I understand there was a man who got trapped inside a Cracker Barrel men’s room, once. (I’ve heard the story three or four times now in various convenience stores and gas stations just outside of Butte, so there must be some germ of truth to it.) He was trying to take a dump in peace in one of those oversize stalls for the handicapped (even though he wasn’t). He liked the extra space around him, the aluminum handrail, the hooks to hang his hat and coat. It must have been after closing hours, I guess, because the night manager had mistakenly locked him up in there and had also left the sound system on and, evidently, Shania Twain songs played all night long in an endless loop. Over and over, that’s all he heard was Shania Twain. She sang songs of vengeance and good riddance, infidelity of all stripes, callous treatment at the hands of drunken cowboys, maudlin ballads of deprived youth, the general inability of men to see into her hidden charms; songs where she refused to be a slave anymore to the whims of men, like for instance making toast, doing the dishes, washing clothes, frying an egg, shopping for groceries. She wasn’t buying into any of that stuff. Then she had songs full of praise for her mother; prayers to her baby sister, her great-aunt, her sister-in-law, her sister’s sister-in-law. She praised God for making her a woman. She praised Jesus for her spectacular body and her luscious red mane falling down to her luscious ass. The man became desperate to escape the Cracker Barrel men’s room. He tried to dismantle the door hinges with his trusty Swiss Army Knife. He tried pounding the walls. He tried screaming his head off but there was nobody there. No dishwasher, no waiter, no cashier, no janitor, no night manager, no one but Shania Twain, over and over and over and over again. There was no escape from the onslaught. The man collapsed to the tile floor in a heap of resignation and tried to fall asleep but sleep wouldn’t come. Shania’s voice taunted and tortured him. She clawed at his ears with her long silver talons. He hauled himself up off the floor and turned all the water faucets on full blast. He punched all the hand-dry blowers. He flushed every toilet but nothing would drown out the piercing voice. He could still hear it pealing through the background somewhere; whining away in mawkish misery. He tried climbing up on top of the toilet stall and unscrewing the speaker but he stripped all the screwheads with his trusty Swiss Army Knife and fell backwards to the floor, impaling himself with the open blade. He writhed in pain and managed to extract the knife from his left thigh but blood gushed freely into the overflowing water of the sinks and steam was rising like out of some primordial stew. He dragged himself through the darkening red mess of it, back toward the door, moaning like some butchered stockyard animal. He kicked with his one good leg and flailed his hands and screamed one last time but nobody answered; nobody but Shania Twain in her endless refrain. Then he surrendered completely and did something he’d never done in his entire life. He prayed. He prayed to Jesus to stop the bleeding. He prayed to God for a little peace and quiet. He prayed someone might find him before he drowned in his own fluids. Then a miraculous thing happened (and this has been verified by at least two eyewitness accounts—window washers at the very scene); the men’s room door swung slowly open and there she was—Shania herself, towering before him in her spectacular body, her spectacular red hair, her spectacular lips, her spectacular tits. She was singing her head off. She was singing like there was no tomorrow. She didn’t seem to notice the man on the floor, bleeding to death. In fact she stood right on his chest in her green satin stiletto high heels and kept right on singing. She seemed to be focused on something in the far, far distance but it was hard to tell through the steam.
Face
The other big question I have, and believe me I have lots of them, is this—A face is a face only so long as it remains attached to the muscles and blood supply of the body; and that body and blood supply are attached to the person. Once you separate the face from the body and lay it out flat on a Formica counter like that it’s not the same thing anymore at all. It’s not a face. It’s not a person. It’s a pelt, or something. A remnant. A trophy. I don’t know. Wouldn’t you agree? It’s certainly not recognizable as part of a living being anymore. Not identifiable. So who came up with this shit? This might have worked back in the frontier days when we were tracking down Apaches in Arizona, but this is the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake.
