The Life and Adventures of Lyle Clemens

by John Rechy

  “On that thundery day on the plains, the sky opened, and lightnin’—”

  “—almost struck you—”

  “It did strike you, knocked you off Rigger, but—”

  “—you survived, young cowboy, you survived, and knew the Lord had sent you a message—”

  “—so you knelt, right there on the plains, and saw, in the sky, writ large in the hand of the Lord, the letters L.H.”

  “L.H.?” Lyle asked.

  “It baffled you then, too,” said Sister Sis.

  “On their way back from the roundup,” Brother Bud continued, “your partners saw you kneeling and staring in amazement, and they derided you, knowing of your wicked past—”

  “Wicked past?” Lyle couldn’t help it, he thought of Maria, But she was not his sister!

  “—derided you like they did our Lord in olden times,” Sister Sis interjected into Lyle’s biography, “laughed and rode on—”

  “—except for one roustabout who’d been touched in the spirit, and he carried you home, that humble Christian, and when you opened your eyes, you saw—”

  “—on his TV screen you saw the name of our ministry, the Lord’s Headquarters!

  “L.H.,” Lyle said.

  “You got it then and you got it now,” Brother Bud congratulated.

  Should he flee now? Where? Stay put! the message in his room urged.

  “Hallelujah! There and then you knew the Lord was ordering you on a mission that led to—”

  “Us!” they both announced.

  Brother Bud cleared his throat. “Your father was a Christian soul who died early but he loved you so much that—”

  “My father was a goddamned son of a bitch,” Lyle said, “and I’m a bastard!”

  Sister Sis reached for her dormant tambourine and smacked it, hard, in disapproval.

  “You’re no such thing, and he was no such thing,” Brother Bud dismissed.

  “Now listen!” Sister Sis’s nongirlish voice moved things on, “when you go out there to coax Love Letters to Jesus, you gotta pour your own love into every word you sing, every move you make.” An appreciative smile crept from under the makeup, threatening to crack it.

  “Get the holy juices flowin’,” Brother Bud joined.

  He preacher-hopped around Lyle to the rhythm of Sister’s Sis’s trembling tambourine. She joined him in his jumpy dance, striking her tambourine above her head.

  “—juices flowin’ and bustin’ out for the Lord!”

  “—bustin’ out and gushin’ for the Lord!”

  Did they know about Rose?

  “That’s who you are now,” Brother Bud said soberly.

  “The Lord’s Cowboy,” Sister Sis bowed her head in reverence.

  “That isn’t me,” Lyle protested.

  Sister Sis snapped: “You think this is me?” She touched her wig. She pulled crazily at her eyelashes.

  Brother Bud edged her away and brought an envelope out from his coat pocket. “Now, Lord’s Cowboy, if you got any doubts about servin’ the Lord through our inspired ministry, just listen to what your devoted mamma wrote us.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  1

  A troubling letter is received, and love letters to Jesus are solicited.

  Brother Bud handed the letter to Lyle. “Your mamma’s a servant of Jesus, all right,” Brother Bud said, “however low she may have fallen—” When he saw Lyle’s fist clench and rise, he dodged, and quickly added, “—and been redeemed.”

  The few words of the letter slid off the page as if Sylvia had composed them in a daze. Lyle read:

  Dear Brother Bud and Sister Sis—Keep Lyle Clemens in your fold. Forgive my accursed flesh. In repentance—Sylvia Love.

  Accursed flesh? Repentance? A surge of sorrow swept through Lyle. What drove her? Whatever it was, whatever she meant, she wanted him to stay away.

  So Lyle agreed to become the Lord’s Cowboy. But he would be only a performer, never a convert, he swore to himself.

  During the rehearsal that preceded his appearance on the day that would launch the Write-a-Love-Letter-to-Jesus Campaign, and while Brother Bud and Sister Sis gyrated about him, encouraging him, Lyle decided how he would become inspired to perform on the appointed day. By relying on Rose’s expert instructions.

  2

  The Lord’s Cowboy performs.

  The Write-a-Love-Letter-to-Jesus campaign opened to a spill-out house of howling, screaming, hurting congregants gathered at the Lord’s Headquarters in Anaheim on a hot, sweaty night.

