Western Swing

by Tim Sandlin

  At sixteen, Marcie VanHorn had bigger knockers than Lana Sue or Ann. I’d never seen her entire body, but Marcie didn’t leave much to picture. Lately she’d taken to wearing a nylon tube around the top and cutoffs so tight she had to carry her car keys and change in a little pouch she hung around her neck. Marcie was into long dangly earrings and painted toenails. Lord knows what I saw in her other than willing adoration.

  From Marcie, I went on to my usual fantasy women—movie starlets. I pretended Debra Winger was in the crack with me giving me head. Then I pretended I was licking clit on Mary Steenburgen. The girl who played Bailey on WKRP in Cincinnati climbed on even though I couldn’t remember her real name. I combined all three fantasies into one doozy of an orgiastic daydream.

  This’ll show Lana Sue, I thought. I may not break marital vows technically like she does, but I can have a hell of a time pretending.

  • • •

  Lana Sue and I have been together for two and a half years and I still haven’t managed to cop a stance on this adultery thing of hers. I suppose that’s because she has yet to cross the line, that I know of. There were unconfirmed suspicions after the Scott Fitzgerald trip to Maryland, but nothing was ever disclosed.

  However, sooner or later, Lana Sue’s desire for side action will have to be faced. She’s told me too often about fooling around on past husbands and, although I’m an idealist, even I’m not dope enough to think a spouse will change habits simply because she happens to marry me.

  Lana Sue draws a moral distinction between adultery and what she committed while living with Ron and Ace. She claims her extramarital humping is medication, no more ethically objectionable than terpin hydrate and codeine cough syrup. She expects me to understand that if I cause her pain, or confusion, or even boredom, she’ll go out and score a couple of orgasms off a stranger, then come home to me, and everything will once again be dandy. She forgets I’m the prime example of painkiller gone romance, which, for me, blows her rationalization right out the window.

  And do you think Band-Aid sex is a two-way street, that I can scratch itches for the purpose of giving our marriage strength? In country-western terms—fat fucking chance. One screw-around would give Lana Sue excuse enough to become the female Hitler of my life. I’d have to shoot her to get her off my face.

  Which I knew might happen when or if Lana Sue ever returned from her present huff. I’d made a mistake just before coming up the mountain, what turned out to be a mistake in vain, and if the limper with the golf tan didn’t kill me, Lana Sue would.

  • • •

  Early the first morning of my Quest, I was upset about Lana Sue being gone and probably with someone else, so, after shopping at Safeway, I packed my mountain provisions and drove down to Marcie VanHorn’s. Since she’s only sixteen and lives with her father, I took along an old bundt pan we’d borrowed last February when Lana Sue baked me an angel food cake with white icing for John Steinbeck’s eighty-third birthday.

  Marcie answered my knock wearing a white gauzy cotton top and Levi’s cutoffs cut off right at the crotch. She had a Diet Dr Pepper in her right hand. I could hear MTV blaring in the living room behind her.

  She kissed me on the cheek. “Say, hey, good-lookin’, haven’t seen you in a couple weeks. Want some Cheetos?”

  “I’m on a fast.”

  “A what? Come on in. Dad’s gone to church.”

  Lee VanHorn is Catholic and owns Russian steam bath franchises strung all over the West. I’ve always taken for granted he’s in organized crime because my only experience with steam rooms is from TV and movies. No one but gangsters ever takes a steam bath on television.

  Lee is one reason I never followed up on Marcie’s invitation to sleep together. I always imagined I’d go to sleep with her and wake up with a horse head. The other reason is that Lana Sue threatened to sew my dick shut if she ever caught us.

  Marcie led me into the living room. On the television, a guy with long curly hair and no sleeves in his shirt was killing his father and mother. The action was accompanied by a song extolling bitterness and anger.

  I said, “Music videos are the root of all evil.”

  Marcie plopped down in an easy chair and reached for the Cheetos. “This one’s gnarly. Wait till you see the end.”

