Remembering August (Triple C Ranch Saga)

by Rodney V. Earle

“No,” Colleen said blankly. “The house actually still has one of the old-style princess phones. There’s no caller ID box or anything.”

  “Ah,” Augie said thoughtfully.

  “I’ll leave about a hundred messages, and then at some point she’ll just forget it,” said Colleen. “That’s how she deals with shit. Drives me crazy. I walk on eggshells until she decides I feel guilty enough and then she talks to me again like nothing happened.”

  “Sounds like Chase,” said Augie.

  “I don’t know who taught who when it comes to dealin’ with my stubborn ass,” Colleen said through gnashed teeth as she bit down hard. “It’s a conspiracy.”

  Augie looked down at Buttercup and stroked her mane, which was thinner in some areas than others. She figured that Buttercup had seen her share of pain over the years, and would see even more in the years to come. Buttercup’s felt saddle was frayed around the stirrups on both sides, and her tail was nearly the same color as her mane, with one exception.

  “Did her tail come like this?” Augie asked without looking up from Buttercup.

  “Uh… no,” said Colleen. “One time I just figured she needed a haircut, and I got a little carried away.”

  “So the pink highlights were your little addition,” Augie said rhetorically.

  “Yes, they were, and her tail was a lot longer than that,” Colleen said proudly. “Look at this,” she said as she turned her head away from Augie, raised her right hand and pulled her hair up in the back.

  “Hey, look at that!” exclaimed Augie. “I didn’t see your pink highlights!”

  “We have always matched,” said Colleen. “You should have seen her during my brunette stage. She looked stupid, and I eventually decided I did too, so we changed back.”

  “Ha!” Augie blurted as she looked at Buttercup again. “Oh I can see the brunette roots in her tail.”

  “That’s why her mane doesn’t look so good,” Colleen said in a girly voice. “No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get her mane back the way it was, so I had to… uh… fix it the best way I could.”

  “That just makes her one of a kind,” said Augie girlishly. “Just like you.”

  “Awww,” said Colleen. “Thanks, Augie.”

  †

  Joan stood in the doorway and looked out the screen door at the show ring. The effects of the alcohol painted her face a dark shade of red. Carlos was working a horse named Condor, a twenty-four-year-old retired show jumper. Condor kicked up a swirl of dust and dirt like the exhaust from an old tractor. Carlos cracked the lunge whip at him rhythmically.

  Joan had heard the same chick-chick-chick sound a million times before, and each time she heard it, she felt a wave of ease and comfort. She often pretended that Carlos was calling to her, letting her know that everything would soon be okay. She always knew everything would be fine as long as he was in control. She knew that no harm would ever come to her as long as Carlos held the whip.

  She gazed longingly at him and envisioned herself in his arms, dancing slowly to Old Blue Eyes in the middle of the den at the Double C years ago. Dream played over and over as she closed her eyes and softly hummed along with the melody of the scratchy old forty-five.

  Dream when you’re feeling blue

  Dream that’s the thing to do

  Just watch the smoke rings rise in the air

  You’ll find your share of memories there

  So, dream when the day is through

  Dream and they might come true

  Things never are as bad as they seem

  So dream, dream, dream

  She remembered how the dusty vinyl record crackled through the speakers of the old turntable stereo system that Carl Caldwell always referred to as the Hi-Fi.

  She opened her eyes and took in a deep, nostalgic breath. She let it out through pursed lips as if she were blowing out the candles of a birthday cake. Suddenly the bottle in her right hand escaped her relaxed grip and fell to the floor. Frothy foam shot into the air and all over her jeans, but she didn’t care. The alcohol that flowed through her veins continued its numbing effects on her body, inside and out.

  She moved slowly and unsteadily as she stood up straight and took an uneasy step backward. She looked down at her left hand and inspected the dashed line of shallow gashes on her middle finger.

  “Just like my purse,” she said aloud and then chuckled drunkenly. She tasted the hot air as she licked her lips and looked at the floor. The thick glass bottle had landed on its base and foam oozed slowly out of the top. “Things never are as bad as they seem,” she said aloud.