  On the same set that Lyle had seen at the Pentecostal Hall, a motel-rectory, two dozen of God’s Angels swayed and hummed to each word of proclaimed revelation.

  Wiping massive tears from her streaked cheeks, Sister Sis and Brother Bud, shaking his head in admiration of God’s wondrous ways, took turns presenting evidence of miraculous intercessions, accompanied by donations from everywhere:

  “From a little girl, crippled, skipping merrily along now, a manifestation of gratitude, a few pennies, only that, but her faith will draw millions—”

  “From a man blind for ten years, able to see the light now, a donation of all he has kept hidden—”

  “From a sinner drowning in alcohol—”

  “From a fornicator lost in lust—”

  “From a man deaf in both ears—”

  “From a woman crippled when—”

  “From—”

  “From—”

  “From—”

  “From—”

  “Write your Love Letter to Jesus, enclose your heavenly donations, and we’ll deliver to Him by prayer’s fastest post,” Sister Sis begged.

  “Give as much as you love him,” Brother Bud pleaded.

  Lyle heard the litany of names and amounts of donations, of cures and donations, of prayers and donations—an avalanche of pain and contributions.

  “To rouse the living spirit, here is—!”

  A swell of hallelujahs from the chorus shoved away the sweet trilling of God’s Little Angels aflutter in feathery tissue wings and proclaimed the entrance of—

  “The Loooooooord’s Cooooooowboyyyyyy!”

  Decked in new jeans fitted by the Lord’s seamstress, a Western shirt—an extra button hurriedly opened by Sister Sis—a cowboy hat, which was intended to fall off (“If the Lord inspires you to,” Sister had suggested, “send it spinnin’ out at the folks to grab and cherish)”—and wearing his own cherished Tony Lama boots, Lyle walked to the center of the set.

  Now what?

  He strummed a few uncertain, quivery notes on his guitar. How to start? Oh, wait. Would they be watching, somehow? Maria? And Clarita—and Sylvia?

  He sang to Maria:

  I will love you always and I’m not your brother—

  God’s Little Angels warbled: “Yea, Lord, I’m your brotherrr, I’m your sisterrrrr …”

  Lyle changed the song quickly. He formed a hurried message to Sylvia:

  With all my heart and soul, Sylvia, I pray that you’re okay—

  “Yea, hope is the heart’s soul, Savior!” the chorus chimed.

  Lyle was stumped. What to rhyme with Clarita?

  “Arouse them in the spirit, send them surging to Heaven!” Sister Sis pled anxiously, over jiggles of her tambourine.

  “Do your damn preacher dance!” Brother Bud exhorted.

  Go at it, cowboy! Rose encouraged.

  Sure! All right!

  Now!

  He strummed his guitar and sang improvised words, and then abandoned the words and strummed and strummed and did the preacher-strut—and hopped back, forward, forward, back, forward, forward, forward, and he thought of sweet Rose and then thought of Maria, naked that afternoon … her legs … white flesh interrupted only by the small stark triangle sheltering the pink opening … her breasts … eager nipples … Rose! … lush flesh … scarlet lips … gasps … thought of … that woman in the pool lobby … one leg crooked over the other, tiny sequiny hairs peeking out, tempting … gl
istening—and his body responded just as it had with Maria—(Don’t leave me out, cowboy!)—and Rose, and like the first time he sang in Rio Escondido, and when his excitement became too prominent he hopped, hopped, hopped, plucking his guitar, disguising his arousal, wiggling sideways—forcing it down but not too much—to gales of approbation, howls of approbation, and the congregation screamed with joy, and some of the afflicted hopped in the aisles, and the panting congregation swayed to the rhythm of the Lord’s Cowboy, who was sweating, so hot, oh, Lord—so hot that his shirt clung to his chest with perspiration, where Maria had kissed him and he had kissed her breasts and kissed Rose’s and Maria’s, but not the red-haired woman’s—what was her name? … naked breasts, spread white thighs, parted lips—(Oh, lordee, yes, cowboy, now thrust, and riiiiiiide on!)—and his erection threatened to bust through, and the congregation went wild and hollered, “Yea, Lord, come to me, come to us, come, O Lord, come, come!”—and their bodies strained toward him, their hands grasping high, as he bumped, ground, pumped—and a woman in the audience screamed, “Oh, Lord!” and fainted in the aisle, knocked dead in the spirit, while a swelling chorus of hallelujahs paused only to allow God’s Little Angels, feathers quivering, to be heard trilling sweetly.

