Big Lonesome

by Joseph Scapellato

  The biker nodded his huge head, without a doubt looking at the mountains. He offered the cowboy a second cigarillo. And because the cowboy had just lied like crazy, lies on top of lies on top of lies, puny, blatant, true-blue lies, this action struck the cowboy as the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him—the manful, wordless offering of a smoke, no questions, no calling-out—and the cowboy was crying when he said, “I can’t light this goddamn thing.”

  All the dogs had shut up. The biker helped him light his second cigarillo. “Why’d your woman look so lonesome,” asked the cowboy, trying to cough the thickness from his throat.

  The biker pointed to the swing where the cowboy had been sleeping and waking up in shame. “That’s where I was born,” he said. He pointed to the rotten fence, the one that screened the silent dogs. “That’s where mi madre died.” He holstered his pointing hand in the pocket of his leather jacket. “This is where I decided to buy my first bike.”

  “I get you,” said the cowboy, weeping hard. “You’re just like me but you’re nothing like me, to boot.” His face sagged, but still smiled.

  “Nothing like you,” corrected the biker.

  The cowboy pulled at the corners of his mutt-faced mouth, tugging them down. It had no effect.

  “Ask mi abuelita,” said the biker.

  The cowboy went inside and asked the abuelita how to stop smiling so much. She’d been stirring a pan of chicken feet.

  She took off her apron and put down her wooden spoon. Not smiling, she took him by the hand and led him out of the kitchen, past the portraits, to her bedroom. The room was black and shuttered, one red candle blazing. She pushed him firmly to the bed and puffed out the flame.

  In the darkness she became a body builder. He’d never felt so puny in all his life, and as the bed squealed beneath them, all his family women filled a hall inside his head, a hall he rushed right through because they didn’t care where he was going. They really didn’t. He went on weeping. She heaved him through a sequence of positions, grunting.

  Then he understood that he’d been visiting the abuelita like this every night while half-asleep. All the senoritas had been her. What’s more, it’d been pretty good. He renewed his efforts.

  “Adios,” she said, when she’d led him back to the front door.

  She was smiling. He wasn’t. But he felt all right, considering.

  He walked to the pecan tree that had caught his truck, where the vehicle waited, crumpled. He brushed the seat of glass and dust. Someone had left a mound of cans on the mat. A breeze hissed through the shattered windshield and touched his lips, not his teeth.

  The truck felt old, older than the abuelita. Maybe because there was no mirror to meet himself inside of.

  To his surprise, it started.

  Five Episodes of White-Hat Black-Hat

  I. Bad News from over Big Mountain;

  Or, The Hero Is Called to Adventure

  The white-hat cowboy sat on a caved-in well at the edge of town. A ways away, near mountains, the wind was bored with sheets of dust. It was noon. The sun had put its foot down on everything.

  Waiting, the white-hat cowboy tried to look like he wasn’t. He tried to look like no one living could recall a time when anything could come for anyone. He jiggled his toes inside his boots.

  Noon stayed right where it was. The wind yawned.

  The white-hat cowboy tilted up the brim of his white hat and looked straight into the sun. His vision burst into a silvered burning landscape—a field of heaven-fire, angels flailing at the melting gate, the clouds all up in smoke—a holy burning so hot he heard it, barely. He tilted down his white hat. He fell asleep.

  The pony express rider rode in from the mountains. He was also asleep. His horse, starving, trotted past the white-hat cowboy. The mail in the saddlebags had a lot to say and couldn’t wait to say it. When opened, it would tell of the men shot, women kidnapped, cattle rustled, and gold stolen by the black-hat cowboy and his gang of outlaws. It would tell of the tribesmen ambushed by soldiers and the soldiers ambushed by tribesmen and the slaves running from slave-owners and the slave-owners running after slaves. It would tell the white-hat cowboy, I am a monster.

  The white-hat cowboy would say it wasn’t so.

  The mail would say it was.

  The white-hat cowboy would get up to sit on something else.

