Big Picture: Stories

by Percival Everett

  “How do you feel about it now?” Overton asked.

  “I feel fine. I’m sorry, I’m not really sure why I did it. Somehow work got the better of me.” Michael looked at the canvas.

  “Is that how you think of your work?” Unseld said, stepping away from the easel and closer to the bed. “As an adversary? As an enemy?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What were you thinking while you were eating the paint?” Overton asked.

  “I don’t know,” Michael said, looking at the man’s eyes. “This seems a lot like an ambush. I mean, to just wake up and find you in here with that thing.”

  “An ambush,” Overton said. “So we’re the enemy?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Michael said, frowning a bit. “Listen, I did something that I shouldn’t have done, something that doesn’t make a lot of sense, doesn’t make any sense. I realize that. But I love my wife. I like my life most of the time. I don’t like being in here.”

  “Do you remember the man who mowed your lawn?” Overton asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you remember exactly?” Unseld asked, sitting in the only chair in the room.

  “What do you want to know? I can tell you what he looked like. Gail and I didn’t really want him coming back like he did. Why are you asking me about him?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Listen, am I allowed to go home?” Michael asked with a long sigh.

  Dr. Unseld crossed her legs and leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee and pinching the bridge of her nose. “That really depends on you,” she said.

  “You mean there’s some sanity question that I can answer and then you’ll unlock the gates?”

  “You can see our situation, can’t you?” This from Overton who was studying the canvas with his arms folded across his chest. “How do we know you’re not still dangerous to yourself?”

  “I guess you don’t,” Michael said. “But I’m not dangerous to anyone else. To tell the truth, it’s none of your business if I want to kill myself. I may as well tell you that I wasn’t trying to do that when I was eating the paint.”

  “What were you trying to do?” Unseld asked.

  “I was trying to eat the paint,” Michael said. “Stupid, I know, but I wanted to taste it. I looked at it and I wanted to eat it. Like I said, stupid.”

  Unseld and Overton looked at each other and seemed to communicate with their eyes. Unseld stood up from the chair and went over to Michael’s side. “Don’t worry,” she said.

  “What is your relationship with the color blue?” Overton asked.

  “It’s a primary color,” Michael said. “Of course, that canvas is cerulean.”

  “Does that make a difference?” one of the doctors asked.

  “In so far as it’s not indigo or pthalo blue, I guess.”

  “I see,” Overton said. “It’s a kind of sky blue, isn’t it? Does it make you think of freedom?”

  “Not really. Do you think you might be overworking the loose associative stuff?”

  Unseld smiled.

  “So, can I go home?”

  “We’ll see.” Overton said.

  Michael nodded, deciding that to show anything less than calm forbearance and muted patience would certainly work against him. He was already sorry that he had slipped and referred to his work that way. But he also did not want them believing that he was acting out the role of the “compliant, good patient” in an attempt to deceive them. He found, however, as he laid his head back down, that he didn’t care. His head was hurting rather severely, but it was a headache he recognized, had cataloged, and knew well, so it comforted him to have it. He took comfort in the very knowledge that so greatly concerned him previously, that as diagnosticians these people were Neanderthal.

  Michael was awake and sitting up in the chair when the door was unlocked later that day for Gail. He stood and they embraced, lovingly, with mutual concern, but with a distance, not so much a coldness as an absence of heat.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I’m so sorry.” He was hugging her tightly, speaking into her hair.

  Gail pulled away from him and sat on the chair. “Are you okay?”

  Michael walked to the window and looked out at the lights in the parking lot. “Yes, I’m okay.”

  “I’m scared,” she said.

  “I know. I wish I could take it away.”

  “I guess time will do that,” she said, bravely, lying, not looking at him but at the bed. “You know, I really hate your head. I hate knowing it gives you pain and then I hate you sometimes.”

  “It surprises you that I understand what you just said?”

  “You understand everything,” she said. “You’re too damn understanding.”

  Michael tried to be silent without giving the impression that he was withdrawing. He noted how his imprisonment was allowing him a certain perceptive distance, a mechanical or clinical eye that he found uncontaminated by his own wants and insecurities. Still, he was troubled by his indifference.

  “I do love you,” he said.

  “Everything seemed to be going so well,” Gail said, rubbing one eye.

  “It was.”

  “Then what happened?” She looked directly at him for the first time and he found that a relief. “Tell me what happened, Michael?”

  Michael sat on the bed, leaned forward, his hands clasped in his lap. “I don’t know.”

  “Will it happen again?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know,” he said.

  “You can’t know. You didn’t know this was coming, did you? Did you?” The anger was finding its way into her voice. She stroked her hair and pulled it behind her ear. “Will you talk to the doctors?”

  “I’ve already talked to them.”

  Gail stood and Michael stayed seated. “They say you’re coming home.”

  Michael nodded. “I want to come home.”

  “You conned them just like you conned me. Just like you con me every day. They like you, Michael. They think you’re smart and funny and …” She stopped and bit her lower lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Turned Out

  Lawrence Miller didn’t balk at the draw. Balking wasn’t going to do much good. He heard the muffled comments and the sighs, but he ignored them. Kemp Hollis pushed his chin away from his body and spat tobacco juice into the dust.

  “That’s a filthy habit,” Lawrence said and leaned back against the booth of the concession stand.

  “Ain’t a habit.”

  Lawrence looked at him.

  “A habit is something you have to do,” Kemp said. “Chewing tobacco is something I want and choose to do.”

  “All day long, every day?”

  “Damn near.”

  Lawrence thought again about the bull. “It’ll be a short son-of-a-bitchin’ ride at least.” He smiled briefly. “Strike you funny that I’m the only black man here and I draw the monster?”

  Kemp shrugged. “Somebody had to pull him.”

  Lawrence put a cigarette between his lips and stuck the pack of Old Golds back into his shirt pocket. He struck a match and held it in his cupped hand the way his uncle, who had been in the navy, taught him. “Ground’s hard as hell today.”

  “Dry.” Kemp looked at Lawrence. “That ever get you down? I mean, being the only black person somewhere? I never been the only white person, except when I was alone.” Kemp laughed.

  Lawrence shook his head, smiling.

  Both nodded hello to a couple of passing men.

  Kemp leaned out beyond the wall, watched the men walk out of earshot, and shook his head. “It’s not going to be the same without Phillips and his kid in the team roping. They didn’t ever win, but they was fun to watch.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “Phillips took it hard.”

  “Yeah, that was pretty tough.”

  “Fool kid,” Kemp said and kicked the heel of his boot against
the wall. He did it again. And again.

  Lawrence watched the paint chips settle to the parched ground with each strike of the man’s foot. “You keep that up and she’s going to come out here and kick your ass.”

  Kemp continued to bang the wall.

  There was a blur at the back of the booth. Most of the water hit Lawrence, cold against his neck and down his shirt. He hopped away. Kemp laughed and moved off as well. Lawrence looked to find Connie Flitner standing there with a large empty paper cup turned mouth down in her hand.

  “Jesus, Connie,” Lawrence said, pulling his shirt away from his chest. “That was cold.”

  “Quit kicking the wall,” she said.

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “Quit kicking the wall.” She pointed at both of them, her eyes in a squint.

  “Have a little pity for the man,” Kemp said. “He just drew the meanest, most ornery, ugly, and smelly bull in Wyoming. This man is going to ride Rank.”

  Connie tossed a new look Lawrence’s way, licked, then bit her bottom lip, and crushed the paper cup in her hand. “You be careful, Lawrence Miller.” She turned and started away, stopped and looked back. “You hear me?” She went back into the concession stand.

  “She’s sweet on you,” Kemp said, resuming his position against the wall.

  “Did you see the way she looked at me?” Lawrence looked at the sky. “Like I’m already dead. And it’s a kinda pretty day. Ain’t right.”

  “Make you nervous?”