  “The spirit has grabbed the Lord’s Cowboy!”

  3

  The ascent of the Lord’s Cowboy.

  On the second day of the Write-a-Love-Letter-to-Jesus Campaign, Brother Bud confided to the congregants, to explain Lyle’s odd words: “Sometimes the Lord’s Cowboy lapses into tongues, words God dictates to him right on the spot, words you may not understand but God does, words that cause Him to send down His brightest light upon you.”

  Clasping her hands soulfully, Sister Sis explained, “He sings songs only he hears, songs angels sing to him, and that he imparts to you through God’s bounty.”

  “Gaahhd’s Bouuuuuunteeee!” The chorus swelled in adulation as Lyle entered, his guitar over his shoulder to be whipped forward in one moment with a thrust forward of his hips.

  The Lord’s Cowboy had the spirit, for sure, everyone said—hallelujah, yea, Lord—and, yea, look at him, willya?—the Lord’s Cowboy strutting to rouse the dead and the living, doin’ the preacher-strut like God and the angels intended—back, back, hop, hop, back, hop, hop, whip around, whip around, arch, toss, bump and grind and toss and hop and whip around—and don’t you know that the holy spirit surged through the Lord’s Cowboy like electricity oozing out into the congregation.

  Beyond the Lord’s Headquarters, the devoted audience watching on television gathered dimes and quarters and bills and life’s savings and sat down to write Love Letters to Jesus, and marked them “Personal.”

  4

  The Lord’s message reinterpreted.

  “Leave it there!” Mrs. Renquist ordered Mr. Renquist, who had been randomly aiming his remote at the giant television screen on which they were preparing to watch a video of Bette Davis in Beyond the Forest.

  “You got religion suddenly, eh?” Mr. Renquist was bold enough to chide. “That’s that crazy evangelical station—” He double-blinked at the screen. “Wow, what a fuckin’ hunk.”

  Mrs. Renquist flinched, but her eyes remained on the screen, where, against a backdrop meant to look like the interior of a rectory, a young cowboy was warbling and prancing and hopping on the television screen.

  “I bet he could shove a mean fuck!” Mr. Renquist said.

  Mrs. Renquist recoiled as if shot. “Why must you reduce everything? Clearly, that young man has a prominent presence; why can’t you say that?”

  “That kid ain’t dancin’ for the Lord,” Mr. Renquist continued intrepidly. “He’s dancing like he’s fucking, eh?”

  Mrs. Renquist pressed both her hands before her mouth as if to smother two screams, at the coarseness of his words and at the despised interjection. All she could utter was, “Why—?”

  “Young, fresh, sexy, a real hunk, and unless he’s stuffed in the balls, he’s sure got a big dong. Christ, has he got a hard-on under those tight pants? Look! Hey, that’s why he’s hopping up and down cause he wants to shake the hard-on down! Take a gander at his balls, eh? If it isn’t stuffed, then he’s hung like a fuckin’ horse.”

  “Something new on the Internet,” Mrs. Renquist thought aloud.

  “With him? No way you could get him away from those born-again fucks; you’d have to fuckin’ trick him into something—”

  “Yes! Trick him!” Mrs. Renquist agreed, before Mr. Renquist’s blatant vulgarity struck at her temples like two thieves in the night, causing her to utter tiny protesting sobs.

  5

  A column poised to assure a triumph.

  Liz Smith

  The Return of a Star

  Los Angeles.—On my visit to the other Coast, I spotted Rusty Blake and gorgeous Tarah Worth at Beverly Hills’ celebrity-studded restaurant, Spago’s. Astonishing as it may seem, Tarah looks even younger than Blake, who is—he claims—not yet 30. During a tableside chat, Tarah, as charming as she is beautiful, assured me that her “skin is still virgin skin, unviolated by the surgeon’s knife.” Hollywood makeup experts will have a hard time aging her for the role of Helen Lawson, although I learned it’s being adjusted just for her. “I don’t mind playing an older woman of 39,” Tarah confided, “because it is a fabulous role, and I am an actress.” Spoken like a trouper! I cannot imagine who else would play the choicest role in the sequel to the great classic Valley of the Dolls by my good, departed friend, the immortal Jacqueline Susann. Hollywood, take notice! I predict that this role will bring Tarah Worth the Academy Award she deserves. Not only is she abundantly talented, she is also one of the most beautiful women in the world, with exquisite skin, eyes that tilt. She is at once an All-American beauty and an exotic, mysterious woman.

