Dancing Deaf

by

Trampas Smith, MFA

A Dissertation

In

Literature and Language / Creative Writing

Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of Texas Tech University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

Approved

Dr. Jill Patterson Chair of Committee

Dennis Covington

Dr. Katie Cortese

Dr. John Beusterien

Mark Sheridan Dean of the Graduate School

May, 2016

Copyright 2016, Trampas Smith

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I. HOOKED ...... 1

II. FOUNDERED ...... 47

III. BENT ………………………………………………………………………145

IV. FLUSH …….……………………………………………………………….267

V. INITIATED …………………………………………………………………371

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 1

Snagged

‘It is not hard to love those from whom nothing can be feared.’

- Dr. Johnson

THE NAME on his driver’s license was James Haskel, but people had started calling him Dirty in the seventh grade. The day it began, greeted with the word by smiling kids at an epidemic rate, he would have hit someone if there weren’t too many to single one out. The name spread so fast he never learned who said it first. Soon even people he didn’t know and his coaches were calling him Dirty. He felt sorry for himself at first, but once he accepted that there was nothing he could do about it, he saw that it wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen to him. Saying the name seemed to make people happier, no matter how mean-spirited they were, and his real name was common and plain anyway, and his school was the whitest and wealthiest of the town’s three, so he was helping to fill a void.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

Also, even he had to admit that the name fit him.

His mother, when he came home from school, was apt to look away, despairing, or stare dumbfounded at his transformation from the clean and odorless boy in good department store clothes whom she had let out of her car that morning. It was for his benefit that she was living in a trailer house—there was no use trying to call it a ‘manufactured home’ when nobody else did—just inside what was supposedly the best school district in town, so it was especially disappointing that he so often looked poorly and discharged an odor that could find you from the other side of a room. And the acne: even the dermatologist made a face when he looked at it.

It didn’t respond to any treatments, and scrubbing with soap only polished his cheeks to a rutted pink and purple shine.

The massive gift of hormones changed some boys practically overnight, werewolf-like, into capable little men. James—not yet Dirty—had watched his closest friend swell with muscles and rage and take charge of the football team. A lot of boys seemed enchanted with the competition that suddenly consumed them. James felt like he had a parasite in him, a bad one that couldn’t be stopped. Like the surface of the earth in its own juvenile stage, his skin was a violent, volcanic landscape. And he would rather not have had to touch himself and think about girls he couldn’t have. When his peers changed his name, it was just another major decision being made for him, by higher powers, with no consideration at all for his wishes.

At eighteen, puberty was still the worst thing that had happened to him, and the worst part of it seemed passed. It had been a few years since he had welled tears and punched something in his room without knowing why. He was alone together with himself slightly less often and felt only slightly guilty when he was. His skin was much clearer, though his

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 shoulders and face retained scars, his right cheek maimed by a welted curving ditch that he had already passed off as a knife wound to his coworkers.

An afternoon-and-weekend job at a construction equipment rental place became full- time about six weeks before he graduated when a man named Tommy Blake hopped off the forklift while it was still rolling because he wanted his Dr. Pepper, which waited upon a stack of pallets. He raised it to his lips just as the solid back tire rolled up onto his foot. Crushed the steel toe like so much tinfoil. The scream brought everyone running, but there was nothing to do but stop and stare. The forklift had rolled on over and the foot seemed to be stuck to the floor. Tommy’s clenched teeth showed: like a smile forced at gunpoint. Tears jumped from his eyes and he looked for some reason at the youngest of them, whom he knew least: begging or cautioning. Dirty said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but it was little more than a whisper.

It was such an awful scene that almost twenty-four hours passed before anyone laughed about it. At lunch, in the fried chicken place across the street, Dirty sat with two coworkers in a booth. The oldest of them, Charles Ray, said, ‘I’m sorry, but—your own foot?’

Dirty smiled crookedly. DJ laughed aloud, stopped himself abruptly and said, ‘Maybe he was trying to get workman’s comp.’

‘I guess he earned it,’ said Dirty. ‘That foot looked like a cartoon.’

‘Nah, he was just strung out,’ said Charles Ray, who had known Tommy the longest. ‘I doubt he’d slept in three or four days.’

‘He came in to work singing,’ said DJ. ‘I still can’t figure out how he did it.’

‘He probably can’t either.’ Charles Ray circled his corn on the cob machinelike. ‘Who knows. Maybe this’ll sober him up.’

‘It sobered me up,’ DJ said. ‘And I was already sober.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

As well as his initials, DJ was this young man’s occasional night job and true ambition.

He had given Dirty a CD that he and his computer had made together. Dirty was impressed, though the music made him paranoid. Often the two of them went to a bar after work, in a gradually vacating industrial zone on the Arkansas side of Texarkana. Courtesy of an older cousin, who was now a soldier in Iraq or Afghanistan, Dirty had an extra ID in his wallet. DJ was already twenty-one.

Dirty liked the Cedar Shack—a windowless concrete-block building with a marquee of gray wood shingles—because it was usually empty, the beer was cheap and his face was known, so he didn’t have to worry about sharp eyes noticing that he was neither blond nor six-foot- one. Also, the only employee was a woman, thirty-something years old, called Cricket (Dirty never knew why), who had once tongued his ear. Cricket had long legs and often wore tight jeans, and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. For the right audience— such as Dirty and DJ on a weekday afternoon—she liked to dance seductively to certain songs on the jukebox while playing pool. Dirty never saw her dance without a pool stick in her hands, or play pool without dancing. You might be in the middle of a game, and she would stroll over, take up a cue and start making shots. You might be dismayed, but then some old rock song would come on and Cricket’s pelvis would start to sway and undulate. She would make a shot, crouch and slide the thick end of the poolstick over her crotch three times—occasionally from the back forward, which had a very different effect—going lazy-eyed, then wiggle slowly back to the table, grinning not at you but toward you, and sink another ball. Her dancing made her pool playing better and vice-versa, and the whole thing made her more desirable. This was

Cricket’s element, and you didn’t mind her interrupting your game to demonstrate what she had apparently been put on Earth to do. Her transitions from loose dancing to precise pool

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 shooting were as bafflingly smooth as her mimicked intercourse was crass. You felt sorry for her and wanted to take her into the little office behind the bar at the same time. Dirty thought about Cricket at least once a day. It was hard to imagine her saying no to pretty much any request, but so far the only thing he had requested was ‘Another beer, please.’

He was sitting at the bar watching her chew her bottom lip and tap and swipe on her phone the day he learned that he had graduated from high school. Having never been an honor student, skipping the final six weeks for work had squeezed almost the last drop from his grade point average, as well as his mother’s sanity. He suspected that favoritism toward his mother, who was a well-liked substitute teacher, and his stepdad, who had one of the largest ad spaces at the football field, may have influenced the outcome. Which was fine. It meant a lot more to them anyway.

‘Cricket, what’re you doing there?’

‘It’s a game,’ she said without looking up.

‘Looks like you’re trying to redirect a missile.’

‘These pigs need my help.’

‘I think I might need your help.’

‘Hush.’

The door opened and threw bright sunlight on Cricket and the shelves behind the bar, the dusty glasses and paraphernalia, everything looking for a moment as tawdry and useless as it actually was. DJ brought in what he had gone out for: a poster promoting a gig at a dance club. He laid it on the bar. The top third featured the main attraction himself, but only from the nose up: eyes open wide, pupils pinwheels. For the middle section, Dirty had come up with, ‘DJ

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 the DJ Mixes Mystic Melodies for Your Ears Only.’ The bottom third was an ample pair of naked breasts with eyes in place of the nipples.

‘I think it gets your attention,’ DJ said. ‘I’m afraid those look like my titties, though.’

‘Yeah, like you own them. Not like they’re on your body.’

‘And I don’t know about DJ the DJ.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘It just sounds—dumb.’

‘I thought maybe it was all the way past dumb into smart.’

‘You’re thinking too much.’

‘What then?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve thought about lots of names. It all sounds like made-up bullshit.’

‘Just use your real name.’

‘I don’t know about Darnell Wilkerson, either.’

‘Maybe it’d be so lame it’s cool.’

‘You’re thinking too much again. You’ve got to have an image, if you want to make it anywhere. You’ve got to sell yourself.’

‘Well, if the music’s good enough it won’t matter what your name is, what you look like, whatever.’

‘You’d like to believe that.’

A moment passed. Cricket was still playing her game, shoulders hiked over her phone.

‘Hey man,’ Dirty said. ‘I don’t think I want to be called Dirty anymore.’

‘No?’

‘Yeah.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘Okay. James.’

‘Shhh.’ He gestured toward Cricket and mouthed: ‘That’s not my name here.’

‘Right. Sorry.’

‘It’s just—time.’

‘I understand. You can only make it so far with people calling you Dirty.’

‘I guess.’

‘Please welcome Senator Dirty Haskell.’

‘God dammit!’ Cricket got up from her stool, clenching her phone like she might throw it. She cursed a few more times, poured herself a shot of Southern Comfort and tossed it back. ‘I hate that game. I don’t know why I keep playing it.’

‘Hey, put this on the mirror for me, Cricket.’

‘Let me see. Aw, that’s you? You look trippy. So you play music?’

‘He pushes play,’ said Dirty.

‘That’s cool.’ Cricket stared at the poster stretched between her hands. ‘Hey, why don’t you have a show here, dude. I wouldn’t charge you nothing.’

‘Charge me? Man, I’m tryin’a get paid. Nobody comes in here. I debated if it was even worth putting up a poster in this shithole.’

She tore the poster in two and dropped the pieces into the garbage can. ‘Okay. You ain’t gotta debate no more then. Don’t want that nigger music in here anyway.’ She lit a cigarette and sat brooding on her stool, knees apart.

DJ looked into space. ‘If you’re not careful, you’re gonna hurt my feelings.’

‘You just be glad I don’t kick your ass out of here.’

‘His dad’s black,’ Dirty said.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘Aw, for real?’ Cricket’s eyes were large and dim. ‘I thought you was Mexican or something.’

DJ sipped his beer philosophically. ‘Nope. My mom’s a nigger lover.’

Dirty sprayed beer onto the bartop, wiped his mouth with his wrist.

Cricket glanced about as if there was someone who might overhear. ‘So am I,’ she said.

‘Don’t tell my boyfriend, though.’

A few minutes later, DJ and Cricket were playing pool, while Dirty or James sat looking at the photographs of smiling drunk people arrayed randomly with pushpins behind the bar.

Trapped souls staring through time, the gloss eroded. Some curled shut like rolled-up scrolls.

Have these passed on? Many had to be well into old age by now, drinking at home in front of the TV. Here, a giddy red-faced man with fat cheeks pressed between twin sets of painted lips.

And here is Cricket herself: flat stomach and a pink tube top, caught in the act of stumbling, eyes wrinkled with laughter. Teeth solid and white, not like now. In the mirror, he watched her gyrate. The DJ slouched against the wall, looking sly, intimating crude proposals. Between him and the neck of a vodka bottle, a white-haired woman sits on a stool with a cigarette, not smiling, her blouse opened to flaunt a mound of wrinkled cleavage. Older is just older: more lost than gained.

The door opened and he turned, squinting for the light. In walked a dark-headed girl, broad and round from the waist up, short shorts and legs tapering straight as pie wedges to duckish feet in flip-flops. As the door closed behind her, she scanned the room, pretending not to see him. Her face wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of a magazine. From Cricket in the back, who was lost to ZZ Top and DJ’s attention, she turned and saw the door caught just before closing by a small hand. Another blast of light and another girl appeared, in the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 same beach attire as the first. These young females were a small miracle in this place. The only other customers Dirty had seen were wearied men just off their shift at the tire factory.

He liked this second girl: smaller than the first in every respect but the hair, a long wavy broom of canary yellow that lost its iridescence as the door shadow passed across it. She stood beside her friend looking back at him. As his eyes dilated and her face glowed into full focus, he saw that she wasn’t shy, and if she was happy, it had nothing to do with him. He wasn’t sure at first that she was pretty, but quickly decided that she was: face shaped like a plump strawberry, with a low-set mouth and big brown eyes. He smiled without showing his teeth, raised an open hand. She kept watching him, inscrutable, and he felt vaguely like some zoo-kept creature.

Cricket yelled a greeting from the back. The newcomers went off toward her and Dirty took up his beer, the mouth of the bottle rattling against his teeth, the bottle empty. He watched in the mirror, then spun his stool around. The smaller one, from behind, was all hair and legs. Cricket’s chin rested on top of her head as they hugged. The big pretty girl stood to the side with hands on hips, grinning approval. The DJ chalked his cue, suave and plotting beside the juke box. Sliding from the stool quivering, Dirty felt frail: trapped in a child’s body.

He drew a long breath and tried to broaden his shoulders as he approached.

‘Hi,’ he said, looking only at the smaller girl. Cricket introduced him as Wendell, which was the name on his ID. He was disappointed that she had remembered, though not unappreciative that she had used (what she thought was) his given name, instead of what he was most often called. The bigger one was called Carleigh, and the smaller one, who wore too much makeup when she did not need any, was Destiny. It opened the door to any number of

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 cheesy lines, but she seemed too wise somehow, as he watched her talk to Cricket, and he was unsure anyway if such an approach was his style.

‘So, how are y’all related?’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Cricket.

‘I can tell by looking at you.’

‘You’re all beautiful,’ said DJ, turning to Carleigh, leering and whispering: ‘Especially you.’

Dirty looked at Destiny.

‘She’s my aunt,’ the girl said. ‘But we’re kinda like sisters.’

‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Are you still in school, or—?’

‘We’re from Snuff.’ She smirked: ashamed and prickly.

‘Oh, that’s—east of here?’

She seemed to think he had asked a dumb question, and he quit liking her.

Then he liked her again.

‘On the way to Shreveport,’ he said.

‘Snuff’s not really on the way to anything,’ Carleigh said.

‘Oh! It’s where the Sulphur and the Red River come together.’

‘Right,’ said Destiny, not at all impressed.

‘I’ve seen it on a map,’ Dirty said. When no response was forthcoming, he added, ‘I like to look at maps sometimes.’

He swallowed and everyone left him standing there all alone. Cricket asked Destiny about her mom and they started on that topic, Dirty watching Destiny again. Cricket said,

‘Girl, if sons of bitches were worth money we’d be the richest two women on earth,’ and

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

Destiny laughed, brief and wide open, a hand to her stomach as if she was in pain. Dirty realized he was smiling wide and toned it down, knowing that females didn’t like it when you were too nice. Also—again, according to an article in a men’s magazine at his stepdad’s dentist’s office—you were supposed to maintain eye contact at all times. He started to feel creepy about it, and she must have known what he was doing because she engaged him in a staring contest, going bug-eyed for the win. Then she looked away, kept talking but did not look at him again.

‘James, you’re just being stupid. And you’re not stupid.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘What doesn’t make sense is a young man like you, with opportunities that other people your age would kill for, and you just—’

‘I don’t know about murder, Mom.’

‘Shut up, please, and listen. The only reason you think I don’t know what I’m talking about is because you’re eighteen years old.’

His mom was as upset as he had ever seen her, but her voice just would not rise above a certain volume. She had spent too many years being polite.

‘I’ve got a job. Why is that such a bad thing?’

‘Because you could go to college. Most people never get the chance. I never got the chance.’

He took underwear and socks out of his drawer and stuffed them into his backpack. ‘I barely got out of high school.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘I know. Because of your job.’

‘You said I should get a job in the first place. Your husband got me hired.’

‘Honey, we didn’t think you were going to try to make a career of it.’

‘It’s not—You said you were gonna leave me alone about this. I’ve been going to school for twelve years. I’m fuckin sick of it.’

‘Please,’ she said, clasping her hands and looking down at the bright clean carpet. ‘Do not talk to me like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m your mother, and I’m asking you nicely, even though I shouldn’t have to.’

‘Maybe you should try it. It might make you feel better.’

‘Talk like that never makes anyone feel better.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Shit-ass ball fuckin chicken—’

‘James, for my—’

‘Fuckin fuckity fuck face—’

‘Stop iiIIIT!’

When the scream was over, she was red and short of breath and not quite ashamed.

‘See,’ Dirty said. ‘You feel better, don’t you.’

Her attempt to get angry broke with a grin, which she immediately tried to conceal. She glanced at him over her hand, then clouded up again, though not so darkly as before. It was spooky at times how much he was like his father. More so as he got older. That was what had been frustrating her lately, and it was what had made her smile just now. They hadn’t all been

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 bad times. Last she had heard, four or five years ago, he was working seven days at a time on a drilling rig off the Louisiana Coast.

With some things from his room on the seat beside him, he stopped at the Goodwill Store and bought a mattress—queen-size, having also read, in the aforementioned men’s magazine, that females instinctively reject anything smaller—a table and two chairs, a small chest of drawers, and a TV, all for eighty-seven dollars. He could have moved in to his apartment in fifteen minutes, instead of thirty, were it not on the second floor. The complex was a converted motel: each unit the size of two standard rooms, with bed and bath on one side and, through a door, den and kitchen on the other. The couch looked up at him. He had closed down the Cedar Shack the night before. He fell back onto the couch, his feel went up and when they came down a gash appeared in one of his sneakers, courtesy of a neglected big toenail.

He stared at it for a moment, despairing. Then he took a nap.

The cash from his first July paycheck was like some compact weapon in his pocket as he walked into the mall and straight for the Western apparel store. Wherever the idea of snakeskin boots had originated, it had not only stuck with him but had grown in power until it was practically a compulsion. Along with making him two inches taller, he vaguely expected them to provide him with more strut and aura, and maybe even set his life on a more epic course. The old salesman was almost too much to believe. He had a wooly moustache, a rodeo limp and a glazed, misdirected eye. Whatever they paid him, it wasn’t enough. Dirty thickened his accent. ‘Man, they’re sharp lookin,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid they don’t fit, though.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘They’ll be tight at first,’ the man said. ‘Probably raise blisters. But once you get em broke in, they won’t fit nobody but you.’

Outside the store, he tossed the ragged sneakers into a garbage can. In a pane of semi- reflective glass before the video arcade, which was empty now that kids had better games at home, he stopped to have a look. He hadn’t wanted to appear vain in front of the salesman, though he had tucked his jeans into them. They were a fine pearl gray with beige diamonds— rattlesnake—with flared white eagles’ wings on cowhide shafts.

‘Lookin sharp, young man,’ said an older black woman in a windsuit, one of three who whisked by just then, elbows high and pumping. He grinned.

The boots seemed to contract both at once, like actual snakes swallowing him from the bottom up. He walked on—clip-clop, clip-clop—cursing under his breath. He stopped to stomp his heels once each against the asbestos tile, which brought pulses of relief and sent whiplash echoes through the food court. A small boy clutched his mother’s rotund thigh, pretending to be scared. Dirty showed his teeth, pretending to be mean, and the boy thrust his bottom jaw forward, pretending to be meaner still. His mother kept playing with her phone, patting his head. Dirty laughed, and the boy slid slowly away, around his mother’s thigh. Dirty turned to his right and saw a familiar combination of hair and legs. Having just paid at the cookie stand,

Destiny, with no purse, bent to one side and used both hands to stuff change into a tight front pocket. Multi-colored jewels lined the cuffs of her denim shorts, and she wore a tight white T- shirt, mostly covered by the hair. She took her enormous cookie, took a bite, and, hearing the boots’ approach, turned back.

‘Oh, hey dude.’ She finished chewing with no discernible swallow. ‘Map reader.’

‘And you’re the girl who likes Skittles on her cookies.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘It’s so good,’ she said. ‘Here.’

Taking the piece she broke off for him, his hand might have trembled slightly. Big brown eyes looking slightly up at him. Dark roots under the blonde. She was still pretty in this light, but in a raw, undernourished sort of way. He ate. The warm candies liquefied when their shells cracked, spilling sour rivulets that solidified and tugged at his toothfillings. In truth he wasn’t partial to sweets, but he squinted and moaned as if it was painfully good.

‘Told you, right? I need at least one a week.’

‘Hmm. Yeah.’

‘You’re gonna have to buy your own if you want more.’

‘I don’t want to get addicted. Ah. . . . I was gonna ask you—’

‘What made you change your mind?’

‘I mean, I am asking you, now, if you want to go do something sometime? With me.’

The way she looked at him, he might have asked to borrow her car. Eventually, she said, ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know, anything.’

‘You don’t know anything? What does that mean?’

She seemed confused and suspicious. Dirty started to talk, but nothing good was going to come out. He looked at her again. ‘You like giving me a hard time.’

‘Not really. It’s almost too easy.’

She was grinning just slightly now. He did not know what to say, and considered, for a moment, just leaving her there: showing her that he was amused and wise before turning his back, like the good guy in some black-and-white Western.

‘So your name’s Wendell,’ she said, twisting the name with implied judgment.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘No. I’m impressed you remembered, though.’

‘Oh, yeah, I hadn’t been able to quit thinking about you.’

He smirked. ‘I’m James. Is your name really Destiny?’

‘Yeah. It means, like, fate or something.’

‘I know.’

‘Why did Cricket say your name was Wendell?’

She raised an eyebrow, waiting. He started to speak, then took out his wallet and showed the two IDs, side-by-side.

‘James Haskell,’ she said. ‘I’m older than you.’

She stood close enough beside him that a few strands of her hair clung to his cheek. He could smell her: unperfumed, strong and not exactly like anything he had smelled before. His heart raced idiotically. The yellow hair fell across her face but he could see the tip of her nose and her lips as she kept studying the IDs. Her elbow laid against his forearm, and for a moment he knew the exact shape of her entire body.

‘I think I like Wendell better,’ she said. ‘He’s cuter.’

‘But you’re still gonna go out with me,’ he said. He was trembling a little, hopefully not so much that she would notice. She didn’t say anything, but he could see that she was smiling.

James cleaned his apartment, his truck and himself. He even bought cologne, but could not work up the nerve, or whatever was required, to spray himself with it.

She was a receptionist at a small used car dealership. He picked her up out front at six o’clock on a Thursday and took her to a sort of recreational complex a few miles north of town:

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 mini golf, go-carts and batting cages. She went straight for the go-carts. After he paid—she seemed to expect it, which was fine with him—she crept along the line of carts, like a horsetrader inspecting a string of ponies, before choosing one.

On the track, she was fearless: yellow hair writhing and popping over the engine like an enraged Medusa. At a family reunion when he was a boy—long enough back that his dad might have even been there, though if he was, James did not remember—a cousin’s long hair had caught in a go-cart’s drive chain. The cart skidded to a halt, slewing dust, the motor smoking, the cousin contorted, pinned back screaming at the sky but lucky, the adults all agreed, not to have broken her neck. Some old man cut through the hair with his pocket knife, mangling a lifetime’s work, and she went sniffling into the house in search of a mirror. As Destiny lapped him, clipping his front tire and wiggling black fingernail smudges onto the track, James was relieved to see that her engine was housed in a wire cage.

On the way back to his truck, he ventured into the cotton field adjacent the parking lot and picked her a boll. She took it without comment and pushed the stem into her hair, which had about doubled in size and ferocity.

‘I just wish mine would have been as fast as yours,’ he said. ‘So we could really see who the best man is.’

‘Yours must notta liked you,’ she said, and spit her gum off into the dirt.

He picked her up from work again a few days later. There was an abandoned luxury hotel downtown that you could enter through a busted ground-floor window. On the fifteenth floor—it was the tallest structure in town—was a derelict penthouse with a tile veranda from which you could see for miles. It had been a favored retreat for gangsters during prohibition—

Texarkana being just large enough to have such a hotel—when G-men brought the heat to St.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

Louis and Chicago. Several times, Dirty had gone up to look over the town and the carpet of piney woods beyond. Once, he had heard a man behind a door, groaning with pain or insanity.

On a winter day, he left the stairwell onto a random floor and saw, telescoped at the far end of the long hallway, some haggard crone, a new-looking child’s sleeping bag draping her shoulders like a fur from some slain Dr. Seuss creature, eyes unreadable in the gloom. How many souls were kept by this place? Loveless commune of the forsaken. Today, he had his .22 revolver with him. In the belief, or hope, that Destiny would appreciate the surprise and originality of such a date, he did not tell her where he was taking her. Nor did she ask.

Stopped at a red light, with the hotel in sight down the street, she said, ‘Hey, that’s my girl!’ She opened her door, hopped out of his truck, ran up to the little car in front of them and rapped on the glass. The three people inside it, Carleigh and two males, all laughed and chattered. The light turned green, and Destiny hopped in. As they drove away, she smiled and waved at him through the back glass, growing smaller. The light turned red and green again before he moved.

He had not thought that he would, but he got another chance the next week. They drove around the Red River bottoms, past farms and groves of pecan trees, and drank a twelve-pack, finally trespassing down to the river to shoot his pistol at debris floating past on the chocolate milk water. The sun was low, and the colors it made against the dome of the sky spread and changed and blended just too slowly to see. They sat in high grass with their feet dangling over an orange clay bluff, fifty feet down to the water. He leaned over and kissed her. She was sweet and warm, but she scarcely kissed him back. After he quit trying, he considered for a moment

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 that she might just be a bad kisser. But her crooked lips and satisfied eyes told the truth. James looked out at the river.

‘Whu-ut?’ She turned down her mouthcorners just slightly.

He glanced her and looked down to the water. A drifting whirlpool gathered foam. ‘Just don’t,’ he said. ‘If you don’t want to, just don’t.’

She watched the river as well. Perhaps a minute passed. Then she took his hand and pushed her fingers between his.

She lived with her mother in Snuff, but she was in Texarkana five days a week for her job.

Having no car of her own, she was always driving something shiny with a big yellow sticker on the glass. One afternoon, she picked him up from work in a black Lexus. Dirty’s coworkers stood watching behind the chain-link fence: DJ grinning; Tommy astounded; the boss, Mr.

Will, even more depressed than usual.

She blasted hip-hop on the stereo and knew most of the words. The luxury seemed to invigorate her. She told him all about Carleigh’s trouble with her fiancé, who was deployed overseas and had cut off communication.

‘You don’t think he met some girl over there,’ Destiny asked. ‘Some Afghanistany woman.’

‘I think they keep a pretty short leash on their women over there. Maybe he’s on a top secret mission.’

‘That’s what I told her. Like, maybe he’s huntin what’s-his-name. Blew all that stuff up.’

‘Maybe he turned gay.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘He would totally kick your ass if he heard you say that. Hey, there it is!’

Just over the Louisiana line, she turned off the road at a small hut with a grass skirt, a rusted tin roof and a drive-up window. The menu, painted on the wood siding, had peeled and faded but was still decipherable, like the rainforest tableau that surrounded it: parrots and monkeys and a panther awash in foliage.

‘So your boss just lets you drive whatever you want, huh.’

‘He’s sweet,’ she said. ‘He just feels sorry for me cause I’m poor. Ooo, I’m gittin Atomic

Cherry Bomb.’

James nearly asked if he could drive. Instead, he told her, ‘I’m driving back. Switch with me.’

