Mayor of the Universe

by Lorna Landvik

  “Good-bye, Uncle Hip,” said the boy, throwing himself into Hip’s open arms. “Thanks for helping me learn how to ride. Pop says next time you see me you won’t believe what I can do! I’ll be able to do a Suicide Drop and the Texas Skip, and Aunt Rita says she’ll buy me red cowboy boots if I do good in school this year and—and aw, don’t go!”

  Outside, the three old friends stood in a circle trying to figure out a way to say good-bye to one another. Curly scratched his chin. Stretch scratched the back of his neck.

  “Well,” said Hip, scratching his sideburn.

  “You mean Hell,” said Stretch. “As in ‘Hell, as hard as this is to believe, I’m sure gonna miss you, you knucklehead.’”

  “Likewise,” said Hip. “You think . . . you think you and Penny’ll get together?”

  Stretch studied the toe of his cowboy boot.

  “I . . . I hope so. It’s gonna be a tough road for her, and I hope to be by her side . . . but you know me.”

  “I do know you,” said Hip. “You’re a son of a bitch, but you just might be there for her.”

  Stretch laughed. “Maybe I will be. Maybe I will.” He patted Grazi’s saddle pack. “So now you’re gonna live the life of the Lone Ranger, huh?”

  Hip shrugged. His plan was to live out in the open for a while and see what there was to be seen. Beyond that, the plan fuzzed up a bit.

  Finally using his tongue for something other than pushing out the side of his cheek, Curly said, “Maybe you’ll start a solo career, huh?”

  “I doubt that,” said Hip. “Wouldn’t be much fun without you two.”

  After a series of throat clearing, Stretch said, “Well, you could, you know. You were the best all-around Daring Desperado, that’s for sure.”

  Hip shivered, as if he’d drank something too cold too fast. He looked at Curly, wondering if he’d heard this crazy thing Stretch just said, but the old cowboy only nodded.

  “It’s true. I expect being a cowboy came the easiest for you because you loved it the most.”

  A month of silence passed among the cowboys.

  “All right, then,” said Stretch, walking in a zigzag to Hip. “We can’t drag out this good-bye like a bunch of girls.” He clamped his arms around Hip and gave his back a hard swat. “Good-bye, Hip. Keep your horse and your boots dry.”

  He stepped aside, staring at the ground with a sudden interest, allowing for Curly to step in. His embrace lasted a little longer.

  “Happy trails, amigo,” he whispered. “I’m gonna miss you.”

  Hip nodded hard, wanting but unable to respond. He nodded again, and when they stepped away from each other, Stretch’s fascination in the scrubby ground had spread to all them.

  Grazi pawed at the dirt as if to say, C’mon, let’s get this show on the road.

  Not knowing where he got his strength—he wanted to run back into the house, take his seat at the table, and ask for another piece of lemon meringue pie—Hip mounted his horse. He looked at his friends one last time, and because he still couldn’t talk, he thumbed the brim of his cowboy hat, gave Grazi a little nudge, and rode off.

  Curly and Stretch watched him until they couldn’t see him any longer, and then they walked back to the house, Curly to his new son and Stretch to his long-lost love.

  The afternoon air was baked hot, and after an hour’s ride Hip rode toward a creek dappled with the light of the late afternoon sun. He got off Grazi and let his horse drink and cupped some of the cool water to his own mouth. When he stood up, a curvaceous black woman in a red and white cowgirl dress was standing beside him.

  “I most surely could use a ride, mon,” she said in a musical voice, and lacing his fingers together to form a step, Hip helped her mount the horse.

  When he got into the saddle in front of her, Grazi turned her great head to look at him, as if to ask, Hey, haven’t I got a weight limit? but Hip ignored her pained expression and told her to “Git!”

  She began to trot, that beautiful horse who could do more than twenty-one tricks, and the woman behind Hip hugged him tight, and the three of them were one working speed and rhythm. The wind in their faces smelled like Texas Bluebonnets and the sound of Grazi’s hooves on the dirt shoulder of the road sounded like drums alerting tribal members to a party.

  “Hold on, Tandy,” said the cowboy.

  “I was about to say the same to you.”

