by Bill Albert
“Well,” said Earl, “Wadda you say?”
“How long you going up there for?”
“Just for the day is all. Won’t take us more than a couple a hours to get there. It’s only a hoot and a holler outta Yucca Valley.”
“A hoot and a holler,” Harold repeated to himself. What the hell am I doing here?
“Yeah, OK, thanks a lot.”
There were a few more people on Palm Canyon Drive at six-thirty in the morning than there had been the afternoon Harold took his last stroll into town. Earl parked the truck in front of the drugstore.
It was busy inside. Mostly workmen in T-shirts. There were also a couple of cops and some cowboys. The jukebox was playing. Harold couldn’t identify the singer or the tune.
A white sport coat and a pink carnation
I’m all dressed up for the dance.
“Poor ol’ Marty Robbins,” Earl sighed, “You’d think he’d have more sense.”
“You’d think,” echoed Garf, glaring around the room, as if the singer was hiding somewhere in among the booths.
Harold was just glad it wasn’t Pat Boone.
They sat down at the counter next to one of the cops. He was well over six feet tall and must have weighed three hundred pounds. It seemed to be all muscle. The thick hairs on his arm were like steel wool. A mug of coffee was buried in one of his hands.
“How you doing, Jim?” said Earl.
“Hey up, Little Earl,” said the cop.
Harold thought the steel rivets holding the stool to the floor gave slightly as the cop swiveled to face them.
“You boys keeping your noses clean?”
“You bet,” replied Earl.
“Sure you are. I know that. Say, how’s Big Earl, ain’t seen him around lately?”
“Oh, he’s doing OK, you know, keeping outta the sun.”
The cop laughed, showing a mouth full of widely spaced teeth and gold fillings.
“I know this little runt here,” he said, pointing a thick finger at Garf, “But, ain’t seen this one before. You new around here, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Harold managed to squeak, alarmed by the policeman’s sudden interest. “Abelstein, Harold Abelstein, sir.”
He could feel himself blushing.
“Polite too,” said the cop, studying him more closely. “Say now, Harold Abel-Stein, how’d a nice boy like you get mixed up with this collection of no-account saddle-tramps?”
“I . . . um . . . I . . . uh . . .” he stammered.
“Shit, Harold,” Earl laughed “Don’t pay him no never mind. He can’t shoot straight anyway.”
The policeman punched Earl softly on the arm and smiled good-naturedly.
“Say, you boys gonna order or what?”
It was the same blond girl who had served him before, whom he had bumped into at the drive-in. Hands on her small hips, she turned to the cop.
“You know I told you before about bothering the customers, Daddy.”
“Gee, I am sorrier than hell, Gloria,” he said solemnly, “I really am.”
Everyone laughed, except Harold.
“Why, hello again,” she said seeing Harold.
She gave him a warm smile.
“You do keep turning up, don’t you?”
Harold smiled weakly. He could feel the policeman’s eyes on him.
“Come on, Jim,” said the other cop, “let’s get at it.”
“Right.”
The big man put down his mug and stood up. He leaned over toward the boys, looking all the time just at Harold.
“Now you boys remember what I said. I got my eye on you.”
Harold smiled broadly at him and nodded, trying to get into the swing of things, the cut and thrust of manly insults. The cop didn’t smile back.
Wrong again, thought Harold despairingly, the smile frozen on his face. He now felt more exposed than ever. It would have to be the biggest policeman in the world, the daughter of the biggest policeman in the world.
I remember the night
and the Tennessee Waltz
Now I know just how much I have lost.
I lost my little darlin’
The night they were playin’
The beautiful Tennessee Waltz.
He couldn’t finish his hash browns.
As they left, Gloria ran up to him. She grabbed his arm.
“Hey now, Harold, don’t you go forgetting this again.”
She handed him Aunt Enid’s straw hat.
