“I know where you live,” said Vance. “Get in the truck. You don’t need to walk. Quit acting like a hippie.”
Julia walked around the front of the vehicle and climbed aboard the Silverado, smiling and sighing. It was an eighteen-second ride.
BEVERAGE I: Because this is the first evening Julia has entertained a male guest since arriving in North Dakota, the two of them initially discuss the apartment. Vance mentions that it looks modern. Julia tries to straighten up while they talk, as if this unmarried buffalo farmer might care about the aesthetic alignment of magazines. Julia asks Vance what his home looks like. He says he can’t remember. He asks where she purchased her movie posters. She says, “Spencer Gifts.”
BEVERAGE II: Julia flips on the television. They watch a thirty-second news break; Ronald Reagan has officially announced his decision to seek a second term. “What do you think of the president?” asks Julia. “He seems to be doing an okay job,” replies Vance. “He’s certainly an upgrade from Mr. Peanut. I never trusted that guy, or his sweaters. Never. What kind of president listens to the Allman Brothers?” Julia asks Vance if he considers himself a Republican or a Democrat. He snorts. She understands what this means. They decide to listen to music instead; she slides Can’t Buy a Thrill into the stereo and presses the oversized play button with her thumb. She doesn’t own any Stones cassettes. She used to have a copy of Big Hits (High Tide and Green Grass), but one of her college roommates left it in the sun.
BEVERAGE III: After fetching his third beer from the kitchen, Julia elects to sit on the couch next to Vance; prior to this decision, she had been sitting in an adjacent chair. Julia was now 90 percent sure she was attracted to this man and 49 percent positive he was attracted to her. Vance was 100 percent attracted to her, but he thought there was only a 33 percent chance she was interested in him (20 percent of that coming via the original invitation). She played with her hair, which (according to her magazines) was supposed to serve as a romantic signal. This confused Vance; it made him think Julia was uncomfortable. They talked about different breeds of dogs, and why the Dog Lover was a despicable human, and how they both hated the Winter Olympics.
They were out of beer.
“What do we do now?” asked Vance. This was not innuendo; he really had no idea what they should do next. He was not at ease in this situation.
“I don’t know,” said Julia. “I guess we’ll just have to talk, unless there’s a movie on channel four.”
“I would like to keep talking,” he said. “You’re an interesting talker.”
Julia was in control. She could tell.
“Well, I have one idea,” she said. “Do you want to get high?”
This was a gamble.
“What?”
“Do you want to get high?”
“By taking drugs?”
“Not drugs. Just pot,” said Julia. “Have you never smoked pot before? Not even during college?”
“No. Never. No. I had friends who did, but they were all pathetic burnout stoner failures.”
“Oh,” she said, blushing imperceptibly. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I didn’t know. We don’t have to.”
“But—what will it do to me?” he asked. “Is it just like being really drunk?”
“Actually, it’s completely different.”
They looked at each other. Julia could feel her heart pounding inside her chest, because she knew what was going to happen next. She was in control of everything. Vance shrugged and smiled.
“Let me get my thesaurus,” she said. He did not know if this was supposed to be some kind of drug slang, but he did not care.
—How will I know if this is working?
—Because you’ll start asking that specific question a whole bunch of times.
—No, you don’t understand what I’m asking. I mean, “How will I know the difference between how my mind works right now and the way my mind works normally?”
—Your question is the answer to that question.
—Maybe so. You know, I had no idea you were stockpiling narcotics here.
—That would be an exaggeration. This is my entire stockpile. You are holding my entire stockpile as we speak, and it is on fire.
—Where did you get this? I heard that you can buy marijuana at this record store in Fargo. It’s called Mother’s Records. You are supposed to find the Doobie Brothers album Toulouse Street, pay for it at the counter, and then tell the salesclerk you want your change in dimes.
—That’s probably not totally true. This is just weed I kept from Wisconsin. It’s old. This is nostalgia pot. It harkens back to a previous age. The Bronze Age.
—Were you one of those druggies during college?
—Sort of. Yes.
—Really. That’s shocking. I’m shocked. I didn’t think girls were ever like that.
—Only the cool ones. And the lazy, fat ones. Sometimes we would get high and watch made-for-TV movies, and sometimes we would just sit around and see how high we could be. We spent a lot of time talking about being high, and comparing our level of highness to previous dope
-smoking occasions. That’s a big part of it. The main thing you talk about while doing drugs is doing drugs.
—You know, I really, really like this apartment. You’ve done an excellent job with the placement of the furniture. Everything is set at a right angle. It’s like we’re playing Battleship.
—Thank you very much.
—Julia, I am extremely thirsty. Is this to be expected, or is something wrong with my esophagus?
—That’s normal. You’re normal. Would you like a glass of ice water or skim milk or Nestle Quik?
—Maybe. I don’t know. Not yet. Let’s not get crazy. Let’s keep talking, as was our plan. Let’s talk about something controversial.
—I shy away from controversy. It’s like calling someone a powder monkey.
—A powder monkey?