  10

  The chair on which Fletcher skidded forward was meant for bodies half his size. So was the desk, which broke his momentum.

  “Holy moly,” he muttered, and feeling a literal need to hold on to his hat, he did so. “Holy moly,” he reiterated, looking around the classroom.

  ABCs marched along the upper rim of the blackboard, in capital and small letters. On one side of the door, construction paper balloons with children’s names on them—Katie! Matt! Bryan!—floated on a Helpers chart; from the position of Katie’s balloon, it appeared she was one helpful girl. On the other side, stars rose on a Star Students chart and here Matt was shining a bit brighter than Katie. There was an upright piano against one wall and across from it a little library with a sign that read Reading Nook. A cage housing a gerbil and a small aquarium made up the Zoo Corner. A desk decorated with a papier-mâché apple and an in-and-out box made of Lincoln Logs was positioned front and center, and in front of a blackboard dusted with chalk swirls stood Tandy.

  She wore wire-rimmed glasses and a rayon print dress whose fabric was making a valiant effort at containing her ample chest, and her wild hair was collected as primly as possible in a bun at the nape of her neck.

  Even though he wasn’t feeling particularly cheerful, Fletcher laughed at the transition the alien had made from flashy cowgirl to dowdy matron—but Tandy stared past him, as if he weren’t occupying the tiny wooden desk at all.

  Late afternoon sun warmed the room with an amber light, and even though Fletcher could hear the ticking of the clock, the purring motor of the aquarium, and the creak of a gerbil working out on its exercise wheel, the room was infused with the deep quiet of a classroom after school hours.

  Fletcher sat waiting for Tandy to give him a sign—any sign—as to what the hell was going on. When the discomfort of sitting in the too-small chair got to be too much, he cleared his throat. This sound was ignored by Tandy, so in deference to his surroundings Fletcher raised his hand.

  This was the correct gesture; Tandy broke out of her reverie.

  “Yes, you in the second row there.”

  Fletcher cocked his head and tapped his chest.

  “Yes, you. What is your question, mon?”

  “Question? How about questions? How about, Where do I begin?”

  “Shall we start then by reviewing your last assignment?”

  Fletcher looked at the alien-cum-school-marm. He was both confused and taken aback.

  “Are you serious? You brought me into this third grade classroom so—”

  “—actually, it’s second grade.”

  “Figures,” grumbled Fletcher. “I’ve just been through the most mind-blowing experience of my life, and I’m supposed to ‘review it’ in a second grade classroom?”

  “All I requested in the zamoosh was to land in a place of learning, and this”—she waved her hand, the nails now primly manicured—“is where we ended up. To be a second grader is to be on the cusp of great learning, Fletcher. Hoola, baby, if you were to color-image the brain of a seven-year-old and the brain of a rocket scientist . . . well, I don’t have to tell you whose would show the most vibrant activity.”

  “So? What has that got to do with me?”

  As he spoke, one finger traced the looping embroidery on the cuff on his cowboy shirt.

  “You enjoyed being Hip, didn’t you?” asked Tandala so kindly that Fletcher’s petulance began to fade.

  “Yes,” he said, tearing up. “It . . . it might have been the best time of my life . . . or Hip’s life . . .”

  “Best Time of My Life,” wrote Tandala on
the chalkboard in a script so Palmer Method–perfect that those who care about penmanship and the orderliness and artistry it conveys about character would have wept. She turned to her pupil, chalk in hand.

  “And why was that, Fletcher?”

  “Because I was a cowboy! If you’d been around in Texas, you would have seen that! Where were you, by the way?”

  “I was around—but in a backstage way . . . more of an emcee, Fletcher, than a fellow player. I introduce you to your fantasy but then for the most part hang out behind the curtain. But that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what’s happening onstage.” She tapped the chalk on the board. “Now continue. Why was it the best time of your life?”

  “Because I got to ride Grazi! Because I had cowboys for friends—real friends—and because I was in rodeos!”

  Each sentence struck him with a blow of sadness, and he sat back in his tiny chair, spent.

  “Liked riding Grazi,” Tandala wrote on the board. “Liked cowboy friends and rodeos.”