Costello
I made the great mistake of returning to my hometown after not being anywhere near the place for over forty-five years. Why do we do these things when we know full well they’re going to bring nothing but sorrow and grief? Some morbid curiosity in the place itself, I guess. The plain streets. Trees grown bigger. Porches where you used to toss the morning paper off the handlebars of an orange Schwinn. Why would anyone volunteer to take a stroll through their distant past other than to torture some memory of a long-lost counterpart?
I had come to the end of it quickly; actually vomiting in the front yard at the sight of our old adobe stuccoed house where there once was a red canvas awning, now replaced with a taxidermy sign below the head of a pronghorn antelope. It wasn’t the thought of slaughtered wildlife that got me, it was slaughtered youth.
I had lost track of where I’d left the car and found myself staggering down the shoulder of Highway 66, which had acquired a new name I couldn’t pronounce. Something rhyming with Santana Wind in bastard Spanish. It made me dizzy trying to repeat it in my head. Traffic blew by in waves of anonymous urgency, as though everyone were hurrying off toward a great final festival in the desert. I was the only one on foot. I stopped and checked in all directions for any other fellow pedestrians; nothing moved but cars and traffic lights. I spotted the only familiar structure from my childhood—an old gray donut shop called Krispy Glaze where I used to hang out after school just to behold the spanking-clean blonde girls in ponytails and petticoats. I couldn’t believe this place was still standing. As I entered the glass door a miniature cowbell clattered above my head, awakening sensations of adolescent yearning. Same bell, same sensations. I ordered black coffee, a glazed donut, and a glass of water to wash away the rancid taste of puke. I sat in a corner, just like I used to. Same corner. Same vantage point. It was a perspective I’ve long maintained: back to the wall with a clear vision of everything moving in front of me. Poker-style. The place was empty except for a man about my age wearing a blue serge suit and black tie, sitting in a booth in the opposing corner. I hadn’t noticed him when I first came in and would have picked a more oblique location had I seen him sitting there. I prefer not to be stared at when I’m furtively staring at others. I make no bones about my obsession with observation. I enjoy making notes. Jotting things down. The way he snapped his Racing Form with little flicks of the wrists and licked the tip of his pencil. Who even uses a pencil anymore? Besides, my little notebook gave me the needed disguise of being preoccupied with my own thoughts, casting no suspicion that I might be closely observing his every move. There is a subtle art to the sneaking of glances. Timing is everything. To look as though all your attention is completely absorbed in the subject of your notebook when, in fact, you are lurking; waiting for the moment he picks up his coffee cup, takes a chomp out of the donut then unabashedly sucks the sticky sugar off his fingers while continuing to scan the morning workouts. These are the ripe spans of time where you seize the opportunity to look deeply into the essence of a man; see the source of his greed without his having the slightest clue. Still, you have to be constantly alert; wary of not getting caught by his quick glance. In the flash of an eye he might become aware that you are a witness and begin subtly altering his every manifestation; playing out the illusion that he is in total control of his character or worse—he might become hostile and paranoid. I’ve seen it happen. People hate to be seen. They hate the sensation of eyes on them; being looked at for what they are and not what they imagine themselves to be. Very few people can handle the blatant stare except children under five. This has been my experience anyway.
Often, in the midst of caution, coaching yourself to be careful, the danger presents its
elf, in spades. This is exactly what happened. He caught me staring right at him. I had become so fascinated by the surface and contours of his deeply pockmarked face that I had completely let my guard down. He glared at me in disgust, snapped the paper viciously, then propped it up so as to conceal his entire head. My first impulse was to run. Just abandon my half-eaten Krispy Glaze and skulk off like a beaten dog. But I was afraid this would only raise his suspicions. I still had no clue where I’d parked the car and I wasn’t about to go wandering off down the side of the road and get shot in the back by some madman with a pockmarked face in a blue serge suit. I had felt something intrinsically violent about him from the start. He had a smell. Even across the empty space I could catch it. Effusive use of cheap aftershave and cologne that would probably make your eyes water if you got too close. And the suit and black tie—Who wore that kind of outfit anymore except lowlife hustlers and hired thugs? Punk chumps who sold snapshots of some businessman’s wife fucking the checkout boy in the parking lot. I could feel him stabbing me from a distance with his eyes. I remained, chin on my chest, riveted to the notebook as though studying the secrets of Osiris or something but I knew I’d really kindled his paranoia. His agitation was palpable and became more insistent. This guy could be anybody, I thought. What if he’s part of some cartel. Some ring of evil. You never know. Out here on the edge of nowhere. This is exactly the kind of territory they like to operate in. Semirural. All kinds of agricultural pesticides available. Fertilizer. Methamphetamine. Bombs. He could be anyone. The Racing Form should have tipped me off right away. Pomona wasn’t that far down the road. I used to work there in high school, walking “hots.” I’d seen, firsthand, all the dregs of the earth, hanging off the rail, slinking down the shed rows. Snakes of men who’d sooner slit your throat than give you the time of day. He could be one of those. Or worse. What if he thinks I’m a witness—not “witness” in the sense I was using it before but a witness to some heinous crime he’d committed? I’m getting way too carried away, I thought to myself. I should have followed my instincts and never come back here. This place has never held any luck for me. What was I thinking?
Now the worst began to happen. He slammed his paper down in front of him, pressed both fists into the “past performances,” and stood straight up. He brushed donut crumbs off the lapels of his suit jacket then walked right over to me. My eyes never lifted from the notebook although I was acutely aware of his every move. My heart remained oddly still. He came to an abrupt stop right in front of me and the waves of cologne caused me to catch my breath. “Am I supposed to know you or something?” he said, extending the word know as though it might have deep connotations. I tried my best to look up at him, calmly bewildered.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You been looking at me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I thought maybe you recognized me from somewhere.”
“No—no, I was just—noticing your Racing Form.”
“What about it?” he said flatly.
“Oh, nothing. I was just—wondering where you picked it up. I’ve been trying to find one.”
“Down at Dewey’s. Liquor store.”
“Oh, great. I’ll run down there and get one, thanks.”
“You know Dewey’s? Right across from the Oasis?”
“I’ll find it,” I said.
“You sure I don’t know you from somewhere?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Track, maybe?”
“No. I’m not from around here.”
“Where you from?”
“Uh—back East.”
“East?”
“Yeah. Vermont.”
“Oh, yeah. Maple syrup, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Cold.”
“It can be.”
“What’re you doing out here?”
“Oh, just—you know. Knocking around.”
“Not much to it, is there?”
“Well—”
“Never has been. Lost souls wandering in the desert. That’s what I call it. Lost souls.”
I chuckled as though in on some local joke. He made a slight clicking sound between his teeth like he was asking a horse to pick up into a gallop. I wondered if I’d ever get rid of him. “I swear I recognize your face from somewhere,” he continued. “You ever played in the movies?”
“What?” I said, genuinely shocked. “No.”
“You look just like that guy—What’s his name?”
“What guy’s that?”
“That guy in the pictures. What’s his name. You could be his double.”
“Is that right?” I said.
“Yeah. You know who I’m talking about?”
“No.”
“Anybody ever tell you you look just like him?”
“Yeah. Sometimes.”
“Thought you said you didn’t know who I was talking about?”
“Well—no—right. I mean—”
“This guy used to live right here in this town, ya know? Fact I went to high school with him.”
“What guy?”
“This guy I’m talking about. The one in the movies. Went off and changed his name. That’s how come I can’t think of it. Got some Hollywood handle now. Used to be called Billy Rice. That’s what I knew him as anyway.”
“Billy Rice,” I muttered as though memory failed me.
“That’s right. Ever hear of him?”
“No. I never did.”
“Well, you look just like him. Spitting image.”
“I’ll be darned.”
“Lotsa guys I’ve known changed their name. Different reasons though. Anonymity. That’s the key to it.”
“Right.”
“Mind if I sit down?” he said, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. He crouched right across the Formica table from me on the edge of the seat, as though any second he might make a lunge for my throat. He folded his hands neatly in front of him, stitching his thick fingers together. I could feel his eyes boring into me but I couldn’t look him in the face. I kept all my focus on his hands, hoping this whole encounter would pass as quickly as it had started. I’d never seen such a collection of rings like that on a grown male. Every finger glimmered. Even the thumb on his left hand was entwined by a silver serpent with tiny ruby eyes. This thumb kept rubbing slowly over the knuckle of the opposing one in a smooth hypnotic rhythm as though preparing for a strike.
“Yeah, it was a funny thing. So long ago. Billy. We used to hang out.”
“No kidding?” I said.
“There he was, up there on the big screen. Outa the blue. I could’ve shit my pants.”
“Must’ve been a surprise.”
“It was. You remind me a lot of him. Older, but then it was forty-some years ago.”
“That’s a good long while.”
“It is. Lotsa water under that bridge. We’d get drunker’n ten Apaches back then. Wild. Course I think he was part something. Some tribe or other. Had those shifty eyes. Couldn’t hold a thimbleful of whiskey without trying to rape everything in town.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh, he was a loose cannon, that one. No fear, in some areas. Course there’s only a cunt hair separating crazy from courage. We used to run all kinds of scams, back then. Stole cars and drove ‘em down to Mexico. Dismantle the bastards and sell all the parts. Made tons. Buy Benzedrine down there by the sackful. Right across the counter. No ID, driver’s license, or nothing. Back then you got away with anything. Wide open. Whores. Pills. Slaves. You name it.”
“Slaves?”
“Kids. You hire ‘em off the street to do a job. You know what I’m saying?”
“Oh, yeah—”
“Need somebody’s dick cut off, they’d do it. Cheap too. Five, ten bucks. Desperate.”
“Man—”
“You think I’m kidding? Billy could tell you. Fact I could probably blackmail his ass with half the stuff we pulled back then. If I knew w
here to find the prick. Big-shot movie star. New name and all. Fancy women. Corvettes. Got a whole collection of vintage Sting Rays in some garage in Malibu, I heard. Same car we used to boost. Same exact model. Big 454 engine. Overhead cams. Sell like hotcakes down there in Tijuana. Used to have one fandango of a time, I’m telling you. Chicks. Hellholes you wouldn’t believe. You made damn sure they knew you were carrying when you walked in or they’d cut you up like fish bait. Stuff we saw—Girls fucking dogs and donkeys, right on stage. Right under bright lights. Talcum powder blowing around in clouds. High-heeled men who could fool you into a hand job if you weren’t careful. Got in free too. Just drinks and tips was all. And us only sixteen years old and couldn’t speak a lick of Spanish. Then we’d come flying back across that border, usually with some greaser pachuco on our tail and head straight for the American liquor store. Stand up on some parked car and wave the finger at him, across the Rio. Those were the days. You talk about some good times.”
He came suddenly to a stop and stared out the window toward the highway as though looking for a lost connective thread. His hands shifted and now the right thumb wound up on top of the left and picked up the same methodical rubbing. His voice shifted and dropped an octave: “Never in a million years would’ve thought we’d go off in such different directions. Just fate, I guess. I mean him just falling into that Hollywood craphole like that. Famous and all. Face on the cover of every magazine. You know—And me—well—me just sitting here staring out the window.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to soothe the moment. “You never know how things are going to turn out.”
“You got that right,” he said, and stood up in the same abrupt manner, brushing imaginary crumbs off his jacket just to be doing something. He stared down at his tie and adjusted it, cinching the knot up a notch. “Well, it was nice visiting with you. Sorry for the interruption. Looks like you were busy with your notes there.”
“Yeah—no—just jotting stuff down. Just a habit. You know—”
Sam Shepard Page 6