  “Gnarly,” I said. I stood in the center of the room, holding the bundt pan with both hands.

  “Why are you on a fast?”

  “Do you realize kids of the fifties coped with the A-bomb? Then the sixties brought easy sex and mind-warping drugs. But it wasn’t until that stuff started”—I pointed at the guy with the curly hair who was in the process of destroying his parents’ house—“that the rate of teenage suicide doubled.”

  Marcie glanced from me to the screen. Some other sleeveless guys milled around the wrecked house, dragging chains. “Doesn’t make me want to commit suicide. Makes me want to eat.”

  We watched until the song ended and another bleak outlook on life began. “Mind if I turn it down?” I asked.

  Marcie nodded with a flip of blond hair. “This bunch sucks eggs anyway.”

  In the quiet, I said, “I brought your pan back.”

  “You didn’t have to. Dad’s always in church on Sunday morning. Have a seat. How’s the great Wyoming novel coming along?”

  “I’m having trouble with inspiration.”

  “I can relate, buddy. I have this photography project going, been working at it all summer, but I just can’t seem to get inspired.” Marcie leaned her head back and dropped a Cheeto into her mouth. Her bare feet hung over the side of the easy chair. She looked ready for the taking.

  I sank into a cane chair with some kind of leather strips for a seat—probably elk gut.

  “I had an inspiration last night.”

  Marcie reached down for her Diet Dr Pepper. “Why go on a fast, you’re too skinny now?”

  No time for spiritual apologies, I dived into the purpose of the visit. “I was wondering if you’d enjoy having sex with me this morning.”

  She looked across at me and grinned. “Why, Mr. Paul.”

  Marcie was the only girl I’d ever flirted with, at least consciously. I wasn’t sure if Why Mr. Paul was humorous indignation or well-intentioned acceptance. I set the bundt pan on the floor and continued.

  “Before—you know, that pack trip summer before last, you asked me to help with your virginity—”

  “Believe me, I solved the problem.”

  “I figured as much. Anyway, you were only fourteen then and Lana Sue and I were newly married; Lana Sue can be quite a forceful personality, you know.”

  “You were afraid she’d break your legs.”

  “Anyway, I turned you down at the time, but now, what with this fast and all, I’ve reconsidered.”

  Marcie swung both legs to the floor. “Reconsidered?”

  “Yes, I’d be willing to make love to you now. If you still want to.”

  Marcie crossed the room and sat on the arm of the cane chair and leaned over and kissed me lightly, maybe like a daughter, maybe like a playful coquette, I wasn’t sure. Tentatively, I lifted one hand to touch her back.

  “Loren, you’re so sweet,” she said. “When I grow up, I’d be honored to go to bed with you.” She love-tapped my nose with hers. “You know you’re my favorite novelist in the whole world, but I’m just a kid now.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t fuck grown-ups. It would confuse my identity.”

  I pressed on her back. “You were a kid at fourteen.”

  She stood up and moved over by the television. “I was too young to know I was young then. Your artistic temperament in Yeast Infection blew me so away, I’d of done anything for you back then.”

  “How about doing something now?”

  “I respect you so much for not taking advantage of my vulnerability.”
>
  What kind of woman says gnarly one minute and vulnerability the next? Bruce Springsteen broke into a sweat on the television screen.

  I saw my morning-comfort screw slipping away in the wind. “I think of you as a grown-up, Marcie.”

  “You don’t even think of yourself as grown up.”

  “Then we’re even. You can pretend I’m in high school.”

  Marcie turned and pushed a button, blacking out Bruce Springsteen’s face. “There is one thing I’d like from you, honey-bunny.”

  Honey-bunny? Debauchment botched, it was back to the flirty old mentor act. “Sure, sugar, how can I please you?”

  “I’d like to see your penis.”

  I picked the bundt pan back up and set it on my knees. There’s a difference between seducing a teenager and flashing one. Flashing seemed tawdry, especially three days before I was scheduled to meet God.

