by Annie Proulx
“Listen, if it’s got four wheels or a dick you’re goin a have trouble with it, guaranteed,” said Palma at one of their Friday-night good times. They were reading the newspaper lonely hearts ads out loud. If you don’t live here you can’t think how lonesome it gets. We need those ads. That doesn’t mean we can’t laugh at them.
“How about this one: ‘Six-three, two hundred pounds, thirty-seven, blue eyes, plays drums and loves Christian music’ Can’t you just hear it, ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ on bongos?”
“Here’s a better one: ‘Cuddly cowboy, six-four, one hundred and eighty, N/S, not God’s gift to women, likes holding hands, firefighting, practicing on my tuba.’ I guess that could mean noisy, skinny, ugly, plays with matches. Must be cuddly as a pile a sticks.”
“What a you think ‘not God’s gift to women’ means?”
“Pecker the size of a peanut.”
Josanna’d already put an inky circle aroundGood-looking, athletic build Teddy Bear, brown-eyed, black mustache, likes dancing, good times, outdoors, walking under the stars. Lives life to its fullest . It turned out to be Elk Nelson and he was one step this side of restless drifter, had worked oil rigs, construction, coal mines, loaded trucks. He was handsome, mouthy, flashed a quick smile. I thought he was a bad old boy from his scuffed boots to his greasy ponytail. The first thing he did was put his .30-.30 in the cab rack of Josanna’s truck and she didn’t say a word. He had pale brown eyes the color of graham crackers, one of those big mustaches like a pair of blackbird wings. Hard to say how old he was; older than Josanna, forty-five, forty-six maybe. His arms were all wildlife, blurry tattoos of spiders, snarling wolves, scorpions, rattlesnakes. To me he looked like he’d tried every dirty thing three times. Josanna was helpless crazy for him from the first time they got together and crazy jealous. And didn’t he like that? It seemed to be the way he measured how she felt about him and he put it to the test. When you are bone tired of being alone, when all you want is someone to pull you close and say it’s all right, all right now, and you get one like Elk Nelson you’ve got to see you’ve licked the bottom out of the dish.
I tended bar on the weekends at the Gold Buckle and watched the fire take hold of her. She would smile at what he said, listen and lean, light his damn cigarette, examine his hands for cuts—he had a couple of weeks’ work fencing at the 5 Bar. She’d touch his face, smooth a wrinkle in his shirt and he’d say, quit off pawin me. They sat for hours at the Buckle seesawing over whether or not he’d made a pass at some woman, until he got fed up enough to walk out. He seemed to be goading her, seeing how far he could shove before she hit the wall. I wondered when she’d get the message that she wasn’t worth shit to him.
August was hot and drouthy a hell of grasshoppers and dried-up creeks. They said this part of the state was a disaster area. I heard that said before any grasshoppers came. The Saturday night was close, air as thick as in a closet with the winter coats. It was rodeo night and that brings them in. The bar filled up early, starting with ranch hands around three in the afternoon still in their sweaty shirts, red faces mottled with heat and dirt, crowding out most of the wrinkle-hour boys, the old-timers who started their drinking in the morning. Palma was there a little after five, alone, fresh and high-colored, wearing a cinnamon red satin blouse that shined with every move she made. Her arms were loaded with silver bracelets, one metal ring on another clinking and shifting. By five-thirty the bar was packed and hot, bodies touching, some fools trying to dance—country girls playing their only card, grinding against the boys—people squeezed eight to a booth meant for four, six deep at the bar, men hat to hat. There were three of us working, me and Zeeks and Justin, and as fast as we went we couldn’t keep up. They were pouring the drinks down. Everybody was shouting. Outside the sky was green-black and trucks driving down the street had their headlights on, dimmed by constant lightning flashes. The electricity went off for about fifteen seconds, the bar black as a cave, the jukebox dyingworrr, and a huge, amorous, drunken and delighted moan coming up from the crowd that changed to cussing when the light flickered back on.
Elk Nelson came in, black shirt and silver belly hat. He leaned over the bar, hooked his finger in the waistband of my jeans and yanked me to him.
“Josanna in yet?”
I pulled back, shook my head.
“Good. Let’s get in the corner then and hump.”
I got him a beer.
Ash Weeter stood next to Elk. Weeter was a local rancher who wouldn’t let his wife set foot in a bar, I don’t know why. The jokers said he was probably worried she’d get killed in a poolroom fight. He was talking about a horse sale coming up in Thermopolis. Well, he didn’t own a ranch, he managed one for some rich people in Pennsylvania, and I heard it that half the cows he ran on their grass were his. What they didn’t know didn’t hurt them.
“Have another beer, Ash,” Elk said in a good-buddy voice.
“Nah, I’m goin home, take a shit and go to bed.” No expression on that big shiny face. He didn’t like Elk.
Palma’s voice cut through a lull, Elk looked up, saw her at the end of the bar, beckoning.
“See you,” said Ash Weeter to no one, pulling his hat down and ducking out.
Elk held his cigarette high above his head as he got through the crowd. I cracked a fresh Coors, brought it down to him, heard him say something about Casper.