She got out and came around and sat in the passenger seat—James holding the door and closing it for her—without removing her lips from her straw. He let the car idle up to the roadside, braked, put it in park. They drew mouthfuls from their daiquiris: shaved ice drenched in Everclear and chemical piquant in quart-sized styrofoam vessels. Corrupted snowcones. The casinos in Shreveport, just thirty minutes farther down the treelined road, beckoned. After this last purchase, he had a total of eleven dollars in his wallet, and payday was three days on. Bet it on roulette, let her choose the color. Roll the dice. Double and double again. A complimentary suite, champagne and steaks . . . .

‘Fool.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

He headed back toward Texarkana. The car was so fine it practically drove itself. The daiquiri made his insides soft and simple, and the music enveloped and overwhelmed.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

Approaching the turnoff to Snuff, he lowered the volume with a button on the steering wheel and asked if she wanted to show him her home town.

‘Hell no. That place sucks. I don’t think I’m ever goin back.’

‘Good. I’m not sure it’s the best place for you, honestly.’

‘It’s not the best place for anybody. Except retards.’

‘Is there really a hanging tree? I was talking to my stepdad the other day. He said they paved a road around it so they wouldn’t have to cut it down.’

‘Oh gawd. They’re a bunch of assholes, aren’t they?’

She seemed genuinely anxious for confirmation.

‘Why, hell yes,’ he said. ‘Bunch of ignorant crackers.’

‘I mean like, for-real haters. And they’re proud of it! I’m like, Y’all people go to church, what’s up? One time when I was in eighth grade I was out with some seniors and they tried to burn a cross in some Mexican people’s yard.’

James laughed. ‘What do you mean tried?’

‘They didn’t have anything to make it stand up, so they found a shovel in the back of the

Mexican guy’s truck and started diggin a hole. But then the Mexican guy came out and started yelling at em, in Mexican, and they got scared and burnt off. I was like, “Y’all are so stupid!”

The next time I drove by that house the cross was standing up in his yard and it had all this, like, Catholic stuff on it. Candles and beads and whatnot.’

James choked up with laughter. The bumps along the center stripe of this two-lane road barely registered through the car’s liquid suspension, but a chime repeated and a light flashed on the instrument panel: ‘Rough surface. Reduce speed.’ He righted the ship, and set the cruise control at four over the limit.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘I thought that was pretty smart too,’ she said. Her smile was unguarded like he hadn’t seen it before. ‘Oh! And the next year Carleigh and me got us a couple of black guys her sister knew from Bossier City to go to homecoming with us. You shoulda seen it. They were real big so nobody tried to fight em. And we were like, dirty dancin and stuff. It was awesome.’

‘Yeah. Sounds like it.’

‘Oh, stop.’

‘What?’

‘That look.’

‘I don’t have a look. Well, there’s the turn.’

They watched the stop-sign junction of the road to Snuff, which ended at the junction of two rivers, slide past.

‘Somebody ought to blow up the bridge that goes in there,’ she said. ‘So nobody could get out.’

‘Oh, yeah. They’d have to eat each other.’

‘They would.’

‘We’ll get some dynamite somewhere. I already know you’re the best thing to come out of there anyway.’

‘I don’t know. I probably don’t have the best reputation around there, but I’m like, screw you people.’

‘Yeah. Screw em all.’

They went to a trailer house on the south side of town, rented by Carleigh and a male friend from Snuff who was gay and whose name was also James. The carpet smelled like animals. They shared a joint. It was his second time to smoke the stuff. The first time had hit

22

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 him like a punch to the head and clouded his brain, but since he was already good and drunk, this time it just sent him further down the road and he talked more than he ever had in his life.

He liked these Snuffites. You could say anything.

The next two times he asked her out, she claimed to have other plans, though she was not specific. Alone in his apartment: ‘I’ll just wait till you call me then. See how you like it.’

As strategy, it seemed like the only real option. Another call, an impromptu visit, was out of the question. She needs you to show you can lay off, to prove it. Came on strong, came across weak. Eager. Because I was. Am. You want a game. This is a game, fine. And if time is all that’s left to play it with, time is what I’ll use.

But he had concerns. Suspicions. Visions visited, unwanted but overwhelming, several featuring her boss, whom he had never seen: a faceless man. Animal groans and groping in the shadows, reluctant passion in a wood-paneled office. She likes you a little, but this man she can’t resist, and he doesn’t even care. . . . On the big desk with her knees apart. He shuddered, as if some rank ghost had passed through him. It was far from impossible. This is the real world, where adults live, and she could grind you into gravel if you’re not careful. His hands seemed nearly to work his phone on their own, while the rest of him felt puny and pitiful.

But she answered.

‘Ah. Hey.’

‘Hey.’

He started to speak, his breath paused. He had nothing.

‘What did you want?’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘Just, are you hungry? I could bring you lunch.’

‘Bring me some tacos,’ she said. Tacos was nearly all she ate.

By the time James got to Celebrity Pre-Owned, he had built up some composure and even a little confidence. He planned to go and shake hands with the boss, look him in the eye, size him up. But the boss’ door was closed. Destiny smiled when she saw him, got up and gave him a hug, which he was careful not to hold any longer than she did, which seemed like a mistake as soon as she let him go. Should have squeezed her like you wanted to.

She sat behind her little glass-top desk and dug into the sack. ‘You were sayin some crazy shit the other night.’

‘Was I? It seems like I was getting a lot of stuff figured out.’

‘If you could only remember what it was, huh? Sit down.’

He gladly did as told, choosing one of the two plastic chairs in front of her desk, opened a taco wrapper, tore a corner from a hot sauce packet. ‘I remember wishing you didn’t leave me alone on the couch.’

‘Oh, it wadn’t easy.’ She grinned, squinting at him over her straw.

‘You managed to resist my charms.’

‘I managed.’

They looked at each other.

‘You want to go to a movie later?’

Three young punks slouched jabbering on the first row, otherwise the theater was empty. The movie was about hapless vapid teenagers lost in New York City’s sewers, hunted by cannibals. Destiny gripped his forearm the first time a cannibal took a bite. He leaned over and kissed her neck. She sighed, and he went after her ear. Next thing he knew her tongue was

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 in his mouth. She laid her hand on his lap and squeezed gently two or three, five or six times.

And he couldn’t help it, could not stop himself. He just barely shivered, but she knew. ‘God dammit,’ he whispered, the shame like instant cancer. But here is what she did: she leered at him in the silvery reflection from the screen, the slightest crooked grin on her lips, her hand on his thigh. She was amused, but she also seemed to like it. Or pretended to. He looked her in the eye, shook his head slightly. ‘You’re just too god damned sexy.’ She leaned toward him and they kissed slowly for a few seconds, James feeling big as a football player, and bigger: expanding to fill the theatre. Then she hugged his arm and they watched more of the movie. It really was not worth a shit. Life itself was far better.

‘I’ll be right back.’ He got up and went to the bathroom, where paper towels and an electric blowdryer were put to good use. By the time he was clean, James felt small again: insubstantial enough to be sucked into the dryer were its motor to reverse. Absurd was the word. Betrayed by his own body. Then he thought of a poem that someone had written on, or carved into—the bathroom wall at the Cedar Shack:

See dick. Dick is dumb. See dumb dick wake up. See dumb dick puke. See dumb dick go back to sleep. Sleep dick sleep!

Never before had it seemed profound. It was in a unisex bathroom, so it could have been by anybody, but he figured a woman had probably done it. (Surely no man had penned the little adendum beside it: ‘Die dick die!!!’) Either way, it made him smile just now. His boxer shorts in the garbage and his jeans just barely stained, he left the movie theatre’s bathroom—tile all the way to the ceiling, so you couldn’t carve any poems—feeling exactly his own size.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

In a chain restaurant afterward, Destiny, with no fake ID, approached the bar, and he watched with pride and with awe as she flirted with the bartender and returned with a frozen margarita, settling into her side of the booth with one dark eyebrow raised: proud of herself but trying to play it cool. He acted less impressed than he was, took the glass, licked salt from the rim. A guy from school, a sort of friend, strolled by saying, ‘Dirty.’

She stared at him, dim and ravenous. ‘Did he just call you Dirty?’

‘Nah. It’s just—a few people used to call me that in school.’

‘That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. It’s perfect.’

‘Nobody really calls me that anymore.’

‘Dirty,’ she said, her eyes hovering catlike over the big frozen drink.

He hated her. For a moment.

In addition to pushups, he did curls and crunches. He bought a half gallon of protein powder

(which tasted nothing like Tang, which he had enjoyed as a child and which the astronauts took to the moon) and went through it in two weeks. During a slow afternoon at work, in a back corner of the warehouse, he took up a trailer tongue, a squared-off length of steel that bit into whichever bony shoulder he laid it across, and started doing squats, then lunges, tapping a knee, legs quivering, cheeks puffing, sweat drizzling, deeper and deeper into pride and misery.

When he finally shrugged it clanging to the concrete, he listed in a half circle on twinkletoes, spent and weightless, and saw Tommy Blake standing beside the huge air compressor. Tommy took a bite of his sandwich and said, ‘I believe I’d use the forklift if I was you.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

In early August, he took her canoeing on a river in Arkansas. DJ and Carleigh came along. The former was still working on the latter—not exclusively, but relentlessly when he was around her—and though his progress was slow, if not dubious, he did not seem to lose any heart. Carleigh was holding out for her fiancé, who, the Marines had confirmed, was still alive.

Destiny called him Dirty most often, James when she was feeling sweet. Whoever he was, he felt comfortable enough to take off his shirt. Sitting in the back watching her, the sunlight coming and going through the trees, the Caddo River low and the water just barely cool. He had to get out and push or drag the canoe often, Destiny in the bow like a redneck

Cleopatra. In a broad and placid place, Carleigh and DJ called back that a hat had fallen out.

‘It’s over there, on the bank,’ Carleigh said. James dipped his paddle and steered in the direction they pointed. ‘Right under that big branch,’ said DJ. James swung his end of the canoe toward the bank, seeing no hat, and the other two began to laugh. Something was hilarious. He and

Destiny looked at each other, puzzled. Her eyes turned up, and her mouth opened. He looked up and saw snakes: within striking distance, three or four or a hundred of them tangled in the foliage looking down at him. He shuddered, shrank into himself, dipped his paddle and pulled.

Destiny spun around taking up her paddle, and the laughter got louder.

In the sunlight, he was too angry and perplexed even to yell at them. And their big dumb smiles. What is wrong with people? And here is Destiny laughing, too.

He asked them all a very serious question: ‘What the fuck?’

But there never was an answer.

They took a break on a gravel beach. With them was a jug of spiked punch and a twelve pack, but no one was much interested in drinking. They all understood that this was nearly a perfect day and alcohol could not improve it. Where the gravel met the woods, a vein of clay

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 ran along about waist high: reddish brown, like old blood, with curled dry roots sticking out.

James poked a finger into the clay and tore open a fresh wound. He looked at the stuff on his finger, then brought it in to his face, cool and alive, where the bridge of his nose met his cheek, and dragged a thick line under his eye. After matching the other side, he painted lightning bolts from his temples down to his jaw. Destiny was there. She took some on her finger and showed it to him. He faced her and straightened his spine, like a soldier at inspection. She touched him on the shoulder, the left one, and painted a line all the way down to his right hip. As she did this, she seemed both amused and weirdly reverent, while he felt just about everything at once.

She started on the other side, and when the lines intersected in the notch below his breastplate, she lingered there for a moment—almost unbearably, where his eyes fell shut—before continuing along his pale flat belly to the other hip, completing the X. He shuddered slightly, losing control of himself.

‘Now do me,’ she said, and drew her shoulders back.

He did as told, with much squinting, craning and crouching: as if he were committed artist and not just a boy trying to hide his erection.

Back in town, they hung out at his place, everyone feeling ten or twenty years older than they had that morning and still not drinking much. When DJ said he was leaving and offered to give rides, Carleigh accepted. That Destiny would follow was a forgone conclusion, but she said, ‘I think I’ll stay. If it’s okay with James.’

It was okay with James. Alone together in the kitchen, she approached tired and impish, and hugged him. ‘I just want to sleep,’ she said. ‘Can we just go to sleep?’

That was okay, too.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

When he woke in the morning, he could tell by the quality of the light through the blinds that it was time to get ready for work. But she was beside him, her back turned and her hair spilled out across her pillow, breathing softly like some strange creature he had found and brought home. Getting out of bed would have been ridiculous. He scooped her hair and laid it higher on the bed, raised the blanket and scooted closer to her, his arm across her ribs. She made a soft sound, took his wrist, and pulled him against her. He kissed her neck, and she made another sound.

They both knew, with no need to discuss it, that she had more experience than he did.

What he lacked in craft and stamina, he tried to make up for with caution: slow and tentative, until her wet sighs and her body tender against him and drawing from him started, far too soon, he collapsed. An avalanche of heart and volition rushed out of him and transferred to her, and he was both more satisfied and more terrified than he had ever been in his life. He fell slowly against her and hugged her with an arm across her breasts. She took hold of his wrist, kissed his hand, firm and brief, and got out of bed.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Sideways to him, facing the vanity mirror that was over the sink, she buttoned her shorts. ‘Hey.’

‘What’s up?’

She pulled her T-shirt down over her head and scooped out the hair. ‘I’m just getting dressed.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I know I don’t have to.’ She glanced at him with what looked like contempt. Then, as she faced herself again, a strange grin appeared. ‘I just don’t want you to look at me naked.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘You’re insane.’

‘It’s gross.’

‘No. It definitely is not.’

‘Yes,’ she said, lifting her shirt, frowning at her soft little belly. ‘It is.’

As summer ended—according to the calendar, not the weather: it was still warm in the early morning, and hot the rest of the time—she spent her nights either with Carleigh, with her mom back or at his place. Once she stayed with him two nights in a row, but then a week passed before it happened again. She still called him Dirty for the most part. He couldn’t get used to it completely, to any of it. He wanted to have more control over the direction of things, and tried, such that he could, to take more control. But she was the one making decisions. He could pretend, but only she could decide anything, and not only did he not understand how she came to her decisions, he rarely understood what it was that she was deciding. Maybe she didn’t know either. Thinking about her at work one day, spraying hunks of dried mud from a track hoe with a pressure washer, a word came to him. At lunch, he looked up the definition and it turned out to be accurate. The word was fickle. He was a little impressed with himself for knowing it, but the word itself did him absolutely no good.

He managed to see her more days than not—if only for a meal, or a cookie—and when she did sleep at his place, they slept in the same bed, but much too often—if not most often— sleep was all that happened. Booze loosened her up only in public. Whatever happened in the evening, she always slept hard and seemed far away. Twice he lay awake beside her while she made quick sounds that were like words but not, her eyeballs darting about under their lids, her

30

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 expression awash in grief and dread. If he asked what she dreamt about, she would say she didn’t remember.

She decorated very little, cleaned not at all, came and went as she pleased. On the

Friday after Labor Day, he made her dinner, as planned—spaghetti and garlic bread and green beans from a can: one of his mother’s staples—and she didn’t show up nor return his text messages. Eventually, he ate a few bites, then did pushups till he was stuck to the floor. Took a shower. Tried to pay attention to a movie. Just after eleven, she sent a message: ‘We R at the

Shack. Come on up!’

Well, he pulled on his boots and headed that way. Planning what he would say to her and how to say it. Not bitchy: he didn’t get his feelings hurt. But just, ‘Hey, that’s kinda rude, don’t you think?’

She was quite drunk, just inside the door with a few others. ‘It’s Dirty! I love Dirty.’ She hugged herself and turned back toward the group with her head tilted to one side. ‘Don’t y’all?’

‘He’s a sweetheart,’ said the other James.

‘Fuck y’all,’ Dirty said, only half-joking.

‘Come here.’ Destiny stood and slunk toward him, wrapping him up, kissing his neck and whispering in his ear, ‘I love you.’

Then she left him standing there like a tree.

‘He needs a shot!’ Cricket hollered, and several others said that they needed one too.

In the morning, he still thought, still couldn’t quit thinking: That didn’t come out of nowhere, even if she was drunk.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

In the afternoon, he went with her to see her mother. She didn’t want him to go at first, or pretended not to: asked why he wanted to meet hers when she didn’t want to meet his? He said, ‘I just want to see what you’re going to look like when you grow up.’

Which worked.

As well as her mother, he wanted to see Snuff, having heard a few anecdotes. The place was infamous, especially among older generations. His stepdad, Jimbo, had grown up in a more advanced small town in Southwest Arkansas and had played basketball against the Snuff

Wampus Cats. Jimbo had said that they ‘looked like a bunch of brothers. All white as paper, with pencil-thin moustaches, and their eyes too close together. They didn’t wear numbers, which couldn’t have been legal, cause you couldn’t keep up with who you were supposed to guard. If you tried to post up, they’d squeeze your balls. And they had a real mascot, a wild cat, in a wire cage, up on a little platform where it could watch the game. I swear it’d get mad when the other team scored.’

Tommy Blake had told him about a sign by the road on the way into town, which had only been removed in the first years of the current century. Below Welcome to Snuff, someone had contributed a homemade wooden placard that said, Don’t let the sun set on your black ass.

In James’ imagination, the town was all clouds of mosquitoes and glaring pale people.

On a map, it was near the tip of a finger of land that tapered until the Sulphur River gave itself to the Red.

Along the right side of the road lay a long murky bayou flecked with egrets, on the left a Dairy Queen, a Dollar General. Nice-looking stone courthouse beside the food stamp office.

The people in view were indeed quite pale. A fat lady crossing an intersection on a motorized wheelchair glared with sunken eyes at the two of them in the white Mercedes. In an old

32

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 neighborhood with pocked asphalt streets, an abandoned house had been taken over by a cypress tree: limbs sprouting from windows and the crown pushed through the roof. The sound of a chainsaw and, in the sideview mirror: small sunburnt kids clustered upon a four-wheeler, five or six of them with no shirts or helmets, coming on fast and screaming by in the ditch.

They hit a driveway and caught air. ‘Jesus!’ James gasped, but the children merely bounced like a tossed mop, the unseen driver veered away slinging mud across a vacant lot and they all leaned hard to the right like a single organism.

Destiny parked before a wooden house at the street’s dead end. On the roof, patches of moss draped over sunbaked shingles curled like tortilla chips, veins of mulch in the valleys giving rise to small trees, the yard waist-high with weeds, poison ivy creeping through a windowsill, and on the porch a pile of phonebooks wrapped individually in plastic, progressively darker with fungus toward the bottom. ‘It’s not as bad inside,’ Destiny said.

Before she knocked, the door groaned open. It was Cricket. Without a trace of lunacy, and smaller around the middle. A miracle exorcism. She grinned and said to Destiny, ‘He met

Cricket, huh.’

He looked between the two of them. To the apparition, he said, ‘Twins.’

‘Oh, this one’s smart.’

‘This is my mom,’ Destiny said. ‘Pauline. Mom, this is my friend Dirty.’

‘James,’ he told her. ‘Nice to meet you.’

She turned away, the big gas station cup in her hand wafting fumes that untangled the fine hairs in his nostrils. He watched her amble into the den, stopping to raise her drink and shake her hips to the guitar solo on the TV: the legs identical, the wiggling less flagrant. ‘Make y’selves a drank,’ she called, going into the kitchen.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘I’ll bet her and Cricket were dangerous in high school,’ he said. ‘Did they ever play tricks on people? Like, pretend to be each other.’

‘I don’t think so. But one time a girl threw it on mom’s boyfriend, and—’

‘Threw it on.’

‘Yeah, it. And they ran the bitch down on a dirt road and pulled her out of her car, and

Cricket, like, twisted her face down into the road.’ Destiny arched an eyebrow: grossed out and intrigued. ‘Messed her grill all up.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Actually, they both blame it on each other, which one did that part.’

‘Which one do you think is lying?’

‘I don’t care. They both did it.’

Pauline came back into the den and she and Destiny talked to each other like Dirty wasn’t there. Which was fine with him. He had been together with Destiny and her aunt several times and had become fascinated by their similarities: by the power of blood. But mother and daughter were much more alike: it was immediately obvious, surreal and disconcerting and wonderful. When either of them told about something shocking or grave, they would freeze for several heartbeats, wide-eyed and tight-lipped, and you knew they didn’t really mean it. Their accents were marked by what sounded like some isolated Cajun dialect, more pronounced with Pauline, who discussed people from reality TV and the local gossip almost interchangeably, where Dirty, as he sipped his bourbon, lost track of who was on TV and who lived in Snuff. After telling about so-and-so’s husband slipping around on the sly,

Pauline snubbed out her menthol and said philosophically, ‘Men and their ding-dongs.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

The first two fingers of Destiny’s right hand wiped firmly across her brow and rubbed tiny circles into the temple. Apparently this axiom was a refrain. Pauline lit another, looked at

Dirty and said, ‘Idn’t that right?’

‘Ah, no ma’am. I don’t have one, actually. I think you’re gonna like me.’

The liquor was working. She gave him the same flat stare with which she had greeted him at the door. ‘Don’t ma’am me,’ she said. ‘I just ain’t ready to be a grandmomma. You want me to like you, put a hat on it.’

‘Momma! Don’t talk like that. It’s trashy.’

Pauline took a big sip. ‘Did I think I’d get knocked up?’ Her voice was going hoarse.

‘No. You think I wanted to have you, sweetness? But here you are. I’m just trying to do my job and look out for you, best I can.’

‘Well thank you so-o-o much. You’re the best momma a girl could have.’

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I ain’t the worst. You wait. . . . You just wait.’

Later, Destiny lay against him on the couch, a small soft breast spread against his ribs.

There was a sci-fi movie on the big flatscreen TV. Pauline, after she had begun to slur and misspeak, was passed out hugging her knees on her recliner, as if cradled by a giant hand, looking far more peaceful than she had all night. Destiny put her mouth on his collar bone.

‘Jesus,’ he said, hooked a thumb behind her shorts and pushed downward.

But she did not ask him to spend the night. Pauline had to go to Texarkana tomorrow, and she would pick up the Mercedes then. So Dirty found himself driving back alone at three in the morning, happy as he had ever been but slapping himself to stay awake.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

On Sunday, he awoke to Destiny standing across the room with her back to him, thickening her eyelashes in the vanity mirror. She was in her best clothes.

‘What’re you up to?’

She kept at the eyelashes for long enough that he wondered if she hadn’t heard. Finally she said, ‘I’m going to church.’

He sat up. She had never even hinted at having religion. ‘I’ll go with you. It’s been long enough, I guess.’

‘No, thanks.’ She fluffed her bangs with a round brush.

‘I really wouldn’t mind.’

‘I know. It’s just . . . It’s my church.’

She wasn’t angry, but she was adamant. When she turned to face him, he had the clearest vision yet of the lady within, the version of Destiny that could have developed had she been raised in classier circumstances. And could develop yet. The dark roots were three inches long now, and he wanted all the bleached stuff beyond to match. It was no fundamentalist denomination with its hooks in her for she wore a red low-cut blouse and a black skirt that showed her knees, spiked heels, and a string of high-gloss pearls.

‘You look beautiful.’

‘You think so?’

She seemed anxious. His head cocked slightly to one side. ‘When’s the last time you went to this church?’

Her bottom lip pushed the top one up in a false frown; her eyes pointed his way but she did not look at him. ‘Not long before I met you,’ she said, and left the room. He had always thought women looked silly in high heels until he saw her walk away in them.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

The next Sunday when he awoke, she was already gone. Again she returned with exaggerated cheer and carelessness, but this time it wasn’t until midnight, and she was drunk.

When he asked what was wrong with her phone, she said it had died and that, after church, she had gone to Snuff to help her mom with a garage sale, then went to Carleigh’s for a while.

When he asked what her church would think about her being drunk on the Sabbath, she said, ‘I guess I’m just not a very good Christian,’ and closed the bathroom door behind her.

In the morning at work, DJ confirmed that Destiny had been around the night before.

Dirty exhaled relief and went back to believing that she had been at church. He still hadn’t laid eyes on her boss, so he drove to Premier Pre-owned determined to do so, even if it meant overstaying his lunch break. The boss was out on the lot. Big and old and not handsome, he chattered to a young Chicano couple with bravado and desperation, and Dirty understood that

Destiny was only eye candy in this place.

Still, like the week before, she shied from his touch on Sunday and Monday and returned to him gradually through the week. She had always been utterly fickle with her affections, so this pattern was alarming. He guessed that her church was telling her she was living in sin.

The next Sunday, she dressed up again, withdrawn and duty-bound, and denied, less politely this time, another request to accompany her. But she agreed to be back by one o’clock so they could drive up to the Ouachita Mountains, take a hike, and maybe swim. She had fond memories of the Ouachitas from childhood, courtesy of one of her mom’s boyfriends, the one who had tried the hardest. When she came back at two, he didn’t say anything. They headed north as planned. She scarcely spoke. On the trail, she kept ahead of him and never looked back.

After reaching the rocky river, they did not swim. She watched the water flow past for a few

37

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 minutes, then turned back into the woods. As he followed, the sun set. Fireflies began to appear.

The first thing Destiny had said in half an hour was ‘Lightning bugs.’ Dirty caught one. He was going up to show her but didn’t feel it moving. He stopped and opened his hand. Still aglow, it curled into death, kissing its own ass goodbye.

The next day on his way home from work, he saw a white-haired lady tending a lush front-yard flower garden. He parked on the street. She stood and watched him approach, clutching the rake handle against her chest. Raising an open hand and showing his teeth, he said, ‘Ma’am, your garden sure is pretty.’

She said thank you and briefly smiled back. On the grass beside her, a wicker basket was half filled with clipped blossoms, pink and yellow and blue. He had thought he might tell her he was going to the hospital to see a sick relative. Instead he said, ‘If you could spare a few flowers, I’d pay you for them. Or do some work, if you’ve got something that needs carried or something.’

The lady released the breath she had been holding and fanned herself. ‘Goodness me,’ she said. ‘Help y’self. You’ve got a sweetheart, don’t you?’

He blushed. ‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Just take all you want. Goodness me, you are so cute.’

The bouquet seemed to really affect Destiny. She sat on the couch holding it, looking guilty.

He took her downtown, to the abandoned hotel. The air conditioning was out in his truck, so they were sweating when he parked around the corner from the broken window.

Someone had boarded it up, but on the first fire escape landing, a window was open. He took a tow strap from behind his seat, tied a brick to it, and threw the brick up to snag the iron ladder.

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Destiny watched with mild curiosity. She had not asked what they were doing here. After several attempts, he began to curse, feeling foolish. The brick fell over the first step and swung behind the strap. He pulled, but the ladder seemed to be rusted solid. His feet came off the ground.

‘Cops,’ said Destiny, and he dangled stiff like a side of beef, slowly turning. The cruiser rolled by, its driver staring at a flatscreen monitor on the dash. Dirty exhaled, and the ladder gave with a shriek. He stumbled backward as the contraption fell springless, bounced hard once and locked into its new position, snowing oxidation. He turned to her and gestured like an usher. ‘After you.’

