long set of legs.” I wish he’d keep what he thinks to himself. He wears suspenders and $80 shirts. Jimmie’s not the type Kim would give the time of day. But then again, you never know. So I asked her at dinner one evening if he was a man she had ever really noticed. “You mean the suspender-shirted yup? He wants to be somebody too much,” she said. She summed him up nicely. I wasn’t a bit surprised. Kim says I could make a lot of money if I went into business for myself. She says she thinks I have talent that’s never been tapped. I wired her house for all-around sound and set up her phones for voice mail before either one had been patented by IMX or AT&T. Kim says I’m a genius. It’s just that my ideas are out in front of their time. I think this recession’s going to cause an employee cutback at work. Jimmie Leed agrees. “It won’t hurt you,” he told me one day at lunch. “Your sister’s a golden parachute.” I felt the envy in his voice. Tonight, at dinner, Kim tells me she’s heading South next week. “Go with me,” she pleads. “You need a change.” I tell her

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I can’t, and trigger her best model’s smile. She pulls a plane ticket from her purse and inches it slowly across the table my way. The ticket seems to glide on air. Suddenly I begin to wonder about the long-term cost, uncertain if the ticket is a gift or somehow tied to prime?

“Prime” was first published in Agni, Vol. 35, 1992.

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The Can Men

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The Can Men

The Can Men

T

HE ALLEYS BEHIND THE HIGH-RISE OFFICE BUILDINGS

downtown were prime locations for the can men to enjoy a good night’s sleep and not have to watch out for the police looking to move them on to another location, or for thugs hoping to rob them of their last quarter. If they arrived early enough, between 6 and 7 p.m., they could prop up their cardboard houses in the back door-way of one of the businesses, then stuff the corners with newspapers and rags to block out the wind, pull out their bedrolls, and settle in for the night. There were always easy pickings in the trash dumpsters, too. The business world didn’t place the same value on aluminum cans as Morgan and Dittier. “Come on, Dittier,” said Morgan. “My cart’s already half full. Quit your slow-assing. It’s gonna snow.” 95

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All afternoon, dark clouds had been drifting over the Front Range of the Rockies into Denver. Morgan could feel the sharp bite of the first hard December freeze. Four bitter months were on the way. The temperature was still in the mid-30s, not nearly as cold as it was going to get. In an hour or two, the can men knew the air would turn perfectly still. An eerie calm would settle; then it would start to snow. It was always the same when a cold front came through. A stiff breeze had moved in from the northwest, and the air was filled with the nauseating smell from the Purina rendering plant. From late October until early April that odor served as their first warning to seek shelter. It was a scent Morgan and Dittier had learned to fear. “Come on, Champ,” said Morgan, a muscular cigar-stump of a black man with a shaved head and skin as smooth as a carnival Nubian’s. “If we hurry up we’ll be early enough to stake out a spot behind First National. We get one of those and, shit, in the mornin’, we’ll be dry as a bone.” Dittier pulled his empty shopping cart up next to Morgan’s. “Quit your mopin’, Champ. I told you yesterday to let me pull that tooth. Now you’re payin’ the price. Better get to looking harder or the only thing you’ll have to show for a day of scarfing is a cart full of snow,” joked Morgan. On their trip down the alley between Sixteenth and Seventeenth Avenues they struck gold. Morgan spotted a man emptying trash. They stepped back into a doorway. Peeking around the corner, they watched the man finish. Then, very deliberately, the two of them approached the dumpster.

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“Keep a lookout. We don’t want to get run off,” whispered Morgan. He shinnied up the side of the eight-foot-high dumpster and dropped down inside. It was empty except for a corner filled with greasy shopping bags, papers, and a treasure chest of aluminum cans. The wind was already howling through the dumpster, causing the trash inside to swirl around. A sudden gust filled Morgan’s eyes with dust and grit. Winter gnats buzzed around his head. The bottom of the dumpster was wet and slick. Morgan had to step carefully or risk falling into the ooze that covered the floor. He started tossing cans over the top to Dittier. Some still contained soda or beer and the contents spilled onto Morgan and Dittier’s hands. Morgan swatted at a bug, missed, and wiped his sticky hands on the front of his coat. When he hurled out the last can, he knew they almost had their limit. Morgan climbed from the dumpster, smiling. His cart was full. Dittier’s was halfway there. Two full carts of cans, at two dollars a pound, would bring twelve dollars. Since the Safeway up on Thirteenth Avenue had installed a can crusher, Morgan no longer ran the risk of cutting up his hands or jamming a heel from smashing a day’s collection of cans. Now he simply dumped them in the crusher and waited for the machine to spit out their money. The can men made two more sweeps down the alleys behind Fourteenth and Fifteenth. Morgan surged ahead, carefully surveying every possibility. Dittier dragged behind. “Damn it, you still ain’t but half-full,” said Morgan, dropping back and examining Dittier’s cart once again. “One of these

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days I’m gonna quit lookin’ out for you. You got me pullin’ all the load.” Dittier grimaced in pain, then looked sheepishly over at Morgan. Dittier’s face was a dry wash of wrinkles from too many years in the sun, his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and he had a four-day patchy growth of beard. “I didn’t mean that, Dittier. I just want us to beat the weather. If we have to drag these cans over to the Safeway in the snow, it’ll be too late to get a good spot, and we’ll spend the night freezin’ our asses. Understand?” Dittier nodded yes. “Come here, Champ; let me take a look at that jaw,” said Morgan. Dittier screwed up his face while Morgan patted his swollen jaw. “Shit, it’s twice as big as yesterday and it’s real warm too. Better let me take a look inside.” Dittier opened his mouth wide like a child showing off a new tooth. “No wonder it’s killing you. There ain’t no top part of that tooth left. The damn thing’s broke off down to the gum. You better let me pull it. The pain ain’t gonna stop till I give what’s left of that sucker some fresh air and sunshine.” Dittier gave Morgan a long questioning look, then nodded okay. Morgan walked around to his cart and opened up the smaller of two plastic bags he kept attached to the sides. Inside were a few tools, an oily parka, and a blistered leather shaving kit. He pulled out a pair of pliers. Then he walked over to the other bag and rummaged through old boots and shoes until he

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found some mildewed paper towels. Morgan’s ‘house,’ an old Amana freezer box painted with Thompson’s water seal, was neatly folded flat and tied to the bottom of the shopping cart. The clothesline holding it down was unraveling. Morgan teased out an extra flap of cardboard from inside the box and tore off a piece the size of a half-dollar. He wrapped two paper towels around the cardboard and handed it to Dittier. “Hold on to this, Champ,” said Morgan. He reached into his coat pocket, took out a half-empty pint of Old Crow, and soaked another towel for rubbing down the pliers. “Now, hold out your towel,” he said. Dittier obliged. Morgan poured half of the remaining whiskey over it. “You can kill what’s left of it, Champ.” He handed Dittier the bottle. Dittier swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp and gave the empty bottle back to Morgan. Morgan looked at it for a moment, shook his head, and tossed the bottle aside. “The things I do for you,” said Morgan, mussing Dittier’s thinning blond hair. “When I’m done pullin’ what’s left of that tooth, I want you to bite down on that paper towel, but not too hard, OK?” Dittier nodded his head up and down rapidly. “It’ll be good for disinfectin’ the wound, and biting down on it will help stop the bleedin’. Now, open up.” Dittier opened his mouth with a grunt. Morgan struggled with the tooth for over ten minutes while Dittier stoically endured the pain. Neither of them expected bleeding to become a complication. Morgan always claimed that getting a wound

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‘dirty’ was the risk. During their years on the streets every cut, scrape, and gash had always stopped bleeding. This time was different. “Hell, I can’t figure it. I got the rest of that tooth right here,” said Morgan, rolling the bloody root between his thumb and forefinger. “Lemme take another look. Maybe I can see where the blood’s comin’ from.” Morgan took a makeup compact from his shaving kit, opened it, and held the cracked mirror up next to Dittier’s pale, thin face. “Maybe I can get a better look with this.” He pushed the mirror as far back into Dittier’s mouth as he could. “Try not to breathe, Champ, you keep foggin’ up the mirror.” Dittier took a gulp of air and held his breath. Morgan angled the mirror around until it was covered with blood. “Beats me. I don’t know where the blood’s coming from, Champ.” He wiped off the mirror with a towel and closed the compact with a snap. “It don’t look real good.” Dittier let out a long, warm stream of air, and a trail of condensation rose in front of his face. Still puzzled, Morgan took off his faded Navy watch cap and rubbed his forehead. “We better head for Denver General and have somebody there take a look before you bleed out on me like a stuck pig. At least it’s on the way to the Safeway. We’ll get you patched up and with a little luck still have time to dump our cans and scope out a good spot for the night.” He handed Dittier another paper towel. “Bite down on this. And button your coat up all the way. Ain’t summer out here.”

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The can men stashed their carts under a wheelchair ramp at a side entrance to the hospital. Inside the building, they followed the blue line on the floor to EMERGENCY. A tiny woman in her early twenties was seated behind the counter in the waiting room, thumbing through medical charts. She hardly took notice when Morgan and Dittier walked in. “The Champ here’s bleedin’ and it don’t seem to want to stop. How about a little help?” asked Morgan, leaning on the counter. “Where is he bleeding from?” The woman looked up briefly from a chart. “His mouth. I had to pull a tooth for him,” said Morgan. “You what!” She stood up and walked around from behind the counter. The blood-soaked paper towel was poking from the corner of Dittier’s mouth. He was chewing on it, slowly wavering back and forth. His eyes were glazed, and his face was ashen gray. “You better come with me,” she said, taking Dittier by the arm. “I’m comin’ too,” said Morgan. “Not so fast. See that desk over there in the far corner?” “Sure,” said Morgan. “We’ll need you to fill out some forms for your friend. He’s in no shape to do it. Ask for Molly and hurry up. The doctor will need the information pretty quick.” She steadied Dittier by his arm for a moment and then ushered him into the emergency room. Morgan rolled his eyes in frustration. He didn’t like being separated from Dittier. He distrusted doctors and hated

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hospitals. Chewing nervously on his lower lip, Morgan walked over to the desk to complete the paperwork. He completed the forms carefully and hurried back outside to check on their carts. Their cans were safe, but the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees and the first wet flakes of snow had started to hit the pavement. The streetlights had just come on and the high-pressure sodium tubes inside still flickered. Filtered through the light, the snow looked like tiny flecks of silver. The streets were still warm enough to melt the snow, but Morgan knew the temperature would keep dropping, and eventually the snow would begin to stick. “Shit,” he mumbled. He pulled up the collar of his coat, covered the carts with two ragged plastic bags he pulled from his pocket, and headed back inside. Dittier was slouched on an examination table, still dizzy, with an I.V. in his arm when Morgan entered the emergency room. The instant he saw Morgan, Dittier sat up straight and grinned. Morgan smiled back and patted Dittier’s knee. The room was a brightly lit, antiseptic, white box with five examination tables. Gurneys lined the walls. The floor was institutional gray tile, waxed and buffed to a glossy shine. Morgan noticed a strong alcohol smell. Dittier’s table was the one closest to the back wall. A canvas drape hung from a track in the ceiling and surrounded the table on three sides. The drape shifted, floating in on them everytime someone walked by. Dittier’s legs dangled from the edge of the table. He was swinging them freely, back and forth. They would rotate five or six times, then Dittier would let his heels bang against the side of the table. Intermittently, Morgan would send Dittier a

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piercing glance, but his stares only brought an ear-to-ear grin from Dittier, who would stop momentarily, then start his game all over again. The doctor attending Dittier was a serious-faced first-year resident — starchy and formal. He pulled the drapes shut around them as he walked in and quickly scanned Dittier’s medical chart. Several times he tried to get Dittier to open his mouth, without success. He returned to the chart and puzzled over it for a moment before another of Dittier’s loud bangs interrupted him. “I won’t be able to determine what’s wrong with your friend if he won’t cooperate,” said the doctor, looking over at Morgan. Morgan shot Dittier a look, and Dittier’s leg stopped in mid-swing. “He won’t open because every time he does it starts bleedin’ all over again, Doc. Ain’t like him to bleed. I seen him cut a hundred times worse bulldoggin’ a steer. Never like this, though. Ain’t right.” Morgan’s response unsettled the doctor, so he picked up the medical chart and read it again. Name: Dittier Atkins Address:Garth Hotel on Blake Street - Denver Age: 52 Occupation: Professional Rodeo Cowboy Insurance: none Patient’s Appraisal of Health: excellent Smoking History:two packs a day(Lucky Strikes) “Have you ever had bleeding problems before, Mr. Atkins? Just shake your head yes or no,” said the doctor. Morgan

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interrupted. “I told you before, Doc. Quit wastin’ our time, just patch him up. This ain’t no social visit.” The doctor ignored Morgan and continued reading the chart. Bleeding Disorders: no Weight: 190 Medications: don’t use drugs, only Beer Name & Address of Responsible Party: Williams, same Method of Payment:

