by Craig Davis
A Bad Woman Is Worse Than Death
Juby had been sent by God, or Satan, nobody knew which. He brought the Apocalypse to town with him in his black Studebaker station wagon, painted with exhortations and Scripture verses: “Repent!” “The Lord Cometh!” “Narrow is the Path!” and “Rev. 22:20,” – as if someone on the road might look up Scripture while driving. Through an old bullhorn mounted on the roof, Juby broadcast prophecies and damnations as he traveled, one hand on the wheel, one hand with the microphone. Strapped to the car’s side just above the windows, a long sword glinted in the sunlight, complete with tassel that trailed in Juby’s wake.
“The day of the Lord is at hand!” he screamed from the sidewalk. “Sinners! You better get right with God, ’cause hell awaits!” He made a wide gesture in the general direction of Rev. Fletcher as his voice tremored heavenward. “The mighty jaws of hell await to swallow you up into its fiery, burnin’ gullet! You got a sin problem, folks – you ever told a lie, you’re a liar! You ever stole a pencil from work, you’re a thief! The heart burns with sin! Repent, you sinners, an’ turn to the Lord God Almighty for mercy!”
Nobody in town really cared much for Juby. His righteous haranguing even got on the nerves of the ladies of First Church, though many of them would stand among his audience nodding occasional agreement. But it was the sword that really got him in trouble, and when the town council decided to confiscate it as a dangerous weapon, he was obliged to attend a hearing, and justify why they should give it back. There in front of the council building, Poncey and Juby’s paths crossed.
“Repent! Repent! Seek mercy from the Lord, or He will deliver justice!” Juby crowed at the crowd. The council members had received his petition to regain his public hazard, then quickly exited, climbing into their pickup trucks with the shotguns in the racks. They kept a wary eye on him over their shoulders. “He’s coming! He is coming! Will you be ready? Or will He catch you in your sin, drowning in your sinful ways! The fiery tongues of hell await! Satan’s licking and smacking his lips, waiting to taste your hatred, and your greed, and your lust! The lust of tender flesh is hell’s snare!”
Juby threw his index finger at Poncey. “Elijah! Many were the women in the land! Unto only one was Elijah sent, a foreign woman! Elijah served that woman, and she served Elijah!”
The spring sun had just begun to warm the land after months of cold and damp, and Poncey had things on his mind more important than deciphering a madman. Dr. Luray had hired him to clean leaves out of his gutters, and Poncey hoped to get a look at his daughter, Jazzy. Jazzy spent that winter away at the Lurays’ condo on the Gulf coast, and she’d just returned. The idea of Jazzy in a bikini was more than Poncey could take, and he wanted to give her ample opportunity to say how much she’d missed him all winter. Poncey left the town square and headed toward the Lurays’ split-level.
The day before leaving, Jazzy had thrown a party for her friends in the botanical gardens of City Park. The typically girlish bill of fare included desserts, salad and finger sandwiches, set up under a tent, with games scheduled in case conversation ran thin. Poncey got wind of it, and hung around casually at the periphery long enough to be noticed. The girls laughed and waved him over to get something to eat, and prepared him an especially manful salad. A few mouthfuls in, and Poncey realized he was eating mostly flower petals, gathered from the garden path. He spewed the bitter herbs across the table to hysterical, squealing laughter, before loping off to retch at the water fountains. Even doubled over, Poncey was convinced Jazzy would be thinking about him all the time she was gone.
So he broke away from the excitement in town and set off for the Lurays’ house out in the county. Jazzy would be eager to see him, he thought, but he’d play it cool and let her stew about it awhile before acknowledging her. He pulled his bike up to the garage and found the ladder Dr. Luray said would be there. His scheme was to begin with the porch roof, knowing that Jazzy’s bedroom window overlooked it. He would work on that gutter as long as it took for her to go to her room and look out the window.
