by Clark Hays
After the post office, I went to the Sagebrush Cafe, counting up the money in my pocket which, frankly, wasn’t very much more than all the money I had in the world. It was still enough for coffee, biscuits and gravy and some scrambled eggs. The spare change I found in my jacket would cover a double order of hash browns.
Hazel, a waitress at the Sagebrush since the American Revolution, or at least for the thirty-five years I’d been eating there, took my order. I had her bring the cup of coffee first and then pulled out Lizzie’s postcard. It might’ve been my imagination, but it seemed to smell like honey and oranges. Didn’t say much, just that she missed me and thought maybe it was my turn to visit; and something about her latest assignment on Dracula.
For the life of me, I will never understand city people.
Hazel brought a plate of food, so I slipped the postcard back into my pocket and let my mind drift back.
I met Lizzie about six months ago. She’s a journalist from New York City, one of those real intellectual types. I’d like to say it was her smarts that caused me to fall for her, but that would be a lie. I was first struck by how dang pretty she was, but I knew right off that behind them looks was a powerful mind capable of rankling me without even trying.
She’d come out to do a story about cowboys and ended up in LonePine with a bunch of notebooks, a computer and a fancy camera, looking sort of lost. The first time I saw her was at the Silver Dollar, all made up in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, skin-tight jeans with someone’s name on the label, shiny, leather-fringed cowboy boots that looked like they pinched her feet and a bandanna knotted around her neck. She looked like an extra from one of those fancy catalogs, a big city notion of country. Despite the fact that she took my breath away, my day had been pretty dismal, so I did my best to ignore her and took a stool at the far end of the bar for a nice, quiet beer.
She was sitting with a broken-down old alcoholic named Vince McCready, who we all call ‘Reride’ due to the number and extent of his rodeo injuries that grow in proportion to the number of times he’s retold his story. It all dated back to one unfortunate incident he had with a milk cow that formed the whole of his rodeo experience, and was as close to cowboying as he’d ever get.
She was making a real point of not noticing me not noticing her, which I noticed much to my chagrin, and it began to interfere with the enjoyment of my beer. I paid for it and left it sitting half full on the bar and strolled nonchalantly for the door. Reride saw me and grabbed hold of my arm.
“Tucker, I’d like you to meet Lizzie Vaughan,” he said. “Lizzie, this here’s Tucker, an old friend of mine. We go way back.”
She stuck out her hand, smiling mischievously. I touched the brim of my hat. “Pleasure, ma’am,” I said.
“She’s here from New York City writing a story about cowboys,” Reride said.
“I hope you find some.”
Her eyes danced and there was a reply forming on her lips, but I went on outside before she could deliver it, leaving Reride sputtering in defense.
I hardly thought about her at all until the next time I saw her, which was several days later at the Cooper Ranch. They hold a monthly jackpot roping so all the cowboys from around LonePine can put ten dollars apiece toward the jackpot that Mr. Cooper always wins.
Ten dollars is more than a fair price to pay for the privilege of roping in his outdoor arena and drinking warm beer. Add in the chance that somebody’s sister-in-law could be visiting from out of town and that’s some four-star entertainment in metropolitan LonePine.
Since it’s only a few miles from the trailer, I rode Snort down.
Rex trailed along behind us, sniffing and pissing on every bush and post while I followed a routine Snort and I developed for ensuring maximum performance from him: flattery. Horses are a bit vain by nature and Snort is even more so, and he constantly needs his ego attended to. I guess it’s not so much empty flattery as it is positive reinforcement. Seems fair that if I expect him to perform like the best horse on the planet, he needs to know he is the best horse on the planet.
That’s exactly what I told him as we trailed along, bent forward over his neck whispering in his ear about how fast he is, how strong and smart, how handsome and how lucky I was to have such a fine horse. I could feel the pride swelling up in him with each word and even though he can’t tell me what a wonderful, strong and handsome rider I am, it’s pretty damn clear that he trusts me right up to the end. It’s there in his eyes and in every fiber of horse muscle underneath my legs keyed up and poised, waiting for my command.