Standing by the kitchen sink, Enid daydreamed as she filled the percolator, her mind restfully blank. Suddenly the water poured over the top and ran onto her hand. She shook herself awake and tried to focus once more. She turned off the faucet. He had won the first round hands down. She laughed at herself, emptied some of the water, spooned coffee into the metal filter basket, put on the top and set the pot on the stove.
One cup of coffee. I’ll let him have one cup and then it’s back on the road. No more questions, no more openings.
It was going badly wrong, not at all how she had planned. She was not being cool and decisive. He was making her angry and that made her feel guilty. Why the hell should I feel guilty, she thought? Because he’s my father? What difference should that make? He abandoned me, for Christ sake! When I was ten years old, nothing but a little kid. What kind of father does that? Could he have really loved me? And, he thinks I should feel sorry for him? Sorry for him! After that and after what he did to Mom? She stared out the kitchen window into the street for a full minute. Hell, I do feel sorry for him!
“The bastard!” she said out loud, banging her hand against the side of the stove and almost upsetting the coffee pot.
She carried the two mugs out to the pool. Abe had taken his coat off and rolled up his sleeves.
“Thanks, Enid. That really hits the spot.”
He held the mug in both hands and bent forward as he drank.
“You know, I’ve traveled a lot, all around the country, but never really been in the desert. When I first came out to the West Coast it was up in Washington. Had a job for a while in Clarkston, little town on the Snake River across from Lewiston. You know, Lewis and Clark? Two towns, right next to each other. Still, I suppose it’s better than Kansas City and Kansas City. You hear what I’m saying?”
He paused and when Enid didn’t respond he continued talking. Silence seemed to frighten him. Enid imagined it was because he couldn’t sell anything when it was quiet. The only thing to do was for him to fill up the empty space.
“Well, I got off the train there, you see. Worked in a drug store. Wilson’s I think it was called. Right there on the main street it was. Yeah, Wilson’s Drugs. Big blue and white letters across the front. Went to Seattle for a while after that. Wasn’t much work in Seattle. Rains a lot up there, you know. Nice place though.”
He shook his head.
“But the desert. I don’t know about the desert. Nothing but sand and wind and it’s so hot and so empty. Lots and lots of empty.”
He laughed to himself.
“Yeah, lots of empty. Why would anyone want to live here? You hear what I’m saying?”
Still Enid didn’t answer. The old man shifted in the chair and smiled. He took another drink from the mug, licked his lips nervously.
“You know when I got off out there,” he pointed vaguely north. “Off the Southern Pacific, that is, I said to myself, ‘Wait a minute, Abe,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing here.’ Desert all around. A little station, a couple of shacks and an old water tower. ‘Where the hell is Palm Springs?’ I said. Then I saw this sign. A big arrow, Palm Springs 9 miles. Population 12,146. 1044 swimming pools. 289 hotels. What a place, huh? What a place.”
“You can’t stay,” she blurted out.
“If I hadn’t found an . . . What? What
did you say?”
“I said you can’t stay,” she repeated, feeling relieved she had finally got it out. “I don’t have any room. There’s only the two bedrooms. It’s a small house. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”
Not looking at his daughter, Abe put his mug on the ground.
“Uh . . . yeah, sure,” he said, suddenly cut loose from his plans and momentarily confused.
Then with careful deliberation he began to unroll one shirt sleeve.
“I can see that, Enid honey. Of course I can . . . But, you see, I hadn’t planned really, you know, actually planned to stay exactly . . . Just sort of lay over, as it were, a couple of days maybe . . . you know . . . See you and the boy and then I . . .”
“I’m sorry, it can’t be done. Where would I put you?”
“Right. Yeah . . . Well, listen, that shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, brightening. “I could sleep on the couch, couldn’t I? I mean to say, only for a day or two, it shouldn’t be such . . .”
Not again, she thought. I asked another question and he stepped right in. Damn it!
“No!” she shouted angrily.
The old man sat up in his chair, startled. He looked dazed, disoriented. He stared straight ahead, ran his hands back and forth along the arms of the canvas chair. She forced herself not to notice.