  Marcie turned on the enticing charm. She ruffled my hair and tweaked both ears. “Come on, Loren, do it for art.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “I just want a little peek. Please.”

  I never refuse a woman who says please. I’d have probably made it with her back on the pack trip had she only begged. Ten seconds later, Marcie was ogling my lap.

  Her mouth twitched. I couldn’t tell if she was appreciative or suppressing a giggle. “Perfect,” Marcie said.

  “That’s what I’ve always thought.”

  “Come here.” Marcie grabbed my hand and dragged me from the living room into the kitchen, I held up my pants with my other hand.

  “Are we going to make it now?”

  “Not today. Today we make art.” The kitchen table was covered with black velvet. Next to the refrigerator, a Nikon sat atop a tripod.

  I tucked back in—fast. “Oh no, Marcie, honey. I’m no pervert.”

  “Loren.” She faced me with both hands on her hips. “Where’s your youth? Nobody’ll know it’s you.” She lifted the black velvet to show a silver-dollar-sized hole. “You stand behind there and hold the cloth as a backdrop. Nothing shows but the dick.”

  “Marcie, this is kinky.”

  “Seducing me wasn’t kinky?”

  Nothing left to say—I dropped my pants. Before Marcie snapped the photo, she pulled a Rock Cornish game hen out of the refrigerator and set it next to my penis.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Makes the shot artsy. A prick by itself is just another dirty picture.”

  “But why that?”

  “It’ll develop to look like a chicken. The perspective’ll make your thing seem huge.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Right now it won’t, though.” Marcie reached down and squeezed once. “That’s better.”

  “Try again. It’ll grow more.”

  “We don’t want it sticking up like a carrot. It’s supposed to hover next to the hen—like a phallic UFO.”

  “One more squeeze. I’ll make it hover.”

  Marcie laughed. “Oh, Loren, you’re such a card.”

  She dashed from the room, leaving me standing alone with the false chicken. I looked down the front side of the velvet at my lonesome dick. I’ve felt detached from myself often in life, but this time the feeling was eerie. I had a terrible premonition of Lee walking in to get a beer. What would I say? “Hi, Lee, how was church?”

  “Got it,” Marcie said, coming back in the kitchen.

  “Got what?”

  She shook baby powder on my penis and the Rock Cornish game hen. She rubbed it into the hen, but not me.

  “Don’t want any shine,” she said.

  “That makes sense.”

  Marcie moved some lamps around. Then she stood behind the tripod and focused. “Out-a-sight,” she said. “This’ll be gnarly.”

  I said, “Gnarly.”

  • • •

  I let Debra Winger, Mary Steenburgen, and Bailey from WKRP have their way with me for a good while. Jessica Lange stood outside the crack, watching with desire, but I cut the fantasy off on her. I was wet and hungry and someone was trying to kill me. This was no time to break in a fourth woman.

  In fact, I had some trouble relaxing with the other three. Sooner than I really wanted to, I crawled from the crack to survey the situation. I stood, relieving myself in the direction of the Sleeping Indian’s nose. Because of the killer, I could no longer daydream my way across the mountains—which is how a Vision Quest is supposed to work. No one can see spirits when every rock might camouflage a sniper. The temptation was to call off the meet and go home.

  However, I’d gone to a lot of trouble so far and Buggie’s whereabouts was still unresolved. If I gave up now, I’d still be the same old partial husband to Lana Sue, still giving myself shit instead of letting go and accepting life. I squinted at the lightest spot in the clouds. By rough estimate, I figured the time as five o’clock with at least four hours before sunset, another hour after that until total darkness. The run to the top of the mountain would take two hours tops. That gave me three hours to find out what happens to a person after he dies and clear out. I could drop down a ravine on the other side of the mountain, shiver in safety all night, then walk into Jackson in the morning. Marcie or Lee would pick me up and drive me home, where I’d load my Ruger Magnum and come back after the Chevelle and anyone else who happened to be in the vicinity.