There’s a bond develops between a horse and rider stronger than just about any, with the possible exception of parent to child. It’s different, though, because it’s more like equals coming together to form one powerful thing which is sort of like the bond between the night sky and a shooting star. Without Snort, I don’t think I’d be who I am today. I suspect, however, that without me, Snort would probably be just as happy in somebody else’s barn, so long as there was plenty of oats.
The field behind the Cooper Ranch was already full of trucks and trailers and horses and screaming kids and horse shit. Someone had the foresight to bring a big old grill; charcoal smoke filled the air and they were burning hamburgers and hot dogs for a dollar apiece. I guided Snort on through, nodding at folks I knew, which was everyone. Rex found a truck to crawl under, a rig I didn’t recognize, and lay there panting in the shade.
“Rex, get on outta there. Come on, go find Kenny’s dog. Come on, Rex, find Lady. Find Lady.”
“Is your dog LonePine’s version of a matchmaker?”
I kneed Snort around and saw Lizzie with her camera. “Stop that,” I said, but my damn fool horse went all National Geographic. He started horse-smiling and puffed up his chest and struck his most noble horse pose. I pulled my hat down over my eyes and dug my heels into his flank, but by that time she was bent over taking pictures of Rex who adopted his most sensitive dog look and rolled over on his back so she could scratch his belly.
“For God’s sake, quit with the pictures. Rex, come on.” I yanked at the reins and Snort jerked his head back like he was about to pull a stubborn until I fixed him with a savage look.
“I’m Lizzie,” she said, “Lizzie Vaughan.”
“I know damn well who you are. Now put that thing away.”
“You’re Tucker, right? How about you give me an interview, Mr. Tucker?”
“Just Tucker. No mister. And no thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a roping to attend.”
“Well, good luck, just Tucker. Maybe I’ll get some nice shots of you roping.”
I heard her talking nice to Rex, that little traitor, so I left him to her as Snort and I eased into the holding pen beside the arena. Snort kept looking back over his shoulder to see if maybe she’d take some more pictures of him and I had to gently remind him with my boot heels to watch what he was doing.
There was probably forty people up in the stands or else leaning over the fence spitting tobacco juice out into the loose dirt of the arena. Forty people is a big turnout, what with haying season in full swing.
One of the Dryer boys, probably Junior by the crease in his hat, was backed up in the chute waiting his turn, so I pulled Snort to a stop so we could watch from outside. Junior gave a nod and they turned the calf out. As soon as it cleared the chute, Junior put the spurs to his old nag and they jumped out after it. He spun his loop and galloped along and directly gave it a toss. By the time the calf hit the end of the rope, Junior had jumped down and was running up to it, holding his pigging string. He tossed the calf and grabbed three of its four legs and looped his string around them once, twice, and then with a half hitch, threw his hands clear to signal the judges he was done and to stop the clock. He got back on his horse grinning because it was a good time. It wasn’t a winning time, but it was good.
The crowd was hollering and he saw me and took off his hat to wave across. I waved back and then pointed behind him at the cal
f. He looked around in time to see it struggle to its feet, the pigging string coming loose. He slumped in the saddle and everybody groaned. I could hear his dad laughing from behind the stands.
After two beers and a burger, it was my turn in the chute. Snort was keyed up and I knew I could come close to Mr. Cooper’s time, which was all anybody wanted. They dropped the gate and the calf darted out. Snort bunched up and exploded after him, and I had my loop built and it sailed out graceful as can be, floated above the calf’s head, then settled down over him. The calf kept running forward — they ain’t particularly bright — and hit the end of the rope, causing it to flip around. Snort immediately started backing up and dragging the calf along, bleating in distress.
I leapt out of the saddle, the pigging string clamped down between my teeth, feeling each second reverberate between me and Snort as they ticked by. I ran down the rope with one hand looped over, measuring the tension as I caught the calf by the neck and flank, dug a knee in and hoisted it up to flop it down sideways.
The arena was dead quiet, everyone silently marking the seconds.
I caught Snort’s eyes, all chestnut concentration, and then disaster struck.
From the distance came a faint sort of shriek. Snort and I both swung our heads in time to see Lizzie lose her balance after leaning too far over the fence and tumble, camera and all, into the arena. I caught Snort’s eye again and there was panic there and bewilderment, and though I tried to calm him with a look, he fell all apart.
Before I could get the string looped around my calf’s legs, Snort stepped nervously forward, craning his neck to look at Lizzie sitting all sprawled out in the mud and wiping the cow shit off her camera. As the rope slacked limp, the calf got a foot down and lunged out of my grip, butting me in the nose and drawing twin streams of blood and a string of curses that was quickly lost in the laughter from the stands.
Glaring at her now, as she stood up and dusted the filth off her ass, I threw my hat and sat down in the mud. She give me a little nervous kind of smile that rankled me deep and I swiped my sleeve across my face to mop up some of the blood and fought the urge to go over and give her what for.
Snort came back to his senses pretty quick, took one look at me and ducked his head in shame. He started shuffling his feet as I pulled my rope off the calf and coiled it, tying it to the saddle, all the while whispering to him things like, “I ought to sell you for glue, you worthless turd,” but kept on petting him so it’d look to the spectators like I was trying to reassure him. “I’m walking you home, you understand me? You ain’t even worth sitting on, you walking sack of Alpo.” To a horse, there was nothing worse than being walked.
I did too, walked him right out of the arena, through the parking lot and past her sitting on the fence with Rex down at her feet.
“How’s the nose?” Lizzie asked, jumping down to stand in my way.
“It’s all right,” I said, trying to step past. She laid her hand on my arm and I pondered for a moment how someone so irritating could look so damn beautiful and how her hand could feel so warm through my shirtsleeve. “If you’ll pardon me,” I said.
“You looked good. Good form, I mean.”
“Thanks, you too,” I said. “Falling off the fence I mean. Come on, Rex.”
“Look, I’m sorry if I distracted you,” she said.
“Sorry don’t buy the groceries,” I said and turned sideways to step past her.
She ran her hand down Snort’s neck and he nuzzled up against her. “Your horse seems to likes me.”
“He ain’t real particular,” I said.
“And you are?” she asked.
I nodded and led Snort on by.
“How about that interview?” she called out.
“I think you’ve done just about enough damage,” I said. “Come on, Rex.” I looked over my shoulder and saw Rex wasn’t moving. He was mesmerized complete. “Fine, stay.”
He must’ve quickly found out she didn’t have any food, because by the time Snort and I got to the road, Rex came slinking along behind, just out of yelling range. Once we got home, I didn’t say nothing to either of them, just pulled Snort’s saddle off and turned him out. I left Rex outside too, pointed grimly at the alpacas and shut the door. He looked hurt, but had the good sense not to whine.
Which is more than I could say for myself, since my nose hurt like hell.
Three beers, two aspirin and one hour later, and my head had just about quit hurting. It didn’t come as much of a surprise when I heard a rig turning up my road. Rex wasn’t barking, and he barks at everyone, so I knew right off it was her. Despite my better judgment, I opened the door just as she got out of her rental with a six-pack of beer in one hand and her camera in the other.
She held up the beer. “Hi. I brought a peace offering.”
“Good, leave it on the porch,” I said.
She smiled. “How’s the nose?”
“Why? Want before and after pictures?”
“No, I came by for that interview.”
“What interview?” I asked.
“I didn’t know you raised alpacas,” she interrupted, gesturing behind her.
“I don’t. Them’s my neighbors. And I don’t give interviews either, so you should probably just leave.”
“Look, if you don’t give me some time, I’ll just make up some stuff and put your pictures along with it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Probably not, but it sounded good.” She peeked past me into the trailer. “How long has it been since a woman’s been in here, anyway?”
“That really ain’t none of your business. And that you can print.” Rex was sitting on her foot, grinning up at her like an idiot. “And another thing, you’re ruining my dog.”
“Come on,” she said. “An hour, that’s all I’m asking for. The beer’s getting warm.”
How’d she know I’d just drank my last one? “All right. One hour and that’s it.”
She asked me lots of stupid questions about being a cowboy. I guess I gave the right answers because before too very long when I leaned over and kissed her, she kissed me back. Then she spent the night. Not naked and under the covers as I’d hoped, but fully dressed and talking ninety miles an hour until we fell asleep on the couch. When the sun came up we were under a blanket all spooned up together.
We spent most of the next week together, during which time we drank a great deal of beer, ate microwave burritos and spent every night together, though nothing much happened, which was something kind of new for me, but didn’t feel too particularly strange.
By the time she left for New York, we were both feeling kind of awkward. I sure didn’t know what to say and if she did, she wasn’t saying it. I told her I’d visit her soon, but not too very soon, since it was haying season and then after that I had cows to trail back from summer pasture and then maybe between that and calving season I’d try to fly on out.
I gave her a hug goodbye and then stood there in the Jackson airport watching her plane labor up over the mountains and felt what could only be described as, well, I just plain missed her.
She did come back though, and brought a copy of Harrold Magazine chock full of pictures of me, which was mildly embarrassing, considering how the story was called “The Last Cowboy.” I got quite a ribbing about that around town, but that was okay considering she stayed well on to two weeks. We got down to some serious rodeoing, mostly at night in my bedroom, and she taught me a great deal about riding rough-stock. By the time she left, she’d grabbed my heart by the horns, wrestled it down and slapped her brand on it. That was three months back and now I was starting to think real serious about buying a plane ticket and taking a trip to New York.
TWO
I hate mornings.
Detest them. I have hated mornings since I was a kid. Back then I developed a technique for ignoring them, or at least for making them less abrupt, that I still use to this day, nearly twenty-five years later. Fixing on some unpleasant event fr
om the day before, I visualize it in detail, find a phrase that best describes it, and then chant it over and over until all the meaning drops out. That allows me to kind of hypnotize myself first thing in the morning, right after I wake up, so I can make the transition into daytime more smoothly and purge a little bit of the crappiness from the night before.
The phrase, when I found it, was straightforward: “I hate vampires, I hate vampires, I hate vampires.”
But today, my standby technique was not working particularly well. No hypnotic feeling, only a short respite from the inevitability of rising from bed, searching for my cigarettes and fumbling to make a cup of coffee to take into the shower with me.
And, with any luck, delaying the need to focus on this damn article.
An article quickly turning into every journalist’s nightmare of too much information, not enough angle. I should have taken the piece on windowsill gardening. Gardening might be boring, but at least I’d be done by now. If I had to interview one more child of the darkness, complete with silly clothes and fake fangs, I’d drive a stake into my own heart.
“I hate vampires, I hate vampires.” I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised, in a city like New York, that there were so many vampire freaks, yet what I couldn’t get over was how these people believed so earnestly they really were vampires, swishing about the city in capes and combat boots, drinking their own blood, then scurrying off to their day jobs at espresso shops or hair salons. “I hate vampires.”
Felix hopped onto the bed beside me, meowed once and rolled over on his back so I could scratch his belly. “What do you think about vampires, little baby?” A loud purr. Bored even with my own thoughts, I stumbled out of bed, walked into the kitchen and ground coffee for the press pot.
While the water boiled, I opened the window and crawled out onto the fire escape for a smoke. When I first looked at this place, the agent called it a balcony. She also called the one-bedroom apartment cozy. I called it tiny, but took it anyway, knowing it was by far the best I could get on my salary, at least until I struck gold with a book deal.