  Brushing chalk dust from her hands, she turned to find Fletcher glaring at her.

  “Why do you look that way at me, Fletcher?”

  “This is stupid,” he said, pushing his chair back. “It’s stupid that I’m sitting here in this kid’s desk”—here he struggled a moment trying to extricate his legs from under it before standing up—“and what you’re writing on the board is stupid. I don’t need you to mock what I just went through—”

  “I would never mock you!”

  Considering this for a moment, Fletcher said, “You’re right, I don’t think you would.” He sat down, but this time on top of a desk instead of behind one. It was a much better fit.

  “Why, by the way, am I still dressed up like Hip but you’ve completely changed?”

  “I . . . I don’t really know,” said Tandala, patting her hair in its neat bun. “It might be something deep, or it might be only that I really needed to get out of those cowboy boots—they pinched!”

  Fletcher smirked.

  “Well, it’s true! And I never thought that cowgirl outfit flattered my figure. Not the way your cowboy clothes flatter you.”

  Fletcher accepted the compliment with a wistful smile.

  “Thanks for letting it happen, by the way. But why did it happen? Why did I get to live my boyhood fantasy?”

  “I really don’t know, but it was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Fun is hardly the word. Although seeing that it was my boyhood fantasy, Stretch sure had a big part in it. Sometimes it felt like his story overshadowed mine.”

  “That might be something you need to work on,” said Tandy. “Being the star of your own show.”

  “Figures,” mumbled Fletcher. “I’m the second lead in my own fantasy.” He fiddled with the snaps on his cuff. “And why—logistically speaking—was I only Hip at certain points in his life? How come I never got to be Hip as a young boy—even though it seemed I knew his entire history? And how is it I had a fifteen-year history with the Daring Desperadoes, and yet I didn’t experience all those years of being on the road with them?” He paused, feeling a lump grow in his throat. “I would have liked that.”

  “I know you would have, Fletcher,” said Tandala, sitting down at the teacher’s desk. “But providing you with Hip’s whole life experience was not possible. You experienced the beginning and ending of your friendship with Stretch and Curly, and that you missed out on the middle . . . well, that’s the way this particular ball has bounced.”

  Frustrated at her simple explanations, Fletcher rolled his eyes.

  “But how did I, how did I as Hip fit so smoothly in their world, no matter what the time or place? How’d you make me fit into their lives so well?”

  “Fletcher, I’ve tried to explain the vagaries of the time and space continuum, whereby thought has forward and backward motion—”

  “—so what you’re really saying is there is no real explanation that I can understand . . . other than ‘That’s the way the ball bounces.’”

  “I would give the same explanation to your world’s top astrophysicists,” said Tandala kindly. “Because they wouldn’t be able to grasp it either. But for now, Fletcher, all—”

  “Oh, excuse me, I—”

  Fletcher leaped off his desk and Tandala sprung from her chair, and they both gaped at the figure in the doorway. It was as if they were looking at a talking doll.

  Wearing a red skirt and a blouse imprinted with apples, the woman was small and blonde and her cheeks were stained with two perfect blossoms of pink.

  “I didn’t know anyone was using my room . . . no one had—”

  “—oh, excuse us,” said Tandala, recovering her poise. “I had spoken to the principal. Didn’t he—”

  “—no, Mr. Everest didn’t say a thing,” said the woman, fingering the gold bug with little garnet eyes pinned on her apple-printed collar.

  “Our apologies,” said Tandala, walking toward her, hand extended. “I’m Miss Tandala Jones, of the Excellence 1212 program, and this is my colleague, Mr. Fletcher Weschel.”

  “How do you do?” said the woman politely, even as she looked wide-eyed at the grown cowboy in her classroom. “I’m Miss Plum—Wanda Plum—and I . . . the Excellence in 1212 program?”

  “Yes, we’re an independent foundation collecting data on those schools and teachers making a difference in our educational system, and Mr. Everest directed us to your classroom for our debriefing. We assumed you had left for the day.”

  “Well, I had,” said Miss Plum. “I just forgot my Star Students list, and tomorrow is Recognition Day, and I, well, I want to make sure I don’t miss anyone.”

