Rickrack

Chapter One

I.O.W.A

I grew tired of yelling at the old man. He had a massive hole somewhere in the exhaust of his old Plymouth Duster and the engine roared and screamed. So far the conversation hadn’t been worth the effort anyway, so I stared out the window. It was that disorienting time of day between afternoon and evening; the sun had hung forever at noon and then started its slide to the west, picking up speed as it dropped. The sunlight was eerie, giving an orange cast to the gaudy Iowa vegetation rolling endlessly by. A Van Gogh effect in mid-America. But this wasn’t a land that gave a damn about art; it was a land to make food.

I was two days out from Indiana and having serious doubts about the journey. It all began when I stopped my work truck at a railroad crossing in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and jumped on a freight train headed west. That hobo trip ended in tragedy, so I started hitchhiking. I wondered if the company had gotten the truck back since I’d left it running.

 It was the same railroad crossing I’d gotten caught at twice a week for the past year. That pause, while the boxcars lumbered past, forced me to reflect on my life. It was a life of driving a truck delivering produce and frozen foods to every little town in the northeastern part of Indiana and a few miles into Ohio and Michigan. I spent my days slavishly devoted to dropping off fifty-pound sacks of potatoes, flats of tomatoes, and crushed frozen pie shells to little restaurants and bars in exotic locations such as Avilla, Harlen, and Churubusco. Churubusco was famous for its Beast of Busco—a fifteen-foot turtle named Oscar who was spotted in 1949. Not much has happened in Churubusco since 1949, but it's pretty hard to top a fifteen-foot turtle.

Driving a truck wasn’t a bad job, but it wasn’t great. I had my girlfriend, who lived with me off and on, and on that day it had been off. She wasn’t a bad girlfriend, but she wasn’t great. And finally, I had distant memories of my art I had lost along the way and hoped to meet again. I produced art which I thought was great, but everyone else thought it was crap. It was either crap or craft—I never was sure what people were saying about my art. Probably crap.

I guess “crap” was too strong. They said it was interesting or funny or even cute, but that’s terrible to hear when your art is the direct expression of a deep and tortured soul. Nobody wants to have a slightly interesting soul. Nobody wants to have a cute soul. Well, nobody except for the adorable teenagers in Hoosiers Hoo Love Ya!, Fort Wayne's answer to Up With People! That group alone was reason enough to get ya ass out of Fort Wayne.

My best friend, Theo, called my art an oasis of beige in a Technicolor world, which I thought was way off the mark. He was pissed because I had sold out. I made money with my art. I love Theo dearly and, of course, I appreciated his critique, taking it in the spirit it was offered—the bastard. When we were younger, we made a pact: Theo would find pure God and I would make my living creating pure art. That was back when we were both fifteen and we agreed to meet when we were twenty-five. Theo would bring his father's .38 and whoever hadn’t made his dream come true would be shot. It seemed very cool at fifteen and the idea of never reaching our dreams seemed as absurd as the idea we would ever be as old as twenty-five. We figured a decade into our future would be on the death side of a lifetime anyway. But even then, the possibility of being shot by my best friend at twenty-five seemed strangely possible. That's why I wanted to give us ten years.

Sadly, in those ten years since our bet, I ended up using my talents to create inane little sculptures that were mass-produced and sold through little catalogs bulk-mailed all over the United States. You have probably seen just the covers as you take them from the mailbox to the trash. But inside those catalogs were the little bear salt and pepper shakers, the cherub pen holder, the gargoyle pen holder, and the precious-moment baby in a thimble, which were my best selling creations. I was actually proud of the gargoyle pen holder, but it didn't compare to my shame for being the creator of the baby in a thimble, which Theo referred to as a fetus in a thimble. I would sculpt the masters out of synthetic clay, and then take them to a Frenchman with multiple personalities. He was likely the love child of Sybil and Pepe Le Pew. Every time I dropped a sculpture off, he met me as a different personality, so he never really did know who I was. Luckily, his assistant remembered me and she would pay me $900 for each master and ship it to a warehouse in Kendallville, the lovely Indiana town that smelled like caramel because of the Kraft plant which also produced natural diamond drill bits for some reason. Probably to get the caramel out of people’s teeth. In Kendallville, crafty Hoosiers working for minimum wage would make a few thousand plaster copies of my creation and paint on the darling features to make them “pop.” It was important that the plaster copies “popped.” The Frenchman took me to the warehouse once for a quality control check. When I walked in, everyone stopped working and glared at me. I guess even if you were painting rosy cheeks on a fat cherub, doing it 300 times a day might get tiresome, even if it did make the sculpture “pop.”

But my friend Theo was right. I had sold out and I got sick of it, so I quit sculpting and started driving a truck. For his part, I thought Theo was selling out since he was getting ready to join the church and become a Trappist monk. His spirituality used to be a small direct-to-God business, but Theo would soon be working for a large multinational corporation—the Catholic church. It seemed since I had recently turned twenty-five and my only legacy had been to give the world the gargoyle pen holder, I was definitely in danger of getting shot by Theo. By then I was surprised I cared.

I watched the lusty vegetation roll by for a while and then looked over at the old Iowegian or Iowanite driving. I had never met an Iowanonian before. My own thoughts were boring me and making me sad, so I tried to get the old guy talking.

“My name is Rick, Rick Harrison. I'm related to the dead president,” I yelled over the sound of the exhaust, “and I want to thank you for the ride.” I always wanted to be related to George Harrison or even Harrison Ford but I was related to William Henry instead.

The old man took his eyes off the road for a second and yelled something that sounded like a wok lid sliding across a cement floor. It was the second most unnerving sound I had ever heard. I smiled at the old guy and looked back out the window before he could say anything more. If he kept yelling with that Darth Vader-on-helium voice, I’d have to jump screaming from his Duster.

The sound that could rival anything the old man could produce was one I had heard on the night I met my just okay girlfriend at my usual hangout back in Indiana. I thought in terms of “back in Indiana” to create some distance, even though I had only been away for two weird days and was just two states away from the land of my ancestors. My watering hole in the old country was a bar called Curly’s. I knew the owner well because I’d painted a mural for him behind the bar, which earned me free drinks for three months. We never did figure out how many free drinks that amounted to, and I always knew Curly felt he had gotten taken even though I’d painted the restrooms too. He always mentioned how much he liked the job I’d done on the restrooms, but the only thing he ever said about the mural was the woman’s butt was too small and she shouldn’t be smoking.

Curly wanted a mural of a woman and he made the mistake—as I often have—of trusting my judgment. He had in mind a picture he had found in a magazine about the old West called Old West Magazine. The picture was of a busty painted lady reclining on what I thought were purple mushrooms. But instead of painting her, I felt compelled to paint an image representing the thousands of working girls living around Fort Wayne. I painted this imaginary girl/woman from the back as she gazed on all the many industries of “The Fort.” All of her career opportunities were in plants that manufactured batteries for Detroit or pistons for Detroit or magnet wire for whatever city it was that needed magnet wire. Of course, I had to paint her with her small son (they all had kids) and of course I painted her smoking (they were all tough). That’s what annoyed Curly—she was smoking in front of her son. This from a man who made a living off pouring booze into the black hole of lonely alcoholics. But Curly got used to the mural and the girls from the light industries around the bar liked one of their own being ennobled.