‘No way. You first.’

He went up, and she followed, saying, ‘If we get arrested, you’re gonna pay my ticket.’

After helping her onto the landing, he pulled the little pistol halfway from his pocket.

‘I’m going down in a blaze of glory.’

‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Men and their ding-dongs.’

The window gave onto the mezzanine, which looked down onto the lobby. The marble floor was strewn with broken chairs, ashes from small fires, a filing cabinet prone and disemboweled of its documents. In the air before them, the silk of spiders festooned a brass and crystal chandelier, and at their feet was the small dried stool of critters or underfed bums. It was at least ten degrees cooler in here. They found the stairwell. A wind urged them upward, pushing harder as they ascended. A constant howling reached them from somewhere above, growing louder. The wind pushed harder, but their pace slowed. When Destiny clutched his elbow, he was all too aware of how it must have felt to her—sorry meat-glazed bone—but she kept clutching. Turning a corner, the door onto the seventh or eighth floor was propped open

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 with a bureau drawer. It moaned like an open mouth with a toothache. He pulled the door and kicked the drawer into the hallway. The door slammed and Destiny yelped, bolt upright but smiling. The moaning had stopped, thank God. Dirty offered his hand, and she took it.

At the top, he had to get low and use his shoulder to open the door. With a dying wail, it gave gradually then abruptly, as if breaking magnetism with the jam. A wind began pushing them again. He held her hand in his left, his pistol in his right, as they went down the hall toward the penthouse. Soft sunlight spilled from the open door. A long sofa, moved since the last time Dirty had been here, slumped across their path through the den, its floral print upholstery indistinguishable from blooms of mold. They went along a wall of broken mirrors— sight of some vagrant’s psychological warfare, perhaps—the remaining serrated sections and the shards piled along the baseboards reflecting brief random pieces of them both. Pigeons exploded into the sky when they stepped onto the veranda. Their shit was everywhere.

Destiny’s eyes were large, her mouth a straight line. He put the gun back into his pocket, and they moved up to the cracked stucco rail, laid their hands on it and looked out.

Grimy gray and once-white buildings, gravel lots barren but for obsolete machines rusted red, and, farther, the massive hull of a one-time brick factory swallowed in kudzu and poison ivy. For the first time, Dirty saw clearly that Texarkana was in an advanced stage of decay. All the usual slick corporate tributaries along the Interstate could fool you. These older structures were better built but poorer in esteem, and it would all fall to rubble one day.

‘So what denomination is your church?’ Dirty said. ‘Or is it a, original, independent?’

‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.’ She sounded half-hearted and formal.

‘You don’t worship the Devil, do you?’

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She smirked sadly, then brightened. ‘No, but there are some on this one dirt road, outside Snuff. Satan worshippers. There’s this old shack with, like, stuff written on the walls in blood, and all kinds of bones everywhere. I’m for-real.’

She was rapt with alarm, but meeting with Dirty’s hard glare, she turned sullen.

‘I don’t go to church,’ she said. ‘I probably should.’

A high-pitched laugh hiccupped out of her. She seemed touched with insanity.

Dirty tasted copper and bile. ‘Where do you go then?’

‘Like yesterday?’

‘Sure.’

‘To the jail,’ she said. ‘The one in Liberty Eylou.’

‘That’s a prison.’

She watched him askance, gauging the danger. ‘It’s not a big deal. It’s just to visit a friend.’

‘If it’s just a friend, why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie?’

She cut her eyes at him, then scraped her teeth over her bottom lip.

‘Oh, you’re upset?’

‘Fuck off,’ she whispered, staring outward, her palms hard together as if to keep a bug trapped. ‘I think I was just embarrassed, is all. It just sounds trashy to know somebody in jail.’

Which seemed to explain it, for she looked embarrassed. He had been feeling like a fool, but apparently so had she. It was always strange to realize that in her eyes, he was the sophisticated one. But she went on: ‘I just feel sorry for him, is all. He doesn’t have nobody— anybody else to visit him.’

‘So, he was your boyfriend?’

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She glanced not quite at him. His hands gestured uselessly before him, grasping at phantoms. He started to speak twice before he finally said, ‘There’s probably a damn good reason nobody visits. What did he do?’

‘I don’t need this,’ she said.

‘Oh, you don’t. What did he do?’

‘They say he was stealing ladies’ purses outside the mall.’

‘Jesus. They say. Baby, can’t you listen to yourself?’

But she only stared out over the town—toward Liberty Eylou, in fact—her frail jaw set tight, unable to escape her stupid little heart. Dirty might have told her to pack up her shit and vacate his apartment if he didn’t believe that she would do it. ‘I—’ He drew his lips into his mouth. ‘I just need to know you’re with me. I need to know you’re not just waiting for him to get out.’

He had intended an ultimatum, but his tone had faltered, and he only succeeded in exposing his helplessness more completely. He was still a fool. He had never stopped being one.

‘I’m with you,’ she said. Merciful words, though they had drifted off into the sky like a common exhale, and he wished she would have at least looked at him when she said them.

It was curious, even eerie how little things changed on the surface. They were like people in a country under threat of invasion, held together by frail traditions and codependency. He told her that he guessed she had a right to visit the purse snatcher if she really wanted to, then made up his mind to never ask about her Sunday mornings, though he did inquire of the prison and suffer great relief that there were, thank Christ, no conjugal visits.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

One evening, in the Cedar Shack after closing—Cricket shut down officially at ten

Monday through Thursday—while Destiny was standing out front on the phone with her mom, he asked Carleigh and Cricket about the mystery inmate. They looked at each other.

Carleigh said, ‘What’d Destiny say?’

‘Just that she goes to see some dude.’

‘What else do you think you want to know?’ Cricket asked.

‘Nothing, I guess.’

‘You want to know when he gets out.’ Cricket finished her Southern Comfort.

‘I guess. I could find out if I just knew his name.’

‘It’s Saul Thorndike,’ Carleigh said. ‘I like you better than him, so I don’t feel bad about it. I think he’s supposed to be in about four or five more months, maybe.’

‘How old is he?’

‘I don’t know. About thirty, I guess.’

‘Older,’ Cricket said. ‘He was a freshman when I was a senior.’

‘God.’

‘I know,’ Carleigh said. ‘I straight up told her I don’t think he’s worth a shit. And it’s not because I got something against gypsies. I got gypsy cousins on my dad’s side. But Saul— he ain’t even good lookin, on top of everything else. Shit, you’re better lookin than he is.’

Cricket shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘And it’d be one thing if he like, robbed a bank or something cool like that.’ Carleigh glanced at the door. ‘Do you know what happened?’

‘Not exactly. Did he get nabbed by a security guard on a golf cart?’

‘Worse. Some big lady maced him and beat him down with her purse.’

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Dirty grinned and rubbed his forehead. He envisioned Saul Thorndike with small dark eyes and a shaved head, a broken nose and a scar across one cheek: a real one. ‘This happened at the mall?’

‘Right outside JC Penny’s. She pinned his squirrely ass down while she called the cops.’

‘God damn.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Cricket said. ‘She kinda likes you.’

‘Oh, I feel much better,’ he said, and poured himself a shot from Cricket’s bottle.

That Sunday, during her distended absence, he sat on the couch with a beer and a book of African safari stories he had found by the dumpster. The female lions do practically all the killing. Deep in the bush, men sleep in a circle with their feet toward a fire. A lioness encroaches from the shadows, twists her head, and presses her fangs precisely through the temples of one who only quivers slightly going limp. In the morning, the others see the grooved tracks of his heels through backpedaling pawprints. One man wants to go after the body, but the others out-vote him

The door opened. Her lipstick might have been smudged at the mouthcorner.

‘How was church?’

She dropped her purse onto the coffee table.

‘It kind of pissed me off.’ She sat on his lap with her arms around his neck. ‘I don’t think

I’ll go back.’

He studied her with genuine curiosity. She closed her eyes and kissed him. The book fell to the floor.

She did, in fact, stay in the next Sunday, and several more afterward, into October and the first cool weather. Rarely anymore was she an unreadable, unattached presence in his life.

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Rarely anymore did she seem to look right through him, or lack sincerity. She still slept more than him, though she spent no more time in bed. Some nights, with her body warm against him, skin on skin, every breath she drew was a small miracle. Adult life seemed like the best kept secret in the world. Mostly, he and Destiny were friends. Mostly, he was James. He had never been as good, as complete, as he was with her: had never wanted so much to do his best: wanted to so much that it was easy. He could feel himself becoming the man that he would be. His mother rarely complained anymore about him not going to college; he was being nice to her for the first time in years. It was all wonderful and terrifying.

The purse-snatching jailbird had been manipulating her, it was clear: playing on her guilt and sympathy, no doubt, with cold subtleties sharpened in prison. Destiny had been so young when he had gotten his hooks into her, you couldn’t blame her too much. James knew by now that she had her own faults and insecurities, that she wasn’t some force of nature raised up out of the mud, or condensed from the air, and he wanted to take care of her. If he let himself, he could imagine them married with a baby of their own one day. The first time he imagined it, the outrageous feasibility of it stunned him. He had never wanted such things, or never knew he wanted them.

Just after work on Halloween, they sat in a booth in a chain restaurant. The waitstaff wore costumes: superheroes and ghouls, mostly. They shared a massive, almost sickeningly rich brownie and ice cream dessert. Dirty watched her take a bite and let it soak in her mouth, eyelids fluttering. A new presence appeared beside their table. She looked up beside her, swallowed, and he knew it wasn’t the waiter.

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Saul Thorndike looked down at her. Over a stringy moustache and a fat bottom lip, from between golden ear studs, he looked down at her with plain round eyes, utterly serious.

He offered his hand. ‘Come on, baby.’

His voice was pinched and fuzzy. He nodded casually toward the door. She avoided looking at Dirty as if God forbade it and took Saul’s fingers, with their dubious rubies and emeralds. Dirty watched them walk away from somewhere deep inside himself, far behind the lens. Saul was scarcely taller than her. Broad at the shoulders, soft around the middle. Covering the back of his oversized T-shirt, an airbrushed Tony Montana fired a machine gun until the door closed behind them.

In the melting ice cream, her spoon tilted so slowly that it might have been an illusion.

He watched until it finally tapped the rim of the dish. Someone was talking. He looked up beside him. A smiling witch wanted to know if she could get him anything?

2 46

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 Foundered

‘Be practical in all things, but remember there is no success without risk.’

- Kelvin K. Foster, The Titan Speaks (unpublished)

DIRTY BEGAN carrying his pistol always. It seemed like the thing to do. The weather was cooler—the non-pines were beginning to turn colors—so he wore clothes enough to conceal it.

He felt bigger, or inflated, with the .22 in his pocket, and the whole world seemed more dangerous. Waiting for fast food, his hand would slip into his pocket, his fingers tracing the grooves on the trigger, and he would wait for a robbery to commence. For stopping it, they would call him a hero, but he would spurn all publicity. Such a deed would set his life upon a grander course, and keeping the glory within would supply the rest of his days with gratified self-sufficience.

But mainly the pistol was for Saul. Should they cross paths, Dirty did not envision outright murder—unless Destiny had already come to him abused, in which case a ‘crime of passion’ might occur—but neither would he back down. And the jailhouse gypsy ended up with a few bullets in him—perhaps just in the legs, depending on how reasonable everyone was willing to be—the law was likely to side with James Haskell, with his decent family and clean

47

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 rap sheet. At work, Dirty had begun transporting rented equipment with the big flatbed company truck. Bound for Garland City or DeQueen or Broken Bow, electrifying scenarios played in his thoughts, more vivid than recent memories. Most concluded with Saul Thorndike humiliated, if not mutilated, and Destiny filled with shame, passion and, above all, regret. When after three days he had not heard from her, he gathered her clothes and toiletries and fake jewelry into a small garbage bag, knotted the handles, and flung it from his second-floor balcony into an open dumpster at the edge of the parking lot: a distance of at least fifty feet.

This was the highlight of his week.

On a Saturday night in November, DJ had a gig at The Electric Pines: a long metal building set back in a stand of pines that grew tall and crooked, criss-crossing about the necks.

A desire to go in was apparently ID enough. Dirty told the bartender, ‘A beer.’

She gave him a longneck from the ice bin. ‘Three dollars.’ She looked at him again. ‘How old are you?’

He thanked her loudly with a vapid grin, feigning deafness for the DJ’s music, left a five on the bar and walked along the fringe of the dancefloor. The music was electronic and overruled by the bass, while the attire was mostly Western: stiff men dancing precisely with loose women. He had left the .22 in his truck because he knew that some came here looking for a fight and tonight he could well be one of them.

In the sound booth, Pope-like behind plexiglass, grooving tensely with a hand cupping one ear, was the DJ. Dirty stared up at the only person in this world that he would call a friend, until he was seen, smiled at and invited up. He ascended the short ladder and passed through the half door. The DJ, busy tapping buttons on his screen, was sweating. It was hotter at this altitude, where body heat accumulated. Also arising from the crowd was a strong democratic

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 odor, to which Dirty was aware of contributing. Not having showered or changed clothes in several days, his scalp itched and his hair was slick with natural grease. The dancefloor below, under white staccato flashes and myriad swarming dots, looked like a windy thunderstorm until you focused on something. A man crouched, flapping his arms bird-like beside five or six people aligned and performing a synchronized routine, boots sliding, hands clapping. ‘Watch this,’ said the DJ, and tapped a button for a raucous fiddle solo. A dim rebel yell went up, and the floor responded as if the wind blew a little stronger.

‘They don’t even think about me,’ DJ said. ‘That’s what I was up here thinking about before you showed up. They don’t care where the sound comes from. They don’t want to know, cause they don’t need to know. It’s just about . . .’

Dirty stopped listening He watched the music work the crowd through several more pieces of songs, forgetting his beer. When a power ballad slowed the pace, practically everyone began talking, or yelling, and the music was overwhelmed.

‘Where’s Destiny at?’

Dirty picked up his beer. ‘I don’t know. Haven’t seen her.’

DJ watched him finish the bottle. ‘Sorry, man. I knew something was up.’

‘I’m alright.’

‘You look like it.’

‘I do feel crazy sometimes. Can’t sleep unless I drink a whole lot.’

DJ lit a hand-rolled cigarillo and held the inhale, considering. ‘That’s pretty normal, I think.’

Down on the floor, a stocky man went naked from his big silver belt buckle up to his hat. His shirt wadded in a fist, he moved with the music just barely, angry or confused.

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Muscles, clearly defined and swollen, covered him like the hard-won possessions they surely were. Two women approached and began touching and talking to him. One of them was openly mocking, but she smiled and squeezed all the same.

‘Here,’ said DJ. ‘It’s mostly tobacco.’

Dirty took the cigarillo and puffed, coughed. They watched the dancefloor for several minutes. The DJ started a new track from the beginning, said, not into the microphone, ‘This is actually a good song,’ and Dirty listened to a tune that must have been at least half a century old, where the singer kept directing his lost love to ‘just look what thoughts will do.’ The crowd seemed indifferent.

‘Hey, could you do something for me?’ DJ leered at Dirty, affectedly suave. One eye looked at him more than the other.

‘You’re absurd,’ Dirty said.

‘Could you get me a drink? The waitress hasn’t come around once. And hey, get yourself something. It’s free for me. Tell them—tell them you’re my sound technician.’

As Dirty descended among the rabble, the DJ pushed buttons for a referee’s whistle, an explosion, and a song about women’s asses. Dirty got a fine bourbon for himself, the top shelf vodka for the entertainment. Through a few games of pool, he went back for several refills, losing each game more embarrassingly than the last, until he decided that watching the mechanical bull was more fun.

The bull’s operator was the boot salesman from the mall. For years, the old lankster had toggled the switch dispassionately, cigarette between arthritic fingers so that when he inhaled his hand covered his mouth like an oxygen mask. At a lull in the music, where the DJ hawked drink specials—‘And waitresses, don’t forget about the invisible man up here. Vodka and

50

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 cranberry, please.’—a gaggle of bachelorettes burst through the door and headed directly for the bull, striding surely and finishing each other’s sentences. People moved out of their way.

Something sent them all into gaudy laughter, which trailed off when the bride-to-be stalked out onto the padded floor, stepped over a man who had just landed with a thud and a bounce, threw a knee over the black mannequin torso and squeezed, slowly and firmly, bulging her thighs enormously. Dirty could not see her expression, for she wore a white veil beneath her black hat.

One of the bachelorettes kissed the bull’s operator on the cheek, said something into his ear, kissed him again. Next the man knew, he was on his feet and two of the ladies were bent over his table together, hands enjoined on the joystick, hip to hip, their twitching buttocks in Rocky

Mountain jeans like four distinct pieces as they manipulated the bull. The bride-to-be soon lost her hat, but not the veil, which wrapped twice around her head and resembled a hijab. The deposed switch man, standing now beside Dirty, threw his cigarette into the corner and looked at Dirty’s feet.

‘How’re them boots breakin’ in?’

‘Fine. My feet have never been happier.’

The ladies slammed down the stick and the bull bucked assward, flinging the bride-to- be over the low padded wall, and she sprawled and revolved across the waxed floor, taking out the legs of a two-stepping gray-haired couple, who had so wanted this place to be an old- fashioned honkytonk. The bride-to-be gained her feet, staggered but triumphant, drew finger pistols and shot the ceiling, arched her neck and howled. Dirty did not want to see behind the veil.

‘All right now, God dammit. You gals git up from there, ‘fore you kill somebody.’

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The ladies laughed, and the one who had kissed his cheek now wrapped a leg around his waist and put her tongue in his mouth. When she left him to recombine with the group, the old man lifted his hat and pushed his fingers through his thin hair, took his seat and fumbled for a cigarette.

Dirty decided that these cowgirls might be some kind of answer. If one of them saw the cowboy within him, she might take him someplace secluded and screw his brains out: nurse him so savagely that he would be cured for life. He tapped his boot salesman on the shoulder and went out onto the cloud-like padded floor faintly shadowboxing, grabbed the stub neck and hopped onto the slowly tilting contraption, which bore little resemblance to an actual bull. He jammed his left hand under the lariat that encircled the plastic beast, raised his right, nodded stiffly and: suck to blur, whiplash, flight!

A strangled breath filled his head with stink, and all sound was distant but his own.

Death is not creeping over, for his feet are kicking. His head is wedged between the wall and the floor.

‘Let’s hear it for Dirty James Haskell,’ said the DJ over the music. ‘He was a gold medalist bull rider at the Four States Rodeo last year. That’s one tough cowboy you’re lookin’ at. Show your love, ladies.’

The bachelorettes appraised Dirty flatly.

‘Bull rider my ass,’ said one.

‘He’s just a little boy,’ said another.

Dirty tipped a non-existent hat to them, turned his back to their laughter and headed to the bar, for more high-dollar hooch.

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Soon people’s faces blurred away, and the music that had lorded over the place all night sounded like it bled in from another room. He went out onto the floor and did a loose combination of the Charleston with Cossack dancing, until he stumbled on his heels into a large body, was caught up by the armpits and shoved into a woman grinding her crotch against a man’s starched jeans. A fist grazed his temple. He lunged at his obscure attacker and was taken in a headlock and dragged away, suffocated against fatty ribs, toes slipping for lack of traction.

He opened his mouth and bit hard into a roll of flesh, producing a bear-like groan from above and setting him free. He looked up and grinned at the mountainous bouncer just as the man’s boot caught him in the gut and propelled him back against a metal door and through it, where he spun and stumbled onto a patch of dirt.

He raised up onto his hands and knees. He stared at the ground like a dejected goat. A lump grew in his stomach. His back arched high and he vomited.

Most of what came out was better outside of him anyway. He sat back, knees sprawled, hands against the ground for support. It was cold and damp out here. Beside him was a smoking food trailer. Fajita meat sizzled: disgusting. A well-groomed couple at the counter pretended not to notice him. He moved to stand up and the distance between his head, and the ground stretched elastically. He sat. Heat fluttered against him. Under the trailer, the pan of the barbeque pit made steam from the air passing across it. Dirty crawled in behind the tires and lay on his back. Strands of steam grew and detached in the soft wind like newborn eels.

Feeling no heat, he reached up for the black iron and scorched his fingertips. He muttered curses and put his fingertips in his mouth. His eyes closed.

‘Get up! Hey, boy, get out from there.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

Someone was kicking his boots. Air tasted like exhaust. Dirty rolled onto his stomach and crawled Army-style out into the dim yellow light. An idling truck was hitched to the trailer. The man wore a greasy apron, a straw Stetson, a scowl.

‘I about ran over your legs, idiot.’

Dirty gained his feet and made half an effort to brush himself off.

‘He would have if I didn’t see them shiny boots stickin’ out,’ said a woman. Standing on her toes, she fished a bottle of water from the pickup’s bed, waddled over and handed it to

Dirty. ‘Like the wicked witch.’

She seemed to think she was owed an explanation. He thanked her and drank, swallowing acidic sludge. He said good night.

‘How old are you?’ she said, but he only raised a hand and continued on around the corner of the building. The parking lot was nearly empty. Beside the emergency exit with its red light, he watered a big elderly tree. Above him the trunk tapered away, grading red to black to vanishing. Path to oblivion. The door behind him opened. He zipped up.

DJ, cradling a sound board and a laptop and a pile of wires and cables, halted in his tracks, looking somber. ‘It’s you,’ he said. ‘I thought for a second I was about to get robbed.’

‘What’s up, DJ the DJ. Darnell Jeremy. You hungry?’

‘You damn right I’m hungry. I caught a ride with some ladies. They better be waiting for me out here. Carry this. I went outside after I saw you get bounced. Watch out for that dog turd. Didn’t see you. The door guy was bleeding where you bit him. He wanted to keep stomping you.’

‘Why didn’t he?’

‘I told him you’d just got your heart broke.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

Darnell stopped at the edge of the parking lot. ‘Man, what the fuck.’ He took out his phone and began typing a text message. ‘We should write a song. I caught a ride out here with

Davetta James, and Shantelle Washington. They didn’t even tell me they were leaving.’

‘It’s not exactly their crowd.’

‘Mine neither.’

‘What did you expect to happen?’

‘I expected to go home and fuck both of them, but that seems unlikely at the moment.’

‘Come on.’

They started toward Dirty’s truck.

‘Some redneck asshole probably said something,’ DJ said.

‘Where’s Carleigh? Speaking of rednecks.’

Darnell grinned, then chuckled softly.

‘What?’

‘Open my door for me.’

Dirty did so, took his own seat and started driving.

‘Last night,’ DJ said. ‘We hadn’t been seeing each other a whole bunch, but I still wanted to hit that. So I went with her to some house party, off in the country. I know I’ve been spending too much time with white people.’

‘Sorry.’

‘So me and Carleigh were hanging out in the kitchen. Some little girl comes in with her eyes all big and whispers something in Carleigh’s ear. And I thought somebody died, the way they looked at each other. I asked what was up, and Carleigh was like, Zach’s back.’

Dirty turned onto the highway. ‘Zach must be—’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

‘Right. The Marine. Been over in the desert somewhere.’

Dirty managed a smile. ‘I wonder if he knows my cousin.’

‘Dude’s not that big, but—’

‘Got a look in his eye.’

‘Right. So he came in and tried to talk to Carleigh.’

‘Was he wearing his uniform?’

‘Yep. So I just stood off to the side and watched. She’s like, You been gone all this time and wouldn’t answer my emails, and Zach’s like, I didn’t even talk to my brother, I went through some dark shit, blah blah blah. She grabbed me by the arm and took me off in the yard, by the fire. Then a bunch of people ran out, and somebody said Zach was up in the kitchen in a hurry, cutting his hand.’

‘Cutting his hand.’

‘Yeah, like, so he wouldn’t kill me, I guess, or Carleigh. So his training wouldn’t take over. I don’t know, cause I got the fuck out of there.’

Stopped at a flashing red light, Dirty hugged the wheel, snickering.

‘Why are you driving? Drunk bastard, I barely got a drink all night. Still had to argue about my tab, though. . . . Yeah, keep laughing. I’m glad somebody got drunk. What the fuck is nine dollars a shot?’

‘I just asked for the most expensive thing.’ Dirty wiped his eyes. ‘There’s a nine-dollar bottle in the glove box.’

‘And the bouncer said you were trying to fight people.’ He took a drink. ‘This shit is nasty.’

‘It gets better.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016

Darnell shivered and put the bottle back in the glove box. ‘You got to be a masochist to drink that.’

‘A masochist?’

‘Yeah. You like to feel bad.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ Dirty cranked down his window and braked. ‘I’d like four taquitos and a chicken biscuit, please.’ He pulled forward and took out his wallet. ‘My story’s not as good as yours. She got stole away by an ex-convict gypsy.’

Darnell’s eyes got big. ‘The purse snatcher got out.’

‘He did.’

‘And he stole her. God damn. My mom used to tell me when I was a kid not to go wandering off down the road because gypsies might steal me.’

‘They also eat hedgehogs and marry their cousins. I Googled them a few days ago.’

‘He’s not her cousin, is he?’

‘No,’ Dirty said. ‘Well, I fucking hope not.’

‘They drive around in old hearses and limousines. When I worked at the Dixie Diner, there was a big family, like at least fifteen of them, came in every Tuesday. They’d all get out of one big car, and they’d put bugs and hairballs and shit in their food. Every time they’d find some way to get it free. And they always wanted more ice. Their glass would be two thirds filled up with ice and they’d be like, Hey, can I get some more ice here? Finally, the manager got the busboys and me and a couple of waitresses to just stand around and watch them eat.

Pitchers of ice all over the table. So the grandma fell on the floor and started having a fit.’

‘A fit.’

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‘Like a seizure. They all acted worried, said she needed her medication, carried her out to the limo and drove off. And then we realized, not only did they not pay, all the silverware and salt shakers were gone. It was pretty amazing, really.

‘Thanks. Keep the change.’ The cold bit the side of Dirty’s face. He rolled his window up. ‘They train bears to dance.’

‘I think the Nazis tried to wipe them out.’

‘I sort of wish they succeeded. Here.’

‘Thank you. There’s a whole bunch of them out toward Magnolia.’ Darnell bit off half a taquito, pondered as he chewed. ‘We were just renting, you know. We really should write a song. That country shit is simple, and there’s money in it.’

‘We were at Chili’s. He just—’

‘If you fall for her redneck style.’ The DJ affected the baritone sincerity of a Nashville star.

‘Her love’s not for sale, but you can rent it for a wh-i-i-ile.’

‘We were at Chili’s. He walked in, and she just got up and left with him.’

‘Mmm, I see. He’s got that gypsy mind control on her.’

Dirty burst with bitter laughter. Tears welled, but receded. Still he would love her till death, and might shoot Saul full of holes, but it was all a little ridiculous, he had to admit.

Darnell suggested he find a witch to reverse the spell, then rocked back, raised his knees and punched at the air, and for a moment they were only two young people awash in the sensation of everything.