  †

  “I’ll bet your mom thinks you’re one of a kind too, doesn’t she?” Augie asked, still in her girly voice.

  “Damn, you know how to get a point across,” replied Colleen.

  “What did I do?” Augie asked innocently.

  Colleen looked at her out of the corner of her eye and said, “You know what you did.”

  “Yeah… well… you can’t let that one go, that’s all,” Augie said.

  “If there’s one thing you’ll learn about me right away, it’s that I always do what I say I’m gonna do,” Colleen said with a bit of a snort. “I don’t let shit lie for long, and when it’s time to move on, it’s time to move on. End of story.”

  “So let’s move on then, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Then let’s talk about something else other than what a bitch I am, if that’s okay with you,” Colleen fired in a more serious tone.

  Augie suddenly remembered Colleen’s favorite saying when awkward silenced stepped in the room. “You owe me one gumball machine,” she said.

  “You’re right,” said Colleen. “I owe you one huge gumball machine.”

  Even though Colleen’s gumball machine line put a period on the topic of conversation, silence filled the room for a few minutes. Colleen leaned back against her pillow and tried shifting her position.

  Augie searched through all of the things that Joan had brought her until she found the hairbrush. “Buttercup needs a good curry,” she said as if she were ten years old and having a tea party by herself.

  Colleen was surprised that the city girl that shared her room even knew what a curry comb was, let alone how to use it in a sentence. “Well, well, well! Listen to you!” she said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be pickin’ frogs!”

  “I’m not totally stupid when it comes to horses, you know,” said Augie with her head tilted to one side. After a few seconds she looked up at Colleen and asked, “What’s a frog?”

  “Green slimy bastards that hop on the ground, stupid,” chuckled Colleen. “I’m sure you kissed a few in your day.”

  “Oh very funny. Punk ass bitch,” Augie spat playfully and then went back to brushing Buttercup’s mane and tail.

  Colleen continued laughing and did a short fist pump with her good arm, proud of herself for misleading Augie. “Actually, a frog is also a part of a horse’s foot. I was only half yankin’ your chain.”

  Augie looked up at Colleen and said, “Speakin’ of kissin’ frogs, who kissed the one that became that David the nurse guy?”

  “Becky,” blurted Colleen as if she were on a quiz show.

  “Oh right,” said Augie disappointedly. “The female body builder that’s all sweet and girly,” she continued. “David reminds me a little of my boyfriend.”

  “You mean the fucker that did all of that to you?” Colleen said suddenly with a bite to her tone.

  “Yeah. That one,” said Augie. “He’s pretty hot like David, but he’s got a temper.”

  “Ya think?” Colleen continued with a tone of sarcasm.

  “The thing is, though,” said Augie, “he can be really sweet.”

  “So can O.J. Simpson from what I hear,” Colleen interrupted.

  “Will you cut the fuckin’ protective shit just for one minute?” Augie said through gnashed teeth. “You made your point already.”

  Colleen closed her eyes and took a breath.


  “You’re right,” said Colleen. “Plain and simple. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Augie studied Colleen’s face. Colleen opened her eyes, looked at Augie again, and smiled weakly.

  “Anyway,” Augie started again, “the thing about my boyfriend is that when we first met, he was really sweet. He had this… I don’t know… presence about him.”

  “Presence,” Colleen repeated inquisitively.

  “Yeah. A sort of sweet disposition for how big he is. At the same time, you know that danger hides in his shadow somewhere,” Augie explained.

  “Oooo mysterious,” Colleen added.

  “You betcha. I like ’em big, sweet, and mysterious.”

  “Mmm,” hummed Colleen like she had just tasted something sweet.

  “A ten-inch wang doesn’t exactly make things any worse, if you know what I mean,” Augie added. “Jesus, I wish I could wink.”

  Colleen gasped, both at Augie’s bluntness, and at the fact that her boyfriend was so well-endowed. “Wow,” she mouthed in an exaggerated whisper.

  “Best sex I ever had was with the same mean-ass bastard that did this to me,” Augie said as she pointed to her face with the hairbrush she was still holding. “Go figure.”

  Colleen shook her head and decided to steer clear of the subject of Augie’s beating. “You know who David reminds me of?”

  “Who?” Augie asked curiously.

  “The cowboy,” Colleen said.

  “Oooo yeah,” Augie said as she looked up from Buttercup. “Tell me about this… cowboy.”

  †

  Joan Caldwell stood with her folded arms resting on the top rung of the show ring’s heavy aluminum rail and watched as Carlos worked the former show jumper from end to end. She had a fresh, unopened beer in each hand, and when she rested her chin on her arms, the beers stood erect like dark glass horns.

  “He’s still got some run left in ’im!” Joan said loudly as Condor passed by at a full gallop.

  Carlos said nothing as he cracked the lunge whip and continued clicking like before. He knew that Joan was well on her way to getting drunk, if not already there. The aroma of stale beer and Chanel Number Five overpowered the smell of swirling dust and sweet road apples.

  “I said… he’s still got some run left in ’im!” Joan yelled even louder, trying to get the Carlos’s full attention.

  Carlos stopped turning in circles. Condor raced by and then slowed to a trot. He knew that Joan would stay there until he acknowledged her presence. He thought that her comment about Condor might as well have been, “Pay attention to me!” He lowered the lunge whip, looked down at his hands and pulled at the fingertips of his gloves.

  “Oh,” said Joan as she perked her head up and nearly dropped both beers. “Am I interrupting you?”

  Carlos bunched his gloves in his right hand and slapped them against his thigh before stuffing them in his back pocket. He glanced toward the gate where Condor was pawing at the dirt and pushed the brim of his hat further back on his forehead. “Cerveza,” he said. “Is one of those for me?”

  “Sure is!” Joan blurted with an over-excited squeal.

  Carlos blew the afternoon dust from his nostrils into his handkerchief as Joan’s outstretched arm wavered from the heft of the Wisconsin Premium perched proudly in her right hand.

  “Gracias,” Carlos said. He shoved the handkerchief in his pocket and reached for the cold, sweaty bottle.

  Joan suddenly lost her grip and it dropped straight to the dirt at Carlos’s feet. “Oh shit a mule!” She began scaling the fence in a frenzied attempt to rescue the dirty glass torpedo.

  Carlos put his powerful hand on her shoulder, which prevented her from climbing the fence. She immediately settled back to her feet as if she had been zapped with a cattle prod.

  “I mean…” she started, but trailed off.

  “Shoot a mule?”

  “Y—yes,” Joan said as if she were under some sort of spell. Carlos squeezed her shoulder tenderly and she completely melted. “S—shoot,” she muttered and then lost her grip on the other frosty beverage. The bottle bashed against the fence rail with a hollow clank and tumbled to the ground. She abandoned any thoughts of a rescue and concentrated instead on maintaining her grip on the rail.

  Carlos tilted his head forward and stared at Joan through the top of his eyes. “Too much to drink today,” he said.

  “Mmm,” was the only response Joan could manage.

  “Hmm,” Carlos mocked. “Go home,” he commanded softly.

  “But—”

  Carlos didn’t give her a chance to argue. “Go home,” he repeated and squeezed Joan’s shoulder reassuringly before letting go. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Okay,” said Joan submissively. “I’ll make you… something. Something… s—special.”

  Carlos said, “Okay,” even though he knew that in her condition, she would be asleep well before dinner.

  Joan took a deep breath, steadied herself, and then turned and swaggered for the house. She completely forgot about the two soldiers she had brought with her and left them for dead in the dirt.

  †

  The thick shingles that adorned the roof of Las Gaviotas Motel provided little protection against the Simi Valley heat. Jim stood hunched over the small window air conditioner and turned the temperature control knobs back and forth with the expectation of coaxing cooler air from its rusty innards.

  The shirtless cowboy banged his fist in frustration against the plastic cover of the air conditioner as room 13 slowly roasted his skin to a pinkish, medium-rare hue.

