Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  She placed her thumb and forefinger together, slid them over her teeth and under her tongue . . . and blew. It was a glass-shattering, Mach-splitting, bell-ringing, mind-piercing, soaring, triumphant tintinnabulation that made dogs scream, eyeballs burst, and elk run for cover two miles away.

  Turk’s skull was vibrating as if it had been struck by a twenty-pound tuning fork! He shook his head slightly and looked up at her. Pica smiled a smile that spread across her face like raising the blinds in a dark room. Her eyes said, “How’s that?” She gave him that crawl-up-your-back look that had earned her the appellation “Pica, with a long EYE and capital TEASE.”

  “My goodness gracious, sweet baby James, you have got lips! Brandi lips, Jolie lips, Sister, Slide-on-Over-Here Congo lips . . . What a Light-up-the-World, Fourteen-Carat, Radioactive, Plutonium, Call the Dogs, and Put Out the Fire smile you have got! You have a mouth full of lips.

  “Please allow me to help you down and to thank you for the runway performance. It made it so much easier for me to picture you.” He took her hand, and she jumped off the table.

  “Are you French?” he asked as he gestured for her to sit down. “I ask because I come from the French Quarter of New Orleans and have French in my blood.”

  “Canadian mostly,” she answered. “My grandfather was descended from the French trappers of like, thousands of years ago, or hundreds . . . anyway, that’s, ya know, where the ‘D’TroiT’ came from.”

  “When I first saw your name I thought it would be pronounced ‘DE-TROY,’” he said.

  “It is in Quebec,” she said, pronouncing it “KEE BECK.”

  “As you know, we are looking for a female to represent our company and specifically a new product, COWBOY KISSES, an extreme lip balm for extreme athletics. The job would entail traveling, all at our expense, particularly to rodeos and athletics events. We would be using your likeness in our advertising.

  “Have you done any modeling?” he inquired.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Were you a . . .” He searched for a description, “a cheerleader, prom queen, thespian, that sort of thing in high school?”

  “No-o-o,” she laughed. “See, I was, like, a tomboy. I rode horses, packed into the wilderness, hunted, fished, did some cow work. I didn’t have time for, ya know, girlie things.” It went unsaid that she also had sproingy reddish hair, freckles, a giant mouth, and not much meat on her bones until the summer between her junior and senior years.

  “We would like to have you do a photo session as part of the interview. That okay?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she answered.

  “Okay, good. Any questions?”

  “You’d need to know that I wouldn’t be able to work for you much in the fall, particularly October, November . . . hunting season, you know. Dad will need my help.”

  Turk thought a moment. “Well, let’s see how the photo shoot comes out. We can discuss details if it looks like you are our choice.”

  On Monday morning the photos arrived at Turk’s office by messenger. The fifty color pictures included Pica puckering in an evening gown, a cowboy hat, jeans, western shirt, low-cut jeans, tank top, cut-off jeans, bikini with cowboy boots, applying LIP LASTER, sitting with legs crossed in a dress, in shorts, over-the-back shots, bosomy shots, close-ups of the face, eyes, mouth, and teeth but none of her in the buff. She had refused.

  File Blitzer, Nova, and the secretary were examining the pictures with Turk.

  “They’ve got her too made up,” said Turk. “She looks like a doll somebody painted lipstick on.”

  “It’s the rodeo queen look,” said Nova. “It’s too much, too fancy. She’s too small to carry all that dazzle.”

  “That’s right,” said Turk. “In person she’s got her own dazzle. She doesn’t need bling.”

  “Look,” said Turk, “this one here is the best picture in the lot.” He passed around the photo.

  It was a shot of Pica from the knees up wearing a tan canvas jacket with a corduroy collar. She had her hands on her hips holding the jacket open, a black V-necked pullover T-shirt, old hip-hugger jeans, no belt, and small silver concho earrings. Her reddish-blonde hair in natural curliness was teased out behind her head and sparkled with highlights. Some of the sprinkles had fallen onto her face and creamy white chest. A delicate silver pendant hung on a thin chain around her neck. Her head was slightly cocked, and her mouth, teeth, and lips, glistening with Light Rose–colored LIP LASTER, were asking “Why?” The pretty blue eyes looked right at you with just the right combination of allure and mischief.