So I got my payment in beers and the mural actually got me a relationship with one of those girls. Her name was Teenah, and when I found out how she spelled her name, I almost broke up with her. It was a Saturday afternoon when I met her. One of those cloudy Indiana days perfect for sitting in bars and getting a gentle buzz that keeps going all night long, the kind of slow, prolonged drinking that takes years to kill off a liver. I was at the bar with my numbed organs talking with Curly and for the hundredth time trying to explain why I had painted a symbolic local girl on his wall rather than the gal in the Old West Magazine or the babe with the big nipples who was the Pet of the Month in the May issue of Penthouse.

Curly was telling me again how great the paint in the restrooms looked when Teenah and her friends walked in. They were all cowgirled up and ready for some guy to stand up and make a complete fool of himself because they each had a vagina. Surely I was the man for the job. They looked around the bar, and then sure it was appropriate for the situation, they started talking loudly and acting fiercely independent. They really were kind of independent in an acceptable way, but catch them off guard and they could be as vulnerable as they were acceptably independent. That's the way Teenah was. Cold as ice, then so sweet it was heartbreaking. She came up to Curly to get drinks for their table. There weren’t any waitresses at Curly’s. If you wanted drinks, you had to go to him or you just didn't drink. That's why I sat at the bar; it was too much trouble to walk from a table. Just then I realized I never had seen Curly come out from behind the bar. I didn’t even know if he had a lower body.

Teenah stood at the bar trying to get Curly’s attention. I watched her big brown eyes glance around, then stop on the mural and I saw her lips part slightly as she gazed at my artwork. She understood it all. The hopes and dreams and the limits and discouragement of living in a town like ours. I wanted to kiss those parted lips. Curly—the bastard—distracted her and while he got her the drinks, I took a quick look to see if he did indeed have a lower body. Unfortunately, he did. I had hoped I’d discover he was some sort of alcohol-pushing cyborg, but he was just Curly the human who didn't appreciate art.

Picking up the drinks, the young woman who was now my soul mate went back to her table, her misty eyes glancing back at the mural. This was my moment. I wanted Thus Spake Zarathustra to be playing on the jukebox, but someone had punched up a David Frizzell hit from ten years before.

 “I'm gonna hire a wino to decorate our home” came blaring out of the jukebox. Apparently the logic in hiring a wino was to make the home feel more like a bar and that made a lot of sense to me at the time.

 "So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam,” Mr. Frizzell sang as I meandered over.

 I stood before them and struck a pose like a pirate on the deck of a captured ship. In the background the beautiful story of the wino interior decorator continued:

 "We'll take out the dining room table and put a bar along that wall.”

 "And a neon sign to point the way to our bathroom down the hall."

  Then, with a sweeping motion of my arm, I said loudly to Curly, “I don’t care if this woman I painted is not your idea of beautiful. She has a soul.”

Curly just rolled his eyes and counted out some change. We had been through this before, and both of us hoped it would get me laid. Curly wanted me laid so I would get out of his bar and stop drinking free beer. I wanted to get laid because I really like to get laid. It is such a great feeling and apparently, lots better than masturbating, which of course I never did. Since I didn’t have my art, all that was left was sex and alcohol, and for far too long it had been just alcohol. I sauntered over to the booth that held the beautiful and perceptive Teenah and her friends. They looked at me standing there with my thumbs hooked in my belt and my legs spread jauntily, but before I could say a word, Teenah’s pug nosed friend made a sound that was new to me and probably new to the world in general. It sounded like someone blowing a piccolo into a baggie full of tapioca pudding. It was so unnerving, I couldn’t continue until I could make sense of it. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open, trying to relate it to any sound I had heard before or even to figure out which orifice it came from. Just the simple fact that a human could make such a strange sound made me pause in wonder. Teenah’s sound-effect friend just smiled sweetly. Too sweetly for a woman engorged with processed food and stored anger.

“Hey, kid!” Pug Nose said. “This is a bar; you better get over to the family area with your mommy.”

I knew there was no family area at Curly's. I should know. I practically lived there.

“There is no family area at Curly's,” I said cleverly.

“How old are you and don't try to tell me you’re twenty-one,” she asked.

Here we go. “I'm twenty-five.”

“Bullshit,” she said.

“I'm twenty-five,” I said again. “I just look young for my age.”

“No shit,” Pug Nose said. Then she made that sound again. It was like a siren's song except it wasn’t coming from a beautiful woman, she wasn't singing, and it wasn't beautiful. Once again, I was transfixed with wonder and stood there amazed. All this beer-soaked wonder took so long that Teenah’s friends had resumed talking amongst themselves, but Teenah gazed at me with her trademark lip-parted expression. We were two mouth breathers in love.

* * *

I gazed out the window of the Iowa Duster. Thank God Plymouth didn’t continue with the Duster theme, since only Dishrag and Sponge Mop could have been next. “New this fall at your local Chrysler-Plymouth dealer: the 2001 V-6 Sponge Mop.”

I felt almost nauseous to think I might never see Teenah again. She was beautiful enough to be a Target model and did have a serviceable soul. Plus, I almost had her convinced to spell her name correctly. But she was the spawn of redneck mating. At first she found my artistic sensitivity fascinating. Later it just annoyed her. We went from living in an Aerosmith video to the quiet gray of a Bergman movie all within three months. She moved out the day before I jumped from my truck onto a westbound freight train.

I realized the old Iowianun had been talking and it looked like he had been droning on for quite a while. He said something that sounded like “Piston slap will ruin sprang.”

I sighed and said, “Oh, yeah, it will, just bigger than shit.”

What were the odds of an old guy talking about adventures with engines? The thought of spending the next hundred miles hearing automotive stories made me jump to change the subject. It’s not that I don’t know anything about cars—I’m not gay—it’s just that I’ve spent my driving life trying to coax dying cars to and from work and I hate them.

“I knew this guy from Nebraska,” I interrupted. “He used to talk all the time about how bizarre people from Iowa were.” I figured a good ice-breaker would be to insult this guy’s state.

The old man made his eyes into slits and looked at me. “Oh, yeah?”

“He said that Iowa stood for idiots-out-wandering-around,” I offered.

“That’s about as funny as a hemorrhoid on a bull,” he said.

I wasn’t sure if that was funny or not, so I continued. “You Iowa people don’t really say ‘you-uns,’ do you?”

“Unions?”

“ ‘You-uns,’ like ‘I’d like to take you-uns out to supper.’ ” I said helpfully.

“I don’t say ‘you-uns’ and I don’t know anybody who does.”

This was going very well so I continued. “Funny story. This friend of mine grew up in Nebraska and once when he was a kid, two Iowa guys came onto their property to hunt. Well, late in the afternoon one of the hunters came running up to their house. His friend had been shot.”

“That’s not funny,” the old guy said.

“Well, actually,” I said. “It sort of is. See, this hunter’s friend had gotten shot by a snake.”

“Bullshit!” the old guy said.

“No, this is true. My friend still had the article from the paper. Front page above the fold.”

“Tabloids don’t have folds,” he said.

“The guy wasn’t shot by Elvis. He was shot by a snake.”

“Christ!” he said and went back to driving.

“You don’t want to know how a guy could get shot by a snake?” I asked, amazed.

 “No.”