Dirty ate his chicken biscuit and tuned in to a radio station out of Shreveport, which played electrified jam sessions and psychadelic symphonies this time of night. North to the Red

River was about a ten-minute drive. Darnell finished his taquito, settled back into the corner

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 and closed his eyes. A pair of lamenting guitars called to each other via stereo across the width of the cab. Fierce rattling overtook everything, and Dirty turned down the volume, thinking the bass had malfunctioned. It was the rumble strip on the shoulder; he veered back into his lane. Darnell looked around blinking, said, ‘I don’t want to die,’ and settled back against the corner.

The river was low, shining like mercury in the moonlight, streaked dimly with sandbars. He had parked under the highway bridge, where the big trucks screamed overhead, thrumming drumrolls across the expansion gaps, raining echoes and vanishing. It was about a hundred feet down to the water, over rocks blanketed with kudzu. He slipped a few times, once flushing some unseen creature. Standing finally on the sand, his left hand throbbed dully, warm and wet. Bloody. He swiped the wound with his tongue, spat and started upriver, toward the light beyond the moonshadow of the bridge.

The sound of sliding water was much more than its volume. The river looked black up close and silver with distance, with just a peach fuzz of fog against the cool air. A quarter mile farther, the railroad trestle loomed: a cage tunnel of steel beams with a pylon in the middle.

Dirty stopped to look at something. Partially buried in the sand, the bones of a massive gar, with its lancelike snout and thorny teeth, lay like some cretaceous fossil exposed by the river.

Considering other creatures in this muddy water, Destiny came to mind. Should have asked her to get married. Should have told her everything.

Here this river had been his whole life, and he had never done anything with it. It was red because of mud, which was earth: tiny bits of this landlocked place carried to the open sea.

Soon he was beneath the rail bridge. He took out the pistol and aimed up into the dark labyrinthine steel. The bullet would ricochet where fate decided. He pressured the trigger,

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 closing one eye. A noise found him from far away. He opened his mouth to better let it in. A faint scream, a rumbling, getting closer. Light began to seep through the trestle across the river, then the train surged forth and was on top of him in no time at all. Air billowed down, grease-scented, from the black calamity that poured over him. He wished he could record the sound. The DJ would use it in his gigs. He closed his eyes to let it overtake him, and was only another piece of debris on this temporary beach.

A little farther, just beyond the trestle’s shadow, three deer stood together, unbothered by the racket and oblivious of him. Dirty crouched and slipped into the pasture beyond the sand, to circle in behind them while the train rendered them deaf. Taking long fluid steps, he wiped his bloody hand on a tall weed, but picked the wrong one, for there was a crawling burn at the wound. He clenched a fist, approaching them from directly behind. Two were drinking from the river. The third looked back and narrowed its eyes to slits. His heart thumped against the back of his throat and against the top of his stomach, as if it had overgrown his chest. The young buck turned away and leaned down to drink: not yet sufficiently paranoid. The train passed on, howling away to the colder north, and he kept watching the lithe creatures in the deepening silence and the moonlight. They were not supernatural. He chanced another step. A flag tail raised and they all looked back at him. When he blinked, they all dipped to their haunches like a spring compressed and dashed off into the weeds. He had not even raised the pistol.

He looked at the river, glimpsing his future.

Back at his truck, he found DJ asleep on the seat. He opened the passenger door, pinched a big toe through a sneaker and shook hard. DJ jerked his foot away, made like a fetus and mashed his eyes shut against the cab light. Dirty went around to the driver’s side. When he

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 opened the door, Darnell sat up and looked down toward his feet, confused and forlorn. ‘Why are we here?’

‘Because,’ Dirty said, ‘we’re gonna take a trip.’ He punched his friend in the shoulder, sat and slammed the door. ‘I am.’ He started the engine. ‘You can come, if you want.’

‘Not tonight. Take me home.’

‘Not tonight, dummy. We need to—’

‘Need sleep!’ Darnell bellowed.

His head jiggled with the bad road and his eyes were shut. Dirty was mildly disgusted.

A rabbit, by some confused instinct, bounded in a low arching blur across the gape of the headlights.

‘We’ll need traps. Fishing poles. Cots for sleep.’

‘Bed to sleep.’

‘A boat to float!’ Dirty said, and turned on the radio loud to make sure it was the last word.

The dream from which he awoke had been ludicrous yet distressing. His heart was pumping much faster than it needed to; nor was there any slowing it down. Just a gray light oozed through the broken places and pinholes in the mini-blinds. The air in the small room was heavy and acrid: scorched by the electric heat. His bed lately had felt like a slab in a mortuary. He took a shower, finding himself still a little drunk. He dressed in clothes less dirty than those he had woken up in and went out into the cold new day.

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His heart was gone haywire—still it beat like he had just finished running—as he headed for the EZ Mart on the corner. Coffee tended to calm him. The sidewalk was such a fractured mess that he walked in the street, which was of bricks smeared randomly with asphalt. Some of the houses here had once been opulent. Now they mostly sagged or leaned, and there was no traffic nor movement of any kind save Dirty’s slow progress and the fluttering down of rust-colored leaves from mammoth oaks. On the back seat of a Cadillac, an old man snored with great effort, a high school letterman’s jacket open to a flaccid snow-white chest and a fat pink surgeon’s wound like a ten-legged parasite dug into his sternum.

A few hours earlier, he had gone under with a dim worry that his plan for going to

Shreveport on the river would evaporate in the daylight. Now the sun hung like a blessing over the elementary school across the street. He bought coffee and carried it outside, having flavored it with Irish cream. His mother had told him, and he liked to believe for reason, that his ancestors had sailed from the Emerald Isle. Now, with the call to water stirring within him, he wondered if he had not descended from a line of sailors, Irish or no. Maybe his real problem was a simple as having been stuck in this landlocked place his whole life. Being ‘married to the sea’ had a certain dignity to it. Indeed, the Red joined with the Mississippi. Why not keep going till the water turned salty? With the smug delusions of a conquistador, he sipped his coffee and stood a little taller, the still-vague details of which filling his future as a feast fills an empty stomach.

From newspaper caddies he took copies of the Thrifty Nickel and the Shreveport Times, which he flipped through on the way back to his apartment. There was an article on hurricane refugees still trickling from Houston back to New Orleans these several years later, despite what all the indexes considered a lower standard of living. He had been to New Orleans in the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 ninth grade, with his church’s youth group (an egregious error by his youth minister, a ground- breaking experience for Dirty and a few other boys, who snuck out of their hotel). It was as far from home as he had ever been, and he would get back there: would stop for a day or two before continuing on to the Gulf for the Red joined with the Mississippi. Go until the water turned salty: nothing else made any sense. With the smug delusions of a conquistador, Dirty walked a little taller. A bony man with gray skin and red-rimmed eyes approached as if he’d just escaped some catastrophe and, following alongside, began a scattershot account of running out of gas down the street and needing a few dollars to get to his kids. Dirty told him to get a job.

In the classified ads, there was a pontoon boat for ten thousand, fully equipped. He didn’t and wouldn’t have ten thousand dollars, but he didn’t need anything ‘fully equipped’ either. He needed a wreck that would float, a solid frame to scavenge around and build upon.

He went over to the vacant playground and sat on a swing, took out his pocket computerphone and searched the internet for a while, until the battery died.

Darnell was asleep on the couch on his stomach with no blanket. Black silk boxer shorts, skin a purplish brown. Thick, plain-shaped body like an unfinished statue. He hadn’t stirred when Dirty had left that morning and neither did he now. Onto his only saucer Dirty placed his last honeybun, spread with butter and microwaved briefly. This crude and delectable thing wafted gently opened Darnell’s nostrils and then his eyes. Irritation lost out to appetite.

‘Tell me you got some milk,’ he said, taking his fork.

‘You know anybody’s got a boat for sale? Like a small party barge, or a really old, shitty houseboat.’

Darnell looked up at him with one eye. ‘I remember you said something about a boat last night.’

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‘That’s right. I said I was going to float the Red River to New Orleans. You said you wanted to come.’

Darnell dragged his fingertips down across his eyesockets and together at the tip of his nose, groaned. ‘I thought you were just drunk.’

‘Nope. I mean, I was, but—’

‘What is this?’

‘A honeybun.’

‘It’s delicious.’

‘You never had one?’

‘No This shit’s better than crack.’

‘We’ll bring a whole box full.’

‘Does the Red River go to New Orleans?’

‘Hey, what about—you know that yard full of boats? On the way to Wamba.’

‘What’s Wamba?’

Dirty tried to recall if he had seen any barges the last time he had passed the place. It was a small house on an acre or two, woods on either side, and the front yard was covered with boats of all kinds on trailers. There had been at least one houseboat looming toward the back, he was sure. There had been boats in this yard for as long as he could remember.

‘Let’s drive out there.

‘Milk,’ Darnell said, and pointed to the kitchen.

Standing on the front porch, showered and cleanly dressed, Dirty opened the screen door and knocked on the solid steel door, trying to present a harmless image to the cycloptic keyhole. Darnell stood behind him on the grass, hands in his back pockets. An old man opened

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 the door: grimy white t-shirt under overalls, bony shoulders sagging toward a gut like a medicine ball between his thighs, thick white hair curling low over his sallow face, jaw skewed.

‘Whadda you boys want?’

Dirty grinned and stuck out his hand. ‘I’m James.’

The old man snatched his hand, waggled it and flung it away as if tossing dice.

‘We’re interested in a boat,’ Dirty said.

‘Uh hu. What for?’

‘Ah. Well. We need a bigger one. I see a few pontoons out there.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well.’

‘Well, what?’

Dirty almost laughed. ‘Well, are these boats for sale?’

‘Everything’s for sale. Money talks, son.’

‘Okay. How much for that pontoon boat with no motor?’

The old man straightened up slightly and squinted off across his yard. Finally he said, ‘I reckon I could let you have it for fifteen.’

Dirty got excited. This sounded reasonable. He could save and sell enough to buy it before too long. He made a show of pondering, like a completed adult, eyeballed his adversary and said, ‘I can bring you twelve hundred, cash, by next week. Well, two weeks.’

The old man grunted and swayed from foot to foot. ‘You kids get on outa here,’ he said, shutting the screen door. ‘Ain’t got time for it.’

‘Whoa, wait a minute. Sir, if you feel like that about it, I can probably do the fifteen hundred. It’s just a little more than what I was wanting to spend, but if—’

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‘Thousand, son. I wouldn’t sell the trailer for less than four. You kids git.’

He shut the door on them.

Dirty looked back at Darnell, who seemed to think it was funny. It was a clear sky, slightly warm in the sunlight, slightly cold in the shade. He left the porch and walked out among the boats, looking closer than he had the first time. The hulls were waxed, the tires armoralled, the grass trimmed around the trailers. But on the inside the boats were all molding, cracking, rotting away. Those nearest the few trees were filled with pine needles. Dirty realized that a lot of these boats had been here when he was a child. Looking under the rig he had inquired of, he saw the pontoon was badly dented. Darnell folded his arms on the frayed astroturf deck and rested his chin. ‘I’d like to hear the price on the others.’

‘He doesn’t want to sell,’ Dirty said. ‘He’s a boat hoarder. It’s psychological.’

‘Eh. I’ll bet if you brought him fifteen grand he’d sell it.’

‘Maybe. But he wouldn’t be happy about it.’

Darnell straightened up and looked sourly over the sea of rotten boats. ‘I’ll see what dad thinks.’

Darnell’s father was an Army trained psychologist, now in private practice.

The screen door slapped open and the old man yelled, ‘You kids scatter! Get the hell away from my property!’ He had a surprisingly strong voice and his other hand rested on the stock of a rifle with a scope, which he seemed to be using as a cane. Dirty smiled and raised his hand as they started toward his truck.

After a few minutes on the road, Darnell said, ‘Man, how does somebody get like that?’

‘I know,’ Dirty said.

‘I mean, he used to be young. You know?’

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‘I know,’ Dirty said. Maybe he was a change or two closer to that old man than he had been a short time ago, but he still could not imagine the becoming.

That night he ran. The ground was flat and the air was calm but it was like running uphill or into a stiff wind. This had been the first day in a couple of weeks that he had had nothing to drink and running had seemed to be the only other solution. He ran until he began to stumble, veered off the street and fell to his knees on someone’s soft grass, rolled and lay on his back with his arms straight out beside him, trying to get enough air. He couldn’t tell if he felt better or just bad in a different way. Not for the first time, he had serious doubts about his ninth grade football coach’s favorite maxim, declared at least ten times a practice: ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ The few brightest stars had been dimmed, the rest erased by the city’s glow.

A gunshot, nearby. Another and another. Not firecrackers.

Dirty lay on the soft grass thinking, ‘Better you than me.’ It was ten minutes before he heard sirens. They grew louder and when they cut off he could see the red-white-and-blue lights slashing and pulsing through the bare trees near the end of the next block. Outshining every Christmas display in town. Knowing damn well it wasn’t his business, he got up and went toward the scene. A standoff, maybe. A hostage situation.

A few cops stood around on the front yard of a small brick house, their cruisers and an ambulance parked on the street. One spoke into a radio but otherwise they were silent. A neighbor stood on the sidewalk in his robe, smoking a cigarette. An EMT walked out of the house with poor posture and no urgency. Dirty turned and walked home.

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Christmas day he saw his mom and stepdad. His mom was sipping white wine. She offered him some—a milestone—but he declined. He had no idea why. Most of what she said to him was questions. No, he wasn’t seeing ‘that girl’ anymore. No, he didn’t think he would take any classes in the spring. She would pay for it. Thanks but no thanks. It occurred to him that he could string her along, withdraw immediately and keep the refund. But surely there were better ways to get money. Such as this envelope in his stocking. A hundred dollar bill. Thanks, y’all.

Darnell never actually said he would go, but he did seem to develop some enthusiasm as

Dirty talked about decadent New Orleans.

‘Why don’t we just drive down one weekend,’ Darnell said. They were eating dollar menu items in a formica booth. ‘What is it, about six hours?’

‘I’m floating,’ Dirty said. ‘You should look at all the places the river goes. Look at a map sometime. You float for a week or two, then—’

‘A week or two.’

‘Closer to a week, I think. Then you park your boat, go check into a hotel, clean up and—’

‘See, I like that part.’

‘And it’s better after you’ve been on the river.’

‘Right. It’s better because that part was so shitty.’

‘Think how good the food would taste.’

‘It’s gonna taste good either way.’

‘And they’ve got, like, real whorehouses. Like in the old days.’

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‘Wallowing around with you on a dirty river for a week and then fucking some nasty strange bitch. Sounds, just, great.’

‘It does, doesn’t it.’

‘You would, wouldn’t you. You’d pay for it.’

They both grinned like devils, though Dirty didn’t know if he would or not.

‘Well, I couldn’t go till May,’ Darnell said. ‘After the spring semester.’

Darnell planned to be a stock trader one day, as well as a DJ. He was working toward a good business school.

‘May.’ Dirty grimaced, shook his head. ‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘Don’t wait on me. Oh. I asked my dad about that old guy with all the boats. He said it was an interesting thing to hoarde. He said maybe the guy was a frustrated dictator. Like, he’d run his own family off and now he was trying to control other people.’

‘How, by keeping them off the water.’

‘I guess. He’d had a few drinks when I asked.’

‘Well, it might take till May to get everything together, really. How much can you start putting back from your checks?’

Darnell laughed aloud, glanced at Dirty twice, three times. ‘If I get on your boat, I’ll help pay for the gas.’ He laughed again, like it was the funniest god damned thing.

Dirty decided he would sell his truck. He might get two thousand for it. In shoepolish on the back glass, he wrote: ‘PICTURE YOURSELF IN MY LAP. I’M RELIABLE AND

YOURS CHEAP!’ and his phone number.

Inquiries were not forthcoming.

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It was going to take something like three thousand dollars to get any kind of pontoon rig with an outboard motor. He could find a good-sized flatbottom for less, but the idea was to travel in some comfort, if not style, with protection from bugs and weather. Meaning a cabin with a bunk. Maybe even a small refrigerator—solar powered. Why not? Also he didn’t want a craft that could swamp. Pontoons would keep him always safely on top of the river.

Other than the cheapest and fastest food, he took every meal at home. Two hundred dollars from each bi-weekly paycheck—which he had always cashed, having no bank account— went into a milk jug in a kitchen cabinet, which he kept padlocked to protect from himself.

Once, the night before a payday, having already searched the recesses of the couch and his truck for coins, he went to bed hungry rather than pilfer from savings, shoplift or leech from his mother. He slept better than he had in some time, proud and righteous as a saint.

He sipped only the cheapest booze. More often than ever he worried that he was a lot like his long-gone father and somehow doomed because of it.

In preparation for an actal vessel, as a show of faith, he scoured flea markets, Army-

Navy stores and classified ads for fishing tackle, folding chairs, mosquito netting and a propane burner on a tripod.

He didn’t tell anyone else what he planned, but he didn’t really hang around with anyone except Darnell. Cricket occasionally. One afternoon he parked in front of the Cedar

Shack, beside a glossy purple El Camino with dice and a sprawling pile of cash airbrushed on the doors. He was almost sure it was Saul’s. He took the pistol from the glovebox and put it in his pocket, opened his door and paused, suspended in empty space. He put the pistol back in the glovebox and went to the front door, stared at the tattered paper sign duct-taped there: ‘Must be at least 21 to enter.’

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Turning back was cowardice, but what would he do if he went in? Just play it cool, see what happened. Release the wild animal that was surely within him, attack and destroy. Was that what he wanted? If that was what she wanted, did he want her? Did he want her?

Trembling slightly, he opened the door and went in. But it was only a couple of thuggish punks back by the pool table, watching Cricket dance and shoot. They whispered to each other and smiled with simian cunning. One slipped a hand into his baggy pants and began gyrating his own pelvis. None of them had noticed Dirty come in. He went to the bar and poured himself a shot.

His faith in the power of a float to New Orleans left him gradually, as from a pinhole leak. By

February it was just about gone. More likely to straighten him out, he felt, were thighs, hair, lips, tits. On a Friday night he cut the top out of the milk jug and stuffed a pocket with money for the bar.

A loud band with an uber-serious lead singer churned out fourth-rate versions of songs you could hear daily on the radio. Dirty locked in on a pair of painted young hussies in black denim and lace. They looked underfed and shared a drink. I’ll be your sugardaddy.

‘Ladies.’

They looked from him to each other, amused at his gall.

‘I’m James.’

‘Hi, James,’ said the one on the left.

‘Can I buy one of you a drink?’

‘You can buy both of us a drink,’ said the one on the right.

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He took their orders and went off to the bar. Something unguarded and deviant about these girls. Possibilities abounded. They took their drinks from him, dropped their straws onto the floor. ‘Bye, James,’ said the one on the left, and they slinked off into the next room, disappearing among the crowd like ghosts.

Dirty went back to the bar and got two more drinks for himself. A few minutes later, on his way to the door, he saw the snooty girls dancing, on staddling and methodically grinding her crotch against the thigh of the other, eyes closed, tongue reaching for her chin, lost to the world. Her partner took the tongue into her mouth and Dirty felt much better about everything.

After he locked the money back up in its cabinet, going down the river was again a plain and simple reality. It never hadn’t been. Fate or obligation—it didn’t really matter. It was going to happen and that was all.

‘I’ll tell you what, James. You know I’m not tryin to run your show, but I just want you to know that if you decide to go to school, well, your mom and I want to help you out. My granddad gave me a scholarship when I was about your age. That’s what he called it. I didn’t want to go back to school either but I gave it a shot. I’d probably still be in Delight Arkansas if

I didn’t. Even more ignorant than I am now.’

Jimbo tossed his empty beer into the recycle bin against the wall. They were on the cement patio in back of his house. Chicken legs sizzled on the gas grill. Amiable and sincere with his basset hound eyes, Jimbo sprawled out of his chair as if his limbs were asleep.

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‘And I’ll tell you what else. Hey, I understand you hadn’t been real motivated. I saw your girl, James. Hey, she was a peach.’ Jimbo’s eyes opened a little wider for a moment.

‘When?’

The door opened and his mom brought Jimbo out another can of beer.

‘Thanks, baby. Why don’t you get one for your only son.’

‘I’ll get him a coke.’

‘I think this young man can have a beer or two with his chicken.’

Dirty’s mom looked down at him. ‘I think I can’t stop him but I don’t have to bring it to him.’

She smiled briefly and went back inside.

‘Or six, or eight,’ Jimbo said, pushing himself upright. ‘Hold on a second.’

The door closed and Dirty fell to studying the back yard. Shrubs absolutely square and nary a blade of grass out of place. The one small tree a gift from the developer: be grateful.

Jimbo returned, dropped him a cold can and went to the grill to flip and baste chicken.

‘Your mom and I went to the movies one day,’ he said. ‘We saw you going into that

Mexican place beside the theater.’ Jimbo turned back and looked at him. ‘Hey, she’s a peach, bud. And I understood. Your mom, she loves you, but I was a nineteen-year-old young man once. To hell with college, right.’

Dirty shrugged crookedly, showed an empty palm. ‘I guess. I don’t plan to be ignorant.’

‘I know you don’t. But hey, there’s some really smart people up at the University of

Arkansas. Take a few classes this summer and you could transfer in the fall. Your mom says your test scores were high enough. I still donate to my fraternity, so that’d be an option. It’s not just all about studying, James. College is fun. You just can’t have too much fun, cause it’s

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 that degree that’ll get you something. A woman doesn’t want to be with a poor man if she can help it.. That’s just a natural fact.’

‘That’s not why. That had nothing to do with it.’

‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m just saying don’t worry about finding another girl cause if there’s one thing there’s no shortage of it’s people. .And there’s a whole bunch of nice, smart single girls at college. I think I saw there’s more females in college now than males. You stay around here without an education and want to make decent money, there’s the tire factory, the Army Depot and the paper mill. I worked in that paper mill one summer. Trust me, it ain’t a place you want to spend the better part of your life. Go study whatever you want, but if you want my humble opinion—well even if you don’t I’m still gonna give it to you. Go up there and learn some kind of technology. Cause technology is the future. Hell, it’s the present. Every time they make a new machine, it’s one more job they don’t need people for. Maybe a thousand jobs.

One day there’ll probably be a machine to fix people’s teeth. But it still takes people to take care of the machines and tell em what to do. That’s your jobs of the future.’

‘What about when the machines start telling the machines what to do?’

‘Well.’ Jimbo raised both hands, spouting a slug of beer that fell hissing over the grill.

‘That’s off down the road somewhere. Shit. I’m just talkin about now. The immediate future, not way off in the distance.’

‘I’m looking for a boat.’

Jimbo looked at him, pondered. ‘A boat,’ he said.

‘Like a party barge. A small pontoon boat.’

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Jimbo took a slow sip. ‘Hmm. Well, your mom’s uncle had one. I went off with him on

Lake Millwood several years ago. He died about two years ago, I guess. Maybe his widow’s still got it. She might just let you have it, since you’re family. What do you want with it?’

‘Is that the uncle with the farm by New Boston?’

Jimbo said that it was. The door opened and Dirty’s mom brought out a platter for the chicken. She started to say something about potato salad but a supersonic jet roared overhead, jangling everything not secured and arresting Dirty and his mom, but not Jimbo, who only nodded, somber and reverent, toward the missle-bound machine, which vanished behind a neighbor’s chimney as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Technology,’ he said, and gulped down the rest of his beer.

When he parked beside the widow’s farmhouse, a nurse was lumbering down the porch steps.

March hadn’t arrived yet but it felt like Spring. They say the whole planet’s heating up. The enormous nurse, like a moving botanical garden in her florid scrubs, stopped beside her little car and looked at Dirty.

‘I’m James,’ he said. ‘She’s my aunt.’

‘Uh hu.’

‘Well, great aunt.’

‘When’s the last time you talked to her?’

‘I tried to call a few times. I left a message.’

The dead man’s voice was still on the machine: upbeat if not virile: a sprited spirit.

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‘She doesn’t hardly ever answer. She can hear fine, I tested her. But she just doesn’t hear anything she doesn’t want to.’

The nurse grinned as if she found this charming but her talk had been touched with bitterness and sarcasm. Dirty went up onto the porch.

‘She doesn’t belong here,’ the nurse said. ‘I’m filing the papers.’

He turned back.

‘Go on in,’ she said, and gestured elaborately as if shaking dust from a rug.

The doorhandle turned almost without effort, like a dry skeleton’s wrist. The widow, who was in truth only a cousin to him since she was not really his mother’s aunt, sat in her den with the shades drawn looking at the TV, where a shiny televangelist discussed matters of the utmost importance. She sat in a recliner that he guessed or felt had been her husband’s. The leather was cracked in places enough to reveal the stuffing. She did not seem to have noticed him come in. Her top teeth showed but he could not tell if she was smiling.

‘Did you forget something?’ Her lip raised a little higher with a round of applause. Call it a smile.

‘Mrs. Morton. My name is James. Prissy Haskell is my mom.’

The widow’s lips came together. Still her eyes pointed screenward.

He went over and stood beside the preacher. ‘Mrs. Morton.’

‘That’s his love,’ the preacher said. ‘Staring you in the face. Everybody likes to complain, but rarely do we stop and consider how much worse it could be.’

The widow’s mouth was moving now, silently intoning: ‘That’s right. That’s right.

That’s right.’

‘Mrs. Morton. Aunt Charlotte.’

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He almost passed a hand over the screen. Something stopped him. He watched her and listened to the preacher for a minute. You know I’m here, don’t you. He went up beside her chair and crouched. Downy white hairs lay about her muzzle as if she’d walked through a spiderweb. The preacher reflected upside-down in a lens of her spectacles. Her mouth was still moving but too faintly to read and too quietly to hear. Did your mind do this to you or was it vice-versa?

‘Hell is our own creation.’ The preacher was sweating now, vibrating with a prolonged tremor. ‘Hell is where we have placed ourselves when we turn our backs on God and look to earthly pleasures instead for satisfaction. Hell is every soul without salvation.’

‘Aunt Charlotte.’

He placed his hand on the arm of her chair. She raised her hand and placed it on top of his. He tensed with the shock. Frail bones, cool, paper-dry skin—yet some kind of warmth spilled into him. This strange old woman squeezed and patted and he wanted to hold her against him. His eyes had misted over and he smirked at himself, drew his lips into his mouth and thumbed away the silly tears. She was grinning now and beginning to rock her chair. Not much left of her in this place. He looked to the screen, where the preacher now talked about the forever place that awaited the faithful. ‘Too awesome to imagine,’ he said. So don’t waste your time trying. Take my word for it, or just open the only Book there is, authored by him that authored you. . . . No, not there. That was when He was different. Flip forward a few hundred years. Not there, either. Right there. See. Black and white. It’s also available in red and white, if you prefer. ‘In this short life we are eventually separated from everything we love. Family.

Friends. Even our pets. But if we are saved on earth we will be reunited in eternity.’

‘Is that right?’ Dirty said.