Luck smiled upon Poncey. The lithe shadow moving across the curtains testified that Jazzy was in her room when he arrived. He made the requisite amount of clunking around with the ladder, the best he could do to get her attention short of ringing the doorbell. Standing waist high over the gutter, Poncey craned his neck to see into the window, jerked his attention back to work when he thought he saw movement, then craned his neck again. He imagined Jazzy looking through her clothes closet. He puttered around with the leaves to no real purpose, casually keeping one eye on the window. Yes, there it was again – a shadow sashayed delicately, and a light went out. He shook his head, sure that Jazzy had left and taken his hopes with her, and went back to his work. So he was surprised to hear the window rising, and he looked up to catch Jazzy’s big eyes gazing at him. She smiled brightly and motioned him closer.
Poncey cleared his throat, climbed the last few rungs of the ladder and stepped onto the roof. Jazzy’s eyes never moved off him, and her cheeks beamed at the corners of her smile. Poncey walked gingerly toward her window, and she produced a bottle of motor oil with the top removed. Poncey’s balance wavered slightly, and Jazzy poured the oil out under his feet, her face aglow. After a very short dance, he tumbled off the roof and out of her sight. He landed face first in the Lurays’ flower bed, lush with hoochie coochie and naked ladies, which added a sweet bouquet to the fragrance of manure. Poncey lay there in a state of shocked contemplation. Jazzy sure was making it hard.
“That pretty much figures,” Mack MacLenoly noted when Poncey told him. “Women – there just ain’t never any tellin’ what’s in their heads. Can’t ever guess, ’specially the pretty ones. An’ the bad ones – whoo! A bad woman is worse than death itself.”
“Oh, what do you know about it?” Poncey scowled.
“Nothin’.”
Poncey decided the time had come to give up on Jazzy, or at least teach her to stop taking him for granted. He’d already spent a few days trying to convince himself of this and hadn’t made any real progress when the big news hit town. It started as just a wave of rumor spread by Bob Roach, but since he worked at the radio station, folks figured he must know what he was talking about. Sure enough, the official announcement eventually came, and Roach’s bragging helped with the promotion.
Between engagements in Memphis and Nashville, the Southland Sirens were squeezing in a performance at Skullbone Music Park. Molly and Milly Ellis, sisters, and Blaze Bloom had become one of the hottest country acts going, a trio of multi-talented musicians and singers. Known for their tight harmonies, the Southland Sirens also gained fame for passing around instruments like a match in a foxhole: For one song they’d play guitar, mandolin and fiddle; for the next dobro, guitar and banjo; then fiddle, mandolin and guitar; then piano, fiddle and guitar; then bass, dobro and piano; then mandolin, banjo and bass; then guitar, mandolin and fiddle. Their fans filled every stadium they booked, so scheduling the little outdoor amphitheater at Skullbone came as a surprise to everyone. But their publicist had always cunningly focused on the girls’ down-home roots, the salt-of-the-earth values that fed their bond with the fans; no doubt the planned stopover in tiny Skullbone proved the sincerity of that good ol’, country-folk kinship.
Still, Poncey gave them no thought. Indeed, what with the commotion caused by Juby, Bob Roach and now the Southland Sirens, he found any kind of thinking difficult. While the rest of the town was atwitter about the upcoming concert, Poncey remained detached, as he sought a way to overcome Jazzy. Any idea or event that did not bring him to this end would be treated as nothing more than a petty distraction. Only by chance did he find himself back in the town square when the parade honoring the arrival of the Southland Sirens dragged through.
Skullbone was not the most sophisticated place; town officials were not about to let an excuse for a parade slip by.
In fact, at first the crowd milling along the street didn’t even catch Poncey’s eye. While traipsing
down the sidewalk deep in thought, he bumped into an equally focused collection of outlaw types stretching their necks toward the distant end of Main Street. They cursed his boneheaded stupor and piqued his curiosity.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“It’s th’ Sigh-reens, ya dumb-butt!” one replied.
So he joined their little group. He did not believe anything existed in Skullbone that deserved such attention, except his own concerns, and indeed the first thing he saw – a collection of ragtag boys – seemed to confirm his opinion. Are these people crazy? he wondered as he watched the little ragamuffin group, split between a few walking backwards and others miming an exaggerated march.