  This photograph had captured that look. That capital Tease look. She was absolutely mouthwatering.

  “How about those lips? That mouth,” said Nova. “It’s artistic. Like there is an invisible line. Your eye immediately hits those gleaming teeth, then follows the pendant right down the front of her shirt.”

  “What do you think, File?” asked Turk.

  File was slow to speak. “Well, she is a looker. Not as photogenic as some. I’d have certain reservations. One, her lack of photogenicity. Her, shall we say, lack of sophistication, maturity, her Valley Girl teenage vocabulary. Will she be able to go on the road and take care of business? She’s already said she couldn’t work full-time. Seems like we should keep looking.”

  “You mentioned you had a girl that might be worth interviewing,” said Turk. “I have those pictures you gave me somewhere . . .”

  “I just happen to have another set right here, sir,” said File, handing Turk a folder containing an extensive portfolio displaying the wares of Oui Oui Reese. Including one of her in an off-Broadway play wearing nothing but a top hat and cane.

  CHAPTER 16

  May 28, Saturday

  Pincher Creek, Alberta, Supper and a Do

  Juneau D’TroiT, a short, ruddy-faced outdoorsman in a western hat, wool shirt, and lace-up hunting boots, stood in the waiting area outside Customs at Calgary International Airport. As soon as Pica saw him, she waved. A warm feeling swept over him, leaving goose bumps.

  “Dad!” she said, dropping her bag and backpack. She gave him a big hug.

  “Is this all your stuff?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes . . . it was so cool, Dad,” Pica said. “They interviewed me and, like, made me walk like a model, did a long photo shoot. I was all, like, posing in all these clothes.”

  She talked as they walked to the parking lot, telling him all the details. He had not seen her this excited for a long time. After they were in the car and past the payment kiosk, she continued. “And, Dad, you know what they liked most about me, I mean, besides my personality, of course?”

  “What?” he asked, enjoying her vivacity.

  “My lips! My mouth and my teeth! My big mouth and fat lips that I practiced squeezing tight and sucked in all through school. Can you believe it! Can you remember how I used to pose in front of the mirror trying to hold my lips so they wouldn’t be so gross?”

  He remembered well. He also remembered that sometime during her senior year in high school she quit being self-conscious about her big mouth, fat lips, sproingy hair, and shortness. That transition coincided with her discovery that, like her brothers, she could ride bucking horses.

  “So, do you have the job?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I know they are interviewing others, but they made a big deal about me rodeoing and being athletic.”

  She paused for a minute.

  “Dad, I never, ya know, dreamed too big. I was all, if somebody said I’d spend the rest of my life packing, cooking at hunting camp, riding horses, I’d go, ya know, that would be all right with me. Like I told them, even if they picked me I couldn’t work for them during hunting season. I’d, like, be with you. I told them that, but, Dad, I wish, I really hope they’ll give me a chance, hey.”

 
Juneau kept his eyes on the road.

  He loved his sons, he adored his daughter. The boys helped with his business because they could. She helped because she wanted to be with him.

  Unable to look at her because his eyes were welling up, Juneau said, “Peter, Paul, and Perrier are coming home today And the Ag Society is having supper and a do at the Community Hall tonight. Lick Davis is going to do a program, and there’s a dance after.”

  “All right! I could stand kickin’ up my feet!” she said.

  “Gord is back,” he said neutrally.

  “Oh, no!” she groaned.

  “He’s not so bad, Sweetie,” said Juneau.

  “I know, I know, it’s just that . . . aw, you know the deal as well as me.”

  Well, we, the interested readers, don’t know, but we can guess. Gord is more than likely a childhood sweetheart who is still carrying a torch for pica. That is true (in this book of fiction). He is also a stable, hardworking, ruggedly handsome cowboy who is presently a teacher at Olds College, teaching agri-business management.