That was the thing, they’d start out at the Buckle then drive down to Casper, five or six of them, a hundred and thirty miles, sit in some other bar probably not much different than the Buckle, drink until they were wrecked, then hit a motel. Elk told it on Josanna that she got so warped out one time she pissed the motel bed and he’d had to drag her into the shower and turn it on cold, throw the sheets in on top of her. Living life to its fullest. He’d tell that like it was the best story in the world and every time he did it she’d put her head down, wait it out with a tight little smile. I thought of my last night back on the ranch with Riley, the silence oppressive and smothering, the clock ticking like blows of an axe, the maddening trickle of water into the stained bathtub from the leaky faucet. He wouldn’t fix it, just wouldn’t. Couldn’t fix the other thing and made no effort in that direction. I suppose he thought I’d just hang and rattle.
Palma leaned against Elk, slid back and forth slowly as if she was scratching her back on his shirt buttons. “Don’t know. Wait for Josanna and see what she wants a do.”
“Josanna will want a go down to Casper. That’s it, she will because that’s what I want a do.” He said something else I didn’t hear.
Palma shrugged, shifted out into the dancers with him. He was a foot taller than she, his cigarette crackling in her hair when he pulled her close. She whipped her hair back, slammed her pelvis into him and he almost swallowed the butt.
There was a terrific blast of light and thunder and the lights went off again and there was the head-hollowing smell of ozone. A sheet of rain struck the street followed by the deafening roar of hailstones. The lights surged on but weak and yellow. It was impossible to hear anything over the battering hail.
A kind of joyous hysteria moved into the room, everything flying before the wind, vehicles outside getting dented to hell, the crowd sweaty and the smells of aftershave, manure, clothes dried on the line, your money’s worth of perfume, smoke, booze; the music subdued by the shout and babble though the bass hammer could be felt through the soles of the feet, shooting up the channels of legs to the body fork, center of everything. It is that kind of Saturday night that torches your life for a few hours, makes it seem something is happening.
There were times when I thought the Buckle was the best place in the world, but it could shift on you and then the whole dump seemed a mess of twist-face losers, the women with eyebrows like crowbars, the men covered with bristly red hair, knuckles the size of new potatoes, showing the gene pool was small and the rivulets that once fed it had dried up. I think sometimes it hit Josanna that way too because one night she sat quiet
and slumped at the bar watching the door, watching for Elk, and he didn’t come in. He’d been there, though, picked up some tourist girl in white shorts, couldn’t have been more than twenty. It wouldn’t do any good to tell her.
“This’s a miserable place,” she said. “My god it’s miserable.”
The door opened and four or five of the arena men came in, big mustaches, slickers and hats running water, boots muddy, squeezing through the dancers, in for a few quick ones before the rodeo. The atmosphere was hot and wet. Everybody was dressed up. I could see Elk Nelson down the bar, leaning against Palma, one arm over her satin shoulder, big fingers grazing her right breast, fingernail scratching the erect nipple.
They were still playing their game when the door jerked open again, the wind popping it against the wall, and Josanna came through, shaking her head, streaming wet, the artful hair plastered flat. Her peach-colored shirt clung to her, transparent in places, like burned skin where it bunched and the color doubled. Her eyes were red, her mouth thin and sneering.
“Give me a whiskey, celebrate a real goddamn lousy day.”
Justin poured it high, slid the glass carefully to her.
“Got a wee bit wet,” he said.
“Look at this.” She held out her left hand, pulled up the sopping sleeve. Her arm and hand were dotted with red bruises. “Hail,” she said. “I spun my truck in front a Cappy’s and nicked a parking meter, busted the hood latch. Run two blocks here. But that’s not hardly the problem. I got fired, Jimmy Shimazo fired me. Out a the clear blue sky. Don’t anybody get in my way tonight.”
’You bet,” said Justin, pressing against me with his thigh. He seemed to want to get something going, but he was going to be disappointed. I don’t know, maybe I’d think the score was even. But it wouldn’t be.
“So I’m goin a have a drink, soon’s the rain stops I’m goin a get me some gone, try Casper is any better. Fuck em all, tell em all a kiss my sweet rosy.” She knocked back the whiskey, slammed the glass down on the bar hard enough to break it.
“See what I mean?” she said. “Everything I touch falls apart.” Elk Nelson came up behind her, slipped his big red hands under her arms, cupped her breasts and squeezed. I wondered if she’d seen him feeling up Palma. I thought she had. I thought he wanted her to see him handling her willing friend.
“Yeah,” he said. “What a you want a do? Casper, right? Go get something a eat, I hope. I’m hungry enough I could eat a rancher’s unwiped ass.”
’You want some buffalo wings?” I said. “Practically the same thing.” We called across the street to Cowboy Teddy for them and inside an hour somebody brought them over. Half the time they were raw. Elk shook his head. He was fondling Josanna, one hand inside her wet shirt, but looking at the crowd behind him in the bar mirror. Palma was still at the end of the bar, watching him. Ruth came up, slapped Josanna on the butt, said she’d heard what Shimazo did, the little prick. Josanna put her arm around Ruth’s waist. Elk eased back, looked at Palma in the mirror, cracked that big yellow smile. There was a lot going on.
“Ruth, babe, I’m tired a this bullshit place. How about go down a Casper and just hang around for a while. I’m just goin a say fuck him, fuck Jimmy Shimazo. I said, hey, look, at least give me a reason. I put too much wasabi on the goddamn fish balls? Shit. He just fired me, I don’t even know why”
Elk put in his dime’s worth. “Hell, it’s only a shittin job. Get another one.” Like jobs were easy. There weren’t any jobs.
“The latch on my truck hood is busted. I can’t get it to stay shut. If we’re goin a Casper it’s got a be fixed.” Josanna’s truck had a crew cab, plenty of room for all of them. They always went in her truck and she paid for the gas, too.
“Reef it down with a little balin wire.”
At the cash register Justin murmured to me what he’d heard at the back booths—Jimmy Shimazo had fired Josanna because he caught her in the meat cooler snorting a line. He was death on that. For now he was doing the cooking himself. He was talking about getting a real Jap cook in from California.
“That’s all we need around here,” said Justin. They say now the Japs own the whole southwest part of the state, refineries, big smokestacks.
Something happened then, and in the noise I didn’t see them go, Josanna, Elk, Palma, Ruth and somebody she’d picked up—Barry, romping on his hands with whiskey. Maybe they left before the fireball. There is a big plate glass window at the Buckle onto the street, and outside a wooden ledge wide enough to set beer bottles on. Mr. Thompson, the bar owner, displayed his collection of spurs, coils of rope, worn boots, a couple of saddles, some old woolly chaps so full of moths they looked like a snowstorm in reverse in spring, other junk inside the window. The window was like a stage. Now a terrific, sputtering ball of fire bloomed on the ledge throwing glare on the dusty cowboy gear. It was still raining. You could hear the fireball roaring and a coat of soot in the shape of a cone and peck-speckled with rain was building up on the glass. Justin and a dozen people went out to see what it was. He tried knocking it off the ledge but it was stuck on with its own burning. He ran back in.
“Give me the water pitcher.”
People at the front were all laughing, somebody called, piss on it, Justin. He poured three pitchers of water on the thing before it quit, a blackened lump of something, placed and set afire by persons unknown. There was a sound like a shot and the glass cracked from top to bottom. Justin said later it was a shot, not the heat. It was the heat. I know a shot when I hear one.
There’s a feeling you get driving down to Casper at night from the north, and not only there, other places where you come through hours of darkness unrelieved by any lights except the crawling wink of some faraway ranch truck. You come down a grade and all at once the shining town lies below you, slung out like all western towns, and with the curved bulk of mountain behind it. The lights trail away to the east in a brief and stubby cluster of yellow that butts hard up against the dark. And if you’ve ever been to the lonely coast you’ve seen how the shore rock drops off into the black water and how the light on the point is final. Beyond are the old rollers coming on for millions of years. It is like that here at night but instead of the rollers it’s wind. But the water was here once. You think about the sea that covered this place hundreds of millions of years ago, the slow evaporation, mud turned to stone. There’s nothing calm in those thoughts. It isn’t finished, it can still tear apart. Nothing is finished. You take your chances.
Maybe that’s how they saw it, gliding down toward the lights, drinking beer and passing a joint, Elk methed out and driving and nobody saying much, just going to Casper. That’s what Palma says. Ruth says different. Ruth says Josanna and Elk had a bad fight all the way down and Palma was in the middle of it. Barry says they were all screwed out of their skulls, he was only drunk.
We had a time with the calving, Riley and me, that spring. A neighbor rancher’s big Saler bulls had got into our pastures and bred some of our heifers. We didn’t know it until the calving started although Riley remarked once or twice that some of the heifers had ballooned up really big and we figured twins. We knew when the first one came. The heifer was a good one, too, long-bodied, meaty, trim and with a tremendous amount of muscle, but not double muscled, sleek and feminine, what we wanted in our mother cows, almost torn in half by the biggest calf either one of us had ever seen. It was a monster, a third of the size of its mother.
“That bastard Coldpepper. Look at that calf. It comes from them fuckin giant bulls, the size a tanks. They must a got in last April and you bet he knew it, never said a word. I guess we are goin a find out how many.”
The weather was miserable too, spring storms, every kind of precip. We got through the first ten days sleepless, wet and cold, especially Petey Flurry who’d worked for us for nine years, out ahorseback in the freezing rain driving the heifers into the calving yard. Wouldn’t you know, he got pneumonia when we needed him the most and they carted him off to the hospital.
His wife sent the fifteen-year-old daughter over to help and she was a pretty good hand, ranch raised, around animals all her life, strong but narrow little hands that could work into a straining heifer and grasp the new hooves. We were all dead tired.
Around mid-afternoon I’d left them in the calving barn with a bad heifer, gone up to the house to grab an hour of sleep, but I was too tired, way beyond sleep, wired, and after ten minutes I got up and put the coffeepot on, got some cookie dough from the freezer and in a little while there was steaming coffee and hot almond sandies. I put three cups in a cardboard box, the cookies in an insulated sack, and went back out to the calving barn.