—You know what I mean. You should never make fun of a man with a limp, because—eventually—your taunts will grow more vociferous and you’ll slowly find yourself saying things like, “Nice limp, powder monkey.” That’s horrible. It’s common sense, Vance. It’s just good sportsmanship.
—What are you talking about? Are we secretly on television right now?
—Cool out. Be cool, Bison Man. That was an inside joke.
—I don’t get it.
—That’s because you’re not far enough inside. But as long as we’re on this subject—or any subject, really—can I ask you a North Dakota question?
—Absolutely.
—What the fuck is Medora?
—Medora? Medora is a town.
—Yes. So they tell me.
—It’s west of Bismarck. It’s in the Badlands.
—Yes. Yes, that’s what I’ve come to discover. But why does everyone know about this town? I looked it up in the atlas, and the atlas said it had a population of one hundred people. Yet Medora is something we’re supposed to cover this semester in Our State. Why am I supposed to teach eighth graders about the significance of some one-hundred-person village I’ve never heard of before?
—Because Medora is a famous place.
—That’s what everybody keeps telling me. But how the fuck can it be famous if it only has one hundred citizens?
—Medora is a town that was founded by a French millionaire named Marquis de Morès in the late 1800s. He named the town after his wife. Medora was his wife’s name. He built a mansion out there and he started a meatpacking plant, and he hated the Jews. I think he once challenged Theodore Roosevelt to a pistol duel, although that’s probably a lie. Today, Medora is where tourists from Nebraska go for the weekend. They come to tour the mansion he built for his non-Jewish wife. Everybody knows this.
—How is that possible? How can this be something everybody knows?
—I’m not sure. I’ve never thought about it before. When you live around here, that is just something you become aware of.
—Fuck. Fuck. I�
�ll never get used to that. I’ll never get used to all the things that everyone in this town seems to consider common knowledge. Everyone knows the same stuff, and I can’t understand why. There’s no pattern. It’s so weird.
—It’s not so weird. I don’t think it has anything to do with this town, Julia. What I have come to realize is that totally different people are still basically the same. I mean, everyone I’ve ever known who majored in criminal justice and became a cop started out as an adolescent criminal. The kind of fifteen-year-old kid who wants to bring a shotgun to school and shoot his teacher can become a twenty-two-year-old war hero under slightly different circumstances. I mean, Gordon Kahl was a war hero, and look how that turned out. It’s not just Owl. I think all people have all the same feelings, more or less. And feelings and thoughts are pretty much the same thing, more or less.
—I would say less than more. How high are you?
—Why are you asking?
—Because my feelings aren’t anything like my thoughts. They seem completely disconnected. That’s probably why I miss smoking pot: It makes my thoughts match my feelings.
—That’s weird. That’s a weird problem.
—Do you have any weird problems?
—I don’t have problems, weird or otherwise.
—You seem like you have problems. Sometimes I see you drinking at the bar, all alone, ignoring all the people who want to be your friends. And I think to myself, “This man is depressed. This man must have weird problems.” I’m paraphrasing myself here.
—Oh, I’m certainly depressed. But not because of any problems.
—Then what makes you depressed?
—What difference would that make? You seem to think there is a big distinction between knowing things and not knowing things. There isn’t. There’s a difference, but it’s negligible. Like, I knew about Medora, and you didn’t. But what does that mean, really? What does it indicate?
—Well, you still seem like a really nice guy. I’m sorry you’re depressed. That sucks.
—You’re depressed, too.
—Actually, I don’t think I am. I don’t think I’ve been depressed for a long time. I think I used to be depressed, but not anymore.
—No, you’re depressed. You just don’t realize it, because you’re a drug addict. Also, do you still have access to that ice water? Because that would be wonderful.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Ten thirty,” she said.
“You’re kidding me. I figured it was two a.m.” Vance stood up. “I should be getting home. I have things to do in the morning. But thanks for having me over. This was a real experience.”
He searched around for his winter jacket, finally locating it on the floor behind the couch. It was difficult to slide the buttons through their holes.
“It was,” said Julia. Her legs and shoulders felt thick, like slabs of beef. She didn’t want to get up from the couch, so she didn’t. “It was an experience. It was nice to talk when no one else was around. I feel like there are all these people in town who I see all the time, but I don’t really know them at all. Or someone will see me and know me and they’ll wave hello, but I won’t even be sure who they’re supposed to be. So…yeah. Talking. It was stellar. Let’s do it again.”
“We will,” said Vance. He looked at her on the sofa and started walking backward toward the door. This Is When You Are Supposed To Kiss Her, he thought to himself. This Is When Normal People Try To Kiss Other Normal People. It should not have been a problem. He was an accidental, unoriginal football legend. He was the coolest person in town, and nobody could disagree. But he still could not act. “We will,” he said again, and then he opened the door and disappeared into the hall.
He Wanted To Kiss Me, she thought.
But He Was Nervous. I Made Him Nervous, Somehow.