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Her lips moved but not enough to read.

‘Aunt Charlotte, is he telling the truth?’

‘You bet,’ she whispered. ‘You bet. You bet.’

Dirty smiled for there was a little stack of lottery tickets on the tray beside her, among the bottles of pills. He raised her hand and pecked it with a kiss.

‘Aw, you devil you,’ she said, practically blushing as she turned away.

He got up and left her alone with her dreams. He climbed into his truck and backed up to depart. There was a barn in the pasture behind the house. Faded red and sagging at one corner. He went out to it, dead snakes on his feet protecting him from live ones maybe in the high weeds. The big rotting door was slumped partially open. The boat was inside.

Sliced in two places by dusty streaks of sunlight, it was little more than a blank deck, about twenty feet long, with aluminum railing and a flat roof over the rear half. The console was on the right—starboard?—made of curling, separating gray plywood, with a big chrome wheel, a throttle lever and a few switches. Every screw-head was rusted. One of the trailer tires was flat. It did have an eighty horse Mercury motor on it.

‘Have you been waiting,’ he said. ‘Did you think you were done?’

He went back into the house. There was a reality courtroom show on now. A stern and loquacious lady judge lectured a plaintiff on ethics, setting things straight.

‘That’s right,’ the widow said. ‘That’s right.’

Dirty watched until the commercial break, then said, ‘Aunt Charlotte. I’m gonna get this boat going. Out in the barn. I need to use it, if you don’t mind.’

‘I got no use for it,’ she said loud and clear.

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He thanked her and said goodbye. On his way to the door, she said, ‘Say hi to your momma for me.’

He grinned and said that he would.

The next day, a Saturday, he returned with an air tank, tire plugs, a new battery, a pressure washer and Darnell. The motor would not turn over. They lifted the casement and found the interior caked with dirt dauber nests like a rash of tumors. Dirty jabbed a screwdriver into the mounds of dried mud, revealing cutaway portions of the embedded insects, their glazed purple wings and other body parts flaking away under the prying flathead. Hibernation cancelled.

Darnell sat on a bench in his smart clothes playing with his smart phone while Dirty used the pressure washer to clean out the motor and pummel every surface clean. The carpet went from moldy black to bright silver. Cats, haggard and inbred-looking, skulked in the shadows as if plotting some revenge. The motor still wouldn’t fire, but the rig looked at least thirty times improved dripping wet. Whatever it had done before was only preparation for what it was going to do. According to the year stamped on the capacity plate, it was Dirty’s age. He speculated that it had rolled out of the factory on the day he was born. Anything was possible.

Tuesday afternoon he delivered a gas-powered jackhammer to a man who wore a back brace and walked with a looping crooked sway. Maybe this will straighten you out.

Already several miles into Arkansas, he texted Darnell for directions to the gypsy community that he had claimed was near Magnolia. Dirty only wanted to look around, but under no circumstances would he be intimidated. As he turned onto County Road 217, Destiny

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 walking out the door with Saul replayed in high definition and that gnarl of ugly feelings returned, the wound still raw. When he rubbed the pistol, Clint Eastwood would appear in his head, like a genie. If he somehow found where the purse snatcher lived, who could say? Maybe a plan would take shape.

The small brick houses that comprised the community—nine of them on the same side of the road, across from a stagnant slough—were surprisingly well kept, for nomads. Under a locust tree around a folding table sat four brown-skinned middle-aged men in sleeveless undershirts, silver chains gleaming, playing dominoes. Crimping the bones in their palms, they stared as he rolled by. A little farther, a cat lounged on the back of a mule. Dirty braked and stared for a minute at this perverted symbiotic relationship. The cat stared back, insolent and disdainful. ‘They marry their cousins,’ Dirty muttered, bit his bottom lip and drove on. The road dead-ended in a clearing strewn with burst garbage bags and rusting appliances. He turned around. This time a short bowlegged man stood up from the domino table and drew his shoulders back, glaring like a banty rooster as Dirty passed.

He drove to the usual liquor store, where the same meth-head woman always worked the counter. Having researched the effects of amphetamines, Dirty had begun to pride himself on his ability to spot a meth-head. There are different kinds, so it isn’t always easy. She was obvious. More obvious than Cricket. More obvious than Tommy Blake, who was back at work now with a slight limp, vacant, listless, dopamine depleted. When Dirty had first started going to this store the woman had been newer to the crank—manic glimmer on the surface, dark awareness beneath, and through the eyes a glimpse of the child frightened and trapped within—but now her eyes had no depth at all, only a dull, brazen surface. She seemed desperate and cocky at the same time, maybe even psychotic. She often held a little pen knife and Dirty

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 got the feeling she would as soon stab you as give you your change. But she was always there, watching the news or carving more grafitti into the countertop—extending her gothic mural, which Dirty planned to hang on a wall if he won the lottery—waiting for nine o’clock.

He bought a half-gallon of Thunderbird wine for four dollars. He and Darnell drank it and watched The Bridge on the River Kwai. ‘Madness!’ It was inspiring, somehow. They drove to the boat hoarder’s. It was well after midnight and they didn’t have to worry about being quiet, the insects were so loud. They took six plastic gas tanks with pump-bulb hoses and a stainless steel prop to deal with obstacles that couldn’t be seen.

But Darnell never showed much interest in the boat when sober. He would not go back to New Boston to work on it. Nor did he seem to want much of anything to do with Dirty these days. Usually for lunch he drove away in his shiny car without a word. Their conversations were brief and tainted by a certain new politeness. The second time Darnell declined a suggestion, Dirty quit suggesting. Apparently Darnell had discovered something about him, or thought he had. Something crooked.

He would have driven the twenty-five miles to the boat more often if fuel was cheaper or his truck didn’t drink so much. He spent about half the jug money on used tools, treated lumber and various hardware, and started building a cabin on the rear half of the deck. The roof was already in place. The console would remain in the open, with just enough room between it and the cabin wall to squeeze by.

One night he slept on deck, in the barn. He dreamed he was on the water besieged by alligators, going frantically and monotonously from one spot to another to beat them down with an oar. Luckily they couldn’t climb very well with their short arms.

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He awoke in the morning with a dense head. Clouded sinuses. He crawled on his knees, shirtless with the sleeping bag bunched at his waist, to the rail, pressed a thumb to one nostril, closed his mouth, fired a breath and ejected a gout of snot. Poof of dust on the barn floor and the yellow jelly shrank together like a salted slug. No residue at the nostril and the passageway perfectly cleared. He turned his head to see if he would be as lucky with the other side. A stocky man stood in the gaping doorway, backlit by the early sun, hands on his hips. Dirty lowered his thumb from his nose.

‘Good morning,’ the man said.

‘Morning.’

‘How are you?’

‘Fine. You?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Ah. I’m James Haskell,’ Dirty said, standing up holding the bag at his waist. ‘Ms.

Morton’s my cousin.’

‘Is that right.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, she’s my grandmaw,’ the man said. ‘And that’s my boat.’

‘Shit. Just a minute.’

Dirty dropped the bag, pulled on his shirt, his pants and, most importantly, his boots.

Then he hopped down to the dirt.

‘What are you doing to it?’

It was difficult to tell how angry the man was. Dirty approached slowly. ‘I’m building a—I asked Ms. Morton about it. She said it was fine.’

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‘Did she.’

‘Well, I thought she did.’

Up closer, Dirty could see that he was only twenty-five or thirty, though he had the firm, established gut of middle age. His eyes sat back in his head somewhat more than typical, as if hiding.

‘I cleaned it up,’ Dirty said. ‘The motor was full of dirt daubers.’

The man winced, mildly anguished. ‘Should have covered it with something.’

Dirty’s distant cousin looked at the boat like it was some contraption whose purpose he was unsure of. Dirty turned back and regarded the bare, unfinished frame on the deck. It did not look like progress.

‘Well, shit,’ Dirty said. ‘I guess I can take down what I’ve done so far.’

‘What were you doing, making a houseboat out of it?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘What, to go live on a lake somewhere?’

‘No. I was just wanting to take it down the river. I was gonna bring it back after.’

‘Down the river.’

‘Yeah. I was thinking I’d go all the way to the Mississippi. To the gulf.’

Wayne looked at him curiously.

‘So what are we,’ Dirty said. ‘Second cousins?’

‘Something like that.’

‘What was your name?’

The man looked from Dirty to the boat and back to Dirty. ‘Wayne Morton.’

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Dirty felt Wayne’s handshake was too firm, his looking in the eye too familiar, but he still said, ‘Good to meet you.’

Wayne nodded. ‘You from Texarkana?’

Dirty admitted that he was.

‘So you just found out there was a boat here and thought you’d use it.’

‘I asked your grandma.’

‘And she gave you permission.’

‘I thought she did.’

‘You thought.’ Wayne folded his arms across his midsection, blinking at a higher-than- normal rate. ‘What do you want to go down the river for?’

‘Just to go. I could pay you, too. Maybe you want to sell it. I don’t have a whole lot, but—’

‘I don’t want to sell it,’ Wayne said. ‘I don’t want to rent it, either. I was getting ready to start using it myself.’

Dirty began toeing the dirt, gouging divots and then using the flat sole to smoothe the fresh mounded dirt back over.

‘Hell, I wouldn’t mind having a cabin on it, though.’ Wayne squinted at Dirty, shook his head and grinned bitterly.

‘I’ll pay for it all,’ Dirty said. ‘I’ll do all the work.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘Well, shit. Man if it’s your boat I can—’

‘It is my boat,’ Wayne said. ‘My grandpaw left it to me.’

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‘Okay. Well it sounds like I should probably just move along at this point. I can take those walls down. Or leave em up, whatever.’

‘How long do you think it would take you to make that trip?’

‘To get to the gulf, about a week.’

‘A week.’ Wayne looked at him dubiously. ‘And were you planning to run it back upstream?’

‘No.’

‘Then how were you gonna get it back?’

‘Ahhh. Maybe drive down with the trailer before I left. Take a bus back here.’

‘How do you get it in the water then, when you’re ready to go?’

Dirty shrugged. ‘I don’t know, shit.’

Wayne cracked a smile. ‘I won’t argue with you there.’

‘There’s a way,’ Dirty said. ‘I don’t have it all figured out, but man, just tell me what you want me to do. I put a new battery on it, too. Say what you think is fair and I’ll get out of here.’

‘Use it,’ Wayne said, waving a dismissive hand across Dirty and the boat as if blessing the whole operation. ‘It’s been sitting for nearly two years and I ain’t done a thing with it. I’d like to have a little cabin on it anyway. If you get off somewhere and manage to sink it, give me a thousand dollars and we’ll call it even. Hell, you never know. I might decide to go with you.’

He chuckled quietly at the thought.

‘Well,’ Dirty said.

‘I know your mom. She’s a real nice lady.’

‘Yes she is.’

‘I remember you when you were a little boy.’

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‘I remember coming out here when I was a little boy. There was go-cart and some girl got her hair stuck in the engine.’

‘That was my sister. I think she still hadn’t got over it. She’s got a little bald spot where hair still won’t grow.’

Dirty laughed.

‘Oh, goodness gracious.’ Wayne smiled to himself. ‘So you been sleeping out here?’

‘Just last night.’

‘I thought you were some kind of damn hobo at first. Nesting up.’

‘No. I’m employed.’

‘Is your employer going to give you time off to go on this jaunt?’

‘I doubt it. I’m not that important.’

‘I see.’ Wayne’s smile faded out. ‘I’m replaceable too. Well. Let’s see how much damage you did so far.’

When he returned the next weekend, changes had been made: nails reinforced with screws, diagonal two-by-fours for stability, edges sanded smooth. Improvements all. He piddled around for a couple of hours screwing a sheet of marine plywood lenghwise along the base of the portside wall, then stapling aluminum screen over the space above. The ragged edge showed but it would keep the bugs out. The next Saturday the board had been removed and reapplied with the screen held behind it, neater and more secure, and the rest of the walls were likewise finished, with a screen door on the front of the cabin. When the self-closing hydraulic arm drew the door shut with a soft click, Dirty bit his bottom lip and blasphemed.

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Back in Texarkana he stopped for gas. Across the street, Darnell was going into an

Italian restaurant with a young lady. She was taller, blacker and prettier than Darnell, who held her elbow, chatting and smiling with what seemed a hint of desperation. She stopped and let him open the door for her, which he was more than happy to do.

At the Cedar Shack Dirty sat at the bar and drank and played spades with Cricket. By and by he asked her how she had come to own the place. ‘Destiny said it was your ex husband’s.

Did you get it in the divorce?’

‘Pretty much. We never did get divorced, far as I know. But I’m not sure we were ever married to begin with. I think there was some paper we were supposed to fill out.’

He played the ace of diamonds and she nipped at his heals with the king. She did not understand strategic loses.

‘Don’t matter,’ she said. ‘He’s a dead motherfucker, far as I’m concerned.’

‘Didn’t mean to start on a tender subject.’

‘It’s not really. It’s just how it is.’ She looked down at the cards in her hand, cloudy.

‘What bothers me sometimes is I coulda had him put in jail and I didn’t. He knew I could, too. I had cut marks. From the cuffs.’

She showed him the underside of her right wrist. Thick pink scar tissue on either side in the shape of half moons. Her mouth a straight line, her eyes deadlocked in obstinance and defeat. She looked back to her cards, laid a high club. Dirty wasted the king of hearts.

‘I should have had him locked up, like he belongs. But I told him to sign the bar over to me and don’t let me see his face again or I’d shoot it. Which I will.’ She reached under the bar and came up with a black nine millimeter.

‘Let me see that.’

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She handed it over and lit a cigarette. ‘He said that was fine. Said he didn’t want to see me again, either. He was always real good at apologizing, but then after he really—See, that’s why apologies don’t mean shit to me now. I mean, you might as well be telling me who won a football game, that’s how much I give a shit. Think about what you’re doing before you do it, you know? You’re not a fuckin animal.’

She looked incredulous but still awaited his agreement.

He pushed the machine pistol back across the bar. ‘I guess we’re not supposed to—’

‘Right.’ She pointed her cigarette at him. Ash fell onto his lap. ‘And don’t come around later acting like you didn’t want to do whatever you did. You wanted to or you wouldn’t have did it. People don’t just go around doing things they don’t want to.’

He looked at her. He wasn’t sure.

‘It’s fucked up.’ She sat up straighter, wiggled her shoulders and pushed the spread fingers of of both hands through her hair, the cigarette’s cherry outlining the crown of her head. ‘People don’t always do everything they want to do, either. But my ex. I wish he didn’t do some of the things he wanted to. So it’s fuckin confusing, you know? That’s why I always try to do what I want when I want, and I don’t hide the way I feel. But my ex. See, he’s a actor. Like, he coulda won awards for his apologies.’

‘Pour me one of those.’

‘He was an apologizing motherfucker. But this last time.’ She added another dash to each of their glasses. ‘He knew I wadn’t comin back. Cause I saw evil. Motherfucker wadn’t sorry. He just went to El Dorado and opened another place. People think he’s this great dude.

Some people. And I got the Cedar Shack. Big win. He’s probably got some other woman locked up in a shed about now.’

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They played out the rest of the hand.

‘Well, you set me,’ he said. ‘God dammit. Two bags. That puts you within twenty.’ He started shuffling.

‘All my talkin threw you off your game.’

‘Maybe so.’

‘It’s just—I hate him.’ She smiled and shrugged, helpless and happy. ‘I guess it’s a problem. But I really and truly do.’

‘Want me to kidnap him and deliver him to you.’

‘Dude, I’ve thought about killing him lots of times. If I knew I’d get away with it I would. Cause it would be the best thing. I heard a doctor the other day, like a relationship doctor or whatever on TV said you can’t have hate if you don’t have love, too. Said they’re like two sides of a coin. But I called bullshit on that, cause I do. I got the same thing on both sides of my coin. I used to think I loved him, but I didn’t know him. And you can’t love somebody you don’t know. Cheers. . . . I know it ain’t Christian or whatever but I can’t help it. I hate him.

Cause he never did anybody any good and he never will.’

Mr. Will, awash in fluorescent light like some laboratory specimen, sat behind his broad metal desk. Mr. Will who wore a back brace outside his starched white shirt though he never lifted anything. Who listened the day long to political tirades on the radio. Who back in November had sat here and listened to Dirty, whiskey-sick supplicant, apologize for being late a second consecutive day. Dirty had also assured his boss that he would cause no more problems, and meant every word because, though Mr. Will rarely spoke, it was clear that he would not suffer

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 the unreliable. But something has happened to you, sir. Trouble at home? Not financial—not you. Your appearance is neat as usual but you do not look well. Cancer? Divorce?

‘Two weeks,’ Mr. Will said.

‘That’s standard, right? I could do a few more days, if you need.’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ Mr. Will folded his pudgy arms over his liver. ‘I think we’ll just make today your last day, James. We managed with a four man crew when Mr.

Blake was away. Now that he’s back, labor costs are higher than necessary. If you don’t need this job, we’ll just make it easy for you.’

‘Well, I think I’d rather—Are you firing me?’

‘I’m telling you that there’s no need to wait two weeks.’

‘Can you do that? I don’t think you can do that.’

‘If you know you’re going to be leaving, you’ll have no reason to be committed. And to be frank, I don’t need anyone who isn’t committed to his job.’

‘Come on, it’s not like this is . . . . What about pride, man? You know, personal pride.’

‘To be honest, I haven’t seen much of that quality from you, James.’

Eyes a murky stew behind his glasses, simmering rage. Breathing in desperation, breathing out carbon dioxide. The warehouse shelves behind him harboring a little forest of child’s trophies, a bronze loving cup, a glass crucifix. A framed eight-by-ten of Mr. Will astonished with a former Secretary of Defense.

‘What about unemployment,’ Dirty said. ‘You’re gonna have to keep paying me if you fire me. I’m trying to make it easier on you. I’m telling you I’m leaving.’

‘What you’re telling me,’ Mr. Will said, ‘is that you are not committed to this job. . . .

And you haven’t been employed a full year, so unemployment doesn’t apply.’

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‘I’ve been here over a year.’

‘Not full time.’

‘What the fuck?’

‘And now I’d like you to leave my office with that foul language.’

Spotlights and rod holders were now mounted on the railing. In the cabin were two bunks on

0hinges—Dirty’s idea—one on either side, one high and one low, that would clip flush against the wall to save space until bedtime. Two heavy duty marine batteries were wired to a small solar panel on the roof that would supposedly keep them charged. But the motor still would not fire.

‘I’m just gonna take it in to the shop.’

‘Man, I’ve called around. All those places charge like a hundred bucks an hour. Plus everybody’s taking their boat in this time of year. There’s no telling how long we’d have to wait. Let’s keep messing with it a little bit more. Or I will, if you give up.’

‘We could tinker with this thing for days. I don’t know what else there is to do. I say just let a professional do it.’

‘Are you sure those spark plugs are right?’

‘They’re the same as the old ones.’ Wayne rubbed sweat from his reddish brown goatee, the back of his neck. ‘These hoses you knocked loose with that pressure washer. I’m thinking they didn’t get put back on right.’

‘Well, it was infested. What was I supposed to do, ask em to move? And please take your dirt with you.’

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‘You coulda been more careful.’

‘Whatever.’

They stared at the bare motor. Teasing conglomeration of specialized parts. Prisoner immune to interrogation. Story composed with a foreign alphabet.

‘I was talkin to my cousin the other day after church,’ Wayne said. ‘Cindy Pike. She’s a substitute teacher in Texarkana.’

‘I know her.’

‘Well I mentioned you and—’

‘Does she want a date?’

‘She’s your cousin too. Somehow or another. Anyway, said everbody calls you Dirty.’

Dirty shrugged.

‘And you let em?’

‘Eh.’

‘If somebody tried to—’

‘I just don’t have that much control over people. It’s like, make a big deal out of it and . .

. .’

‘Yeah. Hey, what about the gas? One time I couldn’t get a lawnmower to start and it turned out there was water in the gas.’

‘I just mixed it. The can was clean.’

‘What about that little hose.’

‘Which one?’

‘That one right there. Does it need to connect somewhere?’

‘I don’t see anywhere for it to go.’

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‘What’s it for, fuel?’

‘I don’t think so. Water, probably. Or air.’

‘What about right there.’

‘Quit.’

‘Right here.’

‘Get back.’

‘There. Let’s try it now. . . . What the hell, man. Why’d you do that?’

‘It doesn’t fit there.’

‘I had it on.’

‘You forced it.’

‘It wouldn’t hurt to try.’

‘It might. You don’t know.’

‘Neither do you, motherfucker.’

‘Alright then, Dirty James. Why don’t you just carry your skinny ass back to

Texarkana. I’m serious. I don’t need your help here. I don’t want it.’

‘Carry your fat ass, man, I’ve put a lot of time and money into this thing. You can’t just—’

‘Boys.’

They looked at each other.

‘Boys, come on out from there.’

They came around the rear of the boat. The widow Morton stood in the open doorway holding two glasses and a plastic pitcher that trembled in her frail grip and glowed in the sunlight.

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‘Come get some lemonade and quit fussin with one another.’ She tottered forth.

‘Yes mam.’

‘Yes mam.’

Wayne took the pitcher from her and set it on the bow. They both thanked her and drank.

She put her hands on her hips. ‘What’s a matter. Can’t get it runnin?’

‘No mam. Don’t know what the problem is.’

‘Well, Harold always got this feller acrost the pasture help him with it. In that blue house yonder. I got to get back inside. I’m missing my program.’ Headed for the door, she said,

‘I don’t want no more fussin in my barn.’

‘Yes mam.’

‘I’ll bring your pitcher back, Grandmaw.’

They looked at each other. Smiled.

‘She’s havin a good day,’ said Wayne.

Dirty refilled his glass, looked back toward the motor and drank.

‘Let’s go find that blue house,’ said Wayne.

‘Yes sir.’

They waded through the high-grown pasture sun-drenched and single file, Wayne parting the growth. From a low rise they looked down on a pond that glistened with moss.

Behind it a full view of a rioting wall of woodland that angled away unbroken for perhaps a mile, until a farm to market road cut into it. A black pickup sped slowly toward the trees like an insect seaking shelter. Three cows stood in the pond, bony and motionless. Wayne studied them as he walked. ‘It’s a damn shame,’ he said, stomping down a thorny bush. ‘I tried to get

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Grandpaw to sell em off, once he got too old to mess with em. He said, ‘Nah, let em be. They got plenty grass to eat.’ And here’s what happened. He had over a hundred head at one point.’

‘Is that all that’s left?’

‘There’s more off in the woods. The ones worms and coyotes didn’t get. Some of em are wild as deer, the younger ones. Males didn’t get culled so there’s a pack of em out there somewhere, knocking heads. And there’s one bull, with his harem. May still be an old bull wanderin around by hisself somewhere. It’s a mess.’

‘There’s a blue house.’

Wayne scanned the near horizon to his two o’clock, changed course. At a few hundred yards, bits of dull painted siding showed through new foliage that glowed and shivered like a plague of treefrogs. Wayne set each step a little stiffly, as if trying to punish the wild growth for insurrection. Swatted a bug hard against his neck, also in vain.

‘So your buddy’s gonna haul the trailer down for you,’ Wayne said.

‘He said he would.’

‘Assuming there’s a motor.’

‘I was thinking I’d rig it with a sail if we can’t get it going.’

Wayne stooped a little under thick rounded shoulders as if this flesh were a burden.

‘You said he was gonna go with you?’

‘Yeah, but it works out better anyway. He just wants to go to New Orleans.’

‘Well. I don’t want to float that far, but I think I will go to Shreveport.’ Wayne turned back a glance. ‘I got plenty of time off saved up, and you said you never drove a boat. I just want to make sure you’re good with everything before you get off alone on the river.’

‘With your boat.’

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‘Well, yes. But regardless, I wouldn’t want to go off by myself on a part of the river I didn’t know. Not with no experience. I’ve been on the river some. It’s not like a lake.’

‘That’s fine. Makes sense, I guess.’

‘It’s just safer with two. Something happens. Motor quits, or you get hung up.’

Wayne glanced back again, gauging. Dirty watched a tanker truck disappear into the woods.

‘If we get to Shreveport and you want to keep going, I won’t try to stop you. You’ll know a lot better what you’re doing by then. I don’t think you’re dumb, it’s just—experience.’

‘It’s fine,’ Dirty said. He had been anticipating the time alone, but like one anticipates a major surgery or a marathon. Wayne would be along for two or three days, and there’d be plenty of time to himself after Shreveport. Maybe a lifetime’s worth. He could tie up somewhere and make a camp, if the river was running too fast. Take as much time as he wanted. Lose track of time.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Makes sense.’

At four-thirty in the morning on the ninth of May, eleven years into the new millenium, an unattended handheld electronic device trilled and rattled on a kitchen counter. Dirty came out of his bedroom and flipped a light switch. On the couch and a floor pallet respectively, Darnell and Wayne strained upright from their warm places as if escaping amniotic fluid. Dirty had had no trouble waking because he had had much trouble sleeping.

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Waffle House, all agreed. Caffeine and protein. Dirty drove. His gas gauge showed just better than empty but all the hardware and supplies he had bought recently had drastically depleted his funds.

In profile, the boat and trailer loomed at least twice the size of the pickup. Fog lay over the streets and parking lots, soaking electric light. Darnell slept or pretended to sleep on the middle of the bench seat. Wayne reminded the driver that they were not in a hurry and suggested he keep a good distance in front of him, since he didn’t have trailer brakes. Dirty said okay. Approaching a flashing stoplight at forty miles-an-hour, he pressed the brake pedal. In vain. ‘Who-o-o-a-a.’ The boat pushed his truck, bullied it out into the intersection, tires squelching, the three of them fully awake now, shuddering stiff and silent.

At rest, the total rig spanned the four-lane width of the cross street. An diesel truck’s headlights flooded the cab from just beyond Wayne’s window.

‘Now you want to go,’ Wayne said. ‘Back there’s where you wanted to stop.’

Dirty crept them into motion, holding his tongue. The boat loomed red in his rearview, having asserted its dominance, and it was more clear to him than ever that this was really about to happen. And did he look forward to it at all? It seemed there had been a point to it at one time, but maybe it was better as an idea than it would or could be in reality. Or maybe Wayne had fouled up a good thing. It seemed to Dirty, not for the first time, that his sort of cousin was sort of tresspassing. It was his boat, granted. It was his boat. But this hadn’t been his idea and he hadn’t been invited. He had invited himself, was the bottom line. . . . Or seemed to be. The bottom line was like the stripes on the road ahead, which vanished in fog and darkness even as they emerged into view. It was all pretty complex—yet in a way the trip was as good as finished. No changing the future. You may spoil it with worries but you will not change it.

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In the Waffle House, Wayne sat across the booth from the two of them reading the

Texarkana Gazette and drinking coffee. Difficult to imagine him as a child. Darnell enjoyed his waffle a little too much.

‘I saw you with your girl,’ Dirty said.

Leaned over his plate, Darnell played bashful, shrugged one shoulder.