Whenever the old man turned to face me, his glasses distorted his face so through the glasses, his head looked only four inches wide. He was as narrow-minded as a guy could get. I looked out the window and was noticing a change in the landscape of Iowa. It was becoming more rolling and it looked as if the entire world was covered with corn. At least in Indiana we had some variety. We had corn, but we also had soybeans. In addition to our corn and soybeans we also had the more interesting combination of soybeans and corn.

“I really don’t have anything against Iowa,” I said. “I just happened to know a guy who lived in a state that neighbored it. His big gripe was that Iowa got all the good farmland while it was tougher to make anything grow in Nebraska. I guess he thought Iowa people were the chosen or spoiled. Imagine that, thinking someone born in Iowa is chosen! Eventually my friend died.”

I stared out the window and continued on more to myself than to the old man.

“He didn’t show up for work one Monday because he had died alone in his apartment from a heart attack. I always wondered if some militant Iowa commandos had snuck in and killed him. I almost wished that was what had happened since nobody should die alone, especially someone whose worst sin was that they were plugged up with cholesterol and made fun of a neighboring state.”

The old man shrugged and either said, “Lots of pathos,” or “Lots of piss oats.” It was probably lots of piss oats.

We drove on in as much silence as possible with his rusted exhaust. I looked over and he was muttering to himself and pointing down the road. Ahead was a shabby old billboard with strips of paper fluttering in the wind.

“I have to look at that goddamn sign everytime I come down this goddam road.”

“What did it used to say?” I asked for some reason.

“You don't know?”

“No,” I’ve never traveled through your lovely land before.”

“You’re telling me you don’t know about that?” he said, jabbing his finger at what remained of the billboard.

“Yep, that’s what I’m telling you, since as I mentioned before, I’ve never been here.”

He shook his head in disbelief or disgust or maybe he had a tick in his ear.

“It was a billboard of George Bush, Dubya, from his 88 campaign. Read my lips. No new taxes. You know what he did?”

I didn’t but had a feeling he raised taxes.

“He raised taxes,” the old guy said.

“What an asshole.”

“Hey, have some respect.”

“Uh maybe it’s time to let it go. Maybe vote for the democrats.”

I don’t usually go out of my way to annoy people, but I was edgy from not drinking and I wanted someone else to be edgy too. My voting comment led to muttering and then a gush of information from the old guy. Suddenly he had verbal diarrhea. First Bush had betrayed him, but even worse, the liberals were giving away all the country’s money to the Birkenstock wearin,’ vegetarian, homosexual, Jewish Mexicans.

“They ought to run that Jesse Helms for president.” Then with a laugh that sounded unnervingly feminine, he said, “Did you hear? Jesse said that if God didn’t damn this country, He should apologize to Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“Well, we can be thankful Jesse Helms is around to tell God what to do,” I observed.

“Fuckin’ A!” the old guy said.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. I began to lose focus on our fun motoring relationship. Then I started to slip into a fantasy world of art where women lusted after me and people talked about interesting things like what a talented artist I was. Rick the renowned artist with the big dick, was snapped back to the cruel reality of Rick the craft maker with the average sized dick, at the sound of the old man slamming his fist on the dash.

“The Birkenstock wearin’ . . .” he shouted and hit the dash. “Vegetarian.” Slam. “Faggot” Slam. “Jewish Mexicans.” Slam!

While this was annoying and surely not representative of the views of Iowarians in general, it was having the pleasing effect of getting the old guy upset enough to speed up the Duster. With every slam of his fist, he’d punch the accelerator so by the time he was done ranting, we were traveling at a breathtaking fifty-eight miles an hour. He drove along grinding his teeth and every once in a while made a snorting laugh which I assumed was brought on by fond memories of sex with pigs.

I wondered aloud about the Birkenstock wearing, vegetarian, homosexual, Jewish Mexicans. “How many of those people are there in the U.S.? Maybe three?” Then I asked him, “How big of a lobby could they form?”

“I'm not talking about hotels, you dipshit,” he yelled. “I'm talking about groups of deviants.”

This wasn’t really an improvement over where I had come from. Instead of sitting in Curly’s listening to some old guy tell me about fixing an engine with a pencil and a dirt clod, I was slowly rolling through Iowa listening to a roaring engine and some old guy ranting about politics. In fact, it was worse because I was sober. But I was still in a state that started with “I” and still wasn’t living a real life. My friend Theo once made a lame joke that I dwelled too much on myself. “Get out of the I-state and get into the You-state,” he said. That only left Utah and I couldn’t live there because I have a phobia of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I stared out at the corn, feeling the thick warm air ooze past my face. I had hoped hitchhiking would be a true-life American adventure, but instead of Travels with Charley, I was having Travels with Churly. Maybe the problem was that I wasn't John Steinbeck.

None of this journey was going as I had hoped. Two days before, after I had gotten out of jail, I had a well-crafted hitchhiking fantasy of a woman pulling up in a Corvette wanting to give me a ride. This was a selection from one of my vast collection of fantasies—the car series. The fantasy woman would be in one of those flowered summer dresses with the low-cut arm holes that show the beginning rise of a breast from the side. As the wind blew through the car, her dress would fly up to reveal a fine, firm thigh tanned from the summer sun. I could even imagine the fade of tanned skin to white where the sun wasn’t lucky enough to get to. She would put the Vette on cruise, and I would have my head under that dress. Then I’d drive and the roles would be reversed. Of course, I wouldn’t be wearing a sundress. Unless of course she was into that sort of thing.

I was sadly startled back to Iowa reality by the old man reaching to punch in the cigarette lighter. I always wondered what dumb shit would doubt that a fantasy world was better than reality; it must be a lack of imagination. The old guy drew smoke in, and then let it whip out of his mouth in the wind.

I had to ask, “Why do you pick up hitchhikers?”

“To do them a favor,” he said, then added, “to have some conversation—most of them are a hell of a lot more interesting than you.”

I thought back over the last two days and smiled because those had been some of the most interesting days of my life. I’d jumped on a freight train, a psycho tried to kill me, I’d been in jail for a night and hitchhiked across two states. But old men never listen to stories from a younger guy unless they have been in a better war than World War II or rebuilt an engine. But what war could ever be better than World War II, and who wants to discuss rebuilding an engine? Although I have rebuilt an engine—as I previously stated, I'm not gay.

“Besides,” the old man continued, “it doesn’t cost nothing more for two people to ride than one."

“Well,” I countered, “that’s not exactly true. My added weight would use more gas. It would be a tiny amount, but the vehicle would technically use more gas.” I wished my genius sister Cassie was along. In a minute she could figure out how much extra gas was used. I considered telling him about my super smart sister to contrast her intelligence with his own glaring stupidity, but decided against that.

“Well, goddamit,” the old guy said, “I’ll let you out here since you’re beginning to make my ass tired anyway.”

He pulled the car over to the side of the highway. We’d been going so slow that I thought we would have to speed up to come to a stop. I opened the door and tossed my pack out, then I got one foot out and the old man grabbed my arm. His hands were huge and strong, and he had a firm grip on my arm. I could tell that there was a lot more power in that old hand if he wanted to call it up. He just held me and glared into my eyes. I thought he was going to punch me, but then I realized what he wanted.

“The hunter had put the butt of his rifle on the snake’s head,” I said quickly. “When the snake thrashed around, its tail pulled the trigger and fired the gun into the guy’s chest.”

“Kid, you’ll have an easier time hitchhiking if you’re not such a dickhead,” he said and released my arm.