  The musty aroma of nicotine-soaked paneling complimented the rankness of dripping tar shingles in a space that was more suited for renting by the hour than by the night. Despite the constant abuse from the room’s occupants, the small, defenseless window air conditioner drummed on and continued its losing battle with the triple-digit California heat.

  Jim gave up trying to convince The Little Air Conditioner That Could that the air could get any cooler. He stood up, stretched his back, and then turned toward the bed as he looked down at his hands. The gauze bandage on his left hand was stained a deep maroon from old blood and nicotine.

  Next to the bed was a small nightstand that held a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s next to a strangely-adorned lamp with a push-button switch at its base. The lamp looked like a large piece of candy corn with a broad-rimmed rice paddy hat on top. Jim inched his way slowly toward the bed when something from the nightstand caught his eye. The bottom drawer was opened slightly and a small sliver of light caused something inside to glow a bright reddish-gold.

  He looked up from his hands and sat drunkenly on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward and steadied himself by planting the palms of his dirty hands on his thighs. His inspection of the nightstand was hampered by the assault of smoke from a lit cigarette on his glassy eyes.

  The brawny cowboy swatted at the air and leaned forward to get a better look inside the drawer. His less than sober state suddenly took a toll on his sense of balance. He lost grip of his knees and tumbled face-first into the nightstand. Jack attempted suicide by leaping from the nightstand but the candy corn lamp held its ground as Jim instinctively broke his fall with his shredded left hand.

  “Mother FFFUCKER!” he cursed loudly through gritted teeth as he rolled slowly to his right and came to rest in the fetal position. He cradled his hand against his chest and began rocking back and forth. He took a series of deep breaths in an attempt to control the pain, but was having no such luck. “Son-of-a-bastard head!” he spat over and over again with a snarled face.

  His temples dripped with sweat as he propped himself on his right elbow and took a few more breaths. The alcohol that rushed through his veins numbed the angry hornets nest in his left hand just enough so that he could gain some composure. He struggled to keep his balance, but managed to sit up and cross his legs Indian-style and take one last deep breath.

  His shoulders rose and fell with each breat
h, and the pinkish hue that once surrounded the Jesus tattoo slowly returned. Spent cigarettes, ashes, and the blood of Jack Daniel’s covered virtually every surface of room 13, but the motel was no worse for the wear.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” Jim said as he reached for the newly-broken drawer that held his reddish-gold treasure. He pulled at the drawer and it slid open easily. Inside was a red, hardcover HOLY BIBLE with gold leaf lettering, but the word BIBLE was scratched out hastily with something dull. The word SHIT was etched below and Placed by THE GIDEONS was left untouched in the lower right corner beneath the symbol of Gideons International.

  Jim removed the defaced bible and searched the drawer for anything else of value, but found nothing at all. He pushed the drawer closed with the bottom of the Bible and then inspected the rest of its bright, semi-gloss cover. “Holy shit,” he muttered, and then took a breath. “Holy… shit,” he repeated, and then said, “Nice.”

  He chuckled as he read the edited title over and over. Chuckles turned to guffaws and then to full-on, alcohol-induced belly laughs. Fresh blood oozed from the dirty bandage on his left hand, but Jack worked his magic and all things painful were forgotten at once. The room echoed with the loud, reverberated squalls of laughter, the like of which Las Gaviotas had never seen.

  †

  “There’s not a lot to tell,” Colleen answered in response to Augie’s question about the cowboy. “I only caught a glimpse of him.”

  “Oh,” Augie said. She started to say something more but was interrupted by Colleen’s cell phone ring tone. Beautiful Girls by Van Halen echoed loudly throughout the room. She rifled through the bag that Joan had brought for her. “Hey!” Colleen squealed excitedly. “It’s Sheila!” She flipped open the shiny hot pink phone. “Sheila Jones! Jump my bones!” Colleen announced loudly. “About time you called!”

  “Oh… my… God…” Sheila said, mirroring Colleen’s announcement. “You are never gonna believe what happened to me this morning!”