Morgan

He asked Dittier a few more questions, but in response he got only a series of nods and grunts. Finally, he persuaded Dittier to take the blood-soaked paper towels out of his mouth. The extraction site was still oozing. The doctor removed a gelatinous clot and covered the wound with a 4x4 gauze pad. Dittier clamped down on the gauze with enough force to crack a jawbreaker and gritted his teeth. “Not so hard,” instructed the doctor. Still perplexed, he took a last look at Dittier’s chart. Operations:Gallbladder(and once on my back) Fractures: Lots Diabetes: no Recent gain or loss of weight: no History of Heart Attack or Stroke: no Ulcer: no Psychological or Emotional Disorders: Personal Physician:

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Fifteen infectious diseases were listed near the bottom of the history form. Morgan had circled tuberculosis. “Do you know when he had tuberculosis?” asked the doctor, finally accepting the fact that Morgan would have to be his interpreter. “When he was a kid, Doc, and he healed up just fine. You don’t think a man could get to be a world-class bull rider with consumption, do you? It ain’t possible. You wouldn’t have the strength. Besides, T.B. don’t make you bleed, just cough.” The doctor turned away from Morgan for a moment and partially opened the drape. “I’m going to need some jaw films on this one, stat,” he said to a short, squat radiology technician before turning back to Dittier, perfunctorily changing the bloody dressing, and shaking his head in puzzlement. The technician returned, pulled back the drapes, and rolled in a portable x-ray unit. Morgan stepped aside as the technician pulled the machine to a standstill in front of Dittier. Dittier looked frightened and started to edge toward the end of the table. “It’s all right, Champ, they’re just gonna take some pictures,” said Morgan, his tone soft and reassuring. Dittier looked directly into Morgan’s eyes, and when Morgan nodded that it was okay, Dittier inched back to the center of the table. “I need one periapical shot above the extraction site, and a lateral jaw film,” said the doctor to the technician. “James here is going to take some x-rays, Mr. Atkins. I need you to cooperate.” Dittier squeezed his eyes shut tightly and tensed up all the muscles in his face. The technician slipped the first film

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packet into Dittier’s mouth smoothly. He quickly exposed it and moved rapidly to take the second. In less than a minute he was finished. He opened the drapes to back the x-ray machine out as one of the nurses walked by. The doctor stepped out and stopped her. “Sharon, I may need some platelets on this one,” he said. “Would you bring me back a lab form?” She nodded and hurried away. The doctor turned, closed the drape, and directed his attention back to Morgan. “Why on earth would he try to take out a tooth on his own, and exactly how long has he been bleeding?” “He didn’t do it. I did, and he’s been bleedin’ steady, for a good thirty minutes,” said Morgan. “Playing dentist wasn’t a wise idea, Mr. Williams.” “Hell, I seen it done before. I watched a dentist pull a tooth for Dittier up at Frontier Days, in Cheyenne, back in ‘74. But the bleedin’ stopped right away. Everything was going right that year. Seventy-four, that’s the year we won the bull ridin’ title. Earned over seventy grand. Dittier’s wearin’ the championship buckle.” The doctor looked down at Dittier’s belt. Just below his sunken stomach was a tarnished, pockmarked silver buckle. In the center, set in high relief, was a cowboy riding a steer. Dittier grinned with pride as he put his two thumbs inside the belt on either side of the buckle and pushed it out for the doctor to get a better look. The doctor looked at it for a second or two and then turned his attention back to Morgan. He continued to listen carefully, hoping for some clue to Dittier’s bleeding.

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“He was the best, Doc, the best. And me, I was his clown, right there with him, livin’ the high times, never expectin’ to touch down. We had a drop-top Electra 225 and a top-of-theline Stiedham trailer — for haulin’ our horses. Lots of times, back then, the motels and hotels was free. We got breakfast for nothin’, and big dinners on occasion, too. We had it good, Doc. We was rodeo superstars.” A stoop-shouldered technician pulled the drape partially open and handed the doctor Dittier’s first x-ray. The doctor placed it on the viewer. The bright white light from the view box showed a black, empty socket where the tooth had been. “Has your friend ever injured his jaw?” asked the doctor. Morgan hesitated before answering. “Once. Broke it down in New Mexico, in Gallup, near the tail end of our career. We was still doin’ pretty good, wearing hundred-dollar Stetsons, the custom kind, steamed and creased to order. Dittier drew a bull — name of Piston. A real shit-ass of an animal. Piston threw him on his face and busted the Champ’s jaw. That bull would’ve stomped his head too, if I hadn’t suckered it from over in my barrel. Anyway, we collected fifteen hundred bucks. It saw us through the winter — that and selling the Electra. We hung on to the horses until ‘79. After that, ain’t much to tell.” “That’s strange. There’s nothing on his x-ray that looks like a healed fracture.” “Must have healed real good, that’s all,” said Morgan. “Maybe,” said the doctor, examining the x-ray closely once again. “How long have you two been on the streets?” “Since Dittier hurt his back in ‘85. But we do okay. Ain’t that right, Dittier?”

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Dittier nodded yes. “He can’t work because of his back. But I get enough laborpool jobs to keep our bellies full, and if our food situation gets too bad — I tell them old ladies down at the Salvation Army we found Jesus. Now that you know our life’s history, could you get back to fixing him up?” “It’s not quite that simple. I still don’t know why he’s bleeding. He may have to be admitted.” “Not on your life, Doc. We don’t separate that easy. I ain’t leavin’ him here for you to practice on. I’ll take him with me and tend him myself. Let’s go, Dittier.” Dittier hopped up from the table and pulled the I.V. from his arm. “Don’t!” shouted the doctor, grabbing Dittier’s arm and blocking his exit. “At least wait for the other x-ray.” Dittier gave Morgan a confused look. Morgan, who had the drape already halfway open, closed it slowly. He rubbed his cheek several times and then let out a sigh. “You ain’t gonna do nothin’ to hurt him, are you, Doc?” asked Morgan. “Certainly not.” “How about it, Dittier, you want to stay?” Dittier slowly nodded his head up and down. “OK. But I ain’t budgin’ from his side till he’s fixed.” “Fair enough,” said the doctor, adjusting Dittier’s I.V. “Have a seat back here.” He patted the tabletop a couple of times and Dittier sat back down. “And Mr. Williams, you can watch everything from right down there,” he added, pointing to the foot of the table.

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One of the technicians stepped in and handed the doctor the second x-ray of Dittier’s jaw, He slipped it onto the view box and recognized the dark spider web pattern of a small ruptured artery. “I’ve found the problem. It’s a broken blood vessel. I can have you out of here less than thirty minutes,” he added, a tone of satisfaction in his voice. Dittier and Morgan looked at each other and grinned. The doctor walked out. A few moments later a technician rolled in a cart with an electrosurgery machine. It was about the size of a typewriter, and extending from one end was a long black wire with a silver attachment that looked like the kind of pick used to remove the insides of a walnut. The doctor walked back in with a surgical assistant who tested the machine. When the doctor was satisfied the machine was working properly, he turned to Morgan. “This will take a little while. I just have to cauterize the wound. You might be more comfortable outside in the waiting room.” “No way, Doc, I’ll just stand right here.” He looked over at Dittier. “You okay, Champ?” Dittier nodded yes. Morgan gave him a thumbs-up sign. The doctor injected the right side of Dittier’s mouth with a local anesthetic, waited a couple of minutes, and began. Morgan moved down from his position at the foot of the table as soon as the doctor started. He squeezed between the doctor and the assistant who was running the suction. After three or four attempts to look Morgan off, they gave up. For the next fifteen minutes Morgan was breathing down their necks. When

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they finished, the assistant quickly removed the electrosurgery unit from the room. “I’m through, Mr. Atkins. The bleeding has stopped, but I want you to keep biting on this gauze for another half-hour. Am I clear?” “Don’t worry, Doc, I’ll make sure he does,” said Morgan, feigning a punch to Dittier’s shoulder. Dittier reared back and smiled. Morgan took a pack of Lucky Strikes from his coat and taped out a half-smoked cigarette. “You can’t do that in here. If you really must smoke, you can do it outside, beyond the waiting room,” said the doctor. “Okay with you, Dittier? I’ll just be a minute,” said Morgan. Dittier nodded. Morgan put the pack of cigarettes back in his coat pocket, stuck the half-smoked Lucky behind his ear, and headed through the drape. The doctor turned his attention back to Dittier. “I still can’t piece this whole thing together, Champ. Your x-rays and your medical history just don’t match. There’s no old fracture of your jaw, and between you and me, I don’t think you weigh anywhere near the 190 pounds it says here on your chart.” Dittier held his head down, staring at the floor. “Are you certain about the broken jaw?” Dittier raised his head and his eyes drifted slowly over to the x-ray view box. He inched his arms down across his stomach until his weathered hands covered his belt buckle. Finally he glanced over at the doctor and started swinging his

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legs. On the fourth swing both of his heels hit the table with a loud bang. The doctor looked at Dittier’s hands and smiled. “You know, Champ, that buckle is pretty interesting. How about letting me have a second look?” Dittier shook his head several times. “Just one look — how about it — for a rodeo fan?” Dittier smiled and removed his right hand from over the buckle. A few minutes later Morgan was back. The doctor met him as he parted the drape. He was holding Dittier’s belt in his hand. “I believe the buckle is yours, Mr. Williams.” “Ain’t mine. It’s Dittier’s.” “But it has your name engraved on the back.” Morgan gave Dittier a disappointed look and shook his head. Dittier began nervously biting his lower lip. “Why the charade?” asked the doctor. Morgan hesitated a moment before answering. “I just figured you might do more for Dittier if he was a champion instead of a clown. Same way it works out on the streets.” “This isn’t the streets,” said the doctor. Morgan gave the doctor a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, Doc, but people got to stick with what they know.” Morgan helped Dittier on with his coat and pulled the skinny rodeo clown’s collar up tightly around his neck. “It’ll be freezin’ outside by now, Champ, so bundle up,” said Morgan. He looked back over at the doctor. “Better let him have his belt back,” he added.

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Dittier rubbed the belt buckle across Morgan’s dirty coat sleeve several times. Then he reached under his own baggy coat and put the belt back on. Morgan offered up a punch to Dittier’s midsection, pulling it at the last second. Dittier feigned collapse, then sprang erect and burst into a series of wheezy snickers that joined Morgan’s booming unrestrained laughter.

“The Can Men” was first published in Writers’ Forum, Vol.16, Fall, 1990.

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ONE-ON-ONE

T

HE BALL DROPPED THROUGH THE BASKET, snapping

the net, and rolled to the edge of the court where it stopped at the foot of a rusted bicycle rack. “Nineteen-all,” said Roland, tossing the basketball out to Arcell at center court. Arcell dribbled to the top of the free-throw circle, powered over to the baseline, and finally slipped back out to the left side of the key. Roland stuck with him on every move. The ball gave off a high-pitched ring each time it bounced off the asphalt. Arcell stopped his dribble and leaned into Roland. Then, pushing off Roland’s shoulder, he faded backward and released an off-balance fifteen-foot jumper into the air. The net popped. “You pushed off, Arcell. Dammit, you pushed off again.” 115

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“Bullshit. Just a little contact, that’s all. Quit your bitchin’. This ain’t the Peewee League out here, Roland.” “Gimme the ball, you red-faced hillbilly. I’ll show you what league it is,” grumbled Roland. Beads of sweat dripped off Roland’s pockmarked face. His undershirt remained pasted to his chest, and a V-shaped band of perspiration stained the seat of his sweats. A week before, northwest Colorado’s Yampa Valley had been pelted by four straight days of late August high-country rains. The ground beneath the eighty-year-old spruce trees lining the east side of the court was spotted with puddles. Insects skittered across the puddles’ stagnant surfaces. Arcell raced for the ball, trying to reach it before it rolled into one of the muddy spots along the edge of the court. A patch of mud clung to the ball as he picked it up. “Don’t leave mud on it, Arcell. I don’t want no mud-ball screwin’ up my game,” Roland hollered from across the court. “Clean it off.” Earlier, with the score tied at fifteen, Arcell had called a time-out and stripped down to his bottom sweats. Now his torso was beet red, his face flushed, and his breathing labored. He wiped the ball off on his pant’s leg, inspected it, and bouncepassed it back out to Roland at center court. “It’s clean. C’mon, man. Inbound the ball,” he called. Roland tossed the ball out ahead of him and into play. He dribbled straight to the free-throw line and fired a fifteen-foot jump shot. The ball bounced high off the front of the rim as Roland started for the basket, but by the time he reached the middle of the key, Arcell had slam-dunked the errant shot home.