  He would be considered a good bet, a great catch by most females who are looking for a stable, predictible future, a good father for their children and a responsible breadwinner.

  If he ever had a wild oat, he probably sewed it in his piggy bank as a third grader and invested it in a high-quality pen and pencil set for his future desk.

  It takes a lot of discipline for a woman to marry a man like Gord.

  He was beige. Pica was fluorescent pink. Beige will go with almost anything, as you know, but fluorescent pink doesn’t.

  Not too far down the road, our heroes were resting up between rodeos. They were both up the next night in Taber, Alberta, a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Buffalo. Straight’s sisters had been planning to go to the big doin’s in Pincher Creek, three-and-a-half hours away, for weeks, and they invited Cooney and Straight to go along.

  “I’m going to pass,” said Straight. “I promised a couple of old high school friends I’d come see them. You go ahead. Tyra and Myra would love for you to go with them.”

  “Lick Davis is gonna be there,” said Cooney.

  “I know. Tell him I said hello and ask him if it’s okay that I use some of his poems. I’ve got to give a speech to the Rotary Club in Clovis next week. Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good time!”

  Myra, Tyra, and Cooney pulled into the Pincher Creek Community Hall parking lot in Myra’s car at 5:56 p.m. Both girls were decked out in cowgirl chic: Tyra was wearing black Lucchese high-top boots with a cow skull inlay, Cruel Girl jeans tucked in the boot tops, one of Straight’s trophy buckles on a bling belt, and a retro western shirt with roses on it. Myra had on cowboy-cut Wranglers, a tight red cheetah print shirt layered with rhinestones, a big concho belt, red boots, and a furry vest. Between them they wore enough hair spray and lip gloss to taxiderm a small mule!

  The sisters had ironed one of Cooney’s shirts for him, and he had shaved. Otherwise, his jeans were wrinkled, his boots were unshined, and spatters of mud still speckled his black hat. But his Birmingham Bullnanza belt buckle glowed like the headlight on a locomotive!

  After they were in the community hall, hair glistening, faces on, and anticipation shining in their eyes, they found a table at the back and saved three seats together. Tyra and Myra disappeared into the crowd, which was enjoying the social hour before supper. It did not cross Cooney’s mind that he was in “Pica” territory. Not putting two and two together. Of course, after last week in Miles City, the two and two together sure didn’t add up to him and Pica!

  “Aren’t you Cooney Bedlam?”

  Cooney turned to see a foxy-looking woman with jet-black hair pulled back from her face and held with silver combs.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Sure am.”

  “My friend told me you won the broncs and the bull riding at Maple Creek. She’s a barrel racer,” the lady said.

  “It might not be me after tonight,” he said, “but when we left last night we were winning.”

  “I’m Tickle,” she said, extending her hand.

  Cooney took it. It wasn’t soft. Matter of fact, Tickle had a bit of a hard look about her. He guessed she was older than he was, early thirties maybe, and she was wearing tight black jeans, frilly western shirt with a fancy yoke opened three or four buttons, red lipstick, and dangly earrings to match her combs. She had an empty glass in her hands.

  “Could I get you a drink?” he asked Tickle.

  “I was hoping you’d ask,” she smiled up at him.

  While they were standing in line for drinks Lick Davis appeared.

  “Cooney!” he said, offering his hand and noticing Tickle standing close by him.

  “I’m Lick Davis,” he said to her. “Cooney and I have stirred a few hornet’s nests together!”

  “Tickle,” she said, “nice to meet you.”

  Lick, who didn’t hear as well as he used to, thought she said, “tickled” as in “tickled to meet you.” He remembered discussing Cooney’s confused feeling about a woman, but no name came to mind. Maybe this was her. And it didn’t make any difference to him anyway. He briefly told the story of how they gathered a wild cow in the mesquite of Arizona. He had them laughing.

  “Did that lady ever call the law?” Cooney asked him, “the one whose kitchen we tore up?”

  “And lawn and living room!” laughed Lick.

  A local rancher came up and captured Lick’s attention; Cooney and Tickle moved up to the tables in the balcony for supper. Afterward the house lights dimmed, and Lick stepped to the stage and started his performance.

  Cooney tried to soak up some of the poetry, but it was hard to concentrate as the empty plastic glasses of rye and water began to accumulate. Not to mention the tactile attention of Tickle, practicing barrel racer and student of saddle bronc riders.

  By the time the dance began our lovely couple had already slipped out to the parking lot.

  “My car is over there,” tipsy Tickle said, pointing outside the circle of light that shone from the building.

  It was a Volvo station wagon old enough to have the sleek design of a cheese box. The back seat and storage area seemed to be filled with horse tack, sacks, buckets, hay bags, and cardboard boxes. It smelled like the saddle room at a riding stable. The faint aroma of Absorbine Jr. clung to the interior.

  Cooney slid in on the passenger side. It was cramped; stuff was piled up against the back of his seat. He managed to get the seat back to recline about 30 degrees. There was a center divider with a short gear shift sticking up between them. Tickle slid into the driver’s side. No lights came on when they opened the doors. The headliner was gone, as was the dome light. The bottom side of the roof was exposed, as were the steel braces that spanned the width overhead.

  She rolled down her window, he, his.

  “Sorry ’bout the mess,” she said. “I’m an animal freak.” She shook her hair and belched lightly. “Whew! I’m a little dizzy. Roll down your window, too, Cooney. Let’s get some air in here!

  “Are you hot, Honey? Let me help,” she said, then reached over and unbuttoned his shirt.

  “How ’bout you?” he said, reciprocating.

  “Hope you like black,” she said, fanning herself.

  Next thing you know, she had climbed the transmission housing between them and was pawing at him like a dog diggin’ up a bone! Passion swelled its neck and began displaying its rutting colors. If you ever wondered how it feels to shed your skin like a snake, try re-creating what Cooney and Tickle were doing in the Volvo that evening in the community hall parking lot at Pincher Creek.

  Elbows got whacked, knees got scraped, boots got scuffed, joints got bent, muscles got strained, ankles got sprained, plus rug burn, alfalfa rash, and wedgie chafe.

  Cooney found himself
balancing on top, kissing her fiercely, when he felt a cramp in his neck.

  He pushed himself up with his arms. She was looking up at him intensely, her hair loose and her lipstick smeared. He was sweating. Holding himself above her, letting the evening breeze cool their exposed skin, he returned the look. Then slowly, gently he lowered his head to kiss her. She closed her eyes. He closed his eyes. Their lips touched with the delicacy of two rose petals bumping each other in a glass bowl.

  A big, wet, slurpy tongue slathered his right cheek from his jawbone to his hairline. He opened his eyes. A dog the size of a triceratops was two inches from his face. “Woof” was all it said.

  Cooney reared back violently, banging his head on the exposed roof brace, knocking him out cold! Tickle, who managed to get the passenger door open and crawl out from under the unconscious Cooney, saw him hanging out of the car like the hide of a three-toed sloth strung across the shoulders of a yeti.

  She screamed and ran into the dance hall.

  Less than a minute later she returned with two paramedics, her ex-husband,­ and his family, all of whom knew her and would be discreet. They followed her as she was trying to tuck in her shirttail. “I don’t know how bad he’s hurt; I think he’s bleeding, but I . . .” She was trying to undo a silver comb from her tangled hair. Her shirt was buttoned up wrong. “There he is,” she said. They ran up on the vehicle and rounded to the passenger side.

  Cooney lay flat on his back beneath the open car door. His right foot rested in the window, his left foot at an awkward angle, still in the car. His left pant leg had caught on the gear shift, preventing him from sliding completely out.

  His head was spinning, the band was playing far away; he could feel the gravel beneath his head and see a night full of stars. Suddenly Tickle was standing over him pointing. She looked as if someone had colored her outside the lines. He squeezed his eyes tight, then opened them. She was in full color and clear as a bell.

  The paramedics bent to assist him. They were palpating his arms and legs and examining his head.