by Callan Wink
“Maybe you should start a restaurant, then, hotshot,” the bartender said.
“Maybe I will. This would be a good place to start one. And a bar, too.” He wagged his empty Coors. “How’s that burger, man? Be honest.”
“Timmy, let the guy eat in peace.”
“I’m just asking.”
“It’s okay,” August said. “I was hungry. Better than I’d make at home, that’s for sure.”
“What an endorsement. I’d like you to envision a thick quarter-pound patty. Fresh, never frozen. Grass-fed beef from prime Angus that were born and raised happy their whole life, just down the road from here on the Duncan Hanging R Ranch.”
“I never knew a cow that seemed super happy,” August said.
“I beg to differ. Because my family and I raise them, and I know them all intimately. Well, maybe not intimately, but enough to know that there’s not a sad one in the whole bunch.” The man slid over a few stools and reached out his hand for a shake. “Tim Duncan,” he said. “Glad to meet you.” The man’s hand was hanging there between them, and eventually August put down his burger, wiped his fingers on his napkin, and shook. “I’m August,” he said.
“You’re Virostok’s new guy right? I recognize your truck. Our place is just on the other side of the river. Well, used to be some on your side of the river, too, but that’s a whole different story. Anyway. I’ve seen you driving around. How’s that miserable cocksucker Ancient?”
“He seems all right. I haven’t been up here too long. Ancient and I get along fine. It’s work.”
“We all go way back. It’s been Duncans and Virostoks up here since the beginning of time, practically. Ancient’s old man was a stand-up character for sure.” Tim rose abruptly, and his stool skated loudly on the floor tiles. He jammed his hat back on his head and said, “That’s it. I can’t stand it, you, a newcomer to the valley, sitting here eating beef-flavored soybean-cardboard in this tomb that Theresa calls a bar. As your neighbor I’m insisting that you ride with me down to Martinsdale, where there are several fine establishments that treat their valued customers to Duncan beef and where there may even be members of the opposite sex under sixty. No offense, Theresa.”
“Go to hell, Timmy. You’re obnoxious. I’m not going to buy your overpriced beef. And you piss me off, so it’s on principle now.”
“I’m not giving up on you, Theresa. I’ll see you next week.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
August was bringing his half-finished burger up to his mouth for a bite when Tim reached over and plucked it from his hands. He leaned over the bar and dropped it in the garbage. “There. It’s where it belongs now.” He threw a twenty on the bar and said, “Come on, August. It’s Friday night. The bright lights and fleshpots of Martinsdale await.” He headed out the door without looking back. August pushed his plate across the bar and stood up. He shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. The bartender waved him away, shaking her head.
In the parking lot, Tim’s diesel was running, the exhaust pooling white and thick in the cold. August got in and Tim handed him a beer from the half-empty twelve-pack on the floorboard, and then they were spinning in a circle, snow and gravel flying from beneath the truck tires, squealing out onto the pavement toward Martinsdale.
* * *
—
At the Mint Bar they each got a shot of Jim Beam with a PBR back, and before long, large plates with thick-cut golden fries falling off the edges were pushed across the bar at them. The burgers were massive, the meat perfectly cooked, the center a delicious medium pink. When August bit into his, the juice ran down his chin.
“Eh?” Tim said, punching him on the shoulder. “How about that for a burger? I don’t even need to tell you I told you so, because you know it already. That’s correctly done right there.”
“That’s your happy beef, huh?”
“Damn straight. Every place around here besides the Dippy Whip and Theresa’s Two Dot Bar buy their beef from us. I gave up on the Dippy Whip; they’re corporate. Theresa is just old and crotchety. I also think that her and my old man had some sort of falling-out way back in prehistoric times, and she hasn’t gotten over it. I’m still working on her, though.”
“I saw that.”
“She’s been on the verge of going under for years. I’m not too worried about it either way. I just like giving her shit.” Tim looked around. There were three men sitting on padded high-back chairs playing video keno. A few more at a table in the rear playing poker. “Pretty dead in here,” he said.
“Is it ever not dead?” August said.
“Fourth of July gets pretty rowdy. Rodeo is in town then. Sometimes random nights this time of year girls from Bozeman or Great Falls wander in on their way to the hot springs. That can be fun.”
“Hot springs?”
“You haven’t been? Shit, that’s what we should do after this. Probably be a bikini or two at the very least. You got a girlfriend, August?”
“Haven’t had the time for it lately.”
Tim took a pull from his beer and laughed. “Time? Time has nothing to do with it up here. You could have all the time in the world and it wouldn’t make two shits of a difference. Unless you mean time enough to go somewhere else, like Austin, Texas. You ever make it down there?”
“Nope.”
“Let me tell you, it’s a world apart. I went a couple times to visit my older brother, Weston. He was going to school down there. I was just a little guy then, and the girls were all into him because he was a roper and could play the guitar, too. They didn’t give me the time of day. But I never saw so many boots and skirts. Bikinis on the lawn. Legs for days. Something like that ruins your sense of reality.” Tim shook his head. “Mantana—where the men are men, and so are the women.”