Following the boys was a man Poncey thought he recognized but couldn’t place, picking his teeth with a jack knife, strolling along like this was his daily constitutional. He waved genially and tipped his ragged fedora, and Poncey got the idea that he was really one of the boys, even though he was old enough to be father to one or all of them. Nobody else seemed to be paying him any mind; he threw a wink in Poncey’s direction. Poncey thought maybe the fellow was just leaving town, and good riddance, and nearly turned to leave himself.
Then he caught sight of Kent Dekker, and he knew something was up. Kent grew up a favorite in town because of his athletic talents, and he parlayed that into a kind of jugheaded charm. Always making a fool joke of everything, Poncey thought. He saw through all that; the townsfolk might be struck brainless, like a little girl, whenever Kent came around, Poncey thought, but he saw through it. Right out of school Kent had volunteered for the Army, and had immediately gone off to war and gotten his leg blown off. Months of rehab at Walter Reed followed, until at last he’d returned to Skullbone. Now here he was, walking along on a prosthesis that looked like a ski from outer space, holding an American flag as big as he was, high on a long pike. Some things never change, Poncey thought, knowing that if town officials put Kent in front of a thing, they thought it was important.
Behind him came Juby in his station wagon, still missing the sword. The crowd yelled insults and ridicule at him, and since Poncey thought he probably had broken into the parade line, he joined in. Juby’s loud speaker blared in full throat, so he couldn’t hear the abuse anyway. “Repent! The claws of hell reach out to you! Repent, and turn from the lusts of your eyes!”
Trailing behind the car came the high school band’s drum majorette, marching by with her dipsy-doodle walk in the shortest skirt possible. Fascinated, Poncey couldn’t understand why she was in long sleeves and practically nothing else. She pranced along, unaware that she’d been separated from her band by two carloads of tourists, just passing through town and mistakenly turning into the parade route. They made the best of it, rolling down their windows to wave at admirers until the opportunity finally arose to return to their trip.
After the leaderless band passed, Poncey could see Ronnie and Donnie Galloway ambling down the street. Each one wore a sandwich board saying “Eat at The Diner,” as though any single person in Skullbone still had never heard of the place. Ronnie and Donnie were both about 80 years old, and advancing their advertising slowly before the crowd’s eyes came naturally to them. Rev. Fletcher followed, waving good naturedly and giving the church’s stamp of approval to the concert, in case anyone was wondering.
“Spraggin’ ” Ranger came along next, dressed like a chandelier. He sat upon one of his grand champion Tennessee Walkers, this one named Peggy, trained to kick her fetlocks high with each “running walk” step. “Spraggin’ ” was a colorful character from somewhere out West; he’d earned his nickname as a gold miner, after holding up a collapsing mine roof upon the strength of his back alone. That singular claim certainly invited doubt if not outright dispute, but his raw ability to spot prime horseflesh was no bull. Peggy was the third nag he’d taken to the Walking Horse title; today she was decked out just like him, wearing more silver bling than a hip hop act. Her saddle alone must have weighed a hundred pounds, but Peggy went through her paces as though she had not a trouble in the world, nor any burden upon her back.
Behind her marched Lisa Whistle, after a fashion, representing The Literary Society of Bath and Aquitaine, her nose buried deep inside a book to show her contempt for the parade and its purpose. She’d been forced to participate, as president of The Society, and considered the whole event a farce celebrating unaccomplished and unworthy women, tools of a male-dominated society. Only some suffering artist truly merited such recognition, some bleeding genius acquainted with the night, a true poet, she thought, so she publicly demonstrated her disdain for this display. Unfortunately, she didn’t fully appreciate that she was walking behind Peggy, and planted her foot directly in one of the filly’s contributions.