‘You’re whipped, I guess.’

‘I won’t deny it. She’s kinda got it all, man.’

‘Except good lookin friends who like little white guys.’

‘I don’t know. She’s from Little Rock. She doesn’t really have any friends here.’

‘Just you, huh.’

‘Just me.’

‘Sounds like a good deal.’

‘It’s workin out.’ Darnell sopped syrup with a waffle wedge. ‘I found one of my dad’s books. Should have let you take it with you. It’s just about women and shit. I learned a few things. Sort of reprogrammed myself.’

‘And that’s workin out.’

‘You’ve basically just got to stay a step ahead of them.’

‘It’s that easy.’

‘Females just want you to make them feel good about theirself.’

‘Yeah, guys hate that.’

‘They want to feel pretty, and they want to feel special. But they also want you to be in charge. They might get mad at you sometimes when you take charge, but they respect you at the same time. You just can’t take the respect thing too far. You can beat your woman down

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 and tell her she’s fat, keep her feeling shitty all the time. A lot of guys do. And she might stay with you. Probably she will. But then, what have you got? Like Dad says: Does that woman keep close to you at night?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No. She does not. You got to make them feel good, too. But you also got to stand your ground. It’s one and then the other, so she doesn’t get bored. It’s like ping-pong.’

‘It’s true. Ping-pong never gets boring.’

‘You sons of bitches are boring me,’ said Wayne, looking up from the editorial page.

Dirty said, ‘What do you know about it, old man.’

‘I guess not much, since I’m divorced. But I’ve never known a female to be the same two days in a row. Let alone all of em at once.’

‘That’s not what I said,’ said Darnell.

He and Wayne stared at each other. Wayne grinned. ‘I’m just sort of messin with y’all.’

He folded the paper and dropped it on the table. ‘It’s true. There aren’t many of em that don’t like compliments.’

‘Here y’are,’ said the waittress, placing Dirty’s bacon egg and cheese sandwich before him. ‘He burnt the first one. Out there smokin a cigarette.’

She looked disgusted, though her wrinkled skin was varnished with nicotine and tar.

‘That’s a nice ribbon in your hair,’ Dirty said. ‘Matches your eyes.’

She recoiled slightly and looked down at him like he was some abomination, shot air from her nose and shuffled away, hunched more to one side than the other. They all three snickered.

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Dirty drove below the speed limit toward the river. The fog was thicker beyond the city limits and in the field beside them the new sun burned its way through the mist, refracting and spreading like an iridescent worm outgrowing its coccoon. At Mile Marker 1 he took his foot from the gas pedal and allowed the boat to slow at its own pace, finally turning off the highway onto the dirt path through the weeds.

The launch ramp wasn’t very long, since the river was up, but it was narrow and steep.

Dirty swung around and backed the trailer, jackknifing and straightening out several times, eventually to the lip of the rough concrete. The ramp dropped away so sharply he couldn’t see its surface in his sideview and for all he knew the physics of it would overwhelm again and drag truck-and-all into the river. The river was all that he could see beyond the boat in his sideview.

True to its name this morning it was a dark Red, and flowing fast. He asked Wayne if he wanted to back it in.

‘Yes please. Y’all hop out. Stand out to the side and guide me.’

‘Well, with a guide,’ Dirty said, opening his door. ‘I didn’t mean with a guide.’

Corps of Engineers boulders lined both sides of the ramp down to the river. Dirty and

Darnell stood opposite each other on the low piles, Dirty in shorts and boots, Darnell in a shiny blue windsuit. Just before the cabin passed between them, Dirty said it wasn’t too late to go.

When Darnell came back into view, he said, ‘I don’t see a shower on that thing. Or a refrigerator, or an air conditioner.’

‘False idols.’

‘Man, air conditioning is my friend. Refrigerators too. All of em. ‘

‘Wolves in sheeps’ clothing.’

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Dirty felt he could remain on the little pile of rocks making silly pronouncements, but he had somewhere to go. He hopped down onto the ramp. Darnell followed. Wayne braked with the trailer tires just into the river.

‘They’re gonna be your friends, too,’ Darnell said. ‘By the time you get off that river.’

Dirty stepped onto the trailer tongue, grabbed a piece of the railing and climbed aboard.

He lowered the motor into the rushing river, pumped the bulb on the fuel hose a few times, choked the throttle and turned the key. Started right up. Good girl. He gave Wayne a thumbs up and Wayne turned back as far as he could, his mouth just escaping the open window. ‘Come up and let the strap loose! But don’t unclip it!’

Dirty went to the bow, lay on his belly and pressured the handle on the reel that kept the strap that tethered the boat to the trailer. He flipped the little springloaded release switch.

‘Come on back!’

Wayne let the rig slide down into the river. The boat righted itself and drifted downstream, the strap spinning out and jerking taut, where trailer, truck and boat all shuddered and the boat swung downstream. Dirty held the wheel with both hands, as if he was in control. The pontoon went thump against the clay bank, and he drew a breath, quavering on the loose foundation of the river. The motor gurgled and pissed red. The river looked bigger than ever.

His duffel bag landed on the deck in front of him. Wayne stepped down from the bank with his own bag over a shoulder and the boat dipped slightly to his side. ‘I’ll take the wheel,

Dirty James.’

‘Cap’n.’

‘Would you please go to the front and let us loose.’

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‘Yes sir.’

Dirty went and lay on his stomach again. He gripped the hook on the end of the strap and tried to unclip it from the U-bolt on the underside of the deck, but was not strong enough.

Wayne throttled up and the boat lurched against the current, the strap sagged into the river and Dirty let it fall completely away. Cool air rising from the water. On the ramp at the river’s edge, Darnell raised a hand: a condescended blessing. Dirty gave him the finger.

Out into the river Wayne made an arc that accelerated as it bent and transitioned from slog to glide. The motor was running strong and so was the river. He throttled back to idle and let the current do the work.

Between the massive pylons of the highway bridge they passed with a brief sensation of being indoors, the puffing of the motor doubled and tripled and coming at them from all sides.

Then relative silence as the first piece of the winding river laid out like a picture: a dark bluff on the right spilling tree-shaped shadows over most of the water, the rest of which glimmered and tapered away to a vanishing point with a leftward bend. Foregrounded low in

Wayne’s view, Dirty James sat on the bow shirtless, his gaudy boots beside him, his feet in the water. Narrow, meatless shoulderblades, knobby spine and shaggy hair: he might have been twelve years old. Wayne didn’t expect him to be much help. He wasn’t a bad kid, but he was still at that age where he thought he already knew it all somehow. Which wasn’t entirely his fault, maybe. . . . Just as long as you stay civilized. No need for a lot of talk. Pitch your skinny ass out at the next bridge, you get obnoxious. Take this money for your troubles but get off my boat.

God, but it was a fine day. God above and all around. The air smelled strong because the river was in it. In with the good, out with the bad. Vending machine lunches and exhaust

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 fumes and no telling what other chemicals he had breathed at work. Day after day indoors at the Army Depot, which bore the name of this river. Bolting steel plates onto personel trucks, protecting future soldiers from IEDs in a distant desert. He would rather be driving one of those trucks, tracking down terrorists. His job was necessary, maybe, but practically anyone could do it. No soldier would go unprotected if he never went back to work. It was a job a lot of men would like to have, too. Well, let them have it. Probably not be much future in it anyway.

The place had nearly been closed twice: reccomended by Congress. And pretty much everyone at the Depot agreed that this President did not support the military. Not like the last one. Just get out from under the government. Open a business. Fence building. Septic tanks. Something.

Before you get too old.

It had been fifteen years—surely did not seem like it, but that was how long it had been—since Wayne had been on this river. ‘It ain’t never the same twice,’ his granddaddy,

Barny Earle Morton, had said. ‘Not two days in a row, not two miles in a row.’ They had come out one Sunday on this very boat, played hooky from church, motored upstream and drifted back. Caught a sturgeon, found no caviar but mutilated it looking. The river had been lower, but the boat had sat up higher then. He and Dirty James had added a lot of weight, so the pontoons were more vulnerable to hidden hazards. Keep to the outside of the bends and watch for riffles. He didn’t know how much the motor would be needed to keep off the banks, how much the river would steer them, but there was enough fuel, surely: a stack of shelves behind the cabin two deep with six gallon cans: over sixty gallons, including the tank that was being used.

The lip of the captain’s chair pressed against the backs of his knees, crowding. It was too low to see over the console—something he should have thought about before now—and the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 driver didn’t need to get too comfortable anyhow. He turned back and put the sole of his sneaker to the back-rest, straightened his leg and the chair gave over, the rusted lag bolts at the base snapping easily. He picked it up and tossed it into the river. Now there was plenty of room to stand.

Dirty James was on his feet. He looked from the bubbles streaming up to the surface to

Captain Wayne, whose face was like one of those Easter Island statues. ‘I didn’t like that chair anyway.’ Dirty unwrapped a bungee cord from one of the fore posts of the canopy to get a rod- and-reel, dug into a styrofoam bucket filled with earth and found a worm, clipped it in two with his fingernails and went back to his place on the bow.

The first time his cork twittered away into the murk and he began to reel in the fish, a kind of song raised up within him. The only other fish he had caught had been several years before with Jimbo—when the lanky dentist was new to the scene and anxious to impress—on a well-stocked, pay-to-fish pond, which hardly counted.

By mid-morning there were three small yellowish catfish in the cooler that they had reserved for that purpose. The mild chill they had begun the day with was about gone, depending on your sensitivity. Dirty wore an open shirt and a beaten straw cowboy hat to block the sun. He watched the river more than his cork. It did not move as one piece but in a sort of placid chaos or weary panic of tumbling and sliding over and through itself, on the surface brain-like in its flux and contours. The bluff on their left might have been a hundred feet high and was so steep that only a few patches of grass clung to it. Swallows swirled under the dying roots of a big pecan tree that hung over the ledge.

Grown impatient with the pace—debris sometimes passed them on the current—

Wayne wanted to throttle up and make some headway, but did not want to disrupt the fishing

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 and, moreso, did not want to be impatient. He drew a deep breath and held it, then spewed his exhale into a soft headwind.

‘Look at this,’ Dirty said, gesturing straight ahead.

Wayne squinted—his eyes were just passable—and could distinguish a line across the river at about two hundred yards, beyond which the water glittered a fractious orange. Around the next bend and out of sight the phenomenon stretched like a storybook path to a mythic city.

Dirty took his feet from the water and stood, placing his rod in a catch on the rail. The boundary between the plain muddy water and this neon realm was not straight across the breadth of the river but arched from the left bank downstream. They seemed just seconds away from crossing over when the sheen began to vanish. It receded constantly before them at exactly the speed they drifted, leaving darkness behind. When they moved onto the darkness and could look straight down on it, the water was a shiny dark brown, nearly black.

‘Looks like coffee,’ said Wayne.

Dirty pointed to the left bank, somewhat behind them.

At the beginning of the darkness on the river was the open end of a large pipe, from the bottom of which spilled a black broth. Behind and far away over an open field, the tops of three smokestacks spewed white in meandering, dissipating trails.

‘Fuckin paper mill,’ said Wayne. He looked around at all the chemicals or whatever, his rage only fuel for a greater despair, his heart like a frog without legs. ‘I guess people—I mean, surely people know about this.’

‘I remember reading about it in the newspaper.’ (It had been a brief article on the next- to-last page. A spokesman for the mill noted the ‘lack of scientific consensus linking the waste to environmental damage.’ A house fire had been the headline that day. Hell of a picture.) ‘If I

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 remember right, they pay a fifty-thousand dollar-a-month fine because it’s cheaper than getting rid of the stuff the right way.’

Wayne looked from Dirty back out to the glittering orange. It seemed to dance above the surface almost like flames. Weirdly beautiful. ‘What’s the right way?’

Dirty unfolded a lawnchair and sat. He and Wayne both considered abandoning the whole trip, though neither said so. Rounding the bend, they could see ahead where the river regained its normal dull color. Maybe the stuff is heavier than water. Maybe it soaks into the bottom and doesn’t go all the way to the gulf. Or maybe it’s harmless.

The fishing pole bent sharply. Its tip slashed at the surface of the water. A monster down there. Dirty got up, took out his pocket knife and cut the line.

That evening they tied up in a creek inlet and fried the three catfish. Wayne sipped a single beer while they played dominoes, then said he was going to bed. Dirty took the lantern out onto the deck and read a book, but the insects were outrageous around the light and kept landing on the book and on his face. He killed the lantern and just sat and drank and looked out to the murky, glinting blackness beyond the mouth of the creek. It sounded like an exhale that went on and on.

Wayne awoke about dawn and went out onto the deck. A rank smell arrested him. Then he saw the snake: a heavy black moccasin near the lip of the bow demonstrating the letter S.

Wayne opened the nearest cooler and found a good-sized piece of ice, took aim and fired. Hit the stinky bastard in the ribs. It flinched and fixed him with its eyes, raised its head, its mouth opening much bigger than its head had been and Wayne fumbling for the door as it began its

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 charge, lurching skinny into the cabin and jerking the door shut. Backing away, he watched it through the screen, his heart huge and wild, drenched in adrenaline, his hairs all on end. Gently swaying, it showed its fangs and the fabled cotton in its jowls as a quiet hiss spewed from its throat. ‘Shit almighty.’

‘What’re you doing?’ Dirty said. He lay at Wayne’s eye level with his back turned. ‘Just because you get up doesn’t mean everybody else has to.’

The snake closed its mouth and flashed its forked tongue. ‘Sorry,’ Wayne said. The snake poured itself like oil into the water, which was furred with a light mist. ‘Go back to sleep.’

Dirty did. When he awoke it was to a strong cool wind blowing the blanket from his bare feet and up over his legs. The motor screamed. He rolled over on his bunk and looked through the screen at the riverbank passing in a soft blur, a fanshaped spray from the pontoon and the currrent outraced utterly. He raised up and could see Wayne through the screen on the opposite wall. The Captain held the wheel in one hand and a coffee mug in the other and he looked happier than Dirty had ever seen him.

When the tank ran dry, Dirty took the wheel. Wayne stood as close as he had yesterday, when his apprentice had piloted for an hour, and looked just slightly less anxious. Dirty said that he had it under control and told him to go sit down. Wayne had his doubts, but he did as he was told.

In a couple of hours, fairly hypnotized by the heavy swinging drift and the bite of the curves, the drone of the motor and the wind across his face, the gas ran out again. Wayne said they were going to have to take it slower: they were eating up their supply. Dirty went into the cabin without responding. Knowing there would be much time to kill, he had brought a few books and a sketchpad. Maybe he would draw or write something: if he got an idea, whatever.

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Since school he had been reading more. Being forced takes all the good out of it, and he hadn’t liked the way his teachers always wanted to talk about symbols and themes, like that was the whole point. Nor had he much enjoyed his art teacher, who had insisted that you must know realism before you can do abstract. He hadn’t bought a ruled notebook, though it would have been a lot cheaper, because he had decided that lines would interfere with pictures, and with words too, since lines may conform his thoughts into mediocrity. With a pen instead of a pencil so as not to second-guess himself, he sat in a chair in the shade and—thinking as little as possible, as too much thinking was bound to screw him up—he wrote: ‘The river slithered like a serpentine snake that never began and always ended.’

Good start. A grabber. Kind of dark, and mysterious. . . .

‘Like Mother Natures arm vein hypodermicly injected with a drug made of her own rotten flesh and the garbage of humans—it was a river of shame.’

Pow. Could be the title right there. Serpentine, hypodermicly—words were coming out of him he didn’t even know he knew. Pen went back to paper. But it was better to quit on a positive note than push it too far. He put the sketchpad back in his bag and got a beer. There was already more water than ice in this cooler, the mid-sized of the three. He wanted to look into the largest one, which contained a block of dry ice surrounded by ten-pound sacks of cubes, but they had agreed to open it early in the mornings or not at all. Anyway the can he held was cold. ‘Aaaahh.’

‘You’re gonna run out before we get to Louisiana.’

‘They sell beer in Louisiana.’

‘Just don’t act like an idiot.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ Dirty said, and took his seat.

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Wayne rubbed his jaw. Just pitch his skinny ass in the river and hit the gas. Let him figure it out.

In a few minutes, on a broad, sluggish channel, Wayne left the wheel unattended and got himself a beer. He stood on the deck and sipped. A hunk of rusted metal peaked above the surface fifty yards ahead. He started to go to the wheel but the boat was tracking away, toward the left bank. It seemed to veer around the obstacle and then straighten itself out again. Wayne said to himself that he would be damned.

They finished a twelve pack and caught about an equal number of catfish, plus a fat carp and a drum. Dirty turned on the little radio he had brought and picked up a classic country station. That it was out of Shreveport was encouraging. The music itself was not. Heartbreak and bellyaching. Cry me a river. And the worst part was that it spoke to him.

You look so-o-o-o good in love You want him, that’s easy to see

Except she didn’t. She looked like she didn’t have a choice. The gypsy did have some sort of mind control over her, in that he knew how to play upon some undeniable instinct in her. It wasn’t her heart controlling her, it was her programming. Did he hit her? Was the threat of violence a part of it?

Rage.

You look so-o-o-o good in love And I wish you still wanted me

The grand gesture had been key. The confidence. Likely it would work again. Likely she waits for you. Hair across half her face and the one big teasing clever eye. Her bare shape ghostly pale in near darkness, panties eased down over soft hips and the arch of her back. . . .

‘You think we’re to Louisiana yet?’

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‘Nah, we’ve only passed under one more bridge. There’s at least three, I think, before we get out of Arkansas.’

‘That’s right. Dammit.’

‘The river’s going down, too. It’s slower than it was yesterday.’

Wayne sat in a lawnchair beside him. The motor rested. Now a melodramatic lady singer whined, ‘D-I-V-O-R-C-E.’ Dirty turned off the radio and sat with a fresh one. He asked

Wayne how old he was when he got married?

Wayne finished a can and tossed it out. ‘Twenty.’ He sort of smiled. ‘We had a big ole, expensive, stupid wedding. I thought, My dad got married at nineteen. His dad was eighteen.’

He reached behind him into the cooler and got himself another. ‘But, the difference was, they didn’t marry a cold-hearted whore.’

Dirty made some effort to keep a straight face. Wayne turned to him with a weird, wry grin. ‘I’m serious. She hardly ever smiled unless she got something new to wear and looked at herself in a mirror. Or when she was lying to me, I eventually figured out. And the only times I ever saw her laugh—I didn’t realize this till after, but the only time she ever laughed was when people got hurt on America’s Funniest Videos.’

Dirty laughed, and laughed.

‘She was good lookin though. Or I thought she was. I’ve learned. I’ll take a ugly nice one over a good lookin mean one every time. And she was smart, too. Smarter’n me, but . . .

Shit. . . . Forget it.’

The late sun tried to turn the river orange but didn’t fare as well without the paper mill’s help. Gun-thunder rolled over them from downstream, where the river leapt with jets of

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 spray around a drifting log. On a high bluff stood a black man and a skinny young boy. Both wore overalls and held rifles. Dirty said, ‘How’re y’all doing!’

‘I was getting ready to shoot back!;

The man rocked back onto his heels and smiled, then raised a hand, which gesture the houseboat dwellers returned. Eventually the shots began again, behind them: the flat pop and diffusing roll passing through them with a small electric charge and away over the surface, repeatedly and dimmer. Sound, being in short supply, had substance.

The sun was just peaking through treetops when they saw an entire tree floating up ahead. Wayne started the motor and drew up alongside it. Gnarly broken roots polished like abstract sculpture, limbs doubled back on themselves with heavy clusters of green pecans.

‘Ease up on it,’ said Dirty standing. A little wobbly on his feet, Wayne did his best. As the tip of the portside pontoon tapped the treetrunk, Dirty stepped over and crouched, toes and fingers digging into the bark. The tree did not sink an inch under his weight. Like the least athletic monkey on the planet he crawled up among the limbs, where he could stand and hold on.

‘I’ve got my own boat now. I’ll just eat nuts. Meet you in Shreveport.’

‘Climb out on that limb, idiot. Get back on here.’

Dirty ignored the order. He rode ten feet above the water, surprisingly stable. He watched a crane step through a shallow inlet with a militant downward gaze. The sun had fallen behind the woods now and color was fleeing the world, the river and greenery turning gray before his eyes.

‘Come on,’ said Wayne. ‘This is how shit happens.’

‘This?’ Dirty asked. ‘This is how shit happens?’

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But it was time to go back. Holding another branch, he looked down and watched his filthy feet scoot along the limb that curled and dangled toward the bow, Wayne finessing the throttle. Close enough, he leapt to the deck, landed with a stiff jolt, rolled onto his side and got right back up. He had hurt his ankle, but did not let it show.

Through a cloud of gnats and mosquitoes for an hour or three each evening they swept the water with a spotlight. Wayne always called it a night first, always later than he would have preferred because Dirty James never seemed ready to quit, and not again in stagnant water.

Tied to a tree on the bank, it was more pleasant with the gentle instability of the boat and the muted xylophone sound of the water rushing by, drawing them into sleep and drowning them in strange dreams.

Each morning the river was a little lower than the day before, until sandbars were the majority and they had to run the motor almost constantly to keep in deep enough water.

Occasionally a pontoon scraped bottom with an off-key shiver. During the hottest hours shallow, stranded pools and mudholes radiated a stink filled with both life and death. They knew that the dam at Lake Texoma was mostly responsible for changes in water level, but chose to believe anyway that a lack of rainfall was the direct cause.

Looking at the road atlas Dirty had brought, they could scarcely guess at which horseshoe they occupied. Wayne’s phone had GPS but it was powered down and he had determined to keep it that way, excepting emergency. Opening his bag one afternoon, the dead screen dimly reflected his face, promising knowledge if only he would turn it on. He put it in a dirty sock.

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The morning of the fourth day, the Sulphur joined up. A steady piping of meringue-like foam several inches high drifted from it toward the confluence of the streams, swirled and sucked away in a hissing vortex big around as an oil barrel. A wall of viney trees lined the bank of the smaller, nastier river. Beyond was Snuff. Destiny was there—he seemed to know it.

Later they came across the Doddridge Ferry: an open sheet-metal deck with enough space for two vehicles at most, a small pilot’s booth on one side and used tires fastened across either end. It conveyed a skinny young Arkansas Highway Patrolman who reclined with his palms on the hood of his cruiser, his chest concave, watching the houseboat-dwellers through his sunglasses. Both wore just a pair of shorts. Having no mirror, each assumed the other to look, and smell, worse than himself. Dirty smiled and waved to the trooper like they were old friends. The trooper remained still but for his head slowly turning as they slid past.

That evening there was a rainstorm. They started a game of dominos but the sound of the hard rain on the tin roof was such that they both kept miscounting the dots, or just could not care enough to concentrate. The game was abandoned, Wayne snuffed the lantern and they lay back, listening.

In the morning the river was a little higher and faster. They must have made Lousiana at some point but there was still a good bit of the state left before Shreveport and they were down to three tanks of gas, from the eight they had started with. The beer was gone, completely gone, leaving them with a quart of whiskey and a large joint—gifted by Darnell the night before they had left—for diversion. Worst of all, the ice had nearly all melted. Maybe two pounds worth clumped on to the fist-sized piece of dry ice that remained. Wayne had moved this smoking gem to their smallest cooler, where it might perish more slowly, though only a tub of margarine, two hot dogs and a little orange juice were left to keep cool. There was a

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 plastic box half filled with dry snacks like you might get from a vending machine, and they had plenty of clean water and could catch all the catfish they wanted, but all the catfish they wanted was less every day. Ring around the neck, clamp skin and drag to the tail, guts to the river, off with the head, roll in cornmeal and slide into bubbling grease. The flaky white meat had been delicious the first few times, but by now the level of hunger needed to swallow more of it meant hours of semi-profound lethargy. There was one more bridge before Shreveport, and where there was a bridge there was surely a store nearby. Wayne especially awaited a change in diet.

Other inconveniences he could accept and even relish, but his body complained like a petulant child and he only wanted to shut it up.

Near a sandbar, Dirty hopped off and waded up onto the beach, then strolled along beside the boat for a hundred yards or more. He and Wayne had just argued to the verge of yelling—pace of progress versus scarcity of fuel, fuel efficiency relative to speed, their position relative to the rest of the world, etc.—and he was trying to forget about it. Wayne had made a decent point or two. Call it a tie. He decided to open the sketchpad again. The sand, which was as fine and soft here as on any beach in the world, tapered away and he waded out into the warm water, grabbed a rail and climbed aboard, sat and wrote: ‘The river only knows the path of least resistance.’ One sentence followed another, and he was soon at work on life itself, making some fine philosophy. . . . Except the more he wrote, the more contradictions he turned up. And his lines were trending downward to the right on the unruled paper, as if trying to form circles. He read back over what he had written. For example: ‘There is no such thing as laziness.’ He rubbed his greasy head. The sentences were just words, the words just scribble.

He ripped the page out, took a cigarette lighter from the tray in the top of the console and set fire to it, pinching a corner to the breeze so it blazed to his fingertips, where he shook away the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 flame. Stuck to his thumb was a tiny white triangle, brittle black along one edge. He ate it. Back in his chair, having exchanged the lighter for a pencil, he looked at the next blank page. He looked out the river gaping before him. He began to draw.

Another tank ran dry. Wayne hooked up a new one, but did not start the motor. Dirty, in a chair with a book in his lap, pointed up to his left. A brick house met with the edge of the bluff.

At the nearest corner the bulge of the slab protruded from the gray dirt. Farther down, near the water line, a swingset’s back was broken over a clay boulder. A pair of green, neatly trimmed shrubs were caught in the upturned roots of a tree.

‘That’s a hell of a view from the bedroom window,’ said Dirty.

‘Yep. I’ll bet you say your prayers at night when you go to bed in there.’

‘I’ll bet.’

Dirty got up, dropped his book in his chair and went to the bow to piss. He had wondered before this trip if he would discover God somehow. In church he had never felt what some others seemed to, but discovering God in nature seemed to be something that people did.

It had been the better part of a week now and he felt something. Some presence stronger than before. But he did not feel protected, let alone loved by it. He sang:

Jesus loves me, this I know For the Bible tells me so Lit-tle ones to him belong

Wayne joined in, deep and loud:

They are weak but he is strong Ye-e-es, Jesus loves me Ye-e-es, Jesus loves me Ye-e-es, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so. 115

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They drifted along, their smiles gradually fading.

‘You pray, Wayne?’

‘Yep. Every Sunday.’

‘I mean on your own.’

Wayne shrugged with mild shame. ‘I’ve tried,’ he said. ‘I guess I don’t know how.’

Wayne’s short wiry beard went from his chest almost to his eyesockets. Dirty had checked himself in the reflection of the RPM meter on the console and had a fine sandy moustache, but the rest of his face was ridiculously patchy, as if gobs of glue and hair had been flung across it.