“And the sheep are nervous. I’ve heard that one before,” August said.
“Yeah, well, it applies.”
“Maybe you should go to school down there, with your brother, in Austin. You could be a ladies’ man.”
Tim crumpled his napkin and pushed his empty plate away. He drained his beer and belched long and loud so that even the keno players looked up from their blinking machines. “Can’t do that, because my brother Wes was driving to San Antonio from a little rodeo outside of some town called Bandera and a van load of illegals crossed the center line. They had a head-on collision and he died. The guy driving fell asleep, apparently. He died, too. Three or four other wetbacks survived. It was like a clown car full of them, I guess.”
“That’s tough. I’m sorry.”
“It about derailed my dad. He started applying for paperwork to go be a border patrol agent. He hates Mexicans more than any man alive. He says we should just shoot them when they try to cross. Let them fuck up their own country.”
August made rings on his napkin with his beer, scraped the PBR label with his thumbnail.
“I’m not saying that I say that. That’s just what he says. You know what I say?”
“What?”
“Life’s a bitch and then you die.”
“I’ve definitely heard that.”
“You’ve heard all of them, haven’t you?”
August shrugged. A TV above the bar was showing the same basketball game he’d been half watching before. “Speaking of San Antonio,” he said, nodding up at the TV. “Did you know there’s a basketball player on the Spurs that’s got your name? Tim Duncan. He just made both his free throws there.”
“I was named after him.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, my dad was hoping I’d come out tall and black and be really good at dribbling.”
“Something tells me you were a disappointment.”
Tim laughed. “My grandfather’s name was Timothy. My dad’s name is Timothy. I’m Timothy. No one gives a damn about basketball. You about done with that b
eer? Let’s get the hell out of here. Watching dudes play video poker depresses me.”
* * *
—
The moon was up, and the steam coming off the hot springs roiled alabaster against the black hills. There was a small hotel there, and Tim and August went in to pay their four dollars and get towels. August didn’t have trunks, and so for another two dollars he rented a pair from the front desk.
Tim had filled a plastic garbage bag with snow from the parking lot to make a cooler for their beer. August slid into the hot spring gingerly, the water stinging his cold feet and legs. The pool was concrete, lined with thick cedar log slabs. The wood was furred and slick with a thin layer of algae, and the water smelled of sulfur. August floated on his back with his beer propped on his chest and considered the stars appearing and disappearing in the wash of steam passing over like clouds. He had never been in water like this. He rubbed his fingers together, and it was as if he could feel the mineral content, silky and viscous, more watery, somehow, than just plain water.
“What do you think?” Tim said. “They say it has medicinal properties. There’s old Swedes up here that drink the stuff and swear it’s the fountain of youth.”
“You ever drink it?”
“No way. Smelling it is bad enough.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Rotten eggs.”
“I do think there’s something to it, though. Everyone up here soaks this time of year. It does something for your bones. Even my old man, a guy who doesn’t believe in anything, still comes here a couple times a week while it’s cold.”
There were other people sitting at the far end of the pool, August realized. He caught small snatches of conversation, could just barely make out whites of eyes and teeth across the expanse of steaming water. “What do you mean your old man doesn’t believe in anything?”
“Oh, you know, isn’t your old man that way? Seems like dads just get to a certain point and it’s like they’re incapable of believing in a single goddamn thing unless they came up with it themselves.”
“Ha,” August said, sipping his beer, now rapidly warming and taking on a slightly sulfurous tinge. “I thought that was just mine.”
“Nah, it’s universal. For example, I wanted to go into the marines. I was going to do my years and then hire on with one of those government military contracting companies and make bank doing security and stuff. A guy I went to school with did that and now he’s loaded. He goes over to Iraq for a couple months at a time and guards a pump station or something, works out a lot, and makes six digits. His wife has fake boobs, and he’s got two Harleys.”
“I highly doubt that is as fun as it sounds.”
Tim heaved himself out onto the side of the pool, and white wings of steam rose from his shoulders. “You think this is fun? Mucking around in the cow shit in the same crap town I’ve lived in for twenty-two years? I realize you’re new, but come on. This place isn’t that great.”
“Better than getting shot at.”
“Is it? I mean really? It comes down to risk versus reward, man.”
August shook his head and back-paddled so he was leaning against the pool wall. “I had a friend that joined the National Guard after school. They sent him over there and he got blown up. He just wanted to get his college paid for.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It would be one thing if it was something I believed in, fighting Nazis, or whatever. I mean, what is terrorism? Who is terrorism? Your six-figure salary is the only honest reason to do it, in my mind, and it’s not enough for me.” August raised his arms from the water, cupping each palm and letting streams of it run through. “Plus, I like it out here. Better than Michigan. You don’t even know that you’ve got it pretty good.”
“That’s what everyone who isn’t from Montana says about Montana. If you’re from here and not into the big-money shit like skiing and fly-fishing, it’s a suckhole.”
“Then go drive to Austin if it’s so great. You have a truck and free will, right?”
Tim crunched his empty beer can on the pool side and tossed it in the trash bag, fishing out another while he was at it. “Unfortunately, it’s not that easy,” he said. “I’m stuck. After my brother’s deal, no way. It’s me and the old man and my younger brother, and just between me and you, my younger brother is not meant to fit in around here. He’s fifteen and about two years from taking off and never coming back.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s got half his head with long hair and the other half shaved. He wore eye makeup and a pink dress, like a tutu kind of thing with ruffles, to prom. They didn’t want to let him in to the dance, but he threatened to sue and the superintendent backed down. My old man used to beat his ass so bad. Hasn’t done it in a while, and it never really made much of a difference anyway. That kid gives so few fucks it’s almost scary. Looks like a fairy most of the time, but everyone in his class at school is scared of him. No one even picks on him as far as I know. It’s like he’s transcended it somehow. He and I can’t even speak the same language. Only one he ever listened to was Weston. Him and Weston were the same in some ways. Weston was a three-dimensional person, and so is Avery. A lot of people you meet are only two-dimensional but both my brothers are three-dimensional, just in real different ways.”
“He wore a tutu?”
“With ripped black stockings. And that’s basically why I’m stuck here. Blah blah. Sob story, cue the tiny violins. I’ve been scoping it out, and there’s not one single bikini in this place, is there?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Just us and those guys over there. Why are they all wearing those T-shirts?”
“Hoots,” Tim said, lowering his voice. “Hutterites. You know about the Hoots?”
“A little. Kind of like Amish, right?”
“Yeah. They’re an interesting crew for sure. Some of their women are decent-looking. Those little bonnet things they wear do it for me.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m serious. You never see them at the hot spring, though, unfortunately. Something to do with their religion. Only the men can come here, and even they have to cover up with those T-shirts. Things would be more interesting around here, though, if there were a bunch of hot-to-trot Hoot girls splashing around.”
“You are insane.”
“You think I’m kidding? Those girls all grow up on the farm. They’ve been seeing cows and pigs and horses and chickens getting it on from a young age, and so they’re not prudes like most city girls you run into. They tend to be a little thicker on average, but that’s because they’re real healthy and have appetites, unlike skinny models who just want to be looked at but not touched.”
“Have you ever even spoken to a Hutterite woman?”
“Not much. I tend to just admire from afar. It’s hard to get through the force field of elders, but there is a way.”
“Yeah?”
Tim lowered his voice further and slid a little closer. “Sometimes they look for studs.”
“Studs?”
“Studs. The perils of inbreeding are real, pal. Sometimes they find dudes from outside the colony to do the deed with some of their unattached women.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“I’m not even joking a little bit. My brother Wes and one of his friends did it the summer before they went off to college. That’s the only reason I know about it. My brother’s friend Cale got to know some of the old Hutterite boys somehow, and one day he went out there to go antelope hunting and they brought him up to the house and fed him a bunch of rhubarb wine, and over the course of the evening the Hoots told him that if he’d come back with proof of a clean VD check then he could do some good bucking. That’s what they call it. How’d you like to come down to the colony and do some good bucking, young man?”
August looked across the pool at the hulking shape
s of large Hutterite men sitting on the hot-spring bench, intermittently visible in the steam, sopping black T-shirts plastered to rounded bellies. “You are so full of shit.”
“Look at me, I’m not joking. Cale told the Hoots that he had a friend that might be down, too, and the Hoots said the more the merrier. Now, Cale and my brother were always messing with each other, pulling jokes and stuff. So the way my brother told it is that Cale went to the clinic, got tested. Then made a copy, did a little work with some Wite-Out, and forged one for Wes. Cale took Wes to the bar, bought him a few beers, drove around a little, and then headed down to the colony.
“Cale had the whole thing set up, of course. The Hoots were ready for them, and they had a bunch of wine. The women made a big feast. They had some live Hoot music, not sure what that sounds like, really, but there was some dancing. The girls were out in the mix. I guess there were three or four that were looking for seed.”
August threw his empty beer can so it bounced off Tim’s head. “Seed, my ass. You’re ridiculous.”
“Let me finish—this is all a true story. So one of the Hoot elders asks to see the paperwork, and Cale whips out the test reports, and at this point my brother is kind of like, Huh? He’s got a Hoot gal sitting next to him, rubbing his shoulder, pouring him wine. Cale is like, Yep, happy early b-day, son. I told them you’re the biggest stud around. At first, Wes says, No way, and Cale has to talk some sense into him. They’re in this room full of huge Hoot dudes. Probably some of them aren’t super happy about what was about to go down, because these are girls they’ve grown up with, and they have to just sit there while the elders let these outsiders dip their wicks. Tensions were high, that’s what I’m saying. Wes is saying, No fucking way, man. And Cale turns to the elder and says that his friend is having some second thoughts about procreation and maybe needs some persuasion. The Hoot elder says, We can offer a side of beef, a whole full-size butchered hog, or a fifteen-year-old Ford F-150 that still runs okay but probably will need a new transmission soon. The Hoots pretty much only bargain. They’re not big on actually buying things with money.”