“No,” she said more calmly. “I’m sorry, but no, definitely no. I have someone coming and . . .”
“Alright, alright,” he interrupted, seeming finally to give in to her. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to upset anybody. I just thought that maybe you might be just a little happy to see your own father? Maybe a little curious? No? Not even a little?”
Enid didn’t trust herself to speak. She studied the mountain, trying to lose her thoughts in the bright mirror chips of granite.
Abe let out a loud sigh. His shoulders dropped. His voice faltered, moving further away.
“No. I see. I see. Why not? Huh? Why not? That’s fine. Sure, sure it is. I can live with that. I’ve lived with it for twenty-five years. The misunderstanding, the resentment, the rejection. Why should I expect . . . ?”
His voice brightened momentarily.
“But, I don’t want you to feel bad about it, Enid honey. You mustn’t feel bad.”
“I . . .” she began, and then clamped her mouth tight, her vision blurred by a paralyzing rage.
He gave her an understanding smile and then bent down with an old man’s exaggerated caution and began to put on his socks.
Western Swing
Pioneertown was like a Western movie set. The unpaved main street, called Mane Street, was lined on either side with low rough-cut wooden buildings, many with false-fronted second stories and wide porches. The Red Dog Saloon, Maggie’s Feed Barn, the Gem Trader, Cecil the Barber, the Pony Express Service. The three boys walked down the center of the wide street which, except for a few tumbleweeds, was empty.
“It’s like an old ghost town,” said Harold in a hushed voice.
“Yeah,” replied Earl, “sort of is. They built it about ten years ago. Wanted to make movies here. Made some, not many though. Never panned out somehow.”
As they passed the Golden Stallion, a large single-story building at the corner of the street, a small Chinese man wearing a white shirt and a Stetson hat stepped out onto the veranda. He smiled and nodded to the boys. Earl touched the brim of his hat.
“Jew,” Earl said, shortly, as if explaining something.
Garf laughed.
A cold shiver snaked down Harold’s back, his stomach tightened. “Jew?” Did he hear him right? Jew? What did Earl mean? He didn’t see how it was possible.
“Uh, wasn’t that guy sort of Chinese?” asked Harold tentatively.
“What? Him? Oh, yeah, sure,” replied Earl, “Chinese. You like Chinese food?”
“It’s OK,” said Harold, trying to figure out what Earl was leading up to.
But, if he was leading up to anything Harold never found out what it was.
They reached the end of the street. About a hundred yards further on was a large corral. Three horses stood quietly at the far end. Earl put one foot on a lower rail and leaned his arms on the top of the fence.
“You see a pinto mare?” Earl asked Garf.
The smaller boy took up the same posture as his friend, but had to stretch awkwardly to reach the higher part of the corral fence.
“No. I don’t see nothing. Oh, yeah, wait a minute. Look, she’s behind the gray.”
He pointed.
“You see her there?”
A tall broad-shouldered man wearing a full cowboy rig, boots and spurs, hat and an oversized silver belt buckle, came up behind them.
“Howdy, boys, can I help you with something? Oh, hey there, Little Earl, didn’t recognize you right off.”
“Chester,” said Earl, putting out his hand.
“Big Earl OK?” asked the man, pumping the boy’s hand.
“Yeah, he’s getting on just fine and dandy.”
Earl didn’t introduce the other boys.
Harold reached up and nervously fingered his hat. Earl had said he had better wear one if he didn’t want to get sunstroke again. When Harold had complained that his aunt’s hat made him look ridiculous, Garf had taken his pocketknife and cut off the bits of frayed straw.
“Make it look sorta like a fucking sombrero,” he said, putting the hat on Harold’s head.
“Don’t worry,” said Earl, “it’s just fine. You look like a redheaded Mex.”
“Sure he does. El Colorado Grande,” laughed Garf, pleased with himself, “Hey Earl! How about that, huh? El Colorado Grande! Fucking A!”