  II. A Powwow at the Doodlebug Ranch;

  Or, The Hero Receives Unexpected Aid

  The white-hat cowboy sat on a caved-in fence at the edge of the sheriff’s ranch. A ways away, near mountains, settlers played a slow game with last year’s farmland. It was afternoon. The sun dipped in and out of napping.

  Bored, the white-hat cowboy tried to look like he wasn’t. He tried to look like nothing had been, was, or would be more important than what was sure to happen next. He rolled his spurs against a splintered post.

  Afternoon dozed facedown. The settlers went in for water.

  From the sheriff’s ranchhouse came the sheriff, the sheriff’s niece from back east, and the teenage orphan. They moseyed through parched grasses to where the white-hat cowboy sat. The sheriff rode a horse, a very old one. It had swallowed all its teeth.

  The white-hat cowboy stood up on the caved-in fence right on the spot where the black-hat cowboy and his gang of outlaws had busted in last night. They’d shot the sheriff’s ranch hands, kidnapped the sheriff’s daughters, rustled the sheriff’s cattle, and stolen the sheriff’s cash.

  The white-hat cowboy shook his head.

  The sheriff attempted to wink in a manly way, which made him look even older than his very old horse. The sheriff’s niece from back east blushed on account of feeling expected to, and though she longed for it, she felt no love for the white-hat cowboy, whether there’d be a baby or not. The teenage orphan wanted badly to be anyone else. He just about cried.

  Together they waited for the white-hat cowboy to speechify.

  The white-hat cowboy said, “Well, shoot.”

  Together they understood him to want to mean, Where would you be without me?

  The white-hat cowboy unbuckled his gunbelt as importantly as he could and handed it to the teenage orphan, who dropped it. Both sixguns went off in the dirt. The teenage orphan pissed his britches.

  The white-hat cowboy unpinned his deputy badge as officially as he could and handed it to the sheriff, who in reaching for it fell off his saddle. The very old horse snorted and stomped and crushed the sheriff’s arms and legs. The sheriff shat his britches.

  The white-hat cowboy took off his white hat as tragically as he could and set it on the head of the sheriff’s niece from back east. The brim dropped to her chin, hiding her face. She sat in the dirt and clutched her belly. Her dress darkened with sudden blood and what wouldn’t be a baby.

  The white-hat cowboy held up his pants with his hands. He didn’t know what to give next. A ways away, the settlers waved at him. Without his white hat he looked like one of them.

  III. Thin Walls in the Whorehouse;

  Or, The Hero Crosses the Threshold

  The white-hat cowboy sat on the edge of a caved-in bed at the only whorehouse in town. A ways away, near the door, a whore was bored with makeup at the basin. It was night. The moon had opened its little mouth.

  Satisfied, the white-hat cowboy tried to look like he wasn’t. He tried to look like there were things he wanted more than this, things that whatever he had was in the way of. He put on his white hat. It was all he wore.

  Night licked its lips. The whore closed up her makeup. She said, “Any news from anywhere that ain’t here?”

  The white-hat cowboy touched the wall to his right. It wobbled with musical grunts and creaks and groans.

  She said, “Songs? Jokes? Yarns?”

  The white-hat cowboy touched the wall to his left. It wobbled with the voice of a storyteller and the laughter of his listeners. The laughter came from many men and women and was of as many kinds: wholesome and cruel, kind and filthy, mad, lonesome
, loving. The story he couldn’t understand a word of. The voice was of one kind, a kind he didn’t know, but he knew to who it belonged. It belonged to the black-hat cowboy.

  The white-hat cowboy was crying. He tried to make his crying look like joyful participation in the misfortunes of the world.

  “Oh,” said the whore, let-down. “You ain’t never left.”

  IV. Captured by Outlaws;

  Or, The Hero Faces Trials

  The white-hat cowboy sat on the caved-in cactus he was tied to at the edge of the outlaws’ camp. A ways away, near the fire, the black-hat cowboy and his gang of outlaws were bored with bags of cash. It was sunset. The sun, drunk and still drinking, shared what it had with the clouds and mountains.

  Relieved, the white-hat cowboy tried to look like he wasn’t. He tried to look like there were fights to fight. He swallowed some of his teeth.

  The sunset ordered another round. The black-hat cowboy whooped and took a shit into the fire.

  One by one the black-hat cowboy’s outlaws whooped and took shits into the fire.

  Blushing, the white-hat cowboy hid his face beneath the brim of his white hat. He couldn’t understand anything his captors said, did, or were.

  The black-hat cowboy and his gang of outlaws sang songs and danced dances and thrust their dicks into the fire, and when the sun passed out, they stuffed the white-hat cowboy and the caved-in cactus he was tied to into a sack in such a way that his head poked out. They slung the sack onto a horse and rode to town. On the way they set fire to tribal villages, shot up settlers’ covered wagons, and dynamited passenger trains. In town they robbed a bank. On the way back they kidnapped five gals. They agreed to throw the gals into the fire.

  The sack the white-hat cowboy was stuffed into had become wet with blood, his blood and the blood of others. He felt light on the outside and heavy on the inside, a bit like a lie you’d tell a child.

  The outlaws stripped the gals. The gals let them. Their skin flashed bright in the firelight. The white-hat cowboy didn’t want to watch, but did.

  The first didn’t see him on her way into the fire.

  The second did but didn’t know him.

  The third knew him but pretended not to.

  The fourth pretended to appreciate his being there. She waved.

  The fifth was pregnant.

  V. To the Top of No-Return Peak;

  Or, The Hero Returns

  The white-hat cowboy sat on a torn-up bloody sack on a caved-in cave on a mountain peak. A ways away, near town, black ash and old coals were bored with the ruins of settlers’ homes, barns, and fields. It was sunrise. The sun hadn’t slept at all.

  Moved, the white-hat cowboy tried to think he wasn’t. He tried to think that the only feeling worth feeling was bored black ash and old coals. This thought, he acknowledged, was a lie, the lie he kept coming back to, the lie that led like a rope to where he was. All the lie tied him to was itself. His limbs were broken, he’d pissed and shat his britches, and beside him lay somebody’s baby. The baby was dead.

  The sunrise didn’t look so good but put on a brave face.

  The wind took off the white-hat cowboy’s hat. It journeyed down the mountain while he watched.

  Fourteen Cowboys by the Fire

  Fourteen cowboys by the fire, laying out and crouching, stinking. The herd behind them settling down. The fire eating what brush and wood they’d gathered.

  When they’d gathered, their dogs had found a dead man in a parched ravine. All could see he’d lately been alive, yet to be stripped of boots and belt. He’d had his head broke in. The stained rock sat homey in a nearby bush, a speckled egg in a nest.

  And now no moon, no wind, no words. Faint starlight on the sleeping herd, on the many headless mountains.

  Adamson thought, Why not use a knife?

  Martinez thought of the white man who’d come at him with a saucepan.

  Hunson, Jones, and Cloud Horse, older than the others, thought of the wars.

  Miller thought of the red men he’d shot one by one from his high perch on a hot rock.

  McWhorter of the red man he’d shot six times when the man had turned to wash his face in the hotel basin.

  Gomez of the black man he’d beaten with a chair.

  Bauer and Metzer of the black man they’d thrown into the poisoned well.

  Bohland of the brown man he’d hog-tied, roped to his saddlehorn, and dragged at a gallop over cacti and ocotillo and ashes.

  Gaines of the brown man he’d bound to a tree and mutilated and abandoned, the red man he’d bound to a chair in a cave and burned alive, and the white man he’d bound and raped and strangled in a whorehouse.

  Whistling Pete of the yellow man he’d smothered on a cot in a cell.

  Redondo of the dozens of white, brown, and black men that he and others had driven a stampede into, scrambling and screaming men who could not then or now be counted. He tried again to count them. Then the women, then the children.

  Redondo nudged a hissing log.

  Whistling Pete pinched one nostril and noodled snot through the other.

  Gaines belched in the middle of a belch.

  Bohland stood to stretch his back.

  Bauer passed Metzer a pouch of tobacco.

  Gomez cleaned his teeth with grass.

  McWhorter spat into his hand and worked it under his pants.

  Miller combed his hair, his moustache, and his sideburns, and then his sideburns, his moustache, and his hair.

  Cloud Horse, Jones, and Hunson, side by side and on their backs, faked hard sleep.

  Martinez laughed a little.

  And Adamson drew his knife, just to see the fire jump onto the blade.

  — NEW WEST —

  Big Lonesome

  Middles

  Morning in New Mexico

  Before the cowboy woke his body did. He’d slept on her roof.

  His body sat up, pushed aside the stinking horseblankets, and stood. The sun hunched behind the mountains, scheming the sky into pink and purple mapwork. He came to his body as his body saw the smashed blue faces of the backlit mountains, mountains he’d until this month only known from their other side. Their Texas side. Their fat cows and worn horses and clever men, men he’d come to know like he’d come to know horses.

  What he saw from the roof he didn’t own. But he couldn’t kick feeling that this was most of what he’d traded for: the pecan orchard’s miserable trees jammed into wet ditches, a junkyard plugged with rusted hulks, an unplowed onion field. Her uncle’s four adobe bungalows. Her brother’s truck. The long lick of shriveled road.

  He stepped to the roof’s graveled edge, to the scrub oak he’d climbed last night. He slapped its scaly bark. To him the smell of the morning was the smell of the state, rich and pregnant and old, older than man but nowhere near as old as woman. She would be in bed. Her dark body creasing sheets, her short legs long, her black hair brown with light. She never went to bed in clothes, even when she’d strike him, when he’d shout her down. Already they took turns playing roles and pretending roles were who they were.

  When he was on the job Boot Slaw had only ever said one thing every day, that you were wrong about a horse on purpose.

  He rode the scrub oak down and landed with a crunch. He kept his back to the door. She’d tossed his pack into the bed of her brother’s truck. The windows gleamed red, all four tires flat.

  He left his pack where it lay and took to the road’s tongue, mute and parallel to mountains.

  Mornings in New Mexico

  When he’d left the job on the mountains’ Texas side and traded his gear and two guitars to Bad Man McWhorter, she’d begun to make tortillas every morning. The smell of them shrank him.

  She knew this. She loved this. She spread their tortillas with what they’d borrowed or bought, queso and chile, butter and beans, eggs, onions, cilantro, salt, and the plates she put before him pulled him from his body’s edges, cinching him closer to a center he couldn’t know at any
other time. He’d slouch, mouth cowing open, eyelids thickening. A train of tiny sighs.

  She loved that although this wasn’t him this was in him.

  He loved that she loved the effect for the effect and not for its causes, whatever they might be.

  They both loved that they could love this no matter who they’d be that afternoon, no matter where they’d been the night before.

  Nights in Texas

  Boot Slaw was so big that others boasted for him. The men he worked with would tall-tell how The Unbeatable But Not Unbearable Boot Slaw had shouted downed cows back to standing and broken wild horses by bare-hand strangling them blue and plucked diving hawks from the air to kiss their killing beaks, and more astounding still, with selfless concern for the nation’s future, had from scores of respectable married ladies fathered herds of big-fisted boys who in babyhood spurned milk to drink ground chuck.

  To such yarns Boot Slaw would laugh-shout, “The whole truth is more big.”

  In fact he stood a few hands shy of seven foot, his heaped-up arms and shoulders set for grabbing hard and crushing slow. His face did its best to look like a fool boy’s. He could eat until you begged him to stop and throw anything farther than anyone and his boulder-in-a-gully laugh you felt in your boots. He wasn’t trail boss but the trail boss did what he said if he said it. He was point-rider.

  When night curtained and the first shift of night-riders saddled up to circle the herd, Boot Slaw would stand at the fire shirtless and declare his intent to wrestle. He’d pace, making rodeo clown faces, and stop in front of somebody he hadn’t got to yet. He’d challenge that somebody by clamping his hand to their shoulder.

  The cowboy, older only than the calves, had watched nightly with fear and hope as the one man challenged declined with a laugh. Boot Slaw was too big to take refusal personally. He’d sit down and haul a shirt back on. All returned to telling yarns and sharing bottles. The cowboy would play guitar and try more than ever to feel the notes in ways he knew he couldn’t.