They had cultivated a common smell. It had sunk into unconsciousness as it had penetrated their skin, until last night in bed, when Dirty had smelled his own ass. He had kept smelling himself all day. The itching had become unbearable. His crotch and armpits felt like they had been scoured with a sandpaper. Sweat and filth covered him like shame incarnate, and the river, for the first time, seemed cleaner than he felt. He stood at the opening in the rail staring down at the water. It glimmered under the late sun, brown and orange with quicksilver creases and blooms, and he had a sense of it working very hard to move so slowly: pushing itself out of its own way: tumbling and sliding over and through itself toward the ocean.

Believing it was deep enough here, he drew a long breath and dove in.

The water was warm, then he passed into a cooler space as if through a frail membrane, and a buried current pushed him sideways. With eyes closed, in the dark and the cool he stroked until he found the bottom, buried his hands and squeezed the soft silt through his fingers. He clamped his nose shut, blew the pressure from his skull into the river and, gripping

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 the bottom, quavering like a weed, he could hear the river and feel it around him, and it was much bigger than he had thought. His slow exhale bottomed out, so he pushed off and made for the surface. The undertow shoved him sideways. He opened his eyes. It was the same dark red all around. He swam and the color did not change. Mouth shut against breathing water, pushing and kicking at the water, stupid heart pumping faster, his mind spreading thin, unravelling, a blank riot. Then all contracted to one thought: Do not you panic. Wherever it came from, he listened. He became very still, felt his body rotate, and did not feel entirely within his body when he started swimming again, with arms and legs in tandem, like a frog, going somewhere, mind like the river, a swelling light. Static crackled in his ears and air rifled down his throat as he climbed onto the surface, coughed, sank swallowing water, pushed the river away and coughed again. Soon he was breathing in rhythm. The sky folded open, covering him like an enormous lid. The boat was just ahead of him a stone’s throw. Wayne leaned out past the cabin anxious, saw him, smiled.

It did not cool off when the sun went down. Instead, the temperature ticked upward well into darkness. Lightning flashed high to the west, small and silent, again and again and no two alike. There was no rain but a sort of erotic fog descended on the boat and bled into the cabin where they lay sweating on their bunks. When Wayne finally fell asleep, he passed directly into a waiting dream. A certain older lady from work, about whom he has never fantasized, leads him furtively into the bathroom, pushes him against a soft wall and falls to her knees, not to pray. She is just getting started when he hears voices approaching. The boss. ‘Quit,’ he says.

Hands on her head, he clenches her hair.

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‘Quit,’ Wayne whispered. And then he was mumbling incoherent semi-speech: helpless begging. Dirty glanced down at him—sorry, squirming pile of flesh—with an acute sense of being incarcerated. Unnecessarily, voluntarily, absurdly. Through the screen beside him, the river across to its wooded bank was now and again revealed by the silent lightning: shocked visible and the white light fading as if absorbed. He could not lie on his stomach for a dull throbbing perpendicular stiffness, familiar but now like some nightmare pustule. Fantasies came like bats from all directions: flickers of crevices in skin and an array of wanton female faces desiring him alone. He climbed down slowly from his bunk. Wayne no longer mumbled, but his breathing was labored as if he ran a high fever. Dirty clicked open the screen door and went out onto the deck. The breeze was hot. He opened the smallest cooler, fished in that darkness and found the tub of margarine.

The cool viscous foodstuff melting around his fingers, his chest caving in.

The boat was tied to a prone tree stripped of bark that was half buried at the tail end of a sandbar. Dirty held the rope with one hand and the lump of margarine aloft in the other.

Coolish water up to his waist changed things not at all. The lightning was directly above now, within the clouds and still silent, the clouds rolling over and the remaining sky speckled and smeared with stars. This was a rare sight, and even now some weaker part of him wanted to just stand in the river and watch the constellations disappear.

Concussed with stark light now and again, he waded barefoot onto the shore and followed himself into the mostly dark, half-willing emissary for a mad king.

He gave up some minutes later. It had become more punishment than pleasure. He was on his knees, and anything good he might have had, or been, was floating away down the river.

Margarine traced the downward arc of failure on his thigh. Nothing was left in him but what

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 you could see by cutting him open. He tried to smile it away, thumbed a tear from one eye. He stood on weak knees and buttoned his shorts. Stand up straight. Like a man.

The lightning was all within the clouds now, here and there along the advancing edge like warning lights for some enormous vehicle in reverse, snuffing the stars out one by one. But they were still bright and lots of them in the other part of the sky. People must have been desperate to ever see shapes in them because they are really just random dots.

It was still raining hard in the morning. They lay on their bunks beneath the tin roof, pummeled brainless and easy to the bone.

The rain stopped all-at-once. The sun did not come out. Having vowed to keep his phone powered off except in emergency, Wayne took the old road atlas from the console and studied the blue line that wiggled across southwest Arkansas as if it might have more to say this time. A swollen creek poured itself into the river with a steady piping of meringue-like foam into a swirling, hissing vortex. James took out a sketchpad he had brought and tried to write something, but only swatted mosquitoes. Clouds like corrugated steel seemed close enough to throw a rock into and thick enough to hold onto it.

They met with an aluminum flatbottom headed upriver. In it were two men in camouflage. No fishing poles. The one in the back, the driver, was half the size of the one in the front but had twice as much hair: on his face and falling from his cap to his shoulders. Everyone only stared in passing, then the flatbottom U-turned. Alongside, the driver killed the motor to look more closely and with plain amusement at these other two and their shantyboat.

‘How’s it going,’ James said.

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‘Aw, fair to middlin,’ said the driver. ‘Y’all?’

‘We’re good. Do you know how far it is to Shreveport?’

‘Shreveport.’ The driver grinned, his teeth showing yellow beneath his moustache.

‘You’re headed the wrong way, son. I’m afraid you done missed it.’

And the meaty man in front half trying not to laugh: ‘Yeah, you musta took a wrong turn. This river goes to Dallas.’

They smiled to each other: proud and twitchy.

Dirty said, ‘Fucking methheads.’

The driver reached down by his feet. He brought up a pump shotgun and laid it across his lap. The bigger also one sat up straighter, unsmiling. Dirty looked down at the river between them. There was no answer. He turned and went into the cabin.

‘What are you doing?’ Wayne said with held breath, though he had a pretty good idea.

When Dirty emerged with his twenty-two pistol and barefaced glare, the little driver swung his shotgun slowly: fearfully. Dirty pointed his pistol straight up, yelled high and wild and started firing. The shotgunner grinned, looked to his companion, who came up with a long silver pistol, then the three of them were all yelling and emptying their guns at the sky.

As the thunder from the last shot rolled away in either direction, they all looked around at each other, smiles fading, Wayne wishing he had had a gun of his own. He and Dirty jumped when lead pellets rained down on the tin roof and riddled the river like feeding fish. The driver laid the shotgun back at his feet, nodded stiffly, respectful and awkward. He yanked the cord on the motor three times before it started, then veered away and continued upriver.

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Creeping around a bend, Wayne saw the bridge just after James did and it was beautiful: so straight and solid: the imagination of man incarnate. A car passed over at about three hundred miles-an-hour.

‘Hallelujah,’ said Wayne.

On the bow, slumped in his lawnchair looking at the map, James said, ‘Yeah, but I don’t think there’s anything here.’

‘They’ll be a baitshop or something.’

‘There’s not.’

‘Not on some old road atlas. Put that thing away.’

‘I just know. There’s not.’

‘You just know.’

‘That’s right.’

‘How, praytell?’

‘I turned your phone on this morning.’

‘You . . . . You went in my fucking bag?’

‘It wasn’t in your bag.’

‘Yes, it most certainly—’ Wayne froze with recalling the phone in his hands last night.

‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get a signal.’

‘Well, I got one. I looked at the satellite view and there’s nothing here. There’s Plain

Dealing. It’s at least ten miles. By the time we walk there and back we could be in Shreveport.’

‘I thought you were going to New Orleans.’

James did not respond.

‘Well, I’m fixing to stop here. You can get out and walk to Shreveport if you want.’

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‘I’d probably get there faster.’

‘Faster,’ Wayne scoffed. Then he started the motor, planed out and glided up into the shade of the bridge, planting the pontoons in the sandbar. He hopped down, crossed the sand and climbed up the rock embankment to look around. There was nothing but bean fields. The road beneath his feet was disturbingly, almost brutally solid. When he returned to the boat,

Dirty asked had the satellite been right?

Wayne strapped two gas tanks to the ice chest with wheels and a long handle. ‘Any requests?’

James got up. ‘I’ll go. You hang out here.’

‘I don’t mind taking a break from all this luxury.’

‘I’d go with you, but I’m tired of looking at you. Hold on.’ James went into the cabin. ‘I’ll get you some money.’

Wayne saw, as the kid thumbed through his wallet, only sixty or seventy dollars. ‘Is that all you brought?’

‘Nah, I’ve got a credit card. Came in the mail right before we left. I’m pretty sure it’s real.’

‘Good lord.’

James proffered a twenty and Wayne walked away, plowing sand.

James sat. Twenty or thirty bags of garbage were caught in the rocky embankment beside the highway, several burst open with their viscera strewn. Colorful, not ugly. He opened his sketchpad. A few minutes later, he opened the whiskey bottle. Thirty minutes after that, he lit the joint he had been saving, and thirty minutes after that he had filled five solid pages. It was all drawings, and as you flipped pages, each was either better or worse than the one before,

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 depending on what you like. All he knew was that it didn’t have to be realistic to be good.

Realism was what cameras were for. This shit was art.

Here was Wayne again, laboring across the sand, sweating but happy. Dirty stood.

‘I got it!’ Wayne called. ‘Got the good stuff!’

On top of the gas tanks was a sack of charcoal and a cardboard box, the pile as tall as

Wayne.

‘Did you run the whole way?’

‘Nah. First truck came along gave me a ride to Plain Dealing. Then brung me back.’

‘Weird.’

‘Just some old guy, nothing better to do. They made a hell of a sandwich at that little grocery store. I never thought I’d be so happy to eat a tomato. There’s more in the ice chest. I see you got into the whiskey.’

‘I got lonely without you.’

Wayne started handing up provisions. ‘Is it any good?’

‘You mean, like, the taste or . . .’

Wayne climbed up. ‘It is Saturday,’ he said picking up the bottle. ‘And it is my birthday.’

‘Really? Happy birthday, Captain.’

‘Um hm.’ He looked at the bottle askance. ‘Captain’s fixing to open her up. We fixing to make some miles go by, son.’

‘Now you’re talking. Show this river who’s boss.’

‘Untie us, please. And pour me just a little of this on ice, with some Coke in it. I sure would appreciate it.’

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Planed out and cruising at three-quarter speed, Dirty stood near the console in the shade and the wind, sipping now and again from the bottle, feeling almost good. Ahead on the right, a bunch of cattle stood in the river up to their ribs. Wayne cut in close and showered them with the fan spray, which should have made them happy but only seemed to irritate.

‘So, what were you going to do,’ Wayne said, ‘if that guy had shot at you?’

‘Get shot, I guess. Or shoot him, if I could.’

‘You like to got me shot. I ought to be mad.’

‘Why aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know.’ Wayne sipped at his drink, but it was empty. ‘Maybe I’ll get there.’

Dirty poured straight whiskey, two or three seconds worth, into the Captain’s cup.

‘Whoa. I got to moderate.’

‘Moderate?’

‘Moderation is the key to everything. I think that’s one of the Psalms.’

‘Well, if you only get good and fucked up every once in a while, that’s moderation, right.

I mean, if you never do, that’s—that’s extreme the other way. Happy birthday. Moderate yourself.’

Wayne grinned and sipped.

In a little while, they had finished most of the bottle.

‘I don’t think I ought to be driving,’ Wayne said. ‘Can you get a DWI on the water?’

‘Shit. Probably. But it’s too hot to stop.’

‘It is, isn’t it. . . . I’m afraid this summer’s going to be bad.’

‘Yep.’

‘I’m about to eat another sandwich.’

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‘Good idea.’

‘I know it’s a good idea. That’s why I said it.’

‘You’re not stupid, Wayne.’

‘Neither are you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re just a fucking idiot sometimes.’

‘Yeah. Well. Moderation.’

Dirty went for the rest of the joint, pulled his shirt up over his head to re-light it, the boat knocked against something submerged and he reeled back against the cabin, singing his lip, dropping the joint and busting a hole in the screen with his elbow. ‘Shit. Fuck.’ He pulled his shirt down and spread his feet for balance. The joint lay on the silver astroturf, the wind blazing the cherry. He picked it up and puffed. Coughed. ‘Quit laughing,’ he said, proffering what was left.

‘No, thank you. I’m liable to try to drive off through the woods.’

‘God put it here.’

‘Yeah, but he didn’t roll it up and set it on fire.’

Dirty glanced around, gestured toward the cooler. ‘He didn’t put that sandwich together, either.’

‘He put turds here, but I don’t smoke ‘em.’

‘Don’t . . . I don’t think he wants credit for—’

‘I could just knock my head against a wall if all I wanted was to—’

‘Look at that.’

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Dirty pointed across the bulk of the river toward a broad, sun-beaten sandbar. Part of a cow was sticking out of it.

‘You’re a noticing son-of-a-gun,’ Wayne said. ‘I’ll give you that.’ He throttled down, veered over and planted the boat in the sand.

They stood on the bow studying. The cow’s head and shoulders and one leg protruded from a mud pit. It was brown with a white face. It was breathing. Wayne took the joint and pecked it, handed it back and climbed down to the sand.

The brown on it was dried mud. Its eye was open and blank, like the sun had burned it out. Air passed through nostrils dry as the surface of the mud, which bulged with each breath, the cracks gaping to show the slick mire beneath, belching the stench then sealing up again tight as lips.

‘This is how fossils happen,’ Dirty said. ‘If we leave it here, it’ll turn into a fossil.’

‘I don’t how we can pull it out.’

‘We could just cut some steaks out of it.’ Dirty made a sloppy slicing gesture with a finger. ‘Out of the top.’

‘That’s highly illegal.’

‘So we’re supposed to just let it die? Waste not want not.’

‘We could dig it out, I guess.’

‘It doesn’t look like it wants out to me.’

‘You think it’s happy in there?’

‘No. What does a happy cow look like?’

‘I’ll have to think about that one.’

‘Your momma at an all-you-can-eat buffet.’

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‘My momma eats like a bird.’

Hoofprints surrounded the mud and a swath of chopped sand led to the pasture beyond the riverbed. Did they carry away guilt when they left you here, old girl? Did you beg? ‘It doesn’t look worried,’ Dirty said. ‘I really think it wants us to eat it.’

‘I’m telling you, that ain’t an option. We could go to jail.’

‘Nah.’

‘Really. This thing’s worth a couple thousand bucks.’

The tongue poked between the teeth at the side of its mouth, pale gray. ‘It sure doesn’t look like it.’

‘Maybe we could use the boat to pull it.’ Wayne turned back. ‘The boat!’

It was drifting away, about fifty yards downriver just now. Dirty took off at a dead run, puffs of sand jumping at his heels. Wayne watched. The kid was fast. From the end of the sandbar he ran full speed into the river, highstepping, fell forward and swam as the boat slid slowly past. He churned the water white, and at the last possible moment, reached up and caught the ring on the end of the pontoon. He just held on and drifted for a few seconds, breathing. Then he climbed aboard, and when he was at the wheel, Wayne thought: That is what a happy human looks like.

Soo, the boat came around and beached again.

‘I believe she’s in a bigger hurry than we are,’ Wayne said.

‘Or she’s trying to get rid of us.’

‘Give me that bucket.’

Wayne dipped the bucket into the river and returned to the cow, the bow line paying out through his other hand. The rope, at a hundred feet, was long enough, if he could get it

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 around the cow. He tilted the bucket and spilled a stream of brown water onto the side of its mouth. The tongue twitched, but there was no swallowing. He poured water over the nose and the unreflecting eye, which shut.

‘I’m telling you, I don’t think it wants out.’

Dirty was beside him now, eating a sandwich. Wayne, rope in hand, took a step toward the cow, tested his footing, then stepped over the cow’s head and sank to his thigh in the muck.

‘Shit!’ He was sitting, regretfully, on its face. Beneath the dry surface was a weird warm soup.

‘This is a real humanitarian effort,’ Dirty said.

‘It’s like a giant chicken pot pie.’ Wayne pulled his leg free and scooted back onto the shoulders. The cow sank a few inches. Vexed, determined, he fell forward onto the neck. The cow’s mouth broke through the surface. Dirty ate the sandwich. It was fantastically delicious.

Wayne pushed the rope down into the hole his leg had made, clenched a fist with his left and rammed it into the muck on that side of the neck. One of the nostrils was covered now. Wayne squirmed and stretched and finally drew the rope out of the other side: a Golem’s entrail. Dirty ate the sandwich.

‘You worried about pulling its head off?’

Back on the shoulders, Wayne flung mud from his fingers. ‘I’ve never heard of that.’

‘What?’

‘Pulling a cow’s head off. I don’t think it’s possible.’ He looked down beside him. ‘I guess we could try to get it around a leg, too.’

In a few minutes, this had been accomplished and Wayne was at the wheel, his mud blanching as it dried. Dirty gave a thumbs-up. The Captain engaged the prop. The rope raised and went taut. The cow’s eye got bigger. It seemed to be trying desperately to look behind

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 itself as Wayne slowly pressed down on the throttle lever. The rope drew into the cow’s hide.

The boat wavered side-to-side. The cow did not move. Wayne gave the motor more gas: maximum throttle. Water roiled onto the beach between the pontoons. The cow’s leg raised slowly, as if it were getting ready to pledge something, and it made a noise: an anguished moo, like a child’s squeeze toy amplified. The rope untwisted slowly, crackling quietly. The cow’s head was high and dry now, its eyes like goose eggs. It lurched toward dry ground with a sucking, slurping noise. Then it was stuck again, twisted, one leg raised and stiff, the other pawing just slightly at the surface of the pit. Dirty turned back and passed his hand across his throat. The rope went slack and the cow flopped hard to its right with a loud splat. Its ribs raised, paused, collapsed. Then it did seem be breathing a little, probably.

‘What do you think?’ Wayne called.

‘I don’t know. It moved some. Maybe try to head downstream a little more. Change the angle.’

The Captain reversed again and gradually throttled up. The cow looked almost surprised, and Dirty was starting to feel a little sick. But it was moving: sliding noseward, inch by inch. Stink billowed from the hole, rotten and fecal. Up onto the shallower slick mud the cow came faster. Dirty gave the kill signal, yelled and jumped around in a football-style victory dance. Had he held anything, he would have thrown it.

Wayne beached the boat and strode across the sand, delighted. ‘Why hell yes!’

‘I didn’t—I didn’t think it was going to work.’

‘That’s eighty horse-power, son. Good rope, too.’

‘I mean, I thought it was going to strangle it.’

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Wayne laughed. When he looked down at the rescued cow, his smile dimmed considerably. ‘She doesn’t look too good, does she.’

‘I think she wishes she was dead.’

‘Well, we’re going to have to get her on her feet. They can’t hardly breathe when they’re laying on their side like that.’

‘You’ve lost your mind out here, Captain.’

‘Come on. Let’s give her some help.’

Dirty watched Wayne go around to the fallen side and crouch. He looked out over the treetops. No answer.

Wayne had her at the shoulder. Dirty crouched at her hip and forced his hands under.

He couldn’t get his arms all the way around her thigh so he tried to dig his fingers into her hide.

‘One, two, three.’ Wayne grunted and quivered, turning red. Dirty put what he could into it.

‘Come on, girl,’ Wayne said. ‘Let’s go. Get up.’

‘Come on, girl!’ Dirty yelled. ‘Get up! Don’t you want to live?’

‘Get your lazy ass up!’

‘Move your legs you bitch!’

And she did move her legs. The two free ones kicked feebly. Wayne yelled gibberish as he shouldered her front half up and roughly into place. She rocked from end to end like a waterbed on stilts, twisting her back legs more beneath her. Dirty grabbed a handful of udder and yanked upward with all he had. She made a sort of begging noise as she lurched to her feet.

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Then she stood quivering, dripping muck, her head bowed. They let go and sent up a cheer, embraced and slapped each other on the back.

The cow had not moved. One of its front knees gave and it dipped to that side, staggered in a half circle and collapsed with a dull thump.

A long moment passed. Neither of them knew what to feel, or say, until Wayne stated the obvious: ‘I think it’s fucking dead.’

Dirty approached the unmoving heap, laughter awaiting release like a sneeze. It looked no more peaceful in death. The laughter retreated.

‘Goodness gracious.’ Wayne smeared mud across his forehead trying to wipe away sweat. ‘God dammit.’

‘Yep.’

Wayne held a deep breath and huffed it out. ‘Well, I guess her cards were marked,’ he said. ‘But you can’t say we didn’t try.’

Dirty burst with laughter: weird, wild, wonderful laughter. Wayne looked at him, at the dead cow: everything smeared with mud. He began to chuckle. They could be as loud as they wanted, of which fact they took full advantage, at one point verging on insanity. But they backed down, and their laughter fled across the river’s surface.

‘Well,’ Wayne said. ‘I guess we could just take a tenderloin.’

Dirty looked at him, smiled. ‘Waste not want not.’

‘Start looking for firewood.’ Wayne started toward the boat. ‘I’ll get my knife.’

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Late in the morning, Dirty lay on his bunk half sleeping in the warm wind. When the motor shut off, the sound of traffic replaced it. He opened his eyes and sat up. It was the interstate, high above, cars and trucks like spaceships screaming home, home, home. He left the cabin and squinted around at the power lines, a radio tower and the roof of a metal building peaking above the far bank, the trees festooned with fishing tackle and plastic bags. A bit farther ahead was a boat ramp and a dozen empty trailers hitched to pickups in a parking lot. Wayne, coffee in hand, said good morning.

‘Shreveport,’ Dirty said.

‘Bossier City.’

A little armada of flatbottom boats passed by, heading out of town. There were black fishermen and white fishermen, once in the same boat, some staring, others not looking at all.

Dirty went into the cabin and turned on his phone. It was Monday: a week since they had left.

It would have taken about an hour on the highway.

He stood on the deck with his bag on his shoulder looking accursed and anxious.

Wayne, knowing now what he had already suspected, veered toward the left bank.

‘I don’t know how you want to handle this,’ Dirty said. ‘I’ll get the trailer back down here as soon as I can. I don’t know if you want to leave the boat or—’

‘Can your buddy not drive down?’

‘He’s at work.’

‘He gets off at some point, doesn’t he.’

‘I can’t wait that long. I’ve got something to do.’

Wayne was more amused than curious. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I believe I’ll carry on a while. Keep heading south.’

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Neither was this a surprise to Dirty, but he was relieved that the logistics had been simplified, at least temporarily.

‘So how do you plan to get where you’re going?’

‘By land, one way or another.’

The boat nosed against the bank and the Captain left the idle on to keep it there. He came out from behind the console. They shook hands.

‘Well,’ Wayne said. ‘It’s been . . . . weird.’

‘Be careful, man.’

‘You too, Dirty James.’

‘Just James,’ he said. ‘Please just call me James.’

‘Okay.’

He stepped onto land. Wayne unzipped his pocket, took out the roll of hundreds and peeled off five. ‘Hold up.’

When they faced each other again Wayne was elevated by the bow, looming with the cash. After a few seconds, James took it. ‘Thanks. I’ll pay you back.’

‘If you ever just got it laying around. Otherwise don’t worry about it.’

James walked backward along the interstate’s median with his bag over his shoulder, his thumb up and out, smiling not too much, trying to look sane and harmless. Hundreds of people passed.

Thousands. They would not even look at him. They pretended he wasn’t there. The bigger the vehicle, the more noise and wind it made, the more self-righteous the driver. His smile left altogether and he began playing for sympathy, which wasn’t difficult with the heat creeping

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 hotter and the ground so unforgiving hard. His heels clipped something and he fell onto his back. Several horns honked. It was a shiny chrome bumper. A sticker featured a pair of disembodied eyes over the words: You’re Being Watched.

People were looking at him: rushing into view and blurring away, some with broad smiles. Still no one stopped. Sympathy wasn’t going to cut it. It would have to be someone who could empathize.

Or a professional. He called a cab service. A hundred-fifty dollars to Texarkana. ‘I might call you back.’

In a week he had received zero text messages and one voicemail, from his mother, who was ‘just checking on you. I saw your truck at your apartment with some kind of boat trailer on it. I guess you went off on some water somewhere and just wanted to check if you made it back alright. . . . I wasn’t spying on you. . . . I love you.’

Of course she would come get him, but he would rather walk all day than sit in the car for an hour with his mother. With her tender-hearted neurosis, her maternal paranoia.

He walked facing forward for a mile or more, until the offramp for the highway that he needed. Traffic made an uncrossable fence for several long minutes before he dashed onto the pavement. He ran slower and the gap closed quicker than he had imagined. A big truck’s airbrakes moaned and its horn blasted all over him like Africanized bees, adrenaline filled his legs and he braced for impact as he made the shoulder. Then he stood breathing hard with a big stupid smile.

On this lesser highway, where hitchhiking seemed to make more sense, he took out the sketchpad. Before he had even begun he knew it would be the most successful he had ever done. He used snubbed out his pencil’s lead coloring in the big block letters:

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$100 to TEXARKANA A haggard old single cab Peterbuilt truck pulled onto the roadside a hundred yards ahead. He started to jog, but for a hundred dollars the man could by God wait. The tanker trailer reeked of gasoline and, opening the passenger-side door, so did the cab. The man behind the wheel was half bald and unshaven with off-putting eyes, clashing eyes Confused and amused, concerned and careless. In short, crazy. ‘Let’s see the money,’ he said.

James took out a bill and stepped up onto the running board.

‘Hold on to it. I wouldn’t wont you to pay fore you get your money’s worth.’

They headed north-northwest across that corner of Louisiana. Jesus it smelled like gasoline. James’ head swam, his brain drowning in the fumes. The man picked up a Dr. Pepper can from a cupholder, held the mouth of it under his nose and breathed. James quivered involuntarily, cranked down his window. The man looked over at him. Distraught and enthralled. ‘I don’t normally lack to open the windahs.’ He looked, thank God, back to the road.

‘But I guess a payin customer can do what suits him.’

High, jagged laughter escaped the man like a toxic bubble arisen from within. Then a calmer tone overcame him: like he had just thought of something amazing. James felt the hard lump of the pistol through the bag on his lap. If this joker tried anything, plugging him would be vigilante justice. Which would set James apart from the average masses and provide permanent confidence, not only throughout his life but later today, should a certain greasy hoodlum try to obstruct his reunion with Destiny. In his mind’s eye he saw her looking on: frightened and proud, possibly aroused, himself brazen and manipulative: ‘I already shot one man today, gypsy. One more doesn’t seem like too big a deal.’

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In an hour, having said little more—to James: he had said plenty to himself—the man pulled up in front of his apartment complex. When James offered the money, the driver seemed to have forgotten about it completely, but took it anyway. James said thanks. The man said,

‘Don’t take any shit off anybody,’ and drove away.