Julia looked at the ashtray that sat upon the glass coffee table and at the roach that remained from the stoning; perhaps one eighth of an inch was still unsmoked. “There are two kinds of people in this world,” she said aloud. Sometimes she talked to herself when she was high; she imagined that her friends from college could watch her actions on a hidden camera. She did not audibly speak the rest of the platitude, but the two kinds of people Julia split the world into were as follows: People who said, “This joint is cashed,” and people who said, “Well, let me try.” Julia placed herself in the second category, although she wondered if that made her an optimist or a pothead.
The tip of her left thumb blistered and charred white, just like old times.
JANUARY 31, 1984
(Horace)
He printed his name and address in block letters because that was how you were supposed to do it. His printing was small. He inscribed his Social Security number and found himself amazed that he could still remember most of Alma’s (it was 202–98-something-something-12). He was amazed by this memory every year. He put an “x” in the box that said “single.” He looked at the chicken-shaped clock above his sink. It was almost midnight.
Last May, he sold his non-working 1969 John Deere auger to the Flaw brothers for $120. They must have been pretty desperate for an auger. He wasn’t sure if selling an auger counted as Business Income (line 12) or Farm Income (line 18). It felt more like business, so that’s what he went with. The government would barely care about an auger, anyway. The only thing the IRS would care about was the half section of land he still owned: 320 acres of sandy loam that he rented to Jake Druid for thirty-nine dollars an acre. The Druids used it to raise alfalfa, which was turned into hay, which was fed to the bison. By extension, Horace was sustaining the existence of the American buffalo, a noble creature of sweeping symbolism; he was supporting the notion of government without even trying. He wrote the digits $12,480 into line 17. He made his eight as two tiny circles, one on top of the other. Line 21 asked for “other income.” He declared nineteen dollars, just to be safe (he didn’t know if gambling revenue counted). He merged all these lines and numbers with an adding machine. He subtracted the standard deduction for a widower. He licked his fingers and paged through the brownish index of the IRS booklet to establish his tax liability, which was $212. He used a fountain pen with blue ink to write a check on his kitchen table for the appropriate amount. He had no W-2s or 1099s to attach. He inserted his check and the tax return into an envelope, adhered a twenty-cent stamp, and walked out to his mailbox. The sky was (of course) very dark, but he (of course) knew the way. From the bottom step of the porch, it was exactly one hundred steps to the mailbox. Exactly one hundred. The logistic perfection of that distance deepened his faith in God. It was beyond coincidence. He placed the letter inside the box and lifted the flag. His sense of relief was immediate. He had looked forward to this act since Christmas.
It was important to do these things. It was important to pay one’s taxes, even if the government was wrong and the money would be wasted on drug addicts and boat people and Minuteman ICBM missiles. The state did not ask for much; the state only asked for a little money. And what was money? It was merely a temptation to commit wrong. Rich people weren’t happy. They were generally miserable and usually confused. Most of the time they didn’t even realize they were rich; almost without exception, they wrongly viewed themselves as middle-class. But there’s no such thing as middle-class. The middle class does not exist. If you believe you are part of the middle class, it just means you’re rich and insecure or poor and misinformed. Horace understood this. That bastard Chester Grimes had taught him that having money was without value (and that the wanting of money was even worse). What had that extra ten thousand dollars done for Gordon Kahl? It got him shot. It got his dog assassinated. It made him an icon to idiots like Edgar Camaro. Pay your taxes and don’t ask why. How hard was that to understand?
FEBRUARY 3, 1984
(Cubby Candy)
Who am I even talking to? I suppose it doesn’t matter. What I say won’t change anything. Still, I want you to know that I had nothing to do with this, which
probably doesn’t surprise you. I don’t even know the guy. He’s tall: That’s all I know. He plays football and basketball and throws the javelin. He doesn’t like to communicate. Somebody said he listens to that live Ted Nugent album a lot, but I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t care what happens to him.
This kind of thing always happens to me. How can things backfire when you haven’t done anything? Everything explodes in my face; it doesn’t matter what I have or haven’t done. Whenever I tried to be nice to people, they hated me. Teachers would say, ‘Just ignore those kids.’ But that never worked. That made things worse; everybody assumed I was fucking retarded. I remember when I was in third grade: All these older kids would chase me around on their BMX bikes. They would chase me all over town, screaming at me, making fun of my name, making those Indian whooping sounds. They said we were playing Planet of the Apes, and they were the apes. I didn’t have a bike, so I would just try to run away. It sucked. I’m not fast. I have short legs. After three weeks of that shit, I realized it was easier to slow down and let them ride up alongside me, because then I could just grab them by the hair and rip them to the pavement. It was my best option. I only did it because there was no better alternative. But ten years later, that’s all anybody remembers about that summer: All they remember is Cyrus Cobb splitting his head open on the sidewalk and living in the hospital until school started. They don’t remember Planet of the Apes or the rules of the game; they honestly want to believe I randomly attacked a bike-riding fifth grader and smashed his head against the sidewalk for no good reason. Which, I suppose, is fine with me. They can believe that. I hated that kid. I hate kids named Cyrus. Smashing his skull wasn’t my decision, but I have no remorse.
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