  Of course, none of it came true. Fifty yards into the forest, I found the magic setting I’d been searching for. Low-lying cloverlike carpet with no underbrush; ancient, flat stones matted by green and orange lichen; the bark on the trees dripped with life—not plant life or even animal life. The bark hummed like running water. No birds, no squirrels. Other than the low hum of the trees, all was silent as if the air itself muffled and absorbed any sound that might dare enter. A place for Gypsies to chant in lost languages and Druids to sacrifice ripe virgins with long, long hair.

  Across the clearing, an elk skull grew from the fork of a limber pine. At first I thought he was a bizarrely twisted branch. I approached at an angle, walking twenty degrees or so to his left. The horns had eight points on each side. He had three groups of teeth in his upper jaw, two back toward the cheeks, and one set of six that stuck out the front in an intense overbite. A long, thin cavity showed where his nose had once been. His forehead was flat as an egg pan.

  The skull would have been intriguing yet dead had I not looked into the eye sockets. This is impossible to describe without sounding like Greta the Cosmic Cow—which is a wimpy way to sound—but the scene reeked of metaphysical boogiehood and to describe it, I must offend some otherwise nice people. Like Lana Sue. Lana Sue would gag at this, but the damn eye sockets were empty holes and something else at the same time. Call it alcohol withdrawal, Impossible Shit, or God Himself, I don’t know. All I know is some thing was aware that I stood there looking at it.

  I decided to go for broke, believe what I wished to be true, and asked the question.

  “What happens after we die?” I asked. The elk had no bottom jaw, but if a dead object can communicate, I don’t see why it would need a working mouth.

  “Where is my son Buggie?” I asked. The trees hummed. Far above, an eagle shrieked the exact sound, only thirty times louder, made by the lungs of a gasping asthmatic.

  “One more chance, elk, where’s Buggie?”

  A voice boomed, “You killed him, bucko.”

  My heart twisted. I swung around to face the black hole barrel of a rifle.

  The man came a step closer. “What is this place?”

  “I didn’t kill Buggie.”

  “You come here to perform religious ceremonies?”

  “I just found it today, but, yeah, I guess so.”

  “You guess so.”

  “I didn’t kill Buggie.”

  We dropped into some form of defiant eye contact. H
is were silver-gray like his rain-matted hair. He had a politician look-square jaw and slightly bloated nose. I wondered why he hadn’t worn the golf hat indicated by the tan line.

  I said, “Tell me what’s going on,”

  “I shall shoot you until my bullet supply is exhausted, then I shall abandon your body to the carrion eaters.”

  I glanced at the rifle. It was a Winchester—a Magnum of some kind. “What kind of bullets?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “What kind of bullets will you exhaust on me?”

  “One sixty-five twenty grains—what’s it to you?”

  “I just wondered.” I glanced to the elk for help, but if this was God, he didn’t appear to be a God who gets involved. In fact, it was beginning to look more skull and less deity by the minute.

  I thought of something. “Is Buggie dead?”

  “How should I know? Ask your friend there.” The man swung the barrel to the elk, then back at me.

  “You said I killed Buggie. You wouldn’t think that if you didn’t know he was dead.”

  “Stand aside, over there. Keep your hands visible.” He limped to the elk and grabbed one horn. I winced. The man tried to shake the elk. “Tree’s grown around it,” he said. “Must have been embedded for years.”

  “Is Buggie dead?”

  The man bent to inspect the fuse point where elk and tree had grown together. “He must be. Annie would never have allowed you to drive her to suicide if the boy was still alive.”

  “You knew Ann?”

  He scowled and jerked the rifle back at my chest. He almost pulled the trigger right then—the struggle for control was visible.

  “Ann didn’t know whether or not Buggie was alive,” I said.

  “You believe that?”

  “She’d have told me if she did.”

  “Death was her way of telling. You wouldn’t listen to any other way.”

  “Ann killed herself to get my attention?”

  “You got it, bucko.”