Western Swing

by Tim Sandlin

  “You swore off meaningless one-nighters,” I said to the mirror. “You left Loren yesterday,” the mirror said back.

  Hanging my head, I looked down at the dark drain, my hair draping onto the white porcelain of the sink.

  Obviously, the situation called for one of two choices: I could wallow in self-hatred for days punishing myself with sugar suicide, or I could sit on the can, take my morning leak, and get on with life. Neither choice changed the past, so after-the-fact regrets seemed pretty much pointless. My eyes lifted back to stare at themselves in the mirror.

  “Piss and get on with it.”

  I left the bathroom to a full moon shot of Billy G’s backside. His voice came from under the bed. “Can’t find my boot.”

  My jeans and shirt lay crumpled beneath a chair. Panties were nowhere in sight. “Your boot’s on the TV.”

  Billy G pulled his pants on by hopping up and down on his right foot. “Thorne’s gone crazy in the bar. He’s screaming and shooting out windows.”

  “Who’s shooting windows?”

  “Thorne Axel. My boss, remember, I told you about him at dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “He owns the Flying Fist. I’ve got to help him.”

  Vaguely, I recalled something about a hippie son and a cow-killer daughter. “He’s the one who’s been drunk for two days?”

  “Three. Hurry it up, Lana Sue, we’ve got to save him.”

  We? I sat in the angular motel chair and shrugged on my shirt. A wild man shooting windows sounded like just the sort of thing I should avoid, another version of Daddy and Loren, but I’ve always been intrigued by men going off the deep end. It couldn’t hurt to go down and add more male dramatics to my memory banks. At the very least, it put off for a while any decisions about returning to Loren or heading for Houston.

  • • •

  Shattered glass sparkled in the soft darkness of the bar, but it wasn’t from shot-out windows because the bar didn’t have windows. As Billy G and I stood in the entrance, a crack came from the far end of the room and a row of Cutty Sark bottles exploded over the bartender’s head.

  A voice boomed from the dark. “Out, slime. All you parasites stay the hell away from me.”

  A remarkably thin cowboy knelt behind the first table to our left. Another one had himself snaked in between the barstools and the bar. His hat had fallen off and rolled into the aisle.

  “He cut himself, Billy, says he’s gonna die and he’ll shoot anyone tries to stop him.” I recognized the skinny cowboy as the voice on the phone.

  “We could rush him when he reloads,” the hatless one said without conviction.

  As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark I made out Thorne at the back table by the one-person bandstand. He was smoking a fat cigar that alternately lit bright and dimmed. For every one beat of the cigar, blood spurted twice in a high arc a couple feet over his outstretched left arm. The right hand moved from some kind of pistol to a bottle and back.

  I turned to Billy G. “He’s not too close to death. Look at that blood pressure.”

  Billy G had gone a cooked-lasagna-noodle color. “What happened?”

  The hatless cowboy crammed against the bar wore silver spurs on filthy roach-killer boots and spoke in a natural whine common to men I generally can’t stand. “We drank shots all night, then Thorne went crazy and run off with that forty-five of his’n. We come back he was bleedin’ and wouldn’t let no one near him.”

  I swung around to the bartender. He had three-inch sideburns and fuzzy hair that glimmered from his glass shower. “That bleedings got to be stopped or he’ll hurt himself. You got any bar towels?”

  The bartender blinked once like an owl.

  I shouted at him. “Bar towels, you know, rags to wipe up the mess.”

  He looked down at the glass carpet. “You’ll never clean up this mess.”

  “Jesus.” I looked at Billy G, but he was just a boy. Probably never even seen any real blood. Neither had I—not cut artery type blood—but somebody had to move or the old man would drain and keel over dead.

  I peeled off my shirt and walked into the bar.

  Billy G came to life. “Lana Sue, you’re naked.”

  I wasn’t naked, but I was topless and that fact seemed to confuse Thorne. He pointed the pistol at my belly, then set the gun down long enough for a quick suck on the bottle, then pointed the pistol at my belly again.

  “One more step and I’ll blow your tits off.”

  “Bullshit.” The key in a showdown is self-confidence. Make the other guy think you aren’t scared silly. I walked right up, sat in the center of the blood spray, and pressed my shirt into the slash. He’d gone deep and made a mess out of the crook of his arm. On the table next to a half fifth of Ten High lay what looked like a set of brass knuckles with a razor blade on the back and a hook blade coming out the little finger side.

  Thorne waved his gun at something behind me and growled, “Get back.” Whoever had followed me got back. Thorne looked at my hands on his arm. “You’re screwing up my death.”

  When I shifted, a pump of blood spray got me right up the chest and into my face and mouth. I spit blood on the bandstand.

  “Come on, Thorne, you aren’t committing suicide. This is a baby play for attention.”

  Thorne put the pistol barrel in his mouth.

  “Oh God,” I said, “please don’t.”

  He took the pistol out again. “This isn’t what I expected.”

  “Me either.”

  “Just my luck. I’m killing myself and a beautiful woman with her tits hanging out walks in and saves me. We’ll have to get married now.”

  “I’m already married.”

  “So am I.”

  My shirt was pretty much blood soaked by then. I rewadded it, pulling both sleeves over the flow. “I think you should go to the hospital.”

  “No. That’s my crew back there. They’ll think I don’t know how to kill myself.”

  I looked up at his face. The eyes were dark with heavy gray flecks, same as his hair and mustache. The skin showed rough brown and lined as if he’d spent his life outdoors. “Get through this as easily as possible,” I said. “In a week you’ll look back and be nothing but embarrassed.”

  Thorne didn’t answer. Behind us I heard more and more people pushing through the door with What happened? Who’s that? Why’s she half naked? Without setting down the pistol, Thorne picked up the Ten High and swallowed.

  “Mind if I have a poke at that bottle? My nerves are a little ragged this morning and you aren’t helping any.”

  He glanced at me. “Suit yourself.”

  “I don’t usually drink Ten High. There’s less calories in scotch.” I grabbed the bottle with my right hand and took a swig. My hand shook so the effect wasn’t quite what I’d intended.

  My intention was to come on decisive and tough. Not that I felt that way, I felt on the verge of vomit, but suicides are anything but decisive. They waver—I want to die, I want to live, I’m confused—so they’ll generally follow any order they’re given. I figured between my tough act and boobs, I’d shock the old man into cooperation.

  Thorne kept his tired eyes and the pistol aimed at the crowd behind me. “My wife left,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My kids are both spineless, useless brats.”

  “I have two daughters myself.”

  “Do they hate you?”

  “One does. The other sleeps with my old boyfriend.”

  “Both my kids hate me. And my wife.”

  We each took another drink. I thought the blood might be clotting. Or he might be empty, the red stain had stopped spreading in my shirt. Way off, I heard a siren.

  “You ever leave your husband?” Thorne asked.

  “Yesterday.”

 
“Janey and I were married twenty-six years. I worked my tail off to give her what she wanted. I’m rich, did you know that? I’m richer’n shit.”

  “Billy told me.”

  “Who’s Billy?”

  “Billy G, he works for you.”

  “Seven or eight Billys work for me.”

  The siren stopped out front. Thorne seemed to sag from exhaustion and lack of blood. “I wasted my life,” he said.

  “It’s time to go to the hospital now.”

  He smiled. It was a tired smile, weak with the lips pressed together, the smile of an unhappy person who still maintained a sense of the silliness of desperation. “Tell you what. I won’t kill myself if you’ll sleep with me tonight.”

  “Nope.”

  “No?”

  “No, I won’t do it.”

  “You’d rather see me dead?:

  “I’d rather see you alive, but I won’t sleep with you. I don’t save men.”

  He thought a minute. “What’s your name?”

  “Lana Sue Paul.”

  “Will you come to the hospital and talk to me? All I wanted was someone to talk to.”

  Why not? “Okay.”

  Thorne threw the gun over the bar, breaking some bottles and a mirror. Spectators moved in for the aftermath.

  • • •

  I won’t be blackmailed into sex ever again.

  Ron said I owed it to him because he married me when I was pregnant and the pressures of his career made him nervous.

  Mickey said if I didn’t screw him whenever he wanted, he’d just find someone who would.

  Worst of all were those fake epileptic fits of Ace’s. I’m still not completely sure they were fake. He claimed frustration triggered a chemical reaction in his medulla oblongata. Hell, I don’t know.

  Only Loren never demanded anything from me. He never threatened me with adultery. Never acted little boy hurt or put upon when I wasn’t in the mood. Loren seemed to realize my personal happiness was not solely dependent on him. Factors other than a mate can cause depression or distraction. Why can’t anyone else see that?

  Maybe Loren wasn’t so wise, maybe he was thinking about God or something and didn’t notice me enough to get hurt. I don’t like to think so.

  One thing for certain. I don’t sleep with anyone who holds suicide over my head as the if-you-don’t. Give in to that one and you’re fair game for every pitiful man on earth.

  • • •

  First I drove to McDonald’s for Chicken McNuggets and coffee. The girl at the drive-up window played it straight, as if serving bloody ax murderers was part of the training.

  When she smiled, silver braces glittered in the sunlight. “Here’s your change, ma’am, have a nice day.”

  I held out a gory hand. “Thanks.”

  Billy G met me in the emergency waiting room at the hospital. The only other person in sight was a long-haired kid handcuffed to a pastel chair.

  “Where’d you get that shirt?” Billy G asked.

  “Bartender gave it to me. They sew up Thorne yet?”

  “Your tits still show.”

  “Blood makes the cotton sticky. You like it?” I held my arms out and turned.

  “Looks majestic,” the longhair said. This wasn’t your average scuzball hippie. The kid’s hair hung way down his back, straight and golden blond. When he moved his head, it shimmered and rippled like a clean sheet you snap out a time or two before settling onto a queen-size bed. He even had dimples.

  “You get a kick out of flashing your boobs at strangers? Is that it, a born cocktease?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Sit right there, woman, and don’t move. I’ll see what’s happening with Thorne.” Billy G wheeled and stalked away, leaving me too shocked to run hit him.

  The arrogance of the little punk. The macho cowboy prickitude. There are women who enjoy being called woman. They think it shows more respect than girl or lady, but every time I’ve heard a man use the word it was in the directive—sit, woman—or possessive—my woman—and nobody directs or possesses Lana Sue Potts Paul.

  As I steamed, all primed to lash out at the next male who got in my way, I became aware that the pretty longhair wanted to speak. He leaned as far forward as the cuffs would allow, watching with blue-eyed anticipation.

  I stared at him. “What do you want?”

  “You seem brought down, sister.” Same tone inflection as Jesus on The Books of the Bible on Cassette Mom listens to during soaps she isn’t interested in. When I didn’t speak, he continued: “The intensity of your vibrations is washing away my inner peace. That’s a lot of self to lay on another soul.”

  Why is it the prettiest ones always turn out to be dopes? “Don’t talk to me anymore.”

  The boy sat back and considered this a moment. “I respect your stance,” he said, “but I have a major problem and you’re my only means of salvation.”

  Another one. Everywhere I turn, some man is calling me his means of salvation. “Do I look like a saint?” I held out bloody hands. “Huh? I left my husband yesterday and let an asshole rut on me all night and then a man I never even met spurts blood in my mouth. I don’t have any panties, my vacuum’s broke, I have a hangover that would kill a bull. I ate at McDonald’s for breakfast. I’m in no mood to be the salvation for some frybrain from a time capsule. No one talks like you, buddy. Your type got jobs ten years ago.”

  Words stampeded from my mouth. In ninety seconds of continuous blather, I told the hippie about Loren’s search for God, Cassie running off with Mickey, my failure as a singer in Nashville, sugar, Roxanne, Daddy’s saffron obsession, Connie’s hatred, my problem with orgasms and strangers. I ended with Loren’s boy and how guilty I felt for replacing his first wife. I’d never told anybody that one before.

  Talk about your captive audience. I felt so bad for this poor handcuffed love child that, out of breath, I ended with, “Okay, what can I do for you?”

  He smiled like an angel. “I wasn’t certain you’d stop in time. If you make haste, you can save me from many years in prison.”

  With his looks, he’d be dead in two weeks of prison. “Tell me what to do.”

  The hippie spoke quickly. “These peace officers heavied out on me in the parking lot at the Minit Stop. They threatened a body search, so I swallowed an unopened pack of Freedent sugarless gum. They’re out finding a doctor and a stomach pump.”

  “Why swallow all that gum?”

  “I hoped to postpone the search. There’s an ounce of cocala in my back pocket.”

  I never heard anyone say that before. “Cocaine?”

  “The Andes call it cocala. I prefer the Indian word. Cocaine sounds unhealthy—like Coca-Cola.”

  “How’re you going to dump the coke with your hands cuffed?”

  “I prayed to Lord Caitanya that you might take it.”

  This was interesting. “They’d put me in jail.”

  “Why should anyone suspect you?” Other than a quart of blood down my front, I looked law-abiding. “Please, you’ll be saving me twenty to fifty years of imprisonment.”

  “What do I do with an ounce of coke?” A stupid question, I admit.

  “Snort it, flush it, sell it, I don’t care. Just hurry, I mean, make haste.”

  So I did. I walked over, reached into the pretty hippie’s back pocket, pulled out a plastic Baggie full of sparkly white stuff, and stuck it into my front pocket. With time to spare. Five minutes later when a policeman came to lead him away, I sat on the other side of the room, thumbing through a copy of Country Living.

  As he stood, the longhair looked at me and smiled like an angel again. “Peace be with you, sister. We shall meet once more in the astral.”

  “Sure.”

  • • •

  Billy G, Thorne, and the skinny cowboy sh
uffled into the waiting room. Thorne’s left arm bulged from bandages and his face looked a bad gray—like when you put milk in old coffee.

  The skinny cowboy grinned at my tits. “Twenty-one stitches and two pints of the red stuff. He’s good as new.”

  “No, I’m not,” Thorne said. “I’m tired. Killing yourself is hard work.”

  I stood. “They give you tranquilizers?”

  “A few, but I’m not supposed to take them till I sober up.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Sober.”

  Billy G spoke: “Lana Sue, can’t you find another shirt?”

  I said, “Shut up.”

  Thorne glanced from me to Billy, but he didn’t say anything; I guess he was too worn out from his own melodrama to worry much about ours. “You have a car here?” he asked me.

  “Out front.”

  “Billy, drive my truck back to the ranch. I’ll ride with Mrs. Paul.” Thorne moved past me toward the door.

  I said, “But—”

  Billy G said, “But—”

  Thorne stopped shuffling and turned on us. “Move it, I don’t have all day.”

  Don’t have all day struck me as odd words to come from a man who’d just tried to die.

  • • •

  That’s how I found myself miles from anywhere I’d ever heard of, neck deep in a Cadillac-sized bathtub, being attended by an honest-to-God live-in maid. In Houston, our maid rode the bus over from the ghetto. She’d have walked off the job if I ever ordered her to draw a bath.

  Maria was either amazingly tactful or preinformed. Had my boss come home wearing ten pounds of bandages and helped by a blood-caked stranger, I would have asked questions.

  All Maria said was “Would you care for a bath, ma’am?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Thorne stood at the bottom of a wide hardwood staircase. He nodded a couple of times, focusing on me for the first time since we left the hospital. “See if any of Janey’s clothes fit her, Maria. There’s a closetful of old stuff from before the kids were born somewhere.”

  “I know just where to find them,” Maria said.