  She race-walked to her desk and grabbed a folder out of the Lincoln Log inbox.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt; please feel free to use my room as long as you need to, and . . . well, good-bye!”

  Pulling the door open, she rushed through it, and Fletcher could swear he smelled apples in her wake.

  “I suppose we’d better make tracks, hmm?” asked Tandala, and as she began to erase the blackboard, Fletcher said, “Oh no—you don’t suppose she read that, do you?”

  Wiping away the words “I Liked Being a Cowboy” and “Liked Riding Grazi,” Tandala giggled. “If she did, she probably thought it had something to do with the Excellence 1212 program. Where I come up with these things I have no idea.”

  “Well, I feel like a dope,” said Fletcher. “She probably thinks I’m some imbecile cowboy getting remedial training.”

  “She doesn’t look the type to make such judgments. Now let’s hurry.”

  “So that’s it?” asked Fletcher, watching as her eraser mopped up the words “Liked cowboy friends and rodeos.” He felt that for an assignment review, not much had been reviewed. “School’s over?”

  “For now,” said Tandy, and Fletcher was abruptly a projectile, hurtling through time and space.

  Part III

  11

  “B-5. B-5.”

  “Oh darn!”

  “Did he say B-5 or G-5?”

  “Melvina, can you spot me a dollar?”

  As he felt himself settle in the leather wingback chair, the phrase “faster than a speeding bullet” from the Superman television series came into Fletcher’s head.

  No, a speeding bullet’s a snail compared to the rate I just moved.

  And unlike Superman, Fletcher didn’t have to bother with finding a phone booth to change clothes in; looking down, he saw that in his rapid transit, he had shed his cowboy getup and was now wearing a sports coat and linen trousers. This clothing wasn’t like his own mass-produced, machine-made suits; he could tell just by looking at his sleeve and the snow-white shirt cuff that edged out of it that this jacket was hand-tailored. He could tell by the way the fabric felt on his body that his trousers—never mind his jacket—cost more than the total of all the suits he had ever bought in his actuarial life.

  “Deke, honey, are you going to thrill us all by staying for lunch?”

  �
��I believe the question,” Fletcher found himself saying, “is, ‘Are you going to thrill me by allowing me to stay for lunch?’”

  Titters of giggles filled the airspace around him like birdsong.

  “N-31. N-31.”

  “Why, I believe you’ve got that, Aunt Edna.” Pointing to the woman’s bingo card, Fletcher was surprised to see how well manicured his—or Deke’s—fingers were, and doubly surprised by the gold watch around his wrist. Fletcher didn’t know much about watches (he’d received a Timex for his twelfth birthday and had remained loyal to the brand ever since), but he knew this one was fancy.

  “Bingo!” shouted Edna, bouncing in her seat. “Bingo!”

  “Excuse me,” Fletcher said, gliding out of his chair as Edna began reading back her numbers.

  He had no idea where the men’s room was, but Deke did, and he was soon in it, standing before its mirror to see what exactly he looked like now. He looked at his own face, his own face made handsome, and he couldn’t help grinning, especially when his reflection had such a nice smile.

  A dashing smile, corrected Fletcher, and as he took a step back to get a bigger view, he saw that everything about him, from his finely cut navy sports coat, to his pearl pink ascot and matching handkerchief, to his mustache (not big and bushy like Hip’s, but a narrow line above his lip) was either suave, or dashing, or both.

  Wowie, thought Fletcher, palming the sides of his hair.

  He had no question about who he was; this was Deke Drake, international playboy, gambler, and jewel thief. What he had no answer to was the question, What’s a guy like Deke Drake doing playing Bingo at a senior citizen home?

  But I suppose I’ll find out, he thought, and as he winked at his reflection he wondered what the name of the cologne he was wearing was, because he was certain he had never smelled so good in his entire life.

  Back in the game room, as the bingo caller thanked everyone for playing and an aide picked up the game cards and markers, Fletcher spotted the woman with the whipped confection of hair whose silver color held a definite tinge of blue.

  “Oh, Deke,” his aunt called, waving a hand heavy with jewelry. “Deke, honey—I’ve got to use the Ladies’—meet me in the dining room!”