  Her body is unbelievable, and it would be at any age. But for a woman of 37 … 36 … 35 … 33 … 30, she is miraculous. And that red hair! Really, she is breathtaking!

  “Exactly like that!” Tarah said aloud. She sat in her living room penning the column she was sure Liz Smith would write—of course Liz would write it in her own inimitable way, imagination could not match that—about her evening out—tonight—at Spago’s with Rusty Blake!

  What was all that shrieking? Oh, yes, those crazy evangelists on the television screen. She had landed on one absently when she had begun to pen the imaginary column.

  Was that him? The young man by the motel pool. She put on the glasses she never wore in public. It was him—and he was not an actor—yes, it was that sexy cowboy who had run away so strangely after standing there with a hard-on. What to make of the fact that he had now appeared in her life twice? How was he connected to Return to the Valley of the Dolls? Call Riva, her psychic advisor? Things had to happen in threes, to achieve powerful significance; Riva had taught her that.

  Tarah stood up, gathering about her the filmy negligee that erased any blemish—not that there was any—on her body. It was noontime but she liked to remain in her “bedclothes,” luxuriating glamorously. Now! Now she must decide what to wear for this staggeringly important night! Should she consult her horoscope? No, it was always malicious, always warning. Still …

  She took her chart out of the drawer. Today: “A tall, handsome man is headed your way and may change your life—for good or ill.”

  A tall, handsome man … the cowboy! Again! Still: “… for good or ill.” Irritated by the astrologer’s nasty addition, Tarah took a pen and blotted out the last two words of that entry in her chart.

  6

  A matter of morality considered.

  Lyle felt ashamed, couldn’t stand himself, thought every day of fleeing, tossed and turned in the motel bed—occasionally looking out at the pool to see if maybe the woman he had seen there might be out there, even if it was night. He felt even more ashamed when he fell asleep and dreamt that an angry Clarita was teaching him a lesson that he couldn’t hear, and then Sister Matilda came in on it scolding him for making s
ounds in the Lords Headquarter’s—“just sounds, don’t mean anything.” But none of that was anything like the shame he felt when, later that day, Brother Bud and Sister Sis presented him with a big check, more money than he had ever imagined—“just the beginning, Lord’s Cowboy, to show how much the Lord appreciates you, boy.”

  He felt so ashamed that he thought—again—of fleeing—and then wondered whether he should await some further indication of why Sister Matilda wanted him to Stay put.

  Too, there was this. He sure could use all that money.

  7

  At the Lord’s Bank.

  He walked into the bank named on the check and waited for the prettiest girl teller, who had spotted him when he walked in.

  “Can’t cash that much,” she said, in a winky voice. “You’d want to open an account with it, wouldn’t you, cowboy?”

  Lyle shook his head. No use explaining he wasn’t a cowboy. “I guess,” Lyle said.

  The pretty girl said wistfully, “I’ll have to call one of the managers so you won’t have to wait, and he’ll open the account for you. Mr. Clarence!” she called out.

  A staid serious man responded to her call. He led Lyle to his desk in a small cubicle. “Thomas Clarence here,” he introduced himself. “This is a lot of money, young man. Of course, I know the source. Good Christian folk, Brother Bud and Sister Sis, upright folk, decent folk, honest folk, beacons of light within all the darkness of sin and evil, God praise them in these times of liberal upheaval. We have the honor of having them bank with us. That makes me think of this establishment as the Lord’s Bank. I’ll need to have a driver’s license.”

  “I don’t drive,” Lyle said.

  “Ride a horse?” the man broke his staid demeanor with a tiny chuckle, then became serious again. “I need some kind of identification.” He looked at the paper Lyle had handed him. “A birth certificate?”