Harold prayed that the new nickname wouldn’t stick. He didn’t want a Mexican nickname.
He felt self-conscious about the hat, but his skin was still tender. He wore it.
“You come about them horses?” asked Chester, casting a sidelong look at Harold.
“Yep.”
“Well, lets go over there and you can have a look-see.”
They walked around the outside of the corral until they came to where the horses stood. After a few minutes the man turned to Earl.
“Well, wadda you think?”
“Not bad,” said Earl, speculatively.
There was another few minutes of silence.
“Like I told Big Earl, we been using ‘em for dude riding. Gentle as hell, they are. Even the little kids can ride ‘em. How many is it your dad’s thinking to buy?”
“Two, maybe all three. You got some saddles we could throw on? Like to ride ‘em around some, if that’s alright?”
“Sure thing, Little Earl. You gotta see what you’re buying, don’t you? Come on over to the tack room and I’ll get you all fixed up.”
God, thought Harold. I’m not going to have to actually ride a horse. Please, no! He remembered Pony Land. He hadn’t been on a horse since he was six years old. He hadn’t wanted to be.
Harold sighed. Cornered again. Out of one into another. It was never ending. How long would it take before he found the balance again. It hadn’t been easy in Los Angeles, but he had done it. He’d got the record shtick down to an art. He had worked out all his moves. Here in the desert the moves were always being worked out by someone else. He took off the hat and wiped his sleeve across his forehead.
Earl had said looking, he hadn’t said anything about riding, but then Earl didn’t say much, didn’t explain things. It was as if he expected Harold instinctively to understand what was going on. Harold didn’t, but he understood enough to know he couldn’t ask.
It had to be something about the desert, he thought. Too hot to talk much. Maybe the heat and all the empty space makes people go right off-center. Or, maybe they were that way to begin with and that’s why they wind up in the desert, like that Jewish Chinese cowboy.
Chester led them to a small wooden shed not far from the corral. He opened the door.
“You take what all you need, boys,” he said, standing to one side. “I’ll go round ‘em up for you.”
Earl and Garf went in. Harold didn’t know what to do. Chester stared at him, waiting. Feeling uncomfortable, Harold followed the others inside.
It was dark and musty hot in the shed. It smelled of leather and horse sweat. About a dozen saddles sat on braced two-by-fours which stuck out from the walls. There were also bridles, halters, spurs, curry combs and stiff brushes, a pair of chaps, an opened and dried-out can of saddle soap, a couple of coiled ropes and various lengths of leather strapping. A thin strip of yellow flypaper dotted with black specks hung from the center of the ceiling. It spun slowly in the still air. Harold heard a muted buzzing and looking more closely he saw a large blue-green fly, its feet stuck fast, fighting to escape. He knew that it had no chance.
“Here, Harold,” said Earl, “you grab on to this one.”
Earl picked up a saddle and set it in Harold’s arms.
“But I . . .” Harold protested, grunting at the sudden weight.
“Oh yeah,” said Earl, “I forgot you’re going to need these as well.”
He added a stiff red and white saddle blanket and a bridle, smacking them down onto the saddle.
“Now you’re all set, partner.”
“Listen, Earl, you know, I never . . .”
“Hey, I know that, Harold. Don’t fret now, I’ll show you how it’s all done. Come on now, you gotta be learning this sometime.”
Harold didn’t see why.
Back at the corral Chester had haltered the horses and tied them to the fence rail.
Earl checked each horse carefully, looking at teeth and eyes, running his hands up and down legs, inspecting hooves. Then he and Garf put on the saddles and bridles, adjusted the stirrups and checked the cinches.
“OK, Harold, old son,” said Earl, “Ready to mount up? You can take this big bay here.”
Harold fought to quiet the fluttering in his stomach. He tightened his jaw, tightened the cheeks of his ass and nodded, trying to adopt the accepted hard-eyed expression. Tough-guy Western cool. Man of few words. Resourceful, like the masked rider of the plains. Laconic, sure-footed, and ready for anything.