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“Up by one, Cocoa-man.” Calling Roland by a playground name he’d used all their lives, Arcell’s face was lit by a broad grin. “Up by two and it’s my win.” “I know the rules, Cowboy. Talkin’ don’t win no wars. You gotta do a little shootin’ too. Let’s go.” Roland trotted after the ball toward the far left hand corner of the court near the baseline. He flipped the ball up with his toe and started his dribble from there. “No way,” protested Arcell. “Take it out like you’re supposed to — at center court.” Roland ran out to the faded mid-court stripe and tossed the ball inbounds, nibbling at his lower lip as he dribbled along the right side of the key. Five feet from the basket Arcell pressured him to the baseline and Roland stepped out of bounds. “Force out,” shouted Roland, tossing the ball back inbounds and starting his methodical waist-high dribble again. Arcell stayed with Roland, his outstretched arms crossing back and forth in fluid defensive rhythm until Roland finally slipped around his right side, dribbled under the basket, and angled a reverse lay-up off the backboard, spinning the ball off the rim. Arcell grabbed it eight feet from the hoop and went straight back up with his shot. The ball slammed off the backboard and in. “Twenty-one. Game! All I needed was position.” “I can count, Beanpole. Hell — you got six inches on me,” complained Roland.

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The ball had coasted to a stop halfway between mid-court and the basket. Roland ran over, scooped it up, and took a shot from twenty-five feet away. The ball hit the back of the rim, rolled forward around the hoop, and dropped through the net. Roland grinned, then shot his right arm in the air and extended his index finger indicating I’m-number-one. “That shot’s money in the bank, Arcell. You won’t catch me log-jammin’ in the middle. That’s for you big tall oaks. But you better bulk up, man, or else them Big Ten centers gonna have you for lunch.” Roland walked over and picked up the ball. “No way. I seen ‘em on TV. They move like trucks. Shit, I’m a Porsche.” Arcell grabbed the ball back, took off on an eight-foot-long sky glide, and slammed home another dunk. High, thin clouds blocked out the afternoon sun. The air turned crisp, and a westerly breeze blew through the towering spruce, swaying their limbs. The western slopes of the Rockies were visible in the distance. Behind the court that Arcell and Roland had been playing their one-on-ones on for nine years the Yampa Valley stretched out to the east. During the summers Roland and Arcell’s days included exhausting hours of ball-handling drills — bounce pass, shovel pass, pick and roll — or a round robin of five hundred shots apiece, until both of them gave out or the light grew so dim they couldn’t see. In the late spring, when basketball season ended, they ran the surrounding foothills to stay in shape. On the first day the snow disappeared from the asphalt court they jogged twenty-five loops around it, shouting, “Give and

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go, reverse dunk, baby, glide on air.” Now, both boys knew, the days on this court were about to end. Arcell walked back toward Roland. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and then stopped to tighten the drawstring on his sweats. The ball rested at center court, where Roland was rolling it around in tight little circles beneath his foot. “You figure we got what it takes?” asked Arcell, stepping up next to him. “What for?” “Playin’ in the Big Ten?” “Shit, man. College ain’t nothing but fine-tunin’ for us. We got moves they ain’t seen in the NBA.” “Guess so,” said Arcell. “Don’t guess, man. Think positive. Like when we beat Rangely in the state finals last spring and Central the year before. We been winnin’ since we was Peewees. Won’t nothin’ change.” “OK.” Arcell bent over and picked up the ball, looking a little less certain. When Arcell didn’t move Roland grabbed the ball from him and stuck it under his arm. “Goin’ to Michigan’s been worrying me a lot, Roland. Dealin’ with all them city types...I don’t know.” Arcell stood still, looking at the ball. “Look, Arcell, you gotta learn to deal with people outside these valleys sooner or later. Or, maybe you want to stay? Me, I’m dealin’.” Roland shoveled a quick two-foot pass to Arcell. Arcell bounce-passed the ball back. They kept the ball moving rapidly 119

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between them, taking a step back on each successive pass. Ten passes later they were a half-court apart. On the next exchange they began working their way back toward one another, repeating the drill, their rhythm never breaking until they stood toe-to-toe at center court. “Dealin’!” said Arcell. “Yeah!” responded Roland, grinning and tucking the ball back under his arm. “What did your coach say you would be doin’ for workstudy at school?” asked Arcell. “Busin’ tables. How ‘bout you?” “Same.” The sweat had evaporated from around Roland’s neck, leaving dusty patches of salt in the ceases of his smooth black skin. He swatted at a deer fly buzzing next to his cheek. A sudden downslope breeze swept the fly off in another direction. “How’re you gettin’ there?” asked Arcell. “Uncle Willie-Pop’s gonna drive me up. You?” “Takin’ the train,” said Arcell. “First class. I always said you had style.” Arcell smiled, flashing badly mottled teeth, stained brown from years of drinking Yampa Valley well-water saturated with iron. “I been thinking about a new give-and-go pattern. Haven’t seen it nowhere, not even the pros. It’s a version of the pick ‘n roll where the man guardin’ you ends up blocked out of the play, caught up in a movin’ pick.” Roland shook his head in disgust. “You know movin’ picks ain’t legal, Arcell. But I gotta give it to you, you’re thinkin’ all the time. Sometimes it don’t amount to much, but you’re thinkin’

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just the same.” He laughed and brushed the salty residue from around his neck. “I thought fast enough to keep Wooster and Stubb Jenkins from kicking your butt before the semifinals over in Craig last March. Screwing around with that carhop sister of theirs wasn’t real smart. You coulda messed up everything for the whole damn team.” “Hell, I didn’ know she was their sister.” “You knew she was white. That shoulda been enough.” Roland nodded and looked down at the court. “You’re right there. Man, I nearly froze my ass off hidin’ in the bus, and on top of that, I never did hook back up with her. Kathy, that was her name. I had her phone number, and a place for us to meet lined up, too.” “Only number you were gonna need, if those two openpit-mining brothers of hers got a hold of you, was nine-oneone.” They both smiled the half-smile of aging adolescents with painful insider information and watched a piece of sandwich wrap blow across the asphalt into a courtside bicycle rack. It remained, trapped momentarily, until the wind carried it through the tire slots and sailed it away. “Your coach say anything to you about bulkin’ up?” asked Arcell. “Nope. I’m a natural,” said Roland, thumping his thighs and then his chest with his fist. “You the one’s light in the ass.” “Mine said somethin’ about puttin’ me on a weight program. You know, increase my upper-body strength.”

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“If you gotta, you gotta.” Roland started dribbling the ball. “What do you think about steroids, Cocoa-man?” said Arcell. Roland gave Arcell a worried look and then drove the length of the court. Every fourth bounce was off his right hand and between his legs. At the end of the court he turned around and headed back, repeating the pattern, ending up nose to nose with Arcell. “You are a dumb-ass white boy, Arcell. Steroids? Now? Why in hell?” “Just askin’.” “Pump some iron, Arcell, like the coach says.” The breeze picked up, and the smell of burning piñon from the outdoor grills of nearby homes drifted over the court. Roland and Arcell walked over to the bicycle rack, where they had tossed their sweat tops earlier. Both new tops were still stiff with sizing. When they pulled them on the shiny lettering on the front of Roland’s read, “Illinois Basketball” and Arcell’s, “Property of Michigan State Athletics.” “You got a roommate yet?” asked Arcell. “Nope, but I hear in college they like to mix folks up. I figure I’ll get some Goody-Two-Shoes from upstate New York. Maybe you’ll get a surfer.” Roland grinned, knelt down and retied the laces in his sneakers. Arcell started bouncing the ball. “And you better watch your mouth about that ‘Cocoa-man’ stuff,” added Roland. “You liable to get some brother from DC or LA that don’t take kindly to that sorta talk.” “Gotcha,” said Arcell.

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They walked over to the water fountain just beyond the bike rack. Arcell took a long, slow drink. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down until he finally came up for air. Then he tilted his head back, gargled, and spat a mouthful of water on the ground. “Coun-tree! You gonna have to quit that kinda shit,” said Roland, shaking his head. “We’ll see. You know what your Uncle Willie-Pop’s always sayin’, ‘Some habits are haaard to break’.” Both boys laughed at Arcell’s imitation of Willie-Pop as they walked back out on the court. “How ‘bout another game of twenty-one? Loser buys the food.” “You’re on. My rules. No shots under twenty feet,” said Roland. “You got it,” said Arcell. “First shot’s mine.” He stopped and released a high, arching twenty-five-footer. For a second the ball seemed to hesitate in the air, suspended like the two of them between takeoff and landing.

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ISOLATION

S

HANNA DIDN’T UNDERSTAND Redstone’s obsession with

solitude. During her twenty-six years as his granddaughter, however, he had expressed his desire for seclusion with enough passion to make her wary of the subject. True to his spirit, Redstone lived in a cramped one-bedroom split-log and mud cabin in the middle of forty sunbaked acres of Oklahoma plains. Twenty miles of desiccated country sat between him and the nearest town, and he used those miles to keep civilization at bay. Shanna was the exception. For him, she was the only other Redstone family member — the only Redstone he acknowledged, anyway. The others had deserted him years ago, he said, and for him they didn’t exist. Shanna had grown up with Redstone. She had been sent to spend her childhood summers with him, and he had

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kindled in her a love of nature and a respect for the beauty of the arid rolling plains. That remembered beauty had brought Shanna back. Now she was hoping someone else had seen that beauty and captured it. She was looking for that beauty in a work of art. Redstone sat on his porch, rocking, eyes riveted to the sun. Shanna sat next to him, leaning against the railing, long legs stretched out in front of her. Her emerald-green eyes were fixed on the old man’s face. If you weren’t looking for it — if you came upon them unprepared — their resemblance could startle. They shared the same coal-black hair and prominent cheekbones. The squint was the same, and so was the cadence in the voice. Only gender and years separated them — a twenty-six-year-old woman and an arthritic, seventyseven-year-old man. Redstone’s grandfather had been a buffalo soldier with the Tenth Cavalry; his grandmother had been a Cherokee full-blood. His roots rose from black Indian fighter and Indian, an equation that, at the time, allowed no room for the white man. Shanna knew little of her black and Indian heritage, only that it was fact. Her father was French Canadian. Her mother and her mother’s older sister had left Redstone’s parched, barren, sage-laden ranch long before Shanna was born. They had each gone their separate ways and had vowed never to return. Although her mother had dutifully sent Shanna to visit her grandfather each summer, she never discussed her mother nor any other member of her family while there. When her parents

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died Shanna felt an even stronger bond to the old man — the two of them represented the last of the Redstone line. During Shanna’s childhood visits, Redstone would sit on his front porch for long hours with an Ithaca 12-gauge on his lap, rocking slowly and watching the sun drop until it paralleled his eyes. At that instant the rocking would stop, as if the sun had provided energy for the rocker until Redstone had stared it off. His habit of wearing a range duster in 100-degree heat was a source of amazement to Shanna during those summers. When she finally got up the courage to ask why the coat, his answer had been simple: “Anything that keeps the cold out in the winter will keep the heat out in the summer.” It was just logical — or logical to Redstone. Twenty years later the same threadbare, sweat-stained coat hung on the back of his front door, offering up permanent testimony to the old man’s logic. Shanna chuckled and shook her head as she thought of Redstone’s peculiar but endearing ways. Redstone had not seen Shanna since her Stanford graduation, five years earlier. Since then, she had accumulated an MFA in design and had been hired as director of bank space utilization and design at a Tulsa savings and loan. Unimpressed, Redstone scoffed at the title as well as the job. All of that time spent learning art history in college and on top of it two more years of “drawing lines on paper.” Useless, a total waste of time, to his way of thinking. But the old man had been filled with pride when Shanna’s car pulled into his driveway in the late afternoon.

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As the sun drifted west, casting lengthening shadows on the tiny porch, Shanna broke the silence and surprised her grandfather with the reason for her visit. “My company wants me to buy fifteen paintings, Grandpa, and with forty thousand dollars of their money to boot.” Digging into the bulky purse at her feet, Shanna pulled out an art gallery brochure. “Are any of these paintings or artists local?” she asked, handing Redstone the brochure. “Who knows?” said Redstone, thumbing through the pages, staring deliberately at each one, inching the brochure ever closer to his eyes. Briefly Shanna imagined him intently stalking prey. At one point, his eyes lingered as if there were a sudden recognition before he quickly turned the page. “Well, see any locals?” Shanna persisted. “No,” Redstone said quietly. “Don’t see anything or anybody from around here. You better put this thing back,” he added, handing Shanna the brochure. Neither of them had noticed the sun as it slow-danced its way west. The setting sun seemed to energize Redstone, as if its impending loss demanded a sudden burst of activity. Looking up as if he were under a direct order from the fiery orange ball, Redstone moved quickly and began setting up a cot on the porch for himself so Shanna could take the one and only real bed in the house. Shanna’s animated pleas to sleep outside as she had done as a child went unheeded as Redstone used his boots as a broom to sweep away six month’s worth of wind blown soil and find a level spot to rest the legs of the rickety cot.

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The job complete, Redstone gazed out at the distant hills, now covered by a curtain of magenta haze. He then looked back at Shanna, leaning on the rickety porch railing grasping for fireflies in the twilight. Watching her, in the disappearing light, Redstone knew that Shanna also belonged to the plains. After dinner, Redstone was ready with advice. “Don’t expect no bargains over at Waverly’s,” he offered. “They’ll hold you for ransom if they can. And don’t buy none of that Clairy Rabbit’s stuff, either. She’s crazy. I seen her painting over near Chesterton the other day. Out painting in a field. You know damn well rattlers was all around. Dumb way to earn a living if you ask me.” Shanna’s plans didn’t include buying a Clairy Rabbit piece. Besides, the show was billed as a Southwestern regional opening, and only a few local artists could be expected to make the grade. The show featured the works of Armando Peña, Veloy Vehil, Virginia Stroud, John Nieto, Rance Hood, and close to a score of other prominent contemporary Native American artists. It was a show intended to attract art buyers from across the Southwest. Shanna wanted to buy as many paintings as she could, but she had her heart set on a magnificent Cameron Trailridge piece. The painting had caught her eye in a recent issue of Southwest Art, and she considered it the pick of the show. It would make the perfect centerpiece for the main entryway to the bank — large enough to overcome a backdrop of brick, and colorful enough to dazzle the eye. The only complication was the price. It wasn’t printed with the magazine photo, and she hadn’t seen it anywhere in her brochure.

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Waverly’s Art Gallery was in Nordstrom, Oklahoma, twenty-seven miles away. The gallery had actually started out as nothing more than a trading post a hundred years earlier, well before there had been a college in Nordstrom and long before there had been a renowned Indian school with a curriculum emphasizing creative native arts and design. The gallery’s reputation had grown over the past decade so that now it was considered the place in Oklahoma to purchase Native American art. “Got enough gas in that rental car to get to Nordstrom and back? I don’t want you stranded out on the highway at night like road-kill.” “The tank’s two-thirds full. Don’t worry about me. Just make sure you leave the cabin spotlights on the driveway so I don’t break a driveshaft bottoming out in one of your potholes on my way home.” “Hmm,” said Redstone glancing toward the driveway with a smile. Shanna was halfway down Redstone’s crater-filled drive when she looked back to wave good-bye. Redstone stood bootless in sweat-stained socks, adjusting his rocker away from the wall. His 12-gauge rested across the army cot. Shanna knew he was preparing for the next day’s rocking duel with the sun. By the time Shanna reached Nordstrom it was dark. A polite, but robust, well-dressed and well-groomed crowd was gathered at the gallery entrance. Most of the visitors sipped champagne and nibbled hors d’oeuvres as they flipped

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through the pages in their opening-night brochures. Shanna was aware that the crowd’s demeanor could change. She had been to art auctions and shows where the buyers took on the aggressive characteristics of brokers on the stock exchange and commodities floors. Inside, the gallery had a large vaulted ceiling with special track lighting designed to highlight the paintings. Shanna stopped to look for the Trailridge piece. She found it on her final scan of the room. The painting was near the back, and the artist was seated next to the piece. A handful of people were gathered around. As Shanna made her way toward the back of the room, she was reminded of a bazaar. Her pulse quickened as she neared the Trailridge work. When she was within viewing distance she stopped, and a momentary opening in the crowd enabled her to step directly in front of the painting. It was every bit as striking as she had expected, large and powerful, a ten by twelve foot oil on canvas that showed three Indian women sitting in a high plains meadow surrounded by a quilt of wildflowers. All of their dresses were flower prints, and the women seemed to blend into the landscape as if they were part of it. One woman held an umbrella, protecting herself from the sun, as horses with richly colored saddle blankets grazed in the background. Rolling hills were visible in the distance. It was indeed a “High Plains Respite,” as the title aptly announced. Shanna stood transfixed by the painting, savoring the colors, embracing the figures, feeling the whimsical summer breezes of the plains. When she finally returned to the

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commotion around her, she found herself staring directly into the eyes of Cameron Trailridge. Cameron Trailridge was a stoop-shouldered, sunbaked ball of a woman. A faded shawl enveloped her, extending from her shoulders to her knees. With her jet-black hair tightly woven and pulled back, she gave the appearance of a half-completed sculpture. Her eyes were moist, and the cinnamon-colored skin at their edges was wrinkled from too many years in the sun. Shanna approached her, never losing eye contact. “I so admire your painting. It is one of my favorites,” she said, seeking a response. There was none. “ ‘High Plains Respite.’ That’s such an appropriate name. What’s the asking price?” The artist’s eyes narrowed and her jaw muscles tightened. “It’s been sold,” she said matter-of-factly, turning slightly away. Heartbroken, Shanna asked, “Have you any others in the show?” “One more. Over there where all the people are standing.” Cameron Trailridge’s sunbaked hand gestured toward a crowd several feet away. People were gathered four deep around the work, so tightly packed that Shanna couldn’t see the painting from her vantage point. She started toward the painting as if searching for something lost. Incising her way between a portly man in a high-crowned cowboy hat and his female companion, aglitter in gold, she continued as beads of perspiration formed on her brow. She tossed her head from side to side, a habit retained since childhood that surfaced when she felt nervous. 134

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Finally, through the crowd, she reached the painting. It was smaller than the other piece and conveyed a different sense. Shanna recognized the subject immediately. In dull earth tones, a majestic young Indian wearing a full-length range coat sat in a rocker with a shotgun across his lap, pensively staring at the sun. Shanna’s eyes dropped to the bottom of the painting where a small brass title plate simply stated “Isolation.” Adjacent to the plate was a small card on which the words “Not for Sale” were neatly stenciled. Stunned, Shanna thumbed through her brochure in search of a photograph of the painting. Nothing. But there was a photograph of “High Plains Respite” and an accompanying, short, easily overlooked biography of Cameron Trailridge. Shanna silently read: Cameron Trailridge has roots deeply embedded in the Western Plains and in the High Plains. Her great-grandfather was a buffalo soldier in the Tenth Cavalry who served for a period with Kit Carson when he commanded Fort Garland, Colorado. Her great-grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee. Ms. Trailridge was educated at the Institute of American Indian Arts and now resides in Santa Fe. Although she is an Oklahoma native, this is her first Oklahoma showing in over thirty years.

Shanna slowly looked up from the book and glanced across the room into the bridge of stale smoke that separated her from Cameron Trailridge. The woman was still immobile, eyes diverted to the floor. She personified art, one of Shanna’s greatest passions, and it was obvious that her art was the creative magnet of the show.

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Now, however, history was Shanna’s concern. Redstone history. There was so much she wanted to know about her grandfather and the rest of a larger family she’d never known. She started toward the woman she now knew to be her aunt, knowing that the answers would not come easily — the woman’s impassive face was too much like her grandfather’s. But Shanna knew she had to try.

“Isolation” was first published in South Dakota Review, Vol.25, #2, Summer, 1987.

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Grief

Grief

S

“

HE ALWAYS CARRIES IT since her husband, ol’ man

Wilbur, died. A six-gun with a pearl handle. She keeps it clipped to her belt. The skinny old bitch is afraid. I seen the gun lots of times. Barrel’s always aimed down at her crotch.” The boy speaking was no more than eleven. His hair was matted, his teeth looked as if they’d never been touched by a toothbrush, but his eyes sparkled with the unmistakable enthusiasm of a child facing down a dare. “Why’re we breakin’ in to steal the gun if she’s carryin’ it?” asked the boy with him. “ ’Cause, you own one gun, you bound to have another. I heard that from my ol’ man. He says the grief and ghosts chasin’ old lady Kemp’ll make a person want to feel safe that kinda way.” 139

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The two boys inched across Arlene Kemp’s back yard, crawling on their bellies, easing their way toward a basement window at the back of the house. It was just past two in the afternoon. The second boy frowned. “Hope we don’t run into no dog shit slitherin’ around down here in this dirt.” “She ain’t got a dog.” “Wouldn’t have to be hers.” The first boy gave his apprehensive friend a get-withthe-program stare. “Quit conjurin’ up things, would ya? You’re the one that said you wanted to come along.” He dug his elbows into the dirt, smiling as he pulled himself closer to their objective. When they reached the window he stood up quickly, thinking he heard footsteps, and scanned the back yard, ready to run. Quivering in fear, his friend followed suit. The first boy placed an index finger across his lips, signaling for silence. The two boys stood rigidly still, butts against the back wall of the house, breathing rapidly, adrenaline rushing through their veins. Satisfied that the threat had passed, the first boy dropped to one knee, motioning for his friend to do the same. “You sure she ain’t home?” said the second boy, still trembling. “Sure as my name’s Curtis Johnson.” “She better not be,” said the second boy. “Bitch might end up shootin’ both of us.” “Not on your life; she ain’t the type. She’s a church-goin’ woman. Goes every week. Twice a week since her old man died.” Curtis pulled a pocketknife out of his jeans and tried to

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jimmy open the basement window. “Besides, I ain’t seen her around here all day.” “Hope she ain’t got no burglar alarm.” Curtis shook his head in disgust. “She look like the kinda person who could afford a burglar alarm?” His friend didn’t answer. Curtis ran his knife along the seam between the window and the casement. The grating metal-on-metal sound caused his friend to roll back on his heels, ready to run. Ignoring his friend’s jitters, Curtis continued working. In a few seconds there was a loud pop. Before his friend could run, Curtis grabbed the back of his pants’ leg. “I got it,” he said, swinging the window up on its hinge. He slipped through the window’s opening before his friend could say a word. Staring up from the security of the basement floor, Curtis whispered, “Ain’t nothin’ down here but us chickens. Come on in.” His heavier friend had a more difficult time squeezing through the window. Finally, forcing his way through, he tumbled into the basement with a loud thump, crashing into a water pail on his way. “Damn, Atwood, why don’t you just grab a bull horn and announce we’re here?” said Curtis, helping him to his feet. Atwood Wilson brushed himself off, checking to make sure he hadn’t broken anything. “This was a dumb idea.” “You won’t think so when we got us a gun.” “Then let’s find ourselves one and get the hell outta here. I’m startin’ to feel like I’m gonna puke.” They duck-waddled their way across the concrete floor to a stairway near the middle of the basement. “Think she

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might keep a gun down here?” asked Atwood, looking around the room. “Nah, I’m bettin’ on upstairs myself.” Curtis’s voice had a sudden cockiness. They started up the basement steps, hesitating at every creak. At the top of the stairs, Curtis pushed back a flimsy, hollow wooden door, and they found themselves looking into Arlene Kemp’s sparsely furnished kitchen. A sink and the only window in the room were directly in front of them. A badly abused butcher-block countertop flanked one side of the sink, while an avocado-colored, 1950s-vintage range buttressed the other. The only other furnishing in the room was a dainty-looking, marble-topped, soda-fountain table with rusted wrought-iron legs. Curtis walked over to the sink filled with dirty dishes and half-a-dozen coffee-stained cups. A coffee pot flanked by a funeral program rested cockeyed on a back burner of the range. Curtis picked up the empty pot, shook it, and set it back down. “Place looks deserted,” said Atwood. “Good sign.” Curtis scanned the room. “Wanna check the place out together or split up?” “Together,” Atwood answered hastily. “Bedrooms first.” Curtis headed boldly toward the hallway just to the left of the kitchen. They worked their way down the hallway side-by-side until they found a bedroom. A lumpy-looking double bed with an antique brass headboard and a small oak chest-of-drawers filled the cramped little room. Curtis rushed over to the chest and began opening and closing

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drawers, tossing clothes helter-skelter across the room. When he pulled three successive pairs of faded panties from the top drawer, he started giggling. “Maybe we should take a pair of these with us.” Atwood shook his head in protest. “Thought we was after guns.” Atwood’s admonition redirected Curtis and he finished searching the bedroom with thief-like precision. Then, nodding for Atwood to follow him, they crossed the hall to a second bedroom. With Atwood’s tentative assistance they ransacked the room quickly, but the only weapon they found was a rusty hunting knife resting on top of a stack of old and yellowing letters bearing the signature, “Wilbur.” Curtis tossed the letters aside and, after careful inspection, decided against the hunting knife. They moved to the dining room, where both boys tossed silverware around haphazardly and sent dishes crashing to the floor. Exasperated, Curtis slipped a couple of silver spoons into his pocket, ready to call it a day. “We can check the basement for guns on our way out.” Curtis, his face clearly showing the disappointment he felt, looked around and added, “I could’ve swore she would’ve had some guns around somewhere.” “Guess you were wrong. Let’s split.” As they headed back down the hallway, Curtis noticed the door, barely ajar, to a room they had missed. “Shit, we skipped the bathroom,” he said, when he saw the unmistakable octagonal floor tile just beyond the doorway. “Let’s check it out.” As he swung the door open a clogged-up-sewer kind of stench hit him head on. “Damn, somebody forgot to flush.” Pinching

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his nostrils together, he moved around the corner into the small L-shaped room with Atwood glued to his side. They both caught sight of Arlene Kemp at the same moment. She was perched on the toilet, a look of concentration frozen on her face, pink panties looped around her ankles. A red-ringed bullet hole no larger than a pencil eraser occupied the center of her forehead as bloodshot eyes stared back at them in cold admonition at their trespass. A gun and a handwritten note lay at her feet. Curtis let out a wail, pivoted in something slippery, and broke into a run. Atwood had turned to run after his first glimpse of the dead woman. He was halfway down the hallway before Curtis began to run. In seconds they were both through the front door, down the porch steps, and into the street, screaming and streaking for home. It wasn’t until later, when Curtis and Atwood were sitting with Atwood’s father in the deadly quiet hallway that ran down the middle of the Pecos County sheriff’s office, waiting to be questioned by the sheriff, that Curtis realized what he had slipped in on the floor of Arlene Kemp’s bathroom had been Atwood’s vomit  vomit that had spread into a stain down the front of Atwood’s T-shirt and dried into the nearly perfect shape of a six-gun.

“Grief“ was first published in slightly altered form and as a portion of The Devil’s Backbone (hardcover ISBN 0-89296-653-X and softcover ISBN 0-446-60711-8), The Mysterious Press, 1998, and is reprinted with the permission of Warner Books, Inc..

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Red-Nickel Rhythms

RED-NICKEL RHYTHMS

A

SIDE FROM THE FACT that the building was brick

rather than concrete and square instead of round, Gipson’s Original House of Chicago Soul had the forbidding look of a World War II German bunker as it stood gasping for life in the middle of a block of boarded-up buildings. Forty years earlier this had been the heart of Chicago’s Record Row. The windows of the drafty old building were covered with heavy-gauge green-tinted plastic in preparation for Chicago’s notorious winter wind, known nationwide as ‘The Hawk.’ Even though the plastic filtered the interior light down to an anemic forty-watt glow suggesting to the casual onlooker that nobody was home, the last outpost of Chicago soul, Gipson’s, teamed with activity day and night. “Looks deserted to me,” said Eldon Barnes, peering into one of the windows, trying to see through the plastic. 147

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C.J. Floyd ignored Eldon’s grade school attempt to see what was happening inside and, before Eldon realized it, C.J. was past him and through the front door. As he rushed to catch up with C.J., Eldon glanced at the weather-beaten, bullet-holeriddled sign above the door that read GIPSON’S and wondered if going inside would subject him to another C.J.-initiated, lifethreatening situation. Inside, they were met by a woman wearing 1955-style capris and a heavily starched cotton blouse with a mustard stain above the right pocket. “Help you gents?” she said warmly, recognizing Eldon and C.J. as first-time visitors to Gipson’s. “We’re looking for a couple of brothers we been told hang out here — Rufus Emerson and June-Bug Dokes,” said C.J., making certain to mention both men. “Can’t help you with either, but five’ll get you ten Wing Dumont probably can. Follow me and I’ll give you an introduction.” C.J. wondered why the woman was being so helpful until he remembered that first of all, most people weren’t bountyhunting bail bondsmen like him, and second, the whole world didn’t spend its days trailing after bottom-feeding criminals intent on hop-scotching their way around the law. It was likely that the woman thought he and Eldon were part of the extended family of rhythm and blues old-timers and nostalgia buffs she dealt with every day. They followed the woman down a wide, dimly lit corridor where hundreds of photographs of rhythm and blues legends hung on the walls. Eldon kept up with her, but C.J. slowed down to look at the photos and read the detailed inscriptions written

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on them. He could almost hear the jive-talking machine-gun rat-a-tat introductions to their songs. He eased past photos of Jan Bradley, the Esquires, and the Daylighters, remembering every one of the Daylighters’ names: Ulysses ‘Bunky’ McDonald, Chuck Colbert Jr., Eddie Thomas, Tony Gideon, and the brown-skinned brother who sang baritone, a skinny kid named Upchurch. He stared at yellowing photographs of Jackie Wilson, Barbara Aklin, and the Impressions in their youth and came to a dead stop at the sepia-toned photo of his favorite singing group, the Spaniels, the Gary, Indiana, group who recorded “Good Night, Sweetheart, Good Night.” He was absorbed in the inscription one of the Spaniels’ singers had written on the photo, “To Ellisteen, We got it going now, Baby. See you in Chicago,” when Eldon interrupted. “Come on, C.J. We’re here on business.” Startled, and a little embarrassed by being caught off-guard, C.J. followed Eldon past dozens of additional photographs until he stepped down a filthy, formerly white, shag-carpeted incline and entered a room thick with smoke. Ruby-red and avocado vinyl booths lined the walls, and 1950s-style tables with pink and silver flecked, two-inch thick Formica tops dominated the center of each booth. Four huge jukeboxes, a Rock-Ola, a Seeburg, and two Wurlitzers, names that once dominated the American jukebox industry, occupied the four corners of the room. A full-service bar sat along the wall between the Wurlitzers, where two aging waitresses in straight, tight-fitting skirts were waiting for their drink orders. Jerry Butler’s classic ballad, “For Your Precious Love,” was playing on the Rock-Ola.

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Most of the booths held three or four people, and as C.J. scanned the smoky haze, he realized that every booth was occupied. He looked around the room a second time to get his bearings. His Vietnam experience had taught him that in times of war and peace, whenever you enter new territory, you always look for a second rabbit-hole out. He located an exit just to the right of one of the Wurlitzers and nudged Eldon. They had shared enough bounty-hunting assignments for Eldon to know the nudge meant he should check the room for exits. A wiry little man in Levis and black high-top Converse All-Star shoes came up to the woman who had escorted them into the room and whispered something to her that C.J. couldn’t hear. When she turned away to respond to the man, C.J. counted the people in the room. There were just over thirty. Some were engaged in a steady buzz of conversation and clinking of glasses; others were just sitting back enjoying the music. Something about the customers struck C.J. as odd, and it wasn’t until Jerry Butler had finished singing and a gray-haired woman who looked to be in her late sixties got up from one of the booths and walked over to feed the jukebox that C.J. realized what it was. Everyone in the place was a senior citizen. Finished with her conversation, the hostess turned to C.J. “Wing’s sittin’ in the last booth over there by the Rock-Ola. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Kenny “Wing” Dumont was sitting in a booth alone, lipsyncing to the Dells’ romantic R&B classic, “Oh, What a Night.” A full drink sat in the middle of the table. From three feet away Eldon, a recent teetotaler, caught a whiff of what had once been

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his favorite libation, rum and Coke. He immediately reached into his pocket for a stick of Doublemint gum, his new substitute for alcohol. “These two brothers need to speak with you,” said the woman in capris, smiling and interrupting Wing just as he started to take a sip of his drink. After a half-swallow, he put the tumbler back down. “If you’re lookin’ for money, I’m fresh out.” He inched up in his seat, reached in his right pants pocket, and pulled it inside out. When he did, the stump of his amputated left arm started to gyrate. Wing grinned, patting the stump. “Always does that when I’m sittin’. Doctors say it’s an involuntary reflex. Wish I could get my Johnson to do the same thing.” Staring at C.J. and Eldon’s Stetsons and boots, he added, “What you two cowboys want?” “We’re looking for Rufus Emerson and June-Bug Dokes,” said C.J. “They ain’t got no money either. I can vouch for that.” “We’re not out to collect on bad debts. We’re trying to see if they can help with a murder case we’re investigating back in Denver.” Wing put down his drink, suddenly fully engaged. “I should have known it from the Wild West getup. You’re lookin’ for who murdered Lucius Pitts.” He paused, lifted his glass and took another sip of his drink. “You two got names?” “C.J. Floyd.” “And Eldon Barnes,” chimed in Eldon between smacks of gum. “Pitts’s daughter hired me to look into what happened to her father.”

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Wing broke into a close-to-toothless grin. “I knew Pitts. Wasn’t much of a man in my book.’ “Mind if we sit down?” said C.J., mulling over Wing’s assessment of Lucius Pitts. “Be my guest.” As he and Eldon slid into the booth across the table from Wing, Eldon popped another stick of gum into his mouth. One of the waitresses who had been standing at the bar earlier came over to take their drink order, but C.J. waved her off. “What do you know about Pitts’s daughter?” “Not much. She lived here on the South Side most of Pitts’ life, but you wouldn’t have known it. He kept her out of sight — in them mostly white schools. That’s about it.” “And Rufus Emerson and June-Bug Dokes?” asked C.J. “You buyin’ the drinks?” asked Wing, holding back on a response. “Yeah.” C.J. eyed Eldon, daring him to reach for another stick of the gum he was busy chewing and popping. Wing chugged the rest of his drink and held his empty glass up in the air for the waitress to see, wiggling it around several times to get her attention. “First off, I ain’t seen JuneBug in years, not since he went from being June-Bug to callin’ hisself June. Shame, if you ask me. The son of a bitch had the finest falsetto voice you ever heard. Could’ve made it big.” “June?” asked C.J., his eyes ballooning. “The man had a sex change. Had it done out your way in Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, one of them states.” Wing grimaced and grabbed his crotch as though he could feel the pain of June-Bug’s surgery.

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“When was that?” “I’m thinkin’ fifteen years ago or thereabouts. Pity, all his life poor June-Bug never seemed to get what was comin’ to him. His mama dressed him like a girl ‘til he was seven, Lucius ripped off the rights to his records, and he never quite knew whether he was fish or foul. Worst thing was, Lucius could talk the poor confused bastard into anything,” “Even a sex change?” Wing thought hard before taking another swig of the dark liquid in his glass. “I’d book even money on it.” “Anyone else Pitts clipped who might have had it in for him besides June-Bug?” asked C.J. Wing waved C.J. off with his stump and glanced at the Seeburg as the classic rhythm and blues ballad “Anyday Now” began its sad, enticing, three-minute tale of damaged love. Wing didn’t look back C.J.’s way until Chuck Jackson was halfway through his second lament-filled refrain. Suddenly Wing was singing along bemoaning the fact that, like the song’s sad lyrics, any day now he’d be all alone. Listening intently to the remaining lyrics, he seemed lost in another time until the record ended. “Helped produce that one myself over at Wand. Never let it spin without chiming in. As for your question about Lucius, I’d say he screwed everybody about the same, but I always loved the way he stuck it to Tommy Racetti and his damn mobsterconnected red-nickel crew. Back in the’50s in black joints like this we was supposed to give Racetti a double cut of the money from the music played on the jukes by makin’ customers use special red-striped nickels that only paid the owner half their

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face value.” Wing nodded toward the Rock-Ola. “Lucius figured out a way to rig the jukeboxes so the music would play whenever the owner wanted without dropping in the nickels. Like I said, I wouldn’t say he screwed Racetti more than nobody-else, but I loved the fact that he did.” “Did he ever stick it to you?” “Yeah, about thirty-five years ago. Don’t matter now. He sold me a piece of that record company of his, Scat Back Records  a piece that didn’t exist. I only bought in at 5 percent. Some folks bought in a lot higher.” Wing finished his drink and waved at the waitress for another. At the rate Wing was polishing off drinks, C.J. figured he’d better wrap up their conversation before going broke. “Word is Lucius pilfered a bunch of unreleased golden oldies by R&B legends from Racetti, and they’re now worth a fortune.” “I heard that too,” said Wing, a hint of suspicion in his voice. The waitress brought Wing another drink along with a fresh coaster and two cocktail napkins. As she placed them on the table, she gave him a look that said, Don’t-you-thinkyou’ve-had-enough? Wing ignored her. Before taking a sip he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a couple of red-striped nickels. “Do me a favor.” He handed the coins to Eldon. “I’m feeling a little too frosted to negotiate the room right now. How about droppin’ these in the Rock-Ola over there and punching in D5 and D11?” Eldon got up and headed for the jukebox, happy to get away from the smell of rum.

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“You wouldn’t have killed Lucius yourself?” asked C.J., pressing to finish his questions before Wing became incoherent. “Son of a bitch wouldn’t of been worth it.” Wing stumbled over the words. “Then I’m back to my first question. Got any idea where I can find Rufus now?” “Ain’t seen him for a couple of days. I’d say he’s hidin’.” “From who?” “You would be my guess.” Wing stared across the table, trying to focus on the spot where Eldon had been sitting. Then, realizing that Eldon had left, he looked around the room until he spotted him. “Him too.” He nodded toward Eldon. “Don’t know why he’d be ducking us.” “ ’Cause he was in Denver the day Lucius died.” C.J.’s eyebrows arched into perfect V’s. “Gotcha there, didn’t I, cowboy?” C.J. looked up as Eldon slipped back into the booth. “A Casual Look,” one of the songs Wing had asked Eldon to punch in on the jukebox, began playing. This time C.J. hummed along with the lyrics, wondering how Rufus could have known that he and Eldon were in Chicago. “See you know that one,” said Wing. “One of my favorites when I was a kid.” “I like a man who’s into music.” He pulled two more rednickels out of his shirt pocket and handed them to C.J. “Anytime you’re in Chicago, you’re welcome to drop in here and use ’em. You’ll always get ’em back before you leave. That way you get to hear the music forever, and for free.”

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“Thanks.” C.J. pocketed the coins and tossed a twenty on the table for Wing’s drinks. A sad look crossed Wing’s face as if he were about to say good-bye to a couple of lifelong friends. “Keep on truckin’.” He transitioned into lip-syncing to “A Casual Look” as he rolled what was left of his drink around in his glass. When C.J. and Eldon reached the ramp with the shag carpeting, the woman who had greeted them was standing at the bottom of the incline. “Old Wing fill you in on what you wanted to know?” “Pretty much,” said C.J. “Good. Did he offer you any red-nickels?” “He sure did.” “Hang on to ‘em. They’ll be valuable one day. You can tell folks they were given to you personally by Kenny ‘Leftwing’ Dumont, one of the movers and shakers behind the original sound of Chicago soul.” “How’d he lose his arm?” asked Eldon, glad to be able to ask the question he’d wanted to ask since first meeting Wing. “In Korea.” The woman turned to her right and pointed to a small, framed object on the wall that C.J. had missed earlier. Eldon leaned down to take a look and turned back to C.J., wide-eyed. “Silver star.” “Wing was an ordnance NCO and machine gunner during the battle for Hill 351 in Korea; killed two dozen North Koreans by himself. Only two Americans left that place alive,” said the woman proudly. “You probably know it as Pork Chop Hill.”

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C.J. bent over to take a good look at the medal. “Learn something new every day,” he said, starting up the ramp, realizing the man he’d just met had been decorated for killing. He and Eldon both stopped at the top of the ramp as the sound of a new jukebox tune began playing in the background. “That’s D11,” said Eldon. As the mellow sound of another Jerry Butler tune, “Make It Easy on Yourself,” worked its way up to where they were standing, C.J. looked back down the ramp feeling as though they had just passed through a strange and perhaps dangerous musical time warp.

“Red Nickel Rhythms” was first published in slightly altered form and as a portion of The Devil’s Red Nickel (hardcover ISBN 0-89296-652-1 and softcover ISBN 0-446-60592-1), The Mysterious Press, 1997, and is reprinted with the permission of Warner Books, Inc.

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CHOOSING SIDES

O

LD MAN

WOODS DRANK HEAVILY and had one glass

eye. A long time ago, he’d lost his real eye to diabetes and Old Crow. He was a little man with thick, curly black hair and a squared-off mustache that stopped right at the corners of his mouth. He was sixty years old, but his cinnamon-colored skin was barely wrinkled, even with all his drinking. He had a heavy West Indian accent, and my mother claimed that his Caribbean roots had kept all that drink from shrivelin’ him up like a dried prune. Mr. Woods taught the First Baptist Church senior teen’s Sunday school class in Belmont, Ohio  10:00 a.m. sharp. You could tell it was his proudest accomplishment in life. Alcoholism had destroyed a lot of the others. Early every Sunday morning, accompanied by two spotlessly scrubbed 161

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children and a wife twice his size, Mr. Woods would pull into the church parking lot in his showroom-sparkling Buick, conspicuously park in the space right next to the church’s front steps, and unload his family  all dressed in their Sunday best. Miz Woods had a husky alto voice and sang in the senior adult choir. She liked to belt out “Cross Over the Bridge” solo and throw her fists into the air. Mr. Woods loved it. He’d listen to her and his foot would start tapping. You could almost see him glow. His one good eye would tear up and he’d swell with pride. If you were close enough you could hear him hum along, and when she came to the part about leaving your troubles behind you and Jesus finding you, he’d chime in along with her until the end of the hymn. No one knew for certain just how or why Mr. Woods had happened to come to the coal country of Southeast Ohio with its narrow back roads, turnaround spots carved out of hillsides, and treacherous open-pit mines. According to my mother, and the local gossip, his arrival had had something to do with an unfortunate first marriage to a white woman in North Carolina. As one story went, he’d been forced to leave that wife and two children one humid summer evening when a contingent of baseball-bat-wielding white men discovered that he wasn’t a former diplomat from French Guiana, but simply a wily black man from Hemphill. A second story that circulated through town was a little more sympathetic. As it went, Mr. Woods had lost his farm outside Pittsburgh to a shifty tax assessor and had tried to kill the man.

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The two stories were most likely a mixture of fact and fiction. The truth was probably somewhere in between. I s’pose if someone really wanted to know, they could have asked him. But no one ever did ask. We were far more interested in the senior teens’ Sunday school class that Mr. Woods, with his amazin’ gift, kept packed every week. My brother, Danny, and I, along with Dickey Pittard, Harmond Crutchfield, and the Gipson twins made up the local part of the class. Everyone else was from Barnesville and Bellaire. My brother, Danny, was twelve and was s’posed to be in with the junior teens’ class, but he always came with me because the junior teens were mostly girls, like me. I was fifteen, and developing breasts and my first full-blown case of acne. Mr. Woods’ major gift was the fact that he could preach! He made the Bible sound like a Saturday matinee at the Palace Theater, always action-packed. He had one of those low, thunderin’ voices that started out like a distant drum roll. When he first started talkin’, you had to listen real hard to hear him. For effect, he’d strut across the front of the room, or stand in one place rockin’ back on his elevated Cuban heels. As he picked up steam his voice would get stronger and higher pitched. With Mr. Woods we marched with Moses out of Egypt, our horses were side-by-side with Paul’s on the road to Damascus, and we were prodigal sons  or, in my case, prodigal daughters  waitin’ to be welcomed home. He would mix up the Old Testament with the New, and sometimes he’d take a parable and divide it into parts so that we could act it out with him

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directin’, stage managin’, and playin’ extra parts if there weren’t enough people to go around. At the end of every class he’d gently bring us back to Belmont by leadin’ us in the Beatitudes. Before we left for home we would sing a full verse of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” and that would hold us over until the next week’s class. With Mr. Woods as an ecclesiastical hero to the senior teens, adequate classroom space would seem to have been his only problem. But that was not the case because, at the height of our enthusiasm, from Freedman Baptist Church across a twenty-mile stretch of switchback road, came our new preacher, the Reverend Dr. Landry  trouble in spades. He specifically asked to be called the Reverend Dr. Landry even though my Aunt Littia claimed he wasn’t a real doctor of divinity at all. She said he was a “fast-talkin’ huckster who had come to shear a church full of sheep.” Rev. Landry was a good head taller than Mr. Woods and he kept his hair slicked down and plastered straight back so every strand was always in place. He had light brown skin and a broad, flat face. The most outstanding thing about him was that I can never remembered a time when his nostrils didn’t flare. The Reverend Dr. Landry was to the Bible what a strict constructionist lawyer is to the U.S. Constitution. His point of view was the only point of view that mattered, and he believed only what he saw on the printed page. As he saw it, spreadin’ the word was reserved for those like himself  the “properly instructed”  or a few others lucky enough to have been born again. Unfortunately for us, Mr. Woods didn’t meet Rev. Landry’s mold. Mr. Woods had his alcoholism barrin’ his way,

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and his unknown, and probably checkered, past rubbed against the good Reverend’s grain. Eventually, the Reverend Dr. Landry began a campaign to get rid of Mr. Woods. It started with simple organizational changes. First, he decided the church needed younger men  new administrative blood. Out went the old deacon’s board and in came the new. Mr. Woods was replaced on the board by Dickey Pittard’s dim-witted uncle. The next step was to eliminate Miz Woods from the senior adult choir. Rev. Landry spent more time plannin’ this maneuver than the Allies had spent plannin’ D-Day. He encouraged the choir director, Mr. Howard Percival, to change choir practice from Wednesday evenin’ to Thursday evenin’  a night when Miz Woods worked at the Front Street Laundromat makin’ change and foldin’ clothes. Somehow, Miz Woods was flexible enough to rearrange her work schedule to Tuesdays. Undaunted, the Reverend Dr. Landry tried a more direct approach. He told Mr. Percival to drop one choir member. Just like that! When Mr. Percival refused, Rev. Landry began what he called a devotional reconstruction of the church, enlarging the preachin’ area surroundin’ the pulpit. This called for the loss of two choir members instead of just one. The first loss, of course, was Miz Woods. Things came to a head on Easter Sunday. We were in our usual places, listenin’ spellbound to Mr. Woods’ interpretation of the fate of Lot’s wife, when the Reverend Dr. Landry strolled into the classroom, unannounced. Without so much as a hello, he snatched Mr. Woods’ Bible right out of his hands, shoved

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him aside, and launched into a ramblin’ dissertation about false prophets. It took Mr. Woods a moment or two to collect himself. Then, with infinite self-control  and fire in his good eye  he stepped back to the head of the class. A kind of redness took over his colorin’, and then his good eye turned watery and began to twitch. He stood up on his tiptoes, his Cuban heels way off the ground, and in less time than it takes to blink your eye, Mr. Woods snatched Rev. Landry’s clerical collar and threw it on the floor. He stomped on it and ground it into the linoleum with the heels of his shiny black shoes. The next week was one I’ll never forget. The deacons met. The senior choir met. The senior teens met. The junior teens met. Anybody who wanted to meet met. Then they met again. Every night my dad went to bed more exhausted than when he worked a double shift at the mine. Mom didn’t have much to say, but I knew she was upset. She just stayed in the kitchen bakin’ all week long. Things got settled, though. They always do. The next Sunday mornin’, we held the first services of the Second Baptist Church of Belmont, Ohio at my house, in our basement. My brother, Danny, the Gipson twins, and I made up the senior teens’ class. We were there, with time to spare, sittin’ in folding chairs and waitin’ for the class that was scheduled to start at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Ten minutes before the hour we started lookin’ at each other for reassurance and support. The engine noise from Mr. Woods’ Buick startled me at first. Out of the basement window I caught sight of the wheel well of his car. Finally, I heard the

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solid sound of the Buick’s door as it slammed and watched as a pair of shiny black shoes with Cuban heels moved toward the stairs leadin’ down to our basement door. I turned in my seat in time to see Mr. Woods walk in, his good eye gleaming, Bible under his arm. He walked slowly to our newly purchased blackboard, checked his Bible, and wrote our assignment on the board: Joshua 24.15. Then, in that wonderful deep voice of his, he told us that the lesson for the day would be “Choosing Sides.”

“Choosing Sides” was first published in Metrosphere, 1987.

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THE REAL THING

P

OPCORN CARRUTHERS. What a name! Earned it in high

school because he loved to devour giant popcorn balls. You know, the homemade kind, all thick with sugar and

molasses and salty as seawater. I tried one of his softball-sized creations of hot corn and goo just once. What it did for me was pull out a big silver filling. Air got all mixed in with sugar and salt down in the nerve of that tooth, and I had a pain so sharp that…Well, to this day, I’ve never had another popcorn ball. Popcorn’s never had a steady job. Worked at a convenience store after high school until he got robbed at gunpoint. Nearly scared poor Popcorn to death. Quit on the spot, saying, “Wasn’t no Diet Coke and tampons ever worth dying for.” After that he spent about ten years, off and on, driving a forklift over at Sully Cobb’s Battery Plant. But, the battery acid finally got 171

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to him and he developed a nasty cough that lingers to this day. Got himself a skin rash he claims started at Sully’s, too. I saw him with the same damn rash in high school, so I know he’s faking it. Just the same, Sully pays him twenty bucks a week not to tell the environmental people who always snoop around the plant about illegalities and infringement stuff. You might think Popcorn never did anything worthwhile, that he’s just another South Boston lowlife like me. Not true. Not true by any measure. Popcorn’s a famous music talent scout. Take it from me. You’ve probably heard of some of the singers he’s discovered. Benny and the Rondairs? The Meadowlarks? How about Spinning Easy or Double Sell? Well, don’t matter whether you’ve heard of them or not. Fact is, Popcorn discovered ‘em all. He’s got this knack for spotting new talent. Everybody knows about it now. Don’t ask me how he does it because it’s not a gift I can claim. But Popcorn? Does it right every time. I was with him when he discovered Benny and the Rondairs. It wasn’t too long after he got laid off at Cobb’s. The way it happened was funny — on an evening that was real low-key. We were having a few beers over at Cutty’s Place during the lull between basketball and baseball seasons — about the same time rich people start playing golf over in Brookline. Cutty’s is a bar where locals cool down following a four-to-twelve shift at the paper mill, or after our old ladies’ve been bitching at us too much at home. Mostly it’s men hanging out, but sometimes a few women come in. Everybody knows everybody else, so that makes an atmosphere for ‘easy listening,’ like that smooth-talking DJ says on WROC. 172

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I had my hand wrapped around a mug of Molson Gold. Between you and me, I don’t drink nothing but Canadian brew. American beer tastes like soapsuds, and that German stuff’s too stiff. Popcorn drinks Budweiser. Kit O’Malley was tending bar, mopping up a spill, humming to himself when this little shit of a kid walks in the place as big as life. Not that kids don’t come in all the time, mostly looking for their old man or trying to get change for the arcade next door. But when a little pie-headed black urchin stumbles into a place like Cutty’s, Irish like it is and sitting square in the middle of South Boston, you know they’re either lost, crazy, or maybe a little of both. Boston’s still your ethnic kind of town. You know, blacks live with blacks in Roxbury. Italians park themselves mostly in the North End. And it’s always been Irish here in South Boston for folks like me. Not a lot of mixing, if you know what I mean. “Here to see Mr. Carruthers. Got an appointment to audition,” the kid says to nobody in particular, but looking at Kit. The kid’s skinny as a rail. He’s wearing jeans washed a thousand times and sporting run over shoes two sizes too big. He’s got on a brand-new green shirt, though, with one of those alligators on the pocket. Had to have been stolen because this kid didn’t look like the kind that could afford an alligator on his pocket. His hair was ratty with a comb sticking in the back of it. Looked like a black rooster to me, prancing around all skinny and long-necked  a rooster, right down to the comb. Suddenly the kid hitches up his pants and walks over to the bar. “Where’s Mr. Carruthers? We got a date. Ain’t got all day,” the kid says to O’Malley.

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Kit looks up moon-eyed, like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. “That’s him over there,” he says finally, pointing in the direction of Popcorn and me. The kid walks over toward us in a rush. He’s just two heads taller than the bar stools and prancing all the way. “We’re ready to audition. Where’d you want us?” he asks Popcorn. Popcorn’s not fazed, doesn’t even blink. It’s like he’s been expecting the kid. “Over there, on the stage,” says Popcorn, nodding toward the beat-to-shit, ten-by-six foot platform Cutty’s lets the union guys use for meetings sometimes. The labor boys use it for speeches and for collecting their payoff money when they’re handing out jobs. Popcorn walks over to the platform with the kid and they look it over. “Looks okay to me,” says the kid. “Lemme go get the rest’a the group.” He about-faces and struts out the door, leaving Popcorn standing in the middle of the platform looking around like an MC who’s just discovered his fly’s open. I’m real curious so I walk over and ask, “What’s that all about, Popcorn? I never knew you were in show business.” “Just a new line of work, that’s all.” He scratches his nose and hops down off the platform. Then, leaning one foot up against the edge of the boards, Popcorn starts filling me in. “I was over in Roxbury at the Bluehill Bakery the other day getting a couple of those sweet-potato pies colored folks make better than anybody else. Benny and his group, the Rondairs,

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were singing on the street corner outside. They sounded pretty good. I got my pies, came back out, and stood around in a crowd of people listening to them sing. Wasn’t long before I was into the music, so I didn’t notice these hoods come up. Dipshits started asking me questions, like what was I doing there, and what did I have in my bag? By then most of the people in the crowd were giving me the once over and the singing had stopped. And, I was getting pretty nervous. “That’s when I hit on the idea of telling these guys I was a talent scout. One of ‘em, a big black man with a beak of a nose, pink rubbery lips, and red eyes screaming hangover, asked, ‘Who you work for, man, Motown?’ The crowd began to snicker and the guy inched up to me real close — so close I could peg his brand of whiskey. He had “Ajax Piering” stretched tight across the front of his T-shirt. And forearm muscles the size of loaves of bread popped out from under his rolled-up sleeves. “So I said, ‘No, Cobb’s,’ and I whipped out one of Cobb’s Battery business cards, you know, the ones with the photo of a battery supported by two sexy female legs. “ ’What the hell’s this?’ asked the pier man, eyeing the card. ‘Looks like a damn battery to me.’ “ ‘ That’s just it,’ I said, walking over toward Benny and his group. ‘It’s part of our slogan: We can get anybody started in show business.’ “The pier man looked at me and rolled his eyes, but by then I‘d given a card to Benny and I was passing cards out to the whole singing group.

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“I looked around to see if the crowd had gotten smaller, but shit, it was bigger, and damned if everybody didn’t have their eyes glued on me. “I decided the best thing for me to do was focus on the group so I said, ‘You guys are pretty good. Ever thought about cutting a record?’ “Benny, the kid that just came in here, was watching me, real careful-like and he said, ‘We thought about it. Just ain’t got around to it yet.’ ” “Now I’m thinking I can make this work and I said to Benny, ‘Well, I can help.’ Then, just for show, I handed him another one of my cards. ‘Why don’t you practice a song or two. Get them down real good so everybody knows their part so well they could sing it in their sleep. Then give me a call at the number on the card and I’ll set you up an audition.’ “I was sure I had talked myself out of trouble, knowing that when Benny called Cobb’s they’d say I didn’t work there. Then Benny, being part con artist himself and knowing he held the winning hand — given the circumstances and all — offered up his solution. “ ‘How about us coming to your studio this Friday. We’ll have our two songs ready for you then,’ he said loud enough for the whole crowd to hear. Then he beamed an ear-to-ear, gotcha smile. “By this time I’m digging deep for what I say next and I come up with, ‘Can’t. I’ll be out of the office on Friday, but I could meet you at Cutty’s Place, over in South Boston. The owner’s a friend of mine and the bar has a stage.’

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“I figured that Benny and his group would be just as nervous about coming to South Boston to audition in an Irish pub as I was standing there in front of the Bluehill Bakery. But Benny, man, he one-upped me again. “He just grinned at me and said, ‘We’ll be there, two o’clock sharp.’ “Now it’s two o’clock, and they’re here.” The clock on the wall read two o’clock sharp and sure enough there they were, all of them, rushing into Cutty’s Place — each kid stealing his own private glances around the room. They were six of the oddest-looking characters you’ve ever seen. Benny, strutting like a cock. Louie B., a tall, post-holeskinny kid with freckles everywhere and russet-colored skin. T. Walter Calvin, their bass singer who doubled on bass guitar, older than the rest of them and acting as if he was a little bit embarrassed by what was happening. There was Floyd Hutchinson, looking kind of aloof — found out later his mother taught school. Floyd sang tenor, played keyboards, and handled lead guitar. Finally, there were the Willis brothers. Damn near couldn’t tell ’em apart. Same mannerisms and same cockeyed smiles. Identical twins, right down to the way they talked. One played drums and the other sang baritone. “Set everything up over there on the stage and let’s get started,” says Popcorn. “I’ve got other clients to tend to. Can’t give you the whole damn day.” Before long they’ve got a mass of tangled wires threaded to all their instruments and the whole maze is assembled and complete, right down to hand-held mikes. About this time Pop-

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corn surprises everyone and pulls a tape deck out from under the bar. Not the cheap kind you see hawked in the throwaway ads in Thursday’s Globe. No, this thing must’ve cost a couple thousand bucks. Popcorn dusts the thing off with a bar napkin, kind of delicate-like. Then he walks across the stage and plugs in the cord. Even knows how to work the damn thing, like he’s a real sound engineer. Next, the Rondairs are humming one note, a cappella, a note so perfectly blended you’d swear it’s coming out of a single mouth. Everybody in the place gathers around the stage listening to the Rondairs’ voices echoing off the walls. Swaying, and slow dancing together, grasping for one another in a way I’d experienced only once before. Back when I was fifteen and visiting my aunt in Georgia, I’d heard the same kind of sound. That whole summer she’d made me go with her to the backwoods churches where she was creating a seasonal calendar of revival meetings for Georgia’s evangelicals. We went out two, sometimes even three, days a week. I spent the entire eight weeks listening to shiny-faced black women belt out gospel songs. “You ready to audition?” says Popcorn to Benny, breaking my concentration. Benny nods and hits his first note. Popcorn pushes the tape deck’s record button the very same instant. “Good night, sweetheart, well it’s time to go, do do do do dum. Good night, sweetheart, well it’s time to go, do do do do dum...”

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The song’s pure rhythm and blues, and I know the damn tune. “Good Night Sweetheart” was big in the ‘50s, even in South Boston. And Benny and the Rondairs have it down pat with their new generation of guitars, electric keyboards, and jazzed-up microphones; they sound better than the original. When they get to the refrain, they’re harmonizing perfectly, without instrumental backup, offering a sound all their own. When they finish with the song, they start high-fiving and hugging one another and jumping all around the stage. The bar crowd’s clapping and yelling and offering up congratulations of their own. Popcorn ejects the tape with a plop and says, “Got it.” A big smile spreads across his face. Where in the world Popcorn got his contacts in the record business, I’ll never know and he’s not telling. Could have been from the back of a matchbook cover or out of Down Beat magazine. Maybe he did have connections at Motown. Later on he claimed he did. None of that matters now because what happened next was what was important  unbelievable really, even in the land of the free and the home of the brave. I’m sitting in Cutty’s about two months after the audition. Pretty close to the same crowd is there, except for a few more baseball fans. The crowd’s watching one more mid-season Red Sox slide on the big-screen TV when Popcorn rushes in waving a piece of paper and screaming, “Turn to the game, turn to the game!” “That’s it, you idiot,” Kit O’Malley says, drawing off a Bud.

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“You seen ‘em yet?” asks Popcorn. His chest is heaving and he’s all wide-eyed, like he’s ready to pee his pants. Kit gives him a blank stare just as the TV screen goes gray. In a space of time shorter than it takes a butterfly to flap its wings, we hear them: “Doop do, doop do, doop do, doop do, doop do...” Then the picture bursts from the screen. The Rondairs are harmonizing on a street corner. Benny’s leading the pack, strutting high, prancing back and forth in front of the steps of a brownstone. The rest of the Rondairs are backing him up. Six perfectly blended voices, smooth as silk, fill up the bar room. I look over at Popcorn. SOB’s got his fist raised in a black power salute and everybody’s screaming so loud you can hardly hear the singing, “It’s them! It’s them!” I notice the piece of paper that Popcorn raced in with is lying on the bar. The paper’s crinkled from Popcorn’s sweat and stained with beer, but I can make out the trademark plastered across the top easy enough. The logo’s bold as hell and fire-engine red, and it’s burning into the paper like it was branded on. Then I hear Benny and the Rondairs belting out the words to “It’s the Real Thing,” repeating the refrain again and again. It’s like distant gospel music from Georgia, whispering on the New England summer wind.

“The Real Thing” was first published in CrazyQuilt, Vol. 4, #3, September, 1989. 180

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REVISION

S

AM

GEDDES PLACED THE FADED “Clerk Wanted, Inquire

Within” sign in his liquor store window at just about its usual five-month rotation. Fifteen minutes later Coleman strolled in wearing a navy watch cap and an army field jacket with an 82nd infantry patch on the right sleeve. A faded, inverted V on the opposite sleeve outlined the site where sergeant’s stripes had been. The name COLEMAN jumped out from above the jacket’s torn right front pocket. Coleman’s face was plain and impassive, but his dark, green eyes — eyes that locked in on you and never moved — were like heat-seeking missiles. “Job still open?” asked Coleman, nodding toward the sign. Geddes continued attaching bags of corn nuts to a rusty metal display. Out of habit, he turned the display around gingerly, but a couple of bags still fell to the floor. Geddes made

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no effort to pick up the bags. “Depends,” he said. “Ever run a cash register?” “Sure,” said Coleman, recognizing that Geddes probably knew that he was lying. “Know anything about invoicing or balancing accounts?” “Nope.” “What about taking inventory, ever done that before?” Coleman shot Geddes an icy stare that quickly turned to a frown. “I just need a job, man. You got one or not?” Geddes picked up the bags of corn nuts that had fallen to the floor and snapped one back in place. Then he reached beneath the countertop, pulled out a sheet of paper and shoved it Coleman’s way. “Fill out this application and....” Geddes stopped in mid-sentence and leaned back as Coleman reached for his jacket zipper with the stub of a right hand. The stub ended with two nubs where five fingers had previously been. Coleman deftly grabbed the tab with the two nubs and pulled the zipper down in one clean motion. “Don’t stare so hard, old man. It’s not magic,” said Coleman, one nub now extended Geddes’ way. He reached across the countertop and gathered up the application. With his left hand, he began filling out the form. Before the war Coleman had dreamed of becoming a wildlife illustrator. His specialty had been illustrating birds. Not just any bird, but diminutives, known in the trade as miniatures. He never considered himself an artist, just a man who liked to draw. Back then, Coleman made his living painting the birds that appeared on wallpaper, place mats, even on rolls of paper towels. He had taken his well-worn copy of A Guide to Field

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Identification: Birds of North America with him to Vietnam, sometimes thumbing through the book at night while artillery fire exploded in the distance. After three months in the humid Vietnam jungle the book’s binding split. On one casualty-laden night patrol that culminated in a predawn firefight, he lost most of the pages in a Mekong Delta swamp. By the end of his tour the book’s cover was all he had left. Sam Geddes hired Coleman on a thirty-day trial. Within the week the store’s regular charter of winos began to stumble into the store. Caught in twilight stupors from too much cheap fermented grape they’d ask for “Two Fingers.” Coleman took their comments in stride, chalking them up to the caliber of the clientele. During Coleman’s second week on the job Geddes learned that Coleman had lost half his platoon and most of his hand in a firefight near Rung Sat; that he had spent the next two months in an army hospital; that after three surgical revisions and two failed skin grafts the hand was as functional as the army could make it; that Coleman had been sent home to California where a team of Stanford University doctors took a shot at repairing the hand; and, that when Coleman left Palo Alto and headed east, he was left with only a stump and two rudimentary nubs. Coleman had worked at the store for nearly a month when Sam Geddes looked him in the eye one day and said matter-of-factly, “Let me see you work your hand.” Coleman didn’t flinch. Spreading his two nubs apart, he picked a pen up from the counter. Half smiling at Geddes, he said, “Hell, according to the army, if I put my mind to it I could go back to

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drawing again.” Then anger engulfed Coleman and still holding the pen in his two nubs he scribbled, ‘SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT’ on a nearby legal pad and shoved it down the counter at Geddes. Coleman had been on the job for five months when the college boys started coming in. Two fashionably dressed, barely twenty-somethings, who smelled of liquor and expensive cologne. Coleman remembered their first visit well because the day was blustery, snowy, and bone-chillingly cold. By mid-afternoon Coleman had found himself fighting near gale-force winds on his trips out of the store to meet the truckers delivering stock for the week. On each new trip outside his wounded hand, partially numb and useless in the cold, would throb with needle sticks of pain. Mostly, though, Coleman remembered it because it was the same day Geddes had said, “Count yourself lucky, Coleman, not many clerks last past the five-month mark.” Then, Geddes had surprised him with a raise. At first the two college boys appeared only on weekends, Friday or Saturday nights. Then a weekday was added, and then another. Eventually, they were in the store shooting the breeze with Geddes three to four times a week. They purchased only wine, the expensive kind, and always cabernet. “Stockbroker’s wine,” Sam would tell Coleman after their visits. Geddes and the college boys talked about the fluctuating world market value of the dollar, the Celtics, the cost of sugar futures, and occasionally even the price of corn. At times their conversations lasted for hours, dragging on until time to close. The tall one spoke in a high-pitched monotone, squeaking his words from a wide, oval mouth that dominated his face. He

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punctuated his sentences with gestures that became almost spastic whenever he talked about power, money and success. “Not the minor leagues,” Coleman heard him bark to Geddes during one of their extended visits. “Not your brand of bootlegger’s joy. I’ll have it all, just you watch.” He slammed his fist on the counter, emphasizing his point. “That liquor license of yours, for instance,” he continued, pointing to a dusty framed certificate hanging on the wall. “What did it cost?” “Back when I got it, eight-thousand bucks,” said Geddes, his voice full of pride. “For me, it would be offered as a courtesy  a gift from the state. Get my drift?” “Sure,” said Geddes, flashing a patronizing smile. The short one didn’t say much, especially if he noticed Coleman hanging around. His aloof edginess reminded Coleman of a couple of the mindless thrill-seekers he had served with in Vietnam. American grunts who too quickly became accustomed to death and to war. More than once Coleman watched the short one dart around the store like a second-story thief before pouncing on a wine display and carefully examining the bottles one by one. Coleman swore that the short one could savor the aroma of an unopened bottle of wine by merely leering at the label. After lingering for a while over the bottles he would move on, ready any second Coleman thought, to ignite and explode. Eventually his hop-scotching had Coleman recalling his sergeant-major’s words from years before: “Stay out of the way of the nuts over here, Coleman. They’re in it for the thrill, riding the crest of a

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wave that just might take you with them straight to the other side of life.” The tall one always paid for their wine and as the cold gray days of winter lingered, Coleman realized that he had totaled him out at the cash register more times than he cared to count. They never exchanged a single word, and only once did the tall one stare at Coleman’s hand. He blinked a look of horror, and from that time on, whenever Coleman rang him out, the tall one always kept his eyes diverted to the floor. Throughout the winter and into early spring the two college boys continued to regale Geddes with stories about trips to Kenya, Australia, and the Middle East. These were dreamlands to a man like Geddes  places Coleman knew the old man could never hope to see. “Those boys are sophisticated. They’ve got life by the tail,” said Geddes after one of their three-hour visits. Coleman gave Geddes a half-hearted nod. “They’ve got a program,” Geddes continued. “A blueprint for success. After all, when you come right down to it, life’s really no more than a matter of style.” “They’re bullshitters, Sam, with too much money and time on their hands,” Coleman snapped. “A little bitter there, aren’t we, Coleman? Don’t be so quick to judge. They were only kids when you went to Vietnam. Don’t blame your loss on them.” “Let’s drop it, Sam. Before you say something stupid and have to eat your words. If listening to their daily sermons makes you happy, great. Just don’t ask me to join the choir.” Coleman walked to the back of the store, shaking his head.

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After that visit Coleman didn’t see the two college boys for weeks  weeks that he spent in a musty corner of the back storeroom secretly attempting to draw once again. The first few days he drew nothing but lines. Lines by the hundreds until they were bold, even textured and absolutely straight. Then came lines that intersected, followed by triangles, rectangles, and finally perfectly proportioned squares. He mastered circles and ellipses in a matter of days. Next came the outline of a liquor bottle, then the detail of an old fashioned cigarette lighter, followed by a miniature drawing of a dead mouse lying in the corner of the room. Eventually, Coleman added shading to his images. Then he created scores of hastily sketched birds. Finally, he found himself lingering at the shadows of his nature illustrations once again. He was in the storage room making his first real attempt at sketching in the detail of an eagle’s wing when Geddes walked in on him late one day. “Thought you had a shipment to log in,” said Geddes. “I finished most of it. Thought I’d try my hand at drawing again,” said Coleman defensively, caught off guard. “So, you’re a lefty now?” said Geddes. “Don’t have much choice; only hand that really works.” “Never knew you were a real artist.” “I had wanted to be a wildlife illustrator, if that’s what you mean.” Geddes shook his head. “Ever seen a major league pitcher switch throwing arms mid-career?” “What’s your point?” said Coleman, sketching in an outline of feathers on the eagle wing.

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“There’s a reason for it, for not switching arms, I mean,” said Geddes. “The caliber of the pitching wouldn’t be nearly the same. Stick with the cards you’re dealt, Coleman. I always have. Now, how about finishing with that shipment out front.” Gritting his teeth to check his anger, Coleman watched Geddes leave before he carefully packed up his supplies, moved the easel aside, and slowly started toward the door. On their next visit Coleman didn’t see the college boys come in. He was busy at a register up front. But he suspected they were in the store because he could hear Geddes complaining loudly, almost boastfully to someone about a shipment of bad wine. “Can you imagine? The idiots left three cases of fifty-dollar bordeaux freezing on a truck for two whole nights. When I got the stuff it was oozing at the cork. Refused to accept it? You bet I did,” said Geddes. “The stuff was piss.” Geddes’ voice was coming from near the back of the store. Unusual since Geddes and the boys typically held their bull sessions up front in the center of the store. Coleman continued his work at the register, trying to ignore the conversation coming from the back, until the store had emptied of visible customers. He noticed that Geddes had stopped talking, a rarity with the college boys around, and figured the boys had slipped out without buying anything. “Hey, Sam, bring me up a case of Bud,” said Coleman, deciding to stock a nearby fridge. “I’ll get it,” came a high-pitched voice from the back. “Who’s back there with you?” asked Coleman, knowing that Geddes never let anyone but employees in the back. When

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he didn’t get an answer, Coleman started toward the back of the store. The tall boy met him halfway up the store’s center aisle. Briefly, they stood facing one another, no more than a foot apart. “Why don’t you head back up front and get behind the counter,” said the tall one, grasping Coleman’s shoulder, attempting to turn him around. “Have you lost your mind?” said Coleman, brushing the arm aside. Turn your two-fingered self around right now, war hero. I mean it,” said the tall boy, as he pulled a gun from beneath his coat and jammed it into Coleman’s side. “What gives?” asked Coleman, responding with a half turn. “Just head toward the front. This whole thing will be finished real quick.” “If you’re here for the money, it’s the wrong time of day. Deposit’s been made already. Can’t be more than a hundred bucks in the till,” said Coleman, knowing that close to four thousand dollars was tucked in a wall safe in the back. When they reached the front, the tall boy motioned for Coleman to get behind the counter. “We’re here for more than money,” said the tall one, nervously blinking his eyes. “Wine. You dipshits want wine,” said Coleman. The short one suddenly came running toward the front. “Keep your mouth shut, Cary. He doesn’t need to know any more.” “It won’t work,” said Coleman.

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The tall boy snickered. “Sure it will. And everyone, including the cops, will figure it was your idea. Look at it our way, baby killer. You get to play sucker-citizen one last time.” “You’re talking too much, Cary. Be quiet,” said the short one. “Where’s Sam?” asked Coleman. Neither boy answered. Coleman’s bad hand felt moist, almost sticky as he felt for the razor that Sam kept on the plywood shelf below the front counter. Soon he had the razor wedged between his nubs. As his arm burst from beneath the counter top, the tall boy had no time to react. The razor creased the side of his face, opening his cheek like a ripe summer melon. The next instant he was on the floor, bleeding and screaming. Coleman scooped up the dropped gun and chased the short boy to the back of the store. He finally pinned him, razor to his throat, in a corner near an exit where Sam Geddes lay moaning at their feet. With his good hand Coleman emptied the bullets onto the floor, put the gun in his pocket and pulled the burglar alarm next to the door. Then, with his damaged hand he steadied the razor just below the short one’s ear, its blade indenting the boy’s tender skin. He slowly moved to face his prey  fierce, dark green eyes locking in on fearful blue eyes that watered. Beads of sweat ran down Coleman’s cheeks and he began to shiver  the same way he had shivered the first time he had aimed an M-16 intending to kill a man. “You sick son-of-a-bitch,” he screamed. “You asshole.” He grabbed the short boy by the throat with his good hand, and kneed him into the wall. The boy struggled to free him-

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self, knocking over Coleman’s easel in the attempt. The newly painted sketches of brightly colored birds scattered across the floor. Coleman watched the scene playing out in slow motion as the paintings floated towards the floor, their wet paint smearing along the concrete. Still shaking, he slowly lowered his damaged hand. The razor dropped, bouncing to the floor seemingly in rhythm with the wail of approaching sirens. His good hand remained wrapped tightly around the short boy’s throat. He squeezed, watching the boy labor to breathe. Then harder, until his fingers went numb and the look in the boy’s eyes turned to terror  a terror Coleman hadn’t seen since Vietnam. Finally relaxing his grip, Coleman took a deep breath, blinked back tears and stared down at his damaged paintings telling himself that when all of this was over, there would be time to pick up each painting and start again.

“Revision” was first published in slightly altered form in The Mysterious Press Anniversary Anthology: Celebrating 25 Years (ISBN 0892967390), 2001, The Mysterious Press, and is reprinted with the permission of Warner Books, Inc.

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Publisher’s Acknowledgments, Rights and Permissions Lyrics to “Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight” © 1953 Arc Music Corporation. All Rights Reserved. Used By Permission. International Copyright Secured. “Isolation” was first published inSouth Dakota Review, Vol.25, #2, Summer, 1987. “Choosing Sides” was first published in Metrosphere, 1987. “The Ride” was first published in Black American Literature Forum, Vol.23, #2, Summer, 1989. “The Real Thing” was first published in Crazyquilt Quarterly, Vol. 4, #3, September, 1989. “The Can Men” was first published in Writers’ Forum, Vol. 16, Fall, 1990. “Backup” was first published in New Mexico Humanities Review, Vol. 35, 1991. “Spoon” was first published in Writers’ Forum, Vol. 18, 1992. “Prime” was first published in Agni, Vol. 35, 1992. “Red Nickel Rhythms,” in slightly altered form, was first published by Warner Books, Inc. in a novel by Robert Greer, The Devil’s Red Nickel, 1997. “Grief,” in slightly altered form, was first publsihed by Warner Books, Inc. in a novel by Robert Greer, The Devil’s Backbone, 1998. “Revision” was first published by The Mysterious Press in The Mysterious Press Anniversary Anthology: Celebrating 25 Years, 2001. Material from “Red Nickel Rhythms,” “Grief,” and “Revision” are reprinted by permission of Warner Books, Inc. The U.S. rights and the extended renewal term rights to The Devil’s Red Nickel, 1997, The Devil’s Backbone, 1998, and The Mysterious Press Anniversary Anthology: Celebrating TwentyFive Years, 2001 are controlled by Warner Books, Inc.

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University of Colorado Health Sciences Center

About the Author

Robert Greer Robert Greer is the author of the CJ Floyd mystery series, The Devil’s Hatband, The Devil’s Red Nickel, The Devil’s Backbone, and the medical thrillers, Limited Time and Heat Shock (2003). He lives in Denver, where he is a practicing surgical pathologist, research scientist, and Professor of Pathology, Medicine and Dentistry at the University of Colorado Health Sciences Center. He also edits the High Plains Literary Review, reviews books for National Public Radio, and raises Black Baldy cattle on his ranch near Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

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About the BOOK “‘The Ride’ is a richly humorous tall tale, à la Mark Twain or William Faulkner, full of improbable incidents and fresh slang and with a wonderful inconclusiveness that reminds us that postmodernism has deep roots in American literature. [Isolation and Other Stories] shows what a remarkable range of possibilities human beings have, and how many kinds of grace they can demonstrate.” —The Bloomsbury Review vvvv

“Isolation and Other Stories offers perfectly focused portraits of characters at once ordinary and astonishing. You never feel as though you’re reading; the experience is of eavesdropping on moments of unsullied authenticity. Nothing at all — certainly not Robert Greer’s artful language — screens the objects of your fascination from your desire to see [these characters] and to know them...[A] satisfying collection’.” —Marianne Wesson, author of A Suggestion of Death A limited edition of numbered and signed, hard-cover copies of this book is available from the publisher. 198