The roar of the old car took forever to die out and I waited to start walking because I didn’t want to catch up with him. He had let me out at the exit for the town of Adair, Iowa. It was half a mile’s walk into town. The traffic was pretty constant and I could have gotten a ride, but I wanted to get some exercise, sort things out, and let my ears stop ringing.

I didn’t really have a plan. I was just weary of my life in Fort Wayne and didn't want to get shot by my friend. The winters were endless and gray there; the summers were hot and sticky. It was such a sad place to be weary in. Fort Wayne was a city that almost everyone had driven through but no one could remember a thing about it. It was typical to hear, “Oh, yeah, Fort Wayne, I drove through there once,” and then there would be a long pause while they tried to remember anything at all about the town. I was never totally sure that it even existed. The people there were stoic. I wanted to live somewhere where I didn’t have to be stoic. I didn’t expect happiness; I just wanted to stop being stoic.

 I had a cousin out in Wyoming who was a driller on an oil rig and made obscene amounts of money. He was always writing brief letters demanding that I should go west and work for him. It really was just, “Rick, come out west and fuckin’ work for me. Sincerely, Dave.” Apparently, he was good friends with the tool pusher and could get anyone a job on the rig—even me. He also said I could use the company’s shop to work on my art crap and that the crew lived in a teepee in the woods. But I had also seen a TV show about people who did art and sold it on the streets of San Diego to the tourists and I thought I might do that. I painted, but my real joy was working with wood since I can carve or construct anything. Ever since I’d been a kid, I could see things in my mind in three dimensions and work them there. The actual creating was all in my head, and then it was simply a matter of turning that image into reality with wood or clay. Kind of a strange talent, and a God-given one, I thought. I didn’t want to know what God thought of how I used the talent He had blessed me with. Or if He was annoyed that I frequently ended my sentences with a prepositions. The fetus in a thimble probably wouldn't have gone over too well with the Almighty.

I walked along the side of the road and felt as if I was back in Indiana again. Except for the rolling hills, it was all vast areas of some edible plant. The corn looked better there than Indiana corn, though, so maybe my Nebraska friend was right—they did have better land in Iowa. The Iowa corn must always be knee-high by the fourth of July. But the July air was as oppressive as Indiana’s, so thick it could have been squeezed out of a tube.

Up the road I could see a McDonald's, which was a relief since it had to be around five and I hadn’t eaten all day. A car came up from behind and honked. I hoped it was a woman in a Corvette to make my woman-in-a-Corvette fantasy come true, but it was a carload of goofy teenagers. I was sure the brake lights would go on because there is some teenage rule that they have to harass people walking alone on a road. But they kept on their goofy way and it wasn’t long before I was at the McDonald's. When I walked in everyone turned to stare. It had to be the pack. I had bought it the morning after I got out of jail. It was the only pack in the town of Peru, Indiana, and it was bright orange and about the size of an icebox. Standing there in that McDonald's was the only time in my life that I wished I was wearing spurs that jingle-jangled.

The girl behind the counter wore one of those polyester uniforms that could make a supermodel look dumpy. She nodded to me while she gathered up condiments. “Be with you in a minute, kiddo.”

Kiddo. Damn. Would it have killed her to say “Be with you in a minute, stud”? If I was going to tip her I'll bet she would have called me “stud.” Of course I wasn't going to tip her and she would never call me “stud” anyway, so it all worked out somehow.

She walked across the restaurant with ketchup packets. I checked out her butt and then looked around at the other people. There were two old couples eating in comfortable silence. There were also families with annoying fighting kids and a fat, lonely guy sitting by himself. These were obviously local people and they were all slyly watching the couple in the corner. I looked too. There was a thin black woman with closely cropped hair that was dyed a vivid white. She was wearing a bright magenta blouse that shimmered when she moved—and she moved constantly, drinking coffee, smoking, shredding a napkin, and talking nonstop to the man across the table. She looked to be in her early forties and the man she was lecturing was older, white, and balding with an arc of jet-black hair on each side of his head. He had a stud in his ear and a gray five o'clock shadow. His huge eyes frequently rolled as the woman talked. Everyone in the room was watching them and the woman’s eyes darted around the room; she was fully aware and enjoying the fact that they were the center of attention. Her eyes met mine and I had to look away from the intensity.

The McClerk or associate or whatever you call counter people at McDonald's was back at the counter and I ordered the number five chicken combo, which was much tastier looking than the number four chicken combo, which had a glistening yellowish-brown crust stuck to the meat. Since I was a big spender, I also got the cherry pie in a tube. While eating the combo, I strained to hear the strange couple from across the room. The woman said that if the man wasn’t going to be more fucking agreeable, he could just drive himself to Scottsdale. At the time I didn’t know where Scottsdale was, but I had a feeling that it wasn’t in Iowa. The man said he needed her and that if she left, he would get into an accident in which his jugular would get slashed and his abnormally thin blood would quickly run into the rich Iowa earth and she would have to run the gallery alone.

“Patoi! Lillian. That's what you act like, a punk! And you know I have to take a baby aspirin a day. My blood is thinner than water! You want me to die, don't you? Is that what you want, Lillian?” he yelled, almost in tears.

The Lillian woman just smirked at him.

 Just then, the McClerk came by to wipe off my table. I was trying to look as cool as possible, which was difficult sitting in a cartoon chair. At that point I might have appeared mysterious and a little dangerous because she didn't know anything about me. I didn't want to talk because it would quickly become apparent to her that I was a confused bundle of neuroses.

“Pretty weird folks,” she said as she wiped.

I thought they were more interesting than weird and I wondered where their gallery was. I also knew that my table didn’t need so much wiping and I thought that maybe there was a one-in-a-million shot that this girl was coming on to me, so of course I agreed with her. She was actually kind of cute in an annoyingly wholesome sort of way. I was already tired of traveling and being around people who didn’t care about me and I wanted a kind word. She looked as kind as they came.

“That’s the bad thing about traveling,” I said. “It’s all the weirdoes that you have to worry about. I guess you get your share here being so close to the interstate and all.” I thought that adding the “and all” made me sound homey—just the sort of thing an Iowa girl would like.

“Oh, yeah, but most our customers are awfully nice. We get some truckers in here and they try hard to be gentlemen but they have to hit on me.”

“I can see why,” I said and meant it. After spending ten hours of watching an interstate roll by, this girl must look especially good.

She gave me a little smile, then walked over to the old couple and said a few friendly words. They seemed like her grandparents but then she went over to the other old couple and they seemed like her grandparents too. It must be nice to live in a world where everyone likes you.

Chapter 35

Round Up Hell

This is Rick on the ranch in Wyoming. Whit and Boo are ranch hands and the round up to them is business as usual. It’s a new and terrifying experience for Rick. Mr. Thorsen is owner of the ranch. Robbie is one of his sons. 

“Rick, open up the stable door and get out of sight,” Whit said quietly.  

I thought a please would have been nice, but that was something we could work on later.  She and Boo walked out into the corral.  They were talking quietly, making a point to look away from the horses. It seemed like bothering horses was the last thing on their minds.  They walked to the far end of the corral, turned, and walked back slowly, getting four of the horses moving toward the stable while saying things like git you and there you go, girl. One old horse looked like he didn’t feel like going into the stable, but Whit looked him in the eyes and he made a better choice. I watched her mesmerizing and controlling the big stupid animals and I wondered if that’s what she had done to me. When it came to a woman like Whit, I was as stupid as the horses and just as easily mesmerized. 

There were heavy hoof sounds on the thick wooden floor as the horses walked into the stable, making neighing and snorting sounds and just generally complaining because the humans were back to harass them. Whit and Boo walked in and closed the big door, trapping us inside with the huge hell beasts.

“Good job, Rick,” Whit said, tossing a saddle blanket on the nearest horse.

“Well all I did was open the door,” I said while dancing around trying not trying not to get kicked by either a horse or Whit.

“Well good job doing that. I'm just trying to be encouraging. Jesus!”

“Okay, I appreciate that,” I said. “But I'm not a child. I'm not mentally challenged. In fact in other environments I’m very capable. Let's see how you guys handle working on a four-color printing press.”

Whit was getting tired of being lectured to and was losing what little patience she had, but I couldn't stop myself. “You just sound patronizing sometimes.”

Boo spoke up, “What the fuck does being patriotic have to do with horses?” Then he asked, “Can I just shoot this asshole?”

Whit looked at me. This was it. She was going to scream, Land o’ Goshen, Boo, you stupid fuck, you cannot shoot Rick. Cause I love him so dearly, I do. He is handsome and so very talented. My lust for him knows no earthly bounds and I would die if he was gone. 

What she actually said was a little different, “No, Boo, you can’t shoot Rick. We need to get the horses tacked up. Maybe after that.”

They worked quickly, and within fifteen minutes had three horses saddled and ready. That would be their horses and Mr. Thorsen’s old but dignified Arabian. The fourth horse of that Wyoming apocalypse was standing in a stall glaring at me.

There was noise in the distance. Boo ran to the window like a stupid tobacco chewing dog waiting for its master, and said excitedly, “Here they come.”

It was the sound of vehicles rattling and roaring down the washboard road.  We stepped out of the stable, Whit and Boo leading the horses. There was a parade of vehicles trailing dust, coming toward us. I hoped it was a caravan of art groupies and gallery owners coming to adore me and lift me out of my roundup hell. But it wasn’t.

 In the lead was Robbie in his blue Chevy, his ugly old dog sliding around in the bed. There were two more Robbies in the cab, friends of his from U of W.  Then came Mr. Thorsen driving the big dignified Ford diesel pickup. I could see the top of little Frankie's head. Pete from the other ranch was pulling the four-horse trailer with the Dodge pickup. The Other Texan was riding in the bed of the truck looking half asleep. Bringing up the rear was The Texan pulling another trailer. I wondered why the Texans weren’t riding together. Must have been a lovers’ quarrel. I’d mention that to Whit. She really needed to know the man she lusted for was gay. He’d probably never rebuilt an engine and I’ll bet he liked poetry.

Robbie did donuts in the gravel yard until Mr. Thorsen blared the horn. The dust cleared and everyone got out and stood in a rough circle.  It was kind of like a social situation so they were all uncomfortable. There was no reason to say fuck so they didn’t know what to say. Mr. Thorsen limped over and looked around at the cowboys.  It was a roundup. They were cowboys. Wyoming superheroes. As Mr. Thorsen walked into the circle, everyone nodded, even the classless Texans. He was a man who commanded respect. Mr. Thorsen could be a janitor or even a Republican, but everyone knew there was vast power behind those weary eyes.  

“You all know what to do,” he said loudly, “We'll start in the hills west of the willows and bring them across the feeding bridge, then down the county road to the east pasture. I don't want a single cow left in the hills like last year. He looked at Robbie. “There will not be a single cow freezing to death this winter.”

Mr. Thorsen made it sound like we were saving innocents from hell. I considered we were really saving a product so it could be sold and butchered but it didn't seem the appropriate time to share my thoughts. I’d learned some discretion since I left Indiana, and anyway, I could share that observation with Whit later--she’d like that. 

“And remember,” Mr. Thorsen continued, “lead, follow or get the hell out of the way.”

I expected him to say there was no “I” in team, but he didn’t. The guys made manly sounds and pumped their fists in the air and I nodded along, hoping nobody, other than Whit and Boo, knew I had no idea what we were doing.  This wasn’t going to go well.  I looked at Boo and he rolled his eyes, shook his head and spit chewing tobacco on the back of a chicken.  

Whit looked even more serious than usual and when I caught her eye, she gave up a tight evil smile. Maybe she was thinking of me on a horse and the joy of having a thousand easy opportunities to torture me. But maybe she was looking past me at the Texan with that smile. I had to admit he was a good looking guy. He just reeked with confidence, so comfortable in his own skin. Life must have been so easy, so natural, for him. How come he didn’t get his share of debilitating self-doubt about his masculinity and a chorus of screaming demons? Fucker. At least I could take satisfaction in the fact that he was stupid and talentless. That would be considerable comfort while I was sitting in the shop being smart and creating art while he was fucking Whit. 

We broke like a football team after a huddle.  Horses were led out of the trailers and saddled to a flurry of snorting, stomping of hooves and tails whipping around.  They clamped down heavily on the bits, their wild eyes darting to catch the activity.  They were nervous at first but started to remember they had been through this before and it didn't end with them being eaten, so they calmed down.  The dogs came running up wagging their entire back ends at the excitement. 

Robbie ran and jumped on his horse from the back. Not quite making the leap, there was laughter as he grabbed the saddle and pulled himself up.  He whipped his horse and it ran in a tight circle. The other horses stomped around, reared up and whinnied.  The cowboys cursed at Robbie.  Up until then, they’d been cursing at the tangled reins and the horses, but now they focused their attention on Robbie.  They finally had an opportunity to say fuck

“Fucking Robbie!  Asshole! Goddam it! Fucking dickhead!”  It was lots of fucking fun.

Robbie gave them the finger and laughed. Then like a posse chasing the bad hombre, they were off.  I hated to see even Boo looked cool galloping away to the hills. Already defeated, I went back to the stable. Whit was getting the last saddle off the rack and I went over to her.  

“I don’t know what to do. I’m not a cowboy.” 

“No shit.” 

“I don’t want to do the roundup,” I said to her.  “I’m going to suck at this.  Horses hate me.”  

“Everybody hates you. You'll be fine,” Whit said, her voice filled with doubt. 

Maybe I was wrong and this experience wasn’t going to be a nightmare. Maybe it would be a therapeutic experience.  I’d heard of troubled kids who were helped by riding horses. 

“Hey Whit, have you heard of horse therapy?”

“Yeah, equine therapy. It’s wonderful.”

“Maybe this will be like that.”

“Sure it will,” she smiled. “Come on, let's meet your horse.”

“Is it like Shadowfax?” I asked, hoping it was the ancestor of a mighty steed of fantasy legend.

“What?” 

“Shadowfax.  Gandalf’s horse. Didn't you ever read Lord of the Rings?” I asked, amazed.

“Yeah, I had to read it in high school, but I don't remember any horses in it.  Just a bunch of wild kids.” 

“That's Lord of the Flies. You know, Lord of the Rings.  Hobbits.  The one ring to rule them all.  One ring to. . .”

“Look, Lord of the Dorks, this isn't a book club.  We have cows to bring down, so why don't you join me in reality for a while? Then she smiled evilly. I'll get Festus.”

“You’re lord of the bitches,” I mumbled as she walked away, saying it quietly so even a woman couldn't hear it.

“I heard that,” Whit said, as she led an old horse out from the back of the stable.  It looked like it could have been Shadowfax's old alcoholic uncle. “This is Festus and he’s been on more roundups than Boo.  All you have to do is sit on his back.”

“Can’t he just go out by himself?” I asked hopefully as we made eye contact.  I could sense the hatred in his look.

“Come on, it's simple,” she tossed a saddle blanket on his curved back.  “Throw the saddle on him.”  I grabbed the saddle and heaved it up.  Just as I did, Festus stepped away and the saddle hit him in the side.  He shot out a back leg trying to kick me, but luckily I was out of range. 

“Make sure the stirrups and the cinch don't slap his side when you throw a saddle on his back.  Festus is very laid back, but even he can freak at something like that.  He’ll try to kick you.”  Whit had an annoying tendency to warn me about things after disaster had struck.  I didn't want Festus freaking. I threw the saddle up again and was pleasantly surprised when it landed squarely on his back. The stirrups flopped down on both sides of his huge rib cage and he turned to look at me. He wasn't freaked--he seemed more annoyed.  I looked at him and wondered if there was enough room inside him, if he was hollowed out, to keep a man warm in freezing weather.  But then I remembered this wasn’t Star Wars, Festus wasn’t a Tauntuan and the occasion probably wouldn’t come up, anyway.  I had to focus.

Whit jerked hard on the cinch.  “Old bastard,” she laughed and slapped him on the side.  “Exhale!”  His fat rubbery lips vibrated as he exhaled.  Then Whit cinched the girth again.  “Three fingers between the horse and the girth,” she said, thinking that I was paying attention to the details of this fiasco.

Whit completed Festus’ outfit with a lovely brace and bit, then she saddled up her horse, Della, who was a much newer model than mine, having been born this century. “OK.  Let’s get them out into the yard and we'll drive some cattle.”

Out in the yard, while Festus stood glaring at me, Whit said, “OK mount up.  Always from the left side.”  I put my foot in the stirrup and hopped along as Festus began walking.  “Grab hold of the horn and pull yourself up.  Swing your leg over. Don't kick him in the flank.”  I didn't know where his flank was so I just tried not to kick anything.  The saddle shifted as I put my weight on the stirrup and swung my leg over.  I was in.  I felt like I was fifteen feet off the ground and it surprised me how solid the horse felt.  I guess they look fragile because their legs seem so thin compared to their bodies.  But when Festus started walking, he felt safe and heavy like my delivery truck.  It was actually kind of cool.  I wasn’t a cowboy, but at least I was a guy who kind of looked like a cowboy.  But the odd thing was that Festus just kept slowly walking in the wrong direction.  He only stopped when he was back in the stable where he started munching on some alfalfa.  

“Rick!”  I heard Whit yell, “Festus! Come on out.”

Festus didn’t move and my scooching around in the saddle didn’t have any effect other than getting me slightly aroused.   Whit came walking in and roughly grabbed the reins. She jerked them and said “Come on you lazy bastard, there’s work to do.”

“You mean the horse, right?” I said.

“OK, I’ll rephrase that. Come on you lazy bastards,” she said.

Whit ran through the basics out in the corral.  Pull back to stop. Squeeze on the sides to go.  Dig in to go faster.  Pull the reins right to go right, left to go left. Squeeze, don't jerk the reins.  Pretty basic, really.  I figured that was why cowboys didn’t need degrees in rocket science to go on the roundup.  

“OK, cowboy, walk him around,” Whit said to me.  I nudged his sides and he kind of leaned back then leaned forward and started peeing.  I nudged harder and he slowly walked in the stable where he resumed eating alfalfa.

“Christ!”  I heard Whit yell as she walked in.  She yanked us back out and this time she walked clear of the corral and parked us next to where her horse was parked. I thought I heard Della giggle, and when I looked into Della’s eye, she looked away.  She did giggle, I’m sure.

Whit let the reins hang down.  “When you get off, let the reins hang to touch the ground because all these horses have been trained to think they are tied to something and they won’t wander off.  This sounded ominous.  “Don’t forget.  If you leave the reins draped over his neck while you are off, he will know he isn’t tied and will make a b-line back to the stable.” I had a vision of me walking back from one of the fields while Festus chewed alfalfa back at the stable.  Then Whit started to really annoy me when she said it again, “Don't leave the reins draped over his neck. OK?”  

“I got it. Jesus! I thought we both agreed that I’m not a moron,” I said.

“I never agreed to that,” Whit said as she bounded up on Della’s back.  Della took a few steps around to get used to the familiar muscular legs wrapped around her sides.  I was envious and lost in thought as I gazed at Whit’s firm cheeks and thought of her crotch rubbing against the saddle.  

Whit yelled at me, “Quit looking at my ass and let’s go!” 

At least in the midst of the roundup humiliation, I could glance over at the visual oasis of Whit’s ass on leather.  That would end up being the only fun thing all day.

“Grab the reins!” She yelled.

  I pulled them up, and as soon as I did, Festus strolled back to the barn.  I waited for Whit as Festus chewed alfalfa.

I heard a stream of profanity as Whit walked in.  She stomped over to Festus, grabbed the reins and jerked his head around.  I decided not to say anything and just watched her ass as she led us back out of the corral.  This time she kicked the gate shut and threw the reins at me.  I avoided watching her ass as she got back on Della.  I decided I better concentrate.  

Whit was out of encouragement. She just yelled out, “Let’s go!” and took off at a fast trot.  

Even Festus figured out that it was time to stop fucking around.  We were on our way!  At first it was exciting--like riding a motorcycle for the first time.  Out on the range. Heading for the willows. On the roundup. It was every boy's dream come true. Other than having sex with a cowgirl.  But Festus needed aligning or something.  Maybe one leg was shorter than the rest because he had a stride like a pogo stick and unfortunately every time he was on his way up, I was on my way down.  As he hopped along, my ass was slamming onto the saddle and that began to wear thin after a while. My back was starting to hurt, my head was snapping around, and I was having trouble breathing because of the jarring.  Whit looked back at me, covered her mouth, then turned quickly back around.  

“I –can’t –fuck-ing-bree-the,” I yelled at her.

“Take it in your knees,” she yelled back and then burst out laughing.

I tried that and it relieved the slamming on my back but my knees were starting to hurt.

“Try this!”  She yelled back and she squeezed harder on Della’s sides.  Della took off like a giant cheetah and the woman and horse became one as they raced off in a flowing gallop.  My eyes were tearing up, but I could make them out, flying along. It looked as smooth as a sine wave.  It was beautiful.  I was in pain and pissed, so I dug my heels into Festus' sides.  He made a coughing sound and took off.  It was beautiful, too.  The jarring settled down to that same flowing motion.  We were rocking.  Unfortunately, though, Festus was so old that at galloping speed, I could have gotten off and run up ahead.  

I yelled out to Whit.  “I’m fucking a riding horse!”

“What?” she yelled back.

“I’m fucking riding a horse!” I yelled.

“Great!”

“Do I look cool?” I shouted.

“No!”

“Do I at least not look like an idiot?”

“Kind of not!” she yelled back.

“Great!!”

Festus was starting to fade fast, which was good because our relationship was new and there were many things I didn't know about him.  One key thing was that he was afraid to cross water.  It turned out that it was sort of a phobia with him.  We were barreling along at 6 or 7 miles an hour when we came to not a stream, not a creek, but more of a trickle of water crossing our hurtling path.  I had peed more liquid than this, but it was enough to horrify Festus.  He spotted the water and locked up his front legs, slid along and came to a screeching halt right at the edge of the creekette.  So, thankfully, Festus was safe.  He wasn’t going to get his hooves moist.  I, on the other hand, kept going, due to that law that things in motion remain in motion unless there is an opposing force. I tried to grab onto the steed’s neck, but I wasn’t fast enough and I shot on ahead without him.  I flew along, a lot like superman, but since my only super powers were art and cuntillingus, I made a rapid dive to the ground. Luckily, I didn’t break my neck because the buckling of my arms and pulling of every muscle in my shoulders and back took most of the force.  When my head hit, it only stunned me instead of guaranteeing a life in a wheelchair.  After skidding to a stop, I managed to flop my head over in time to see Festus trotting happily back to the stable, the reins draped over his giant fucking neck.

I laid on the ground, trying to determine if there was enough of a life force in me to keep my soul in my body.  It seemed there was just enough, which was fortunate, because I had a new goal in life.  It was my new mission in life to get back to the barn and hit Festus in the head with a 2 by 4.  I had to live. I had to survive, if only to do that one thing.

I heard Whit trotting up and I rolled to my back.  Both Whit and Della stared down at me. To make the morning complete, Della drooled in my eye. 

“Are you OK?” Whit asked.

“Oh sure, Sweetie. I’m fine. I've just pulled every muscle in my body.  The pain seems to be localized to the top half of my body, but wait, now the pain is moving to my legs.  In fact, there seems to be plenty of pain to go around, so I should reach 100% any second.  I am glad that I have experienced this tremendous suffering so that some kid in Cheyenne can have a burger in his fucking Happy Meal.”

“Come on, this dirt is as soft as an old mattress at the No Tell Motel.  Hey! How’s that sound, Mister Analogy?”

“It’s not an analogy. It's more of a simile,” I groaned.

“Whatever. We both know that the only thing wounded here is your pride.  Now get on and let’s go get Festus.”

She was wrong. Ever since haying ended, I had no pride to wound.  We rode Della back to the barn, and through the pain, I was enjoying the experience of holding tight to Whit.

“Rick, there is something I wanted to tell you,” she said.

This was it.  She was going to tell me that she had fallen in love with me.  Or maybe she was going to say that I was her best lover ever. It would even be nice to hear that she didn't think I was an idiot.

“Yes, Whit?” I asked, leaning forward to get a profile view of her beautiful face.

“I just need to say,” she turned and I could feel her warm breath on my cheek. “Festus is terrified of water, so watch out for them streams, cowboy.”  Then she started laughing.  I appreciated the laughter at my expense at first, but she kept it up.  When Whit laughed really hard she started making an annoying wheezing sound, probably a side effect of smoking so much pot, and her nostrils flared in an unappealing way. We trotted along back to the stable to get Festus. Whit was laughing merrily as I bounced along wondering how I could hate a woman so much.

I spent the rest of the morning fighting with Festus to keep him working and not wandering back to the stable.  It was like driving a car that pulls hard to the right and it was amazing that he always knew which direction the stable was.  Herding cattle was secondary to staying on Festus and watching for water hazards.  In the afternoon, I was gaining some confidence and started actually trying to move the cattle around.  Whatever I was doing wasn't right because the cowboys kept yelling at me.  In the afternoon, I lost control of Festus and we scattered a bunch of cows that Robbie and his buddies had grouped together. Mr. Thorsen galloped over.  

He squinted at me as if he was in pain. “Howard, remember me saying, 'lead, follow or get the hell out of the way'?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir,” I said, feeling sure that he wasn't going to make me a roundup captain.

“Well, you need to get the hell out of the way.” 

It was a dream come true. I was getting sent back to the minors. I didn’t care that I wasn’t part of the team or even that Mr. Thorsen kept calling me Howard.  I just wanted to go back to the shop and immerse my tortured ego in art.

“Do you see those cows on the west slope?”  He continued.

I saw five tiny creatures standing on a hill.  They looked like bugs from where we were. “Yes.”

Why don't you get those cows and escort them to the pasture next to the barn?” he suggested.  He flicked the reins and galloped off.

I followed Mr. Thorsen’s orders and spent the rest of the day escorting the five cows back to the pasture.  After I got the tack off of Festus, I went right into the shop and started doing the finishing work on the houses.  This wasn't the creative part.  This was just sanding and painting--the craft part.  The roundup had demoralized me so much that I couldn't be creative.  One good thing was that I managed to avoid Whit and Boo for the rest of the evening.  

I felt like I let everyone down because I was so useless at herding cattle.  My Indiana work ethic was screaming profanity at me. Not quite as loud as Robbie and the Texans had been screaming, but still pretty loud.  The demon voices were surprisingly quiet, I guess because there was no point in torturing me over being a crappy cowboy. We all agreed on that issue. So I just worked into the night finding comfort in a fantasy world where I was a great artist and horses had never made it onto Noah’s Ark.

The roundup remained overwhelming and a constant battle for me. I was working with a creature who hated me and, for a change, it wasn’t Boo. Festus with his alfalfa addiction and constant pull to get back to the stable made every day a struggle. A week in, I still just managed to stay on Festus when he tried to scrape me off his back going through the trees.  I was finally able to keep us from crashing through and scattering the cows herded into groups or pods or whatever they were called. But I was still spectacularly ineffectual.  Nobody could teach me how to ride a horse; they’d all been riding since they were toddlers and didn’t know how not to do it.  When I would ask questions about the roundup, they’d say, Hell I don't know, you just fucking do it.  Kind of like a situation where one of them would come up to me and ask how to draw. You just do it.  Of course none of them ever asked me how to draw, but that’s what I would have said. 

Chapter 51

Leaving Whit and Wyoming

Rick has to leave the ranch. He has made enough art for his show in Arizona so it is time to head south. He has expressed his love for Whit which went as well as the round up.

I was never really welcome on the Circle Lazy Three. I made a couple hundred bales of hay and the house for Frankie. I had all my houses for the show so my work was done and it was time to go.  Even though it was the end of August, winter was moving in.  Nights were getting cold and one morning, I woke to see a dusting of snow.  It melted so fast I wasn’t sure if I imagined it, but another brutal winter wasn’t far away.  Wyoming was braced and ready, but I wasn’t. Even if I didn’t have to get to Arizona, the coming winter, matched by Whit’s coldness, were enough to drive me away from the ranch.

I was talking to Robbie one day and he asked me how I was going to get all my houses to Arizona. Not being the sort of fellow who plans ahead more than a few minutes, it never occurred to me. Hitchhiking wouldn’t work anymore.

But for being an insensitive arrogant prick, Robbie looked out for me again. One day Mr. Thorsen called and said there was an old VW Bug in the east pasture. He said I could have it instead of the money he was going to pay me for Frankie’s house.  Later he decided to give me the VW and the money. I’d never met a rich man so generous. Sometimes a camel can get through the eye of a needle.

All the houses finished, I turned my attention to getting the Bug running. With the battery charged the little engine turned over but wouldn’t fire. I got the clogged fuel lines opened.  There was no place within a hundred miles to get points and plugs for an old VW so I cleaned and gapped them the best I could.  With the valves adjusted and fresh oil, it fired right up and idled as smooth as a Bug can.  Mr. Thorsen showed up one day with a new set of tires and a sheriff’s title, making the car mine.  He wasn’t going to let me drive through the Rockies with steel showing. It amazed me how much he could get done in such a short time. It’s good to be king. I wondered if he had enough power to order Whit to love me. Probably not.

I loaded up the VW with my houses, having to leave behind the passenger seat and the back seat.  Layer of house, layer of canvas, layer of house, like a housing development on the side of a hill.  They looked uncomfortable jammed in there all together.  Those were objects with egos and pride and seemed to need their personal space.  

There was still Whit.  She was smoking more and had withdrawn completely from me.  She was almost back to the point of early in the summer when she hated me, before “doofus” was a term of endearment.  I was amazed she could be so cold. I tried many times to talk to her, but she would just give me one word answers and hostile looks. I tried to get under her skin with stupid observations, but she would walk away while I was talking. She had always done that, but always did it with a smile. She didn’t smile anymore. And I couldn’t stay away from her, feeling sure if I said the right thing or the wrong thing she would react and we’d be talking again. But she didn’t react. She just ignored me and I began to feel invisible. 

I didn’t know what to do. Juno was gone. I couldn’t climb into my art; it was done. Time was running out. I had to get my houses and my broken heart to Arizona.

September first came and that was my day to leave. I went to the hands’ house in a last attempt to talk to Whit.  She was sitting in her toking chair, sucking away on a roach.    

“I’m leaving,” I said.

“See ya.” 

“I just wondered if you would like to go into town.  I could buy you lunch or something. I mean if that wouldn’t be weird. Sorry for making things weird. If I could take back what I said, I would.”

But I couldn’t. I loved her. She had to know she was loved.  

She just stared at me, high and determined not to feel. I couldn’t tell if she didn’t care if I was leaving or if she was just acting that way. It was a very convincing act.  If it was a test to see which of us needed the other less, I’d lose. Leaving her would kill me. She’d probably forget about me once the dust cleared. 

“Of course it would be weird,” she said. “You know I never led you on. I was honest with my feelings, but you had to fuck things up.”  

She put away her pot and paraphernalia and walked quickly to the stable. I watched her ass, aware of the tragedy that I’d never have my hands on those firm cheeks again.

She had led me on. She was Whit, and I fell in love with her. How could I not? She was Whit. I’d never understand how telling someone they’re wonderful and loved could be a bad thing. But it was. I’d committed a crime. She’d been honest with me.  She never said she loved me. It was the disadvantage of living in fantasy world, sure she loved me. That was as absurd as my fantasy that she’d ever call me “Stallion” during sex.

I brightened when I saw Boo walking towards me. Leaving the Circle Lazy Three would mean I’d never see that prick again. When he got close, I read the button pinned to his cowboy hat: Give me head till I’m dead.  He was just oozing with tobacco juice and class.

“Here, Howard. I wrote down my name and phone number.  I want you to keep this with you all the time.”  

Not understanding, since we hated each other, I took the paper.  

“I want to be real clear,” Boo said. “I don’t want you to keep in touch.  I still don’t like you, although you aren’t the total fucking idiot I thought you were at first.” He laughed his braying laugh. “When I first met you I thought, here’s an asshole that’s as sharp as a sack of wet mice, and yep, I was right. You still don't know shit about a ranch. But that was great what you did for Frankie, so you aren’t a total asshole.”

“Well, thanks, Boo. This is all very touching, but please don’t continue because I’m starting to tear up.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to hug you or anything because I still think you’re a queer. I just want you to have my name and phone number in case aliens contact you.  I want you to call me. When they get here, I want to go with them. I figure they’d contact your ass cause you’re so weird.”  

He spit tobacco on my shoe and stomped off.  

While I was checking my precious art cargo, I felt my ears twitch and turned around.  There was Boo right in my face.

“Goodbye, Howard!” he screamed, close enough that I could smell the tobacco and beer.  “One for the road,” he said, waddling into the house.

“Stupid son of a bitch!” I yelled. “I hope aliens stick a probe up your ass!”

Once my heart slowed down, I got in, fired up the VW and was bouncing down the road.  A quick stop at the Thorsen house got me my pay and a crushing handshake from Mr. Thorsen. Hermicule gave me a sneer and mumbled something that sounded like, “I have a yacht in a Philadelphia platinum mine.”  I looked at Mr. Thorsen.  It seemed to make sense to him so I let it go. 

Robbie wasn’t around.  He’d given me his address in Laramie and said to drop by on my way south, but it would have been weird and pointless, and he had said it in a way that sounded like he didn’t really want to see me.  

As I was getting back in the VW, I saw Frankie standing in the yard with a pool cue and a sock, so I went over and said good-bye to him.  We shook hands and he ran inside, not really sure what to say.  

Nobody seemed to know how important my leaving was, and whether they should be sad or not. I looked back down the road at the hands’ house one last time. There was the house, but there was no Whit.

Driving down the washboard road, I saw her. She was on Della and they were galloping parallel to the road. They were that amazing woman/horse creature I’d seen during the round up. Flowing through the cut hayfields more than galloping. I hit the pavement and they still matched my speed. Della’s mane and Whit’s hair whipping. Whit’s beautiful butt rising up out of the saddle. I captured that image of Whit in my head forever to be included with first seeing that naked ass in the beaver pond. And Whit in a full length fur coat, naked underneath. Whit in the midst of her fantasy, standing naked and furious because I was confused and trying desperately to keep up with her. It was a wonder she didn’t shoot me then or on many occasions. I would have understood. She was right, I was a doofus. But the image I loved of her most was her expression of pain and vulnerability on the night of the round up dinner. When I made her smile through her pain, I felt like I saved her life. I felt like she loved me. 

Della and Whit came to a corral, and they jumped, easily clearing the fence. That single horse power was keeping up with my little 40-horse. But a hill came up and that’s when the road and trail separated. I made the curve east and they had to turn north. The last image I had was Della’s flying back legs and tail, and Whit leaning forward in the saddle, gripping the reins, her long brown hair flowing up and down to Della’s gallops. It was the last time I’d see Whit. 

Her always-thrilling presence was replaced with the constant torment of the one woman who would never love me. The only woman whose love I needed to be whole. To be happy. She didn’t break my heart. My heart was already broken, it was all I knew. Whit could have fixed my broken heart, but she had said, “Oh, fuck.” and turned away. 

Fuck. Where was Juno?  Where was God?  Why was I always alone? Whit could have simply said, “I love you, too.”  She could have even lied, that would have been okay. But she said, “Oh, fuck,” and walked away.

I had trouble driving because of the tears, and kept looking back, but Whit was gone. I pulled over and rested my head on the steering wheel and cried until an oil rig truck pulled up beside me.

“You broke down?”  One of the roughnecks asked.

Through my tears I said, “Just emotionally.”

The roughneck turned and said something to the guys in the back. I couldn’t catch much, but in the midst all of the “fuckin’ and fucks,” I heard him say something about me being on my period.

They sped the fuck off and I decided I’d wait until I got out of Wyoming to finish crying. 

Here are some excerpts from Rickrack- the beginning of the first chapter and chapter 35 where Rick is involved in the round up. Much to his dismay. Then chapter 51 when he is leaving the ranch for Arizona.