Ringing in his arrival with an oversized bell, T.C. Smith, the school principal, passed by Poncey next, decked out in full Dickensian regalia. West Tennessee has its share of Civil War re-enactors, but Mr. Smith was the only school re-enactor there or possibly anywhere else, and he loved to dress as Dickens’ Mr. Bumble. His long, heavy coat buttoned tightly about his middle – separating a flamboyant tie affixed to his neck above, and conspicuous knickers below – and what looked like Gen. Jackson’s hat from the battle of New Orleans topped his head. Mr. Smith swung his bell like Death with his scythe, and pointed accusations at primary pupils – “I have come out myself to take you back into the workhouse!” – who had been given a half-day off school but now worried that he might not be joking.
Mr. Bancroft of the credit union followed, his eyes strangely focused beyond the people lining the street. Poncey could tell he was admiring his image in the storefront windows as he passed. He’s probably happy he’s behind Smith, Poncey thought, anybody’d look good following that mess. Poncey caught Mr. Bancroft’s eye in his reflection from across the street, and Mr. Bancroft turned red, huffed and cleared his throat as he jerked his coat taut by the bottom and turned his stare straight forward. This amused Mr. Ryan, walking along with him as one of Skullbone’s many business titans, and he smiled as he polished his pocket watch. He held it to his ear to make sure it not only looked like it was running, but sounded like it too.
A slight breach of protocol occurred next as Otis Bender, who in a different age would have been called the town drunk, fell off the curb and stumbled into the parade. Otis had never been particularly lucky, and his fortunes were not changing now; as he struggled to regather himself, he tumbled directly into Constable Crapo’s hands. Finally something worth watching, Poncey thought, chuckling as Crapo battled Otis for possession of his wrists. Crapo looked like a bug with pincers as he tried to get handcuffs on Otis, who evasively waved his arms over his head in a jurisprudent game of keep-away. Constable Crapo finally collared this desperate character, but the larger goal of getting him out of sight failed, since the jailhouse was at the end of the parade route anyway. So together they marched away, the crowd cheering, Constable Crapo acknowledging the accolades for the both of them.
Once that excitement settled down, the rest of the business community reclaimed its place in the spotlight. Smart suits and stained coveralls marched shoulder to shoulder. Mavis came by in her waitress uniform – clearly short of breath from the walk, but still calling out “Hi honey!” and “Hey sweetie pie!” – and held up a serving tray with a sign reading “Come see me at The Diner,” for those who had missed Ronnie and Donnie earlier. All the leading financial minds of greater metro Skullbone giddily displayed their support for the community and reminded the community to come by and spend a buck.
A dog wandered onto the street, holding its snout high into the air then low upon the ground, trying to find its way. Its eyes were swollen and clouded, beset by glaucoma, and it crouched nervously as noises of the parade erupted all around. The mayor approached along the route, strutting with his head pitched backwards. The dog crossed into the middle of the parade, then back toward the curb, then out again. The mayor swung his cane jauntily, nothing more than an ornament. The dog fo
und something interesting on the pavement, and gave it the full attention of its nose. The mayor’s stride caught the poor beast fully under its ribcage, and the mutt flipped upon its back, legs kicking in the air, as the mayor rolled over it like an acrobat. The army of shopkeepers rushed to His Honor’s aid, and Poncey whooped in approval. The blind dog skulked to safety in solitude.
Winding down Skullbone’s celebration of itself were a couple of men stripped to the waist, pantomiming a bare-knuckle boxing match. These skullboners heralded the root of the fame, if not notoriety, of the town’s earliest days, and put in mind Skullbone’s other foundational tradition, the playing of music. The crowd could feel the electric presence of its honored guests, the Southland Sirens. A tractor crept closer, belching diesel smoke and anticipation, gingerly pulling a cotton wagon. Poncey could not help himself, but joined the townsfolk on his toes to catch a glimpse of the legendary singers. But what he saw instead was his friend Mack, on the far side of the street with his back to the festivities, deep in conversation with a busy-looking man. Poncey knew every person Mack knew, and this man was not one of them. The stranger handed Mack an envelope and patted him on the shoulder, then slinked away, trailing mystery behind him.
Then the cotton wagon moved in and blocked Poncey’s view, and the lovely Southland Sirens within arrested his attention. He couldn’t decide if they looked like royalty or prisoners. Fluffy bits of cotton clung to the wagon’s wire sides, and the women waved and flitted about like birds in a cage. The tractor ground to a halt, and the Southland Sirens took up their instruments. Two brunettes and a blonde, Poncey did not know which one was who, but skin-tight costumes attested to their fine qualities, and his interest spiked. They broke into a song, something about trains and prison and heartbreak, the blonde taking the lead. She looked at Poncey – directly at him – her golden mane lifted wistfully by the breeze, framing a face bronze with the sun, her pure white eyes and teeth gleaming like stars, a gaze blue like the sky, clear and crisp, her features smooth and soft and warm, and she sang deep into the essence of his very being. He glanced away embarrassed, but she would not let go. His eyes returned to hers, and they made a pact across the distance, a bond that nobody else could ever understand. At that very moment, Poncey fell in love.
The song ended, and one of the girls – not the goddess – yelled, “See ya’ll tonight at Skullbone Music Park!” and the wagon inched away. Poncey stood stunned as the crowd dissipated, until a hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he awoke from his enchantment.
“Hey, lookit what I got!” Mack exulted.
“What’s that?” Poncey stared at the envelope.
“Back stage pass! The Southland Sirens’ concert manager just gave it to me!”
“A pass? How’d you get that?”
“Won it off the radio – called in an’ won it. I never been lucky before!”
“You get to meet them?”
“After the show, I’m goin’ back stage an’ meet ’em all!”
“I didn’t know ’bout that!” Poncey sputtered. “It’s not fair! I didn’t know about it!”
“You should pay more ’tention!” Mack advised.
The two drifted away from the scene, Poncey slain and forlorn, Mack jumping and hopping in his eccentric way. “You should share that with me,” Poncey muttered.
“How’m I gonna share it? Give you half, so only my legs can get in? That’s stupid!”
“Then you should give it to me. It’s not fair, ’cause I didn’t know about it!” Poncey laid on the guilt every way he could think of, but Mack would not be moved. Poncey did not leave off his grousing until Mack reached home and escaped.
The sun spent not a thought on the great approaching event nor on Poncey’s poetic angst, and began its descent in its own good time. Meanwhile, a huge audience gathered at the amphitheater on the outskirts of town. The dusky sky set the tone for what promised to be a night of expectation and discovery. Poncey and Mack arrived early to pick a spot on the grass, and Poncey made sure they’d be sitting within direct eyesight of the performers. As darkness claimed the day, lights surrounding the park glowed to life, and mosquitoes swarmed around a feast of victims. A local garage band stumbled through its opening act, an embarrassing display well worth their meager pay, making the headliners sound all the better. A vernal tingle filled Poncey, and colored spotlights swung across the stage as if scanning a coastline, searching for the warmth of hearth and home that every far-flung man longs for. The folks began a slow, impatient clapping that spread across the lawn, joined by a swelling chorus of spring peepers, and a few shrewd fans blew air horns. Poncey fidgeted, and the envelope stuck out of Mack’s back pocket.
“Get on with it! Sow-thlan’ Sigh-rens!” he chanted.
The spotlights went dark, casting each person into utter blindness, raising every other sense to heights they’d never before known, and the band struck up a sudden excited rhythm.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” said the loudspeaker.
“Who came in?” Mack whispered to Poncey.
“Shut up!” he replied, and craned his neck.
The spotlights flashed back on, and there on stage stood the work of art, his own Aphrodite, massaging her violin with single-minded passion. Her body heaved with the intensity of her playing, her eyes blazing an ardorous pledge with her fingers, like a welder’s torch, as they caressed cries of ecstasy from her instrument. The bow stroked vigorously, bragging no end to its stamina, drawing through the strings and back again, coaxing from them more than they knew of themselves, and its joyful songs coupled in harmony with the guitar and mandolin. She bent into her playing, passion driven by the rhythm and tones themselves.
“She’s amazing,” Poncey said in a trance. He felt like he’d been nailed to the ground. “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She’s – beyond description.”
“Yeah, they’re great,” Mack offered.
Dressed in deep blue jeans and form-fitting blouses barely able to tame their breasts, the girls switched instruments to go into their second number. Brunette No. 1 said something about Skullbone and the next song, but Poncey was too enthralled to hear. His eyes fastened to those of his love, spiritually trying to mesmerize her attention, but she never looked his way. His heart broke in two, and each half beat yet all the more ardently.
Brunette No. 2 took her turn singing lead, and Poncey’s yellow-haired dream took up the guitar. She focused her attention on her band mate, turning her back to the audience. At first disappointed, Poncey soon grew to appreciate the new perspective on his love and her rolling, silken motion, kneading the pounding beat as she strummed along. His gratification swirled together with a growing frustration.
“How much you want for that pass?” he croaked at Mack. “I’ll pay you for it! I’ve got to have that pass!”
“Are you kiddin’? I’m not givin’ this up to nobody.”
“You don’t care ’bout anyone but yourself! Don’t be such a selfish pig!”
“I ain’t selfish. I won it, an’ I deserve it. It ain’t for sale to no-body.”
Poncey growled under his breath, and his chest fluttered, like he was about to go into palpitations.
The concert progressed, and song after song drove Poncey’s temperature higher. The blonde’s every new display of raw talent, every indication of animal appetite, hit him like a speeding locomotive, and his yearning for this flowing fountain of all things desirable stoked its fire hotter still. At length the band began to slow down the energy, and the muse sat at the piano, facing directly toward Poncey’s place in the crowd. A sedate intro followed, all lights fading to darkness except one upon her angelic face, and the strains of a heartfelt ballad arose. Her hair glistened, highlighting the deep tan of her skin, bringing out the chill blue of her eyes, and finally she drank in Poncey with her gaze. She etched her crooning words upon his heart, every note woven in his ears like a binding fabric. Poncey forgot where he was and floated into a world of clouds and fluff
, unable to feel the ground, a suspended existence where time swept away and each present second lasted forever. And then it was over.
“You want sumpthin’ to eat?”
Poncey heard the applause. What had happened?
“I’m goin’ to the concessions – you want anything?” Mack repeated.
“Uh, no,” Poncey said. “Er, yeah, sure, get me a sweet tea.” He fished out a five-dollar bill and handed it to Mack. “Keep the change.”
“No kiddin’?” Mack said as he turned to leave. “Be back.”
Poncey pulled the envelope from Mack’s pocket.
Relocating next to the stage, Poncey could see the mysterious man from the parade standing in the wings, keeping one eye on the performers and one on his watch. This town deserved one encore, then he’d set the roadies to work tearing down the equipment. The Southland Sirens waved and left the stage to a swelling thunder of applause, like waves crashing against massive rocks, and the man sent them back on. Poncey’s love cast a glance at him before bouncing back into position. The song was a rousing anthem to hedonism, to celebration that ran through the night and into the morning, and to starving bodies slaked with satisfaction. The girls glowed with sweat and enthusiasm as they blew kisses and skipped offstage with benedictions of “Peace on Earth!” and “God bless!”
“What a bumpkin-burg!” a brunette gurgled as she sqeezed water from a bottle into her ready mouth.
Poncey sidled up to the man and timidly produced his backstage pass.
“How’d you get this? Where’s that other fella?” he asked.
“He couldn’t make it,” Poncey said. “He gave it to me.”
“I don’t know,” the man considered him carefully. “The other guy checked out. But I ain’t got time to get background on you. You some kinda freak?”
“I’m all right,” Poncey gushed. “Mack’s my best friend – the other guy. Ask anyone.”
“Well. I’m gonna have security keep an eye on you.”
“This the big winner?” the same brunette asked. “Hey there, big fella, you’re a big ol’ hoss, aren’t you?”
“I guess.” Poncey didn’t know what to say, and suddenly he felt fatter.
“You come with me,” she said with a wink to her manager, pulling Poncey by the hand. “We can handle him. Come meet the girls.”
A swirl of activity enveloped Poncey, and he was led through a milling labyrinth of stars, crew members and hangers-on. Without knowing how, he found himself backed up to a heavy curtain, faced down by the three stunning women.
“You are a big one,” said the second brunette. “You that big all over?”
“Huh?” Poncey managed.
“What’s your name, sugar?” the blonde said, touching his arm.
“Puh – .”
“What?” she laughed.
“Poncey. Poncey Muldoon.”
“Well, what say we get out of here, Puh. We’ve got a motel room out by the highway, just long enough to wind down while the guys pack the buses. Wanna come out and help us relax?”
“Well – .” He looked around aimlessly.
“Please?” Poncey’s one true love said. “Wouldn’t you like to party with me?”
The room was on the second floor of the Drive Inn, a standard room but with a balcony overlooking the pool. The clerk had brought in an extra-large ice chest, full to the top, along with a few sandwiches and a cart stocked with every alcoholic drink Poncey could think of, and some he couldn’t: beer, wine, brandy, ale, absinthe, arrack, gin, mescal, port, rum, schnapps, tequila, vodka, whisky, scotch, rye, bourbon, sake, mead, jenever, grappa, horilka, akvavit, rakia and poitín. He sat down on the edge of a bed.
“I like mine straight up,” said the blonde. “How about you?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, and took the glass.
“What’s your name again?” one asked. “Lance Boy?”
“Poncey. Poncey Muldoon,” he said.
“Let me get a look at you, Lance Boy. Just what made you get so big?”
“I eat a lot. I played football in high school – I led the team in sacks one year.” Poncey tried to make himself taller, though he was sitting.
“Oo, high school football,” said a brunette.
“Not the track team? I wanted to hear about your lance. Lance Boy,” said the blonde.
“Have a sandwich, Lance Boy. And I’ll freshen up your drink.”
Poncey took back his glass, and noticed the three watching him expectantly. He took a hard breath and slammed the drink down.
“Now you’re talking!” said the other brunette. “I knew you had it in you. Hand me back that glass.”
“I wanted to tell you shumthin’,” he said to the blonde.
“What? You can tell me anything.” She sat next to him on the bed and leaned her body in close. “But after you tell me that, I’m going to ask you to tell me something else, Lance Boy.”
“What?”
“Oh, no, you first. You started this.” Her coy teeth bit at her lower lip.
“Well,” he gulped. “Maybe later.”
“Here,” she suggested. “Have another drink. That’ll help you sort your thoughts. Someone turn on some music. I wanna dance.”
A computer was hooked up to speakers, and the curvaceous blonde began a slow sway to the melody. The song was not the kind the band played, more of a sensuous jazz, and Poncey began to think of all the pieces the band hadn’t done that night. Home on the Range, Shine On Harvest Moon, Take Me Out to the Ball Game, Star Spangled Banner, Jive Talkin’, Girl You Know It’s True, I’m An Old Cow Hand, Tie a Yellow Ribbon, The Yellow Rose of Texas, Eating Goober Peas, Hang On Sloopy, Muskrat Love, My Love, Endless Love, At Last, Alone. Try as he might, Poncey could not concentrate on the dancing girl.
“You okay, honey?” a brunette asked as she took his glass. “You’re not fading out on us, are you? You still feeling perky?”
“Is the bear a Pope?” he replied as he took it back.
“You don’t look so good, not bushy-tailed like you were before,” she continued in his ear. “What can we do to perk you back up?”
The song had changed into a hard-pounding rockabilly throwback. The blonde ground her hips as Poncey tried to focus. “I tell you what,” she told him. “I’m getting’ a tad warm in here,” and she pulled open a blouse button.
“Whoo boy.”
“I think you found something,” said a brunette, scrutinizing Poncey. “You found just what he needs.”
“Hey, you can’t out-fool me,” Poncey said. “You’re tryin’ to drunk me.”
“Oh, no, Lance Boy.”
“ ’Course not.”
“Well, shumthin’s happ’nin’,” he said.
“And I want to know what!” the blonde set her hands on Poncey’s thighs and leaned her cleavage in close. “Now what were you going to tell me?”
“Well –”
“You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone else,” she cooed.
“Well – you’re awful pretty,” he stammered.
“Why, thank you so much. You’re pretty awful yourself, honey.”
“Aw, I think ol’ Lance Boy has got a crush,” said the other brunette.
“I think so,” said the blonde, straddling Poncey’s knees as she straightened up, setting her hands on her hips and thrusting her shoulders back. “The question is, what are we gonna do ’bout it?”
Poncey’s head whirled about on his neck. All he could see was the goddess’ blouse, a blue plaid that matched her eyes. But how could her eyes be plaid, he thought, and he ran through all the colors her eyes could be if only he could remember. Brown, hazel, blue, green, grey, violet, red, orange, yellow, purple, forest green, lime green, blue gray, bittersweet, burgundy, burnt sienna, pink, cerulean, tangerine, copper, peach. None of them looked good on her. In fact, nothing about her looked particularly good anymore. Not even the ceiling looked very good.
“I don’t feel so great,” he mumbled.
“
You don’t look so great, either,” she smiled matter-of-factly.
Poncey started with a chill, his eyes opening to a confused darkness. Little sparkles of light faded in and out of focus as he tried to blink awake. He lay stretched out on a chaise longue under the sky, his arms stretched out to each side. His hands waved through the air limply, landing on his chest, and discovering that he had no shirt. His eyes became clearer, and he realized he was on the motel room’s balcony, but when he tried to lift his head, a violent pounding erupted and he had to give up. As he lay there groaning, his hands told him he had no pants, either. They recognized the feel of terry cloth, just below his waist, and he pulled a washcloth with the motel logo up to his eyes. Pinned to the cloth was a blurry note: “Sorry, but we thought a towel would be overkill.”
Poncey lurched to his side, and saw through the sliding glass door that the room was dark and abandoned. He rolled off the chair in a crouch, screwed up all his fortitude and crawled to the door, only to find it securely locked. This isn’t supposed to be locked, he thought, that’s just dangerous, and he considered for a second jumping through the glass bodily. Wondering what time it was, he scanned the view of the pool and saw nobody about. He looked toward the door again, and decided no. Hooking one leg over the balcony’s iron fence, he drew a deep breath and tumbled over into a bed of tiger lilies, snapdragons and Venus flytraps.
The darkness had that queer quality, more early than late, as if it knew that it soon would burn away. Three miles from town, Poncey had no choice but to start walking and hope to beat the sunrise. “Please let me get home, just let me get home,” he prayed, beginning to jog. “Just get me home somehow,” and his brain rolled around inside his skull. He headed out onto the road, nervously keeping an eye over his shoulder in case somebody approached. His skin pimpled with the cold of an early spring night, and he clutched his washcloth for dear life.
Onward he trudged, until he spotted a couple of dim lights bouncing along the road ahead of him. He cautiously skittered into the bramble along the highway, but it gave him poor cover and little desire to embrace it. Peering into the horizon, he knew the lights were a car coming nearer, and he ducked low as he could. A chill ran through him, only partly from the cool. The moon did not illuminate the vehicle, but its light did gleam off a long, thin object. Black as the night itself, Juby was coming, complete with sword – the one person crazy enough not to think Poncey was crazy. He felt Juby’s eyes staring.
“John, what has happened to your camel’s hair? Cast off with the comforts of the world!” Juby yelled out his window. Town officials had returned his sword with strict orders to take it and himself out of Skullbone for good. “I’ve shaken the dust of this town off my feet! Will you join me?”
“No, I’ve got to get home!” Poncey said from the underbrush. “Will you give me a ride?”
“I’ve escaped the city, like Sodom and Gomorrah! They refuse to repent! Do not look back, like that woman of Lot!”
“I’ve got to go home! I’m about to die out here! Please give me a ride!”
“Well, John, we all have a calling to fulfill. All right – get in, but I must be gone before morning! They cannot find me there!”
Poncey climbed in, and Juby eyed him carefully as he turned the car around. “Women can be a fountain of temptation, John, but seldom will they slake your throat. No wisdom in losing your head over one.”