  “What?”

  “You know, Connie, kinda liking you.”

  Lawrence shook his head. “Should it?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  Kemp looked at the distant hills. “Relax. You’ve ridden bad bulls before. Don’t act like no baby in diapers, now. Killers, boy, killers. You’ve ridden killers. What about Prince? Remember him?”

  Lawrence nodded.

  “Rank ain’t no worse than Prince.”

  Lawrence just looked at him. “Yeah, right. How come everybody’s looking at me like I’m as good as dead?”

  “You’re just ugly,” Kemp said.

  “True.”

  They stepped around to the front of the concession stand and bought a couple of Dr. Peppers. Libby Flitner took their orders while her older sister put together burgers and hot dogs. The men then went to the fence and watched the calf roping. Willard Harvey had a calf lie down on him and he couldn’t get the animal back to its feet so he could drop it again and tie it. “Pretend it’s Lois,” Kemp shouted and a couple of cowboys down the fence laughed.

  Lawrence looked down and heard the thud of the calf hitting the ground when Willard finally succeeded. The ground didn’t even want to give up dust, he thought, it was that hard, tight. It was supposed to be softer, should have been softer. His head hurt and the sun was beginning to bother his eyes, so he told Kemp he was going to find a place to take a nap.

  Out in the parking lot, Lawrence smiled at a couple of girls too young to give him anything but trouble. He found his way to his pickup and stretched out in the bed. He closed his eyes against the bright sky, and pulled his hat down over his face, ignoring the grooves of the metal pressing into his back. He didn’t want to ride that bull. He was scared, really scared. He didn’t feel right and everybody knew it. He didn’t have a good reason to get on an animal like that. Hell, you didn’t ride in two-bit deals like that one for money. Maybe for some kind of stupid fun. Maybe for the attention of a woman, another stupid reason. He felt a bee land on his hand and he just lay still, hoping he wouldn’t get stung. He fell asleep, thinking that if the bee failed to sting him it would be out of pity.

  His sleep was a sound one, complete with a dream that he couldn’t quite track down enough to enjoy or manipulate. He heard a voice coming from outside his head. It was the high-pitched whine of young Tim Giddy. Lawrence pushed his hat away from his face and felt the sunlight hit his lowered lids. He turned on his side and opened his eyes, finding the bed wall and a bit of rust he’d never seen.

  “Wake up,” Tim said again.

  “Wake up,” Lawrence muttered, trying to move away from the voice.

  Tim reached a hand over and gave Lawrence’s shoulder a shake. “They’re about to start the bull riding. Kemp told me to come get you.”

  “Okay.”

  Tim Giddy left.

  Lawrence sat up, then pulled himself out. He stretched and looked down at his boots, checking to see if he was steady. He gave himself a quick sobriety test, putting his feet toe-to-heel, closing his eyes, and tilting back his head. He was fine. He stretched again and cracked his knuckles.

  He reached back into his truck, collected his gloves, and shoved them into his back pocket. He strolled past the bleachers and into a crowd of cowboys at the deck. Dust floated in the air. He was up third. He watched the first rider get thrown in short order. The man ran clear without a problem. The clowns just stood where they were and the bull ran across the ring and out. He didn’t see the second rider, but he heard the whooping and hollering and knew that the rider had stayed on for the full eight.

  “Ready to boogie?” some wise guy asked, but Lawrence didn’t see who it was and didn’t care.

  Lawrence held his eyes fixed on the bull’s head. The bull was so still, dead still. The animal’s side rose and fell slightly with steady, shallow breathing. Lawrence let himself down on the bull’s back. He heard Kemp’s voice somewhere far off asking him if he was all right, but he didn’t answer. He considered it a damn fool question. The big bull didn’t move even a tiny bit when Lawrence’s butt settled on him. The men working the chute became nervous and silent. Lawrence could feel the muscles of the animal between his legs and under the knuckles of his open hand working under the rope. The frozen stance of the bull prompted one cowboy to lean low and catch a glimpse at the bull’s eyes. The man came up shrugging.

  Lawrence pounded his fist closed about the rope, stirring the smell of the animal so that it found his nose. He stared blankly at the back of the red bull’s head. Somebody asked if he was ready and he gave a quick nod. He was ready, ready for the explosion, ready for the twisting, ready for the push of pain through his back, ready for the violent snapping of his neck. The bull was so still those seconds before the opening of the chute that he believed the animal could feel the rapid pounding of Lawrence’s heart.

  The gate swung open. The bull took a couple of easy steps and stopped, became dead in space. The onlookers in the stands made no noise. Lawrence was aware of their silence and even managed to look up at them. He chuckled inside his head; at least he had their attention. It amused him that he had time to think this, that he had time to think anything. He had expected the first twist of the bull to shake him silly; he’d even anticipated that the first twist would be to the right. When nothing came he felt lost, like when a train stops at night. The clowns walked softly around, their loose and colorful garments flapping with the steady breeze. One clown stopped and flailed his arms a couple of times, then appeared to become unnerved by the animal’s face. Lawrence kicked the bull in the sides. Nothing. He felt empty, hollow. There he was a black man, still, forever and always, as good as naked in front of everybody. The sun was beating down on him, making him sweat. He could smell the bull again. It had been a lot longer than eight seconds and his hand was stiffening, but he was afraid to loosen his grip. It was a trick. He would loosen his fist and the beast would end his life, shake him off and gore him beyond recognition. He kicked again. Harder. He found the muscles of the bull tense, frightening. Everyone looking on was scared as well. He could sense it, taste it.

  “Kemp!” Lawrence yelled, his eyes still on the bull’s neck. “Kemp!”

  “Yeah?” Kemp answered.

  “What now?!”

  There was no answer.

  Ten minutes passed. Lawrence had time to pick out faces in the crowd, to nod to the familiar ones, but they were too terrified to notice. Connie was at the fence now, ho
lding onto her sister.

  He thought once that he felt the bull move, but there had been nothing, no dust rising from any hoof, no lingering ripple of a twitched muscle.

  Lawrence took a long slow breath and as he let it out he loosened his grip slightly and the bull took a lateral step. The crowd sucked in wind collectively. Lawrence heard it and his fingers tightened again. A clown ran toward the bull and veered away quickly. The clown stopped and stood by a barrel, his chest heaving. Lawrence listened to the man panting. He swallowed. Another couple of minutes passed. Patient crowd, he thought. He also felt that he had had just about enough. In one quick effort he released the rope and pushed himself up and off the bull, rolling onto the hard ground and bolting away a few strides. He was still in the ring and the animal was still motionless, just looking forward. He walked around the animal, studied its back, and noticed just how big it really was, the muscles of the shoulders, the rump. He looked at the clown’s face and saw his fear. He moved wide and came to stand by the barrel with the man. The bull’s face was scary to see, blank, his eyes glazed over, unlike the dumb expression of a cow.

  Lawrence turned to observe the people in the bleachers. They were still silent, standing mostly, and many had moved down to the fence. Lawrence stepped away from the barrel and stood in front of the bull. He was directly in front, not five feet away and the bull just stayed there, staring straight through him. He waved his arms, then he yelled. He yelled the bull’s name. He yelled for it to do something. Finally, he turned his back on the animal and walked slowly, leisurely away toward the fence. His senses fused. He was ready for the snorting, for the sound of a stamping hoof or the beating of all the hooves against the stiff ground. Nothing. He reached the fence and climbed over. Sitting there, he looked back at the bull.

  A cowboy swung open the gate at the far end of the ring and the bull trotted through it. People began to quietly leave the stands. The concession booth was already closed. Cars and trucks lined up to make the turn out onto the highway. The team-roping event had not come up and wouldn’t. The hands were calmly clearing out the stock and moving it to the pens in back. Even the animals had become hushed, even sedate, their movements measured, methodical, deliberate.