A late rent notice was taped to his door, threatening eviction. His apartment seemed sadder and more luxurious than ever. He shaved all but his moustache and looked at himself.

He did look older, and more serious. But he could not take himself seriously. Worn as a sort of costume piece, the moustache might have worked on Dirty, but it was not James. Hopefully. He stared at himself for a long moment, considering. Then he took up the razor and cleaned his lip.

He ate a sleeve of crackers with peanut butter and went out to his truck in a wrinkled collared shirt. The Cedar Shack seemed his best bet, but the truck began to sputter before he had left the parking lot. Hiccupped and died. It started again and he raced toward the EZ Mart cussing the motor like a drill seargent. It died again and he shifted to neutral. The gas pumps seemed to approach him, with diminishing speed, and stop just probably out of reach. The trailer jutted out in the road several feet. Would have made it for sure without it. The nozzle ran out of hose just inches short of the hole. ‘Bitch,’ James said. Ding went the glass door and the clerk strode out: an unsmiling black mountain of a man in a tiny white cap. James wanted to hug him.

‘What you want to see her for?’ Cricket asked.

He didn’t know how to answer. Eventually he said, ‘Maybe she wants to see me.’

‘You don’t have her number? You can’t call her?’

‘I lost my phone. Is she in Snuff?’

Cricket made a face that said she was wise to his game.

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‘Is she still with the purse snatcher?’

This face he took to mean yes. He said goodbye.

Cricket’s slightly thinner and possibly saner double greeted him at her door with a crooked smile, amused but not surprised. She invited him in.

‘You don’t have her number?’ She sat cross-legged on her couch in a big t-shirt bearing a casino’s logo. ‘Why don’t you call her?’

‘I’d really just like to see her. I think that’d be best. If you could just tell me where she is, please, mam.’

Pauline cut her eyes at him. ‘Don’t you fuckin mam me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I ain’t that old yet.’

‘I know. I don’t think you’re old.’

‘I’m getting there but I’m not there yet.’

‘When I first you I thought you were Destiny’s sister.’

She grinned, but only for a moment. ‘Bullshit,’ she said. ‘You already knew Cricket.’

‘I mean—Shit. I mean when I first met Destiny I thought she was Cricket’s sister.’

She stared at him, blinking.

‘It’s the same thing. Pretty much.’

She lit a cigarette. Glanced him. ‘You’re a weird kid.’

‘Well.’

‘I thought you was long gone.’

‘I was.’

‘You just need to hook up with somebody else. Git her out of your system.’

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‘I’m not sure that’s true.’

She blew smoke and used the ashtray on the coffee table. ‘She’s done made her bed.’

‘Well God dammit, she can unmake it, can’t she.’

She barely grinned. ‘You’re a weird kid,’ she said.

‘And I think you’re weird. Fuck off.’

She put her feet on the floor, knees apart showing pink panties, leaned forward and looked directly at him.

He sat on the edge of her bed with his jeans piled around one ankle looking into the corner where a crack in the wall invited daylight to electrify a mass of cottony spiderwebs under an old foot-pedal sewing machine. The spider was the dark unbeating heart in the center.

‘What’s your pet’s name?’

‘Huh?’

He looked back at her. She was far away across the bed, a pillow between her back and the wall, working on a new cigarette. She had definitely not fallen in love. He had, but only a little. He looked to the spider. ‘Well. Thanks.’

She snorted and grinned despite herself. ‘I’m gonna fix a drink,’ she said. ‘You want one?’

‘No thanks.’

She took a long drag. ‘You still gonna try to find her, huh.’

‘Yeah. I’d appreciate it if you would give me her address.’

‘I can’t imagine why she didn’t stick with you.’

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He glanced back glowering. ‘You don’t have to be mean.’

‘You right,’ she said. ‘I apologize. You wasn’t that bad. Just need to slow down a little.’

‘Yeah. I’ve been on a boat with my smelly cousin for a week.’

‘On a boat.’

‘Yeah. So?’

‘So what?’

‘Are you gonna tell me where she is. I’m not trying to hurt anybody.’

Pauline was quiet for a dozen or so heartbeats, then said, ‘Why don’t you just call her.

She might not want to be surprised.’

‘I need to look her in the eye. She doesn’t pay attention on the phone.’

Pauline ashed on the floor. ‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘She’s always been that way.’

It was the B side of a duplex in Liberty Eylou. Apparently the pursesnatcher had grown attached to the neighborhood while in the can. There was a white Landcruiser in the parking lot, a dealer’s sticker on the window. He parked beside it. He took his wallet from his back pocket and replaced it with his pistol, which his shirttail would cover. Better to have it and not need it than the other way around. This was the kind of story that gets told behind bars. His hand stopped on the doorhandle.

What if Pauline had called ahead. What if the gypsy lay in ambush. He sat up straight and studied the shrubbery, which was ragged and blanketed, like everything else, in pine needles. The sun was still up at the end of the street but all was dim and shadowed here under

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 so many spindly loblollies. He didn’t think Pauline would make such a call, but then he had no doubts as to where her loyalty lay.

Just look her in the eye and see what happens. Maybe you won’t feel anything. Maybe it’s gone.

The duplexes looked like rental cabins in a fishing camp except for the occasional potted plant or plastic toy. The pathways among them were troughs of flattened needles. In truth he hoped that Saul was not home. It was her he wanted—though he would settle for revenge. The bed of needles lent a lightness to his steps and he had the sense of being conveyed toward what was practically as good as settled, even if he didn’t know the outcome yet. Above and beyond the tension in his body a strange serenity possessed him. And then came to mind the most terrible of possibilities: What if Pauline had said more than that he was coming: what if she had told what just happened. He could scarcely believe it himself. The thought of conquering mother and daughter in the same day did make him feel a little bigger and badder, but the prospect of the one without the other just made him sad. He remembered to watch for a hidden gypsy. Here was her place. The windows were all covered in foil.

Can you feel me out here?

He knocked and presented himself to the keyhole, trying to appear businesslike and heartfelt at once, he appeared as neither. His back clenched to the verge of cramping, he placed his hands on his hips to be near the pistol. Movement inside. A square of foil peeled back and he saw her eyeball. Or maybe it had been his. He breathed in deeply, expanding his chest.

‘Destiny.’

‘Just a minute,’ she sang.

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He waited at least a full minute. ‘Are you going to open up?’ Saul’s voice, he was pretty sure, said, ‘Well ask him then,’ and she said aloud, ‘What do you want?’

‘I just . . . I just want you to open the door.’

Hissing talk within which he couldn’t decipher, then the door opened. Her hair was shorter and all a nearly black shade of brown except for patches of bleached frost lingering at the tips. In a faded red tank-top—no bra—and men’s shorts she looked smaller than he remembered, and not as pretty.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey to you,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’

She smiled, but only with her mouth. He squinted, leaned in closer and spoke her name.

‘James,’ she said like an out-of-tune string plucked, her eyes bugging. Her right hand gripped her side and a finger scratched rapidly, digging in below her ribs. An odor drifted out past her that was like the glue stripping solution sold by his recent place of employment, but not quite. He looked at her in the eyes again. Pupils enormous, a plague of arrogance upon her eyeballs.

‘I didn’t expect to find you cracked out,’ he said.

‘Oh gawwd,’ she said rolling her aligator eyes. ‘I don’t do crack.’

‘You know what I mean.’

She quit looking at him, bit her thumbnail, shrugged.

‘What’s he, hiding in the back.’

‘Why are you here? I thought I broke up with you.’

‘Is that what you call it? I thought you ran off with a purse-stealing gypsy to go smoke meth.’

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Staring baldly she said, ‘Leave.’

‘Why, so you can live happilly ever after.’

She looked into the darkening woods behind him. Her anger was gone but she kept trying to pretend. ‘Why are you standing here?’ she said. ‘How did you even find me?’

‘Oh, I fucked your mom a little while ago. She told me where you were.’

He could not gloat somehow. Seeing that it was more than just a bad joke, she shrank from him appalled. He stood on his toes and yelled past her, ‘I’m leaving now, big shot! You can come out of your hole!’

He gave her a look that wasn’t as contemptuous as he wanted and walked away. After about twenty paces Saul’s voice said, ‘Hey, motherfucker.’

Dirty stopped in his tracks and at the irony laughed a single note. He turned back glaring, his smile locked into place, turned menacing, his fingers raising his shirttail. ‘You’re gonna have to try again if you want to insult me, Saul.’

Saul stood beside her in boxer shorts and a biker gang t-shirt, his legs and feet rampant with black hair. Clearly confused, he puffed out his chest. Dirty pulled the pistol from his pocket, stuck his arm out straight and walked swiftly toward Saul as if the punk was magnetized. Saul stood his ground until the gun was nearly close enough to whack him—which was Dirty’s thought—then ducked inside, slamming the door. As Dirty slipped the pistol back into his pocket he felt low and cowardly like never before. He glanced Destiny and saw that she was studying him. He held out his hand. She took it and they walked together slowly over the bed of needles, she on her bare feet.

It was a long walk. Their hands tired of each other and he made small adjustments: squeezing harder, interlacing fingers. Maybe he should have kissed her but the moment had

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 passed. At the edge of the parking lot he said, ‘You don’t need anything. I’ve got plenty of money.’

She let go and stood still. She looked so small. ‘This is crazy,’ she said. ‘I mean, you are.’

‘You make me crazy.’

Her head was shaking no and she couldn’t stop it. ‘I don’t know why you think you like me so much.’

‘I know I do,’ he said. ‘I can’t help it. I think you’re great.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Well. I disagree.

She looked away from him, her mouth small and tight.

‘You’re better than him,’ he said.

She looked at him three times, angrier with each. ‘What makes you so much better?’ she said. ‘You don’t know him. You don’t know anything.’

‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘You’re the one come up in here with a gun.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

He saw her anger break. Eventually she said, ‘I’m sorry too. It wadn’t right.’

He fluttered a hand as if to say it had all drifted off in the breeze anyway.

‘He needs me,’ she said. ‘More than you do. I think.’

He almost said several things before he said, ‘Why did you call me James? When you saw me at the door. You never called me that before.’

She was more surprised by the question than even he had been. She said she didn’t know.

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‘Well,’ he said. A part of him was ready to go on and plead his case. But it was too much like begging. Anything so gained wouldn’t be worth having. Mabye. ‘I’ll leave you alone,’ he said.

Nor did she argue with him. He made himself shorter and leaned in. Her eyes closed, her lips parted. Her tongue grazed his: tainted with chemical devils. He wrapped her up and pushed his nose through her hair to her scalp and inhaled. This was the smell he wanted to remember.

He slapped her skinny butt and went around the front of his truck almost strutting.

Backed up, shifted to drive, hit the gas and was tossed against the steering wheel. The trailer had snagged on something. In the sideview: the fenderwell bitten into a corner of the

Landcruiser. Busted taillight. He ran his fingers over his skull, shifted to park and got out.

Destiny stood dumbfounded. Shards of chrome and red plastic lay about like spilled costume jewelry. She was looking at him. He winced, and nearly smiled. ‘Sorry, baby.’

He got back into his truck, reversed clear and drove away.

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 3

Bent

‘Put away that gun. This part is simple.

Try to recognize what is on your mind.’

- David Byrne, ‘Slippery People’

THE CEDAR SHACK became his den. He was often there in the mornings when the tire factory men—and a woman, if you looked close—came in from the night shift, some with takeout breakfast, and half tried to make merry before going home to their blacked-out rooms.

He would have liked to know at least one of them, but there was nothing to say. No entrance gave into their glassed-away world, and from his own there was no exit. James could not fathom becoming one of these people. He would just be a bum or a criminal before he would live like them: slave to clock and dollar. Though, being fair, even in the factory there was the out- of-the-ordinary, and they got a weekly furlough. From which stories emerged—or scenarios:

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 you couldn’t call any of them a raconteur—concluding with such as, ‘and he did, cause he knew

I fuckin would’ and, ‘biggest dang set a antlers I ever seen in my life’ and, ‘You cain’t divorce your family.’ Still, little was memorable. Their lies were best.

The Shack closed at ten—unless, for argument’s sake, there was a crowd—and James was usually the last one there. If Cricket was billiard dancing or otherwise occupied and a body wanted a drink, he would get up and tend bar. If she was tending and something spilled, he would get up and clean it. Mostly he sat on a stool, reading or, more often, looking up at old movies or war footage on the little TV behind the bar. Million-watt smiles on whirligig bodies and a staircase to a painted palace. Miss Monroe playing dumb to break hearts, Chaplin playing der Fuehrer, dancing with the globe. FDR with his secret legs and kamikazee pilots and The

Bomb in simpler times.

Darnell didn’t return his call, and then was spotted outside a Chinese restaurant holding the door for an almost inhumanly tall and dark female in a yellow dress. James was driving past and only saw for a moment but it was enough to know that the poor fool was a goner.

Wayne’s phone went straight to voicemail. Then one day came a message: a picture of him beside an enormous fish. It made James happier than it seemed to have made the fisherman.

He responded offering to drive down with the trailer, and never did get a response.

Coming here after he had last seen her, he had expected or hoped to sort of slip down the neck of a bottle and live out one of those old country songs. There was something All-

American, romantic, manly about that kind of self medicating. But it just wasn’t working out. It seemed he could no longer get drunk. He could get stupid, but it was rarely fun anymore. It was a maze he had navigated too many times. Weed worked better. Cricket always had it and was not stingy. There was a whole other truth there under the surface of things. Maybe.

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‘You think,’ he said to his boss one afternoon, and took another drag. Sunlight poured in innumerable particles through the open door. ‘You think this stuff lets you see. Or does it make you see?’

‘See what?’

‘Like, is it . . . . is it playing a trick on you, or is it actually doing something?’

Cricket stared into the middle distance, playing at pondering, then broke with dry laughter. ‘You think about some stupid shit,’ she said. ‘What difference does it make?’

She might have been a poor substitute for her niece, or even her sister, but she was good company all-in-all. She did not lie, as far as he could tell. At least not on purpose, not to him. He asked her to start calling him James, explaining that it was his middle name—she still thought Wendell was his first—and she did so thereafter without fail. He asked her one day what her real name was and she refused to answer. He pressed. She asked why he wanted to know so bad. He said he didn’t know. ‘It’s Sandra,’ twanging it off-key. ‘If you ever call me that you’re fired.’

‘I didn’t know I was your employee.’

‘Shut up and go clean the bathroom. ’

‘When’s the last time you were in there? It would take—at least a thousand dollars just to get me to think about it.’

‘Get the fuck out then. You ought to be paying me to let you hang around here. Sorry ass.’

‘Bring me a beer.’

She shot air from her nose and looked upon him with disdain.

‘A paycheck would be nice, considering all I do around here.’

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‘Shit. When you get a paycheck from me, that’s when you’ll know I finally went completely crazy.’

But she did start splitting the tip jar with him after that—some nights his cut was over twenty dollars—and leaving him alone with the place now and again to go out with her boyfriend.

The only thing surprising about the eviction notice on his door was that it hadn’t come sooner. Cricket let him lay a pallet in the little office behind the bar. Though he never went in till he was good and tired, there was nearly always enough time to get depressed, seeing himself as the wider world would, or through his mother’s eyes. Or imagining himself much older, in other sorry quarters, pitiful with poverty, broken-down with booze, deadened by dope.

It was scary how easy it was to imagine: so easy it could be a previsioning. How easy it would be to let the years spill out behind him and leave for a monument only another faded photograph behind a bar. Or worse, and more likely now that photographs were digital: some brightly-lit and forsaken tomb in the World Wide Web. More and more of the world consisted of things that would disappear without electricity, and no one seemed to notice or to mind.

Maybe the best thing would be for a war to break out. A big serious one. There didn’t seem to be much hope for that occuring any time soon, but there must be some ignition point, obvious in hindsight, that could bring machine gun fire, mustard gas and mushroom clouds upon us quicker than anyone wants to believe. That man had wised up since the last big one, that the species had evolved toward peace, James did not even consider. If there was a war, whatever its causes, he would fight. Be the enemy Frenchmen or Russians, jihadis or robots, he would be terrified. But from where he sat, terrified seemed like an upgrade.

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Of course there was a war going on. His cousin Wendell, the Wendell, was fighting in it, or doing something over there. And Wayne was greasing the tracks on tanks. Wendell had been changed even before he went: after boot camp, the last time James had seen him he had been so hard-looking, so filled up with what he’d learned about himself that Dirty had nearly lost the nerve to ask for the ID. Which was given after a moment’s consideration—you could not call it hesitation—with the disclaimer: ‘Fuck around all you want, but if anyone ever asks,

I’ll say it was stolen.’

Dirty put it in his pocket. ‘What about lost.’

Wendell considered again. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Lost.’

And then he had gone off to fight. No telling how much of a man he was by now. Fear taken out like surgery. How beyond such petty and useless things as emotions he must have grown: desires refined, fewer, attainable. . . . But then there was Carleigh’s man slicing his own hand open

The first time James finished jerking off in the bathroom—the stuff into the bowl, like any other excrement—with himself in hand, temporarily appeased and shrinking, he stared down at the dried piss and hair on the floor feeling as low and as Dirty. In a junk closet he found a dried stiff mop and some bleach and went to work with these as if cleansing a crime scene against imminent forensics. Then he swept out the bar proper, cleaned all the tabletops, etcetera and etcetera into the smallest darkest corners, and when he was hungry and there was nothing else to do, the place still looked run-down and smelled like cigarettes.

Decent girls never came in. If not decent, he would have settled for sexy, but they too were rare as hen’s teeth in the Cedar Shack. And should some great beauty appear and decide to have him, he would let her, sure, but he doubted that it would heal him. Happening across some

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 lustrous creature in a magazine, her legs were too long, her expression too dim. There was a malfunction in him. His heart was controlling his brain above and his cock below, and his heart was a complete idiot.

‘Ever see your niece?’ he asked Cricket one afternoon. The air conditioner was doing its best, but its best wasn’t good enough.

‘Yeah,’ Cricket said, pretending to watch a commercial for a happy pill on the TV: blithe souls ascending an escalator in technicolor.

‘She alright?’

‘Yeah.’

‘She ever ask about me?’

‘No.’

The next commercial was for a personal injury lawyer. A tick growing fatter on the scrotum of the insurance business. A winner in the game of life. So could I. This moment, right here and now, could be the turning point: related years later to confidants over cigars and high- stakes poker. Get the degree, the license, whatever, then defend only the wealthiest thieves and murderers. There is a certain amount, a level of prosperity from which she could not have walked away. Which would sway or negate her heart. Mom seems to care for Jimbo, but would she have married him had he been Jimbo the the shoe salesman, the tree trimmer, the shit shoveller? She would say so, surely. Ask someone with a little money how important money is.

Watch them lie.

One night after locking the front door, James sat at the salvaged school desk in the office scribbling in circles on his sketchpad. There were no words nor even pictures. The squalid walls leaned inward, whispering, Open a vein . . . Rob a bank . . . Join the Marines . . . Go

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 home . . . Home. His old room was still there, soft and clean, with satellite TV, a fully stocked kitchen, free laundry service. And for college he only needed to say the words. The opportunity made him lucky, he knew. And he should be grateful, he knew. But knowing and knowing are two different things. Just thinking of college, he felt smaller.

Cricket knocked at the office door, a folded bedspread under one arm. ‘I set off some bug bombs at my place,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna sleep in here, if it’s alright.’

It was alright. She was alright—though not as erotic as he had imagined. There was an automatic, routine aspect to her side of it—she told him to ‘Squeeze my hips’ and ‘Go down on me’ as if directing him to restock the beer cooler or empty the ashtrays—the upside of which was that neither pretended it meant any more or less than it did. Three nights later, again in the small, unreal hours, she returned, this time with no excuse, and was maybe a little more tender.

Her boyfriend was not really a concern. Tall, quiet and apparently paranoid in his narrow head, Zeke kept a three day beard and wore a leather jacket in all weather. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but he seemed nice enough. When Cricket asked her only employee to watch the bar because her man was taking her to Hot Springs for the weekend, she seemed prouder and more girlish than James would have thought possible. Somehow, incredibly, her heart was still open. James didn’t know whether to be inspired or appalled.

Saturday night, as the night before, a few men came in but, seeing that Cricket was not in, left after one or two beers. James was getting ready to close up when a swell of motorized noise encroached like a natural disaster: the rolling thunder of many motorcycles pouring into the Shack, overwhelming the juke box, rattling an empty mug from a table to shatter on the tile floor.

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That these were not part-time outlaws, weekend warriors, like his stepdad, was immediately clear. They were the real thing: hairy, smelly brutes, their sun-baked skin a slightly poorer grade of leather than their scant clothing. Men and women alike swarmed about with a lewd militance. Eight or twelve hollered drink orders on top of each other, their voices affectedly low and gruff, like the bark of dogs. James raised his hands and yelled that they would have to go one-at-a time. ‘Fuck that,’ said one, and the barbarians invaded. He scurried up onto and over the bar, stood back and watched them plunder, sick with helplessness, hot with ire. He had been working with a small pair of barbells lately and had accrued some stringy muscle, but here felt punier than ever. ‘There’s hardly shit back here,’ said one, and a dude beside James, none the larger but with a cue-ball head and the keen vacuous look of one accustomed to violence and amphetamines, said, ‘Don’t call nobody. We’ll come back for you.’

When all the booze had been emptied or carried out the door, when the last pool stick was splintered and a commemorative Saints Super Bowl mirror stove in, a man in reflecting sunglasses walked slowly toward the table where James sat, spurs jangling. Not the biggest or the oldest, but the quietest—save the spurs—he had been in the back the whole time having his drinks brought to him. James prepared to be threatened again and to eat a little shit, hopefully not too much.

‘What’s your name, son.’

‘They call me Dirty.’

A blade scar ran puckered through an eyebrow and over his cheek to his jawline. A gargoyle crouched scheming over his heart, between the flaps of his leather vest. It was a hard- won persona, and it was effective. He pulled one side of his vest open and James swallowed, the little puppeteer inside him drawing his balls up by their cords. The man reached two knotty

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 fingers into an inner pocket and drew out a roll of cash. It opened itself, like a well-trained regiment falling into formation, and the fingers swiped off the first seven bills, all hundreds.

Receiving these, James said in a quiet voice: ‘Thank you.’

‘Appreciate the hospitality.’

‘Any time.’

Clink. Clink. Clink. As the man went through the door—he had been the last to enter and was now the last to leave—James called out, ‘Hey.’

The man stopped, turned halfway back.

‘What if I, ah . . . . Where are y’all headed next?’

A smile crept over the man’s face. ‘You stay here and be a good boy,’ he said, and his laugh grew louder and more callous as the door shut behind him. What a performance. After his motor started, so did all the others. Three more glasses fell to the floor and shattered. James got the broom and started pushing.

Cricket returned bitter, sardonic: heartbroken. He didn’t ask for details, he only gave her the seven bills and the one-sentence version of what had happened, all of which she accepted without comment. She lit a cigarette and looked down at the floor pallet in her office, waggled her hand dismissively. ‘You can’t keep sleeping in this rat’s nest,’ she said. ‘It’s fucking depressing. I got two extra bedrooms in my place, dude. You might as well use one.’

Into July and August the days became shorter but still hotter. There was no rain but still plenty of humidity. At night in Cricket’s trailer the air conditioner whirred and rattled and finally started to breathe cool after failing through most of the day, while outside the crickets chirped a loud, boring symphony. Which seemed to bend his dreams toward the fathomable.

Some were downright homely, such as when he went into a convenience store to pay for gas,

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 and decided to buy a pack of gum, which turned out to be a pack of cigarettes, which he could not smoke because he had no lighter, and no more money with which to buy one. But one night he found himself in the office of his old boss, where Mr. Will told him, ‘Go unload the truck.

Then call your dad.’ Where James paused to make sure he had heard correctly, started to explain the situation but was cut off: ‘Stop being a pussy, James. It’s not his fault. Now get out of my office.’

He scotched phonebooks under the feet of his bed, the room sloped so badly to one side: the lower edge of the floor gaping like a whale’s mouth below the baseboard. He kept away from for fear of falling through. Cricket had a Vietnamese pig that he could sometimes hear and smell beneath him. Once he saw it out in the overgrown yard and it appeared blinded by the rolls of fat over its eyes. It had no name. Having forced an opening in the trailer’s tin skirt, it spent most of its time in that darkness. James and Cricket both supposed vaguely that the pig was only cautious and hermetic in nature. Neither suspected that the ductwork beneath the trailer was in such disrepair that the air conditioner kept the pig’s den cooler than their own. It liked to scratch its back on the structural member that had broken loose beneath James’ floor.

The first time this happened with James in the room was at dawn, his bed rising and falling, and his first sleepy thought was that someone had hitched up to the trailer and was dragging it away.

Cricket never came into his room, but she once invited him into hers. Still damp from the shower, she did not direct him but only lay back and let him do what he wanted: a fleshy pool, generous and entitled. It started well enough, but at a certain point they were just two people in a room, the spell broken utterly, their senses settled back into a sad balance. Cricket

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 felt totally nude for the first time in years, and James had never felt closer to her, even as he shriveled.

With familiarity he had not come to think of her as more distinct from Destiny, as you might assume, but as a somewhat larger and older Destiny, an altered version. Rarely did he think about the fact that the only three females he had ever been with were from the same family—there was one sweaty, fumbling, fondling incident in high school, upstairs at a party, that he could have counted, and would have had he nothing better—but when he did think about it he was mildly stunned. It was uncanny strange: something at work here that he did not understand. Now and again, at his most fantastic and egotistical, he thought of them as an abandoned herd in need of his protection and comfort. The four of them on a small farm, where he would sleep with Destiny, usually. The other two would share a bed, as they shared DNA, and he would go to them when he was needed, everyone knowing somehow that the time was right. And there would be lots of fresh vegetables, and the pig could come too. It seemed feasible, now and again, for whole seconds at a time.

On the office computer one dead afternoon, almost as if his two typing fingers moved by someone else’s volition, he found a website that found people and searched his father’s name. He knew also the city of birth and the year, and unless there was another Reginald James Haskell born in Shreveport in 1968, the man was in Rock Springs, Wyoming. James wrote the address on a scrap of paper and tucked it into his wallet. Then he typed the address into the view-from- space map, which zoomed in Godlike on a house at the edge of Rock Springs, just beside the prairie or desert, whatever. Zooming another click, to the verge of discernibility, in the backyard was a human figure in a white hat. The hat was about all you could see, but on the ground beside it lay a full-size human shadow. Which looked straight up, through the satellite

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 into this dingy little office at James, who punched the power button on the screen and was out standing behind the bar next he knew. Loathsome, self-beleaguered. He took a shot but still trembled, cursed his hand and The trembling came in starts and stops, as if he were receiving a message in a code he did not know.

Later that day he saw his mom and Jimbo in the grocery store. He was very much high, or stoned, such that there was little hