by Неизвестный
Cowboy
by J. M. Snyder
Copyright © 2004 by J. M. Snyder
Please do not copy or reprint without permission.
Author: [email protected]
Website: http://jmsnyder.net
PART 1
Kent's Market is the only thing for miles down either side of Route 83. Rising from the midst of so much desert dirt and stubborn grass, it's an oasis of greenery and color that makes your heart stop to see it. A small picket fence corrals in the plants and flowers and vegetable carts that threaten to overflow into the dusty road, and above it all the sign, painted to look that cracked and weathered. Kent's.
Annuals first, right by the road, lines of pansies and wax begonias and nasturtiums, purple and red and orange in the dry air. Then the shrubbery and taller plants, hostas and hibiscus, a potted azalea or two. Old wooden workbenches line the fence, overflowing with baskets of apples and strawberries, tomatoes, green peppers, and at the back of the lot a tent stands tall, its canvas flapping in the hot breeze that blows when a car passes by. Behind the tent, a ways off to deter the shoppers who stop for fresh produce and live plants, is a low, one-story ranch house, its wooden façade as worn and beaten down as Kent's sign out front. And behind the house, hidden from view, is the field of vegetables and plants he sells.
Kent himself stands at the front of the lot every morning as the sun comes up. Hose in hand, watering the flowers, the plants, thinking things I'll never know and he doesn't wish to share. With his black jeans tucked into faded boots, a black cowboy hat pushed down low over his eyes, he looks like the epitome of what I came west to find. A solitary man, a lone cowboy, some nugget of a man's man that managed to slip sideways in time, straight off the range to me. I've always wanted a guy like that, rugged, stoic, lean and muscled and damn fine in a duster and hat. Too many westerns as a kid, my sister says. Searching for a western hero that doesn't exist, out here in the desert sun.
She never met Kent.
He's the reason women flock to our meager produce stand, out here a good ten miles from town. Sure, we advertise in the local paper, on TV, but he's the reason people driving the back road from Laredo to Abilene stop and pick up a pint of berries or a potted geranium to take home. From the road he's breath-taking in those jeans, that hat, no shirt and a tanned chest the delicious color of chestnuts in season. Strong -- you can see that from your car window, how strong he is, how broad his chest and back, how muscled his arms. Narrow hips that hint at a tight ass, abs you think you saw on a NordiTrack commercial, a tiny string around his neck so Marlboro you ache for a smoke. The women look his way and imagine a slow, shy grin curving into that tanned face, or how he'd tip the brim of his hat just so and say something John Wayne like, "Howdy, ma'am." They read about him in their historical romances, see him on the big screen -- they know how cowboys like him are supposed to act and they come racing in to pick over his irises and cucumbers, nudging each other and giggling when he looks their way.
I know, I fell for it too. Only I wasn't holding out much hope when I stopped -- a man like that usually doesn't go for a man like me, that's part of the reason I think I've always wanted one. But I was hitchhiking my way north and the couple who picked me up outside of Carrizo Springs were old enough to be my parents, and by the time we drove past Kent's, I was more than ready to get out. Away from the words of caution, how a young man like myself should settle down with a nice girl, how I need a job like their own son working for minimum wage in the school system over in Dallas, how their daughter would like me but I'm a bit too shiftless for their tastes ... when the missus saw Kent's bare back, as broad as the sky above, and developed a sudden craving for fresh snap peas, I made my escape. Thanked them for the ride, dug my pack out of their trunk, trotted over to the stand as if this was where I needed to be. It was -- I left Jersey looking for a man like Kent. I wasn't leaving Texas without finding one.
So it was a pleasant surprise when he turned in my direction and I saw in his eyes that all the women in all the world didn't matter to him none, and when he asked if I had a place to stay, I told him no. He had an extra room in the back, if I was interested? Of course I was.
Been here ever since, going on two years now. Up close he's not so intimidating -- you see the pale flesh where his pants sag a little off his hips, the small paunch that's begun to distend those abs, the flab that runs through the muscles in his arms. If the wind is right, you catch a whiff of something strong rising from him, tequila or whiskey, something pungent and tart that makes you swoon in the desert heat. There is no "ma'am" or "howdy" or shy, slow smile to brighten your day -- most of the time he doesn't say two words from sun up to sundown, and in the early morning he's too hung-over to smile. The cowboy hat, the boots, the lariat chain around his neck, it's all part of the image, the illusion, the same way his "homegrown" tomatoes are bought at the farm four miles away, or the flats of perennials purchased at the Wal-Mart in town. It's an act, a way to bring in customers and stay in business ... he's a daydream out there in the sun, hose in hand, watering his plants and I fell for it so hard, I'm still dusting off my knees.
Two years. And even now when I look out from the main house, I can still see the man I thought he was, the cowboy I want him to be.
I bring him coffee, black, because that's the way he likes it. My own looks like hot cocoa, I use so much milk. Two steaming mugs, one in each hand, and my fingers start to sweat from the heat when I step out of the main house and head for the market lot. It's already close to seventy degrees outside and it's barely eight o'clock yet -- by noon it'll be almost unbearable for a northern boy like me, and I'll have to retreat beneath the tent where I have a cashier's table and a fan set up, and I'll sit in the shade and watch Kent move through his plants like a mirage in the waves of heat that radiate from the desert sun. How he keeps anything green in this arid clime, I'll never know.
He's watering now, like he always is when I first come down. Setting my coffee on one of the veggie stands, I sidle up behind him and snake an arm around his waist -- his skin is already damp with a fine sheen of sweat, I taste it when I kiss the back of his neck, and a bitter smell rises from him, a mix of work and alcohol and sex. "Hey babe," I purr, resting my chin on his shoulder. He's a tall man, a head taller than me, and when I lean on his shoulder, I fit perfectly beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. This close I can see his hair, dark and plastered to his head under the hat, and he has a thin mustache that makes him look older than his thirty-two years. It makes him look more western somehow -- I think of Dallas and Magnum P.I. and all those old shows I used to watch as a kid, all those shows that made me want a man like the one in my arms now.
From here I can also see his unshaven cheeks, the stubble laced with a gray fuzz that I won't point out. Instead I breathe in the whiskey that rises up from him like the sun off the road and I hold out his coffee mug where he can see it. "For you," I tell him. By noon, it'll hold more alcohol than java. He thinks I don't see when he spikes it.
Kent grunts, not quite the thanks I would like, and then shrugs out of my embrace. "Don't hang on me, Marcus," he says, his voice bleary and gruff. "It's hot out here."
No shit, I think, but I hold my tongue. I learned long ago that the best way to deal with a mood like this is to just keep quiet and let it ride itself out. Once he wakes up a bit more, shakes off the drink from last night, he'll be easier to deal with. He'll smile for the customers, at least. They're the ones that matter.
"Your coffee," I say, holding out the mug like a peace offering. He frowns at it a moment, then takes it and chugs half of it at once -- good thing it wasn't scalding. I doubt he would've felt it, anyway. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans, I glare at the flower
s he's watering and tell him, "I have that washtub out --"
"I'm going into town in the morning," he mutters. It's his don't nag me tone of voice, one he's been using more and more around me. The showerhead's been busted for the past week and I'd swear he hasn't bathed since then, that's the alcohol and sweat I smell on him. The day after the shower broke, I found an old aluminum washtub in the back of the barn, scrubbed it up and hosed it down and it's so damn pioneer that I find any excuse to strip off my clothes and sink into a lukewarm bath of suds. Out by the barn, the sun hot on my naked body, the soap drying on my skin, it's as close to heaven as I've come so far, and I can't understand why Kent won't take me up on an offer of a bath. I'd heat the water for him, on the gas grill like I do for myself -- I'd wash him, that could be fun, maybe end up with the two of us entwined in the sparse grass, rolling through suds and water, when's the last time we did anything like that?
Heh, when have we ever done that?
But Kent always says no. "I'll fix the damn shower," he tells me, before I can point out that it's still clogged. "Just lay off it already, will you? Can you move back? It's hot."
As if I'm right up on him. But I do as he asks, mindful of the hose as I step back, and I watch him for a few minutes, before he can tell me to get to work. From the house this morning I leaned over the sink while the coffee brewed, watched him through the kitchen windows, told myself he's everything I've ever wanted. But in truth he's only a shadow of the men I see in the magazine clippings my sister sends me, the models in cowboy hats and little else, Calvin Klein and Guess ads that sell what I'm hoping to find. Those cowboys don't have Kent's thick waist or his drink-rimmed eyes or his alcohol-pinked cheeks. They don't have that line where his tan stops abruptly at his hips, everything above a deep Indian red, everything below pasty and white. And they smile, in those ads. Even the cigarette ones, where the cowboy's riding hard to round up stray cattle, he always has the hint of a smile in his eyes, on his lips. Kent doesn't smile much, and he never laughs. Once I thought that was part of his appeal but now I'm not so sure.
With a sigh, he looks at me over his shoulder and says, "I'll pick up a new head when I'm in town tomorrow. I said I'd fix it --"
"Okay." I kick dirt over the hose so I won't have to meet his eyes. They're dark like his hair and bloodshot from drink, and I hate that I can't read them. I'm good at reading people but there's something closed about Kent that I just can't figure out. Maybe that's what draws me to him. Maybe there's a part of me that wants to be the one to crack through his rough exterior and find that I've been right all along, there's something deep inside of him that's exactly what I need. It's just buried, and every now and then I think I catch a glimpse of it, in a rare smile or a sudden touch, or a wink that will surprise me and take my breath away. I live for those moments, that hope.
Kent frowns at me, then cuts the hose off, downs the rest of his coffee, hands the mug to me. I take it and wrap both hands around its lingering warmth. "Marcus," he says softly. He can speak so softly when it suits him.
I look up and study his face. He needs to shave, he looks grizzled and old, and his moustache needs to be trimmed, it's getting bushy. Sometimes he lets me do that for him, after hours when it's just the two of us, and I'll sit on his lap and gently clip the hairs above his lip, or shave his cheeks in long, even strokes while he leans back in his recliner, beer close at hand, one arm draped almost negligently around my waist. We haven't done that in awhile now. I'd suggest it but I have a feeling his response would be the same as it was when I offered to bathe him. Not right this second, he said, exasperated. Can't you see I'm busy?
"I'll fix it," he tells me. He means the shower, and I nod because I know he'll fix it. He's going into town tomorrow, he'll buy the parts, we'll have a working shower by evening. When I don't answer, though, he sighs and reaches out for me, his fingers slipping behind my belt buckle to pull me close. "Come here," he says. I have no choice.
He gives me a kiss, damp and sloppy and tasting of sour whiskey, but it's his lips on mine, it's something at least. His cheeks scruff my skin and I close my eyes so he won't see the flicker of disgust in my gaze. He needs a bath, a shave, mouthwash, something. But it's a kiss and it's more than I was expecting, more than I could've hoped for this early in the day. If he were one of the cowboys in my daydreams, this would be when he'd whisper he loves me and I'd suggest a quick tryst out by the barn before the first customers arrive, and he'd agree.
But he doesn't say anything, just pulls away and clears his throat, asks for more coffee. And I don't offer myself to him -- I just nod and grip his mug tight, head back for the house and the pot simmering on the stove. This isn't a daydream and he isn't a model in an underwear ad. My sister's right, that world doesn't exist.
This is what I got instead. As I trek back to the house, I tell myself this is enough. It's going to have to be.
Afternoon finds me beneath the tent, the fan stirring hot air over my denim-clad legs and a towel full of melting ice tied around my neck. When I first hooked up with Kent, I made the mistake of wearing shorts outside -- came in that night with welts up and down my legs, mosquito bites and red chigger trails on my thighs, black fleas like freckles on my ankles and feet. Scratches, too, where the dust blew up against me during the day, I was raw from the heat and the dirt, and I never felt more filthy in my life. "Now you know why cowboys wear jeans," Kent told me, and it was as close to I told you so as he'd ever come, but he sat with me in the bathroom as I showered, painted the chigger bites with clear nail polish to kill them, covered me in calamine lotion until I looked as pink as a newborn baby. He can be so good to me.
The customers are here now, women in bright prints swarming around the flowers like bees. They call out to Kent by name, giggling when he turns their way -- how much are the petunias? And does he know a good recipe for tomatillos? And what kind of sun should these morning glories get? They don't ask me -- I'm just the boy by the register, my name's not up on the sign out front and I don't have my shirt off so they can gawk over my chest, which doesn't look anything like his. I'm not tan, not buff, and if they weren't so blind, they'd see that Kent's color is more of a perpetual burn, his stomach muscles aren't as firm as I'd like them to be. But they only see the man they came here to see, the cowboy in the black jeans and black hat who looks like he stepped off a pack of cigarettes. They sigh over him as I ring up their plants -- don't they notice he's not interested? If one propositions him, he gracefully backs down, and that makes them want him all the more. He's mine, I want to say as I take their dingy dollar bills. He doesn't sleep in my bed but we have sex, that means he's with me.
A few pay him directly. I watch him stick the money in his back pocket almost absently, like he's just putting it there until he can give it to me, but somehow it never makes it into the register. He thinks I don't notice, but I know it'll be gone by the time he comes home tomorrow, spent in town on beer and pints at the local bar. I know how he is. If I mention it, though, he'll get indignant and think I don't trust him, and the air between us will be like cracked glass, threatening at any moment to shatter into an argument. So I don't say anything, and when he glances at me I look away, as if I didn't see it. Twenty bucks, maybe fifty, it's not worth the fight.
When the sky begins to grow dark and the shadow of the house stretches across the yard to reach into the tent, we close up shop. Tie down the tent flaps, cover the stands with tarp, water the plants one more time as the sun goes down. I hurry the few lingering customers along while Kent moves large, sand-filled barrels into place to block our driveway, a deterrent against anyone pulling up to browse our plants at night. Now he tips his hat, as the last couple climbs into their car, and there's a ghost of a smile on his face when they back out into the road and are gone. Then it's just the two of us, alone, and I try not to stare at him as I count out the money in the drawer but he's beautiful in the setting sunlight, his skin the color of the arroyo, his hat pushed back to reveal his enigmatic eyes. H
e's been drinking since before noon, I know because I saw the empty bottles of Killian's in the trash, but it's loosened him up and he actually grins at me when he's finished watering the plants. "Good day," he tells me, meaning we were busy.
I nod and keep counting. Easily three hundred, maybe four, because he sold the rhododendron in full bloom for a pretty penny, and out in these parts plants like that are scarce, like gold or diamonds in the dust. After the tarp is down, held in place with large stones to keep the night wind from whipping it away, Kent comes up behind me, rubs a hand around my waist, over my stomach, until his thumb hooks onto my belt buckle. His fingers on my zipper arouse me despite the alcohol that rises from his pores, and when he blows on my neck, I giggle and squirm away. I'm as bad as any of those women in here earlier. "Let's cook out tonight," he says. That means he wants me to fire up the grill.
Folding the money into a deposit envelope, I ask, "Burgers?" That's about all we have right now -- he'll pick up groceries tomorrow when he's in town, and put this money in the bank, and get a showerhead, I have to remind him about that. "One or two?"
He leans against me, heavy and sweaty through my thin t-shirt. "Two," he says, and I know he'll only eat one but I nod anyway, I'll cook two. Rubbing his hand against my crotch, he murmurs, "And maybe later ..."
He lets the thought trail off but a thrill runs through me all the same. It's been almost a week since we've had sex, four days and three hours and I'm counting here, I am, because at twenty-eight I should be getting it more often than that. I'm in my sexual prime, right? I have to settle for my hand in the washtub because most of the time he's too drunk to get it up. But he's promising a little loving now and I've been waiting for this all damn day. I shove the rest of the money into the envelope, I'll count it later, and turn away from the register so fast, I almost trip over the fan and send us both to the floor. "Careful," he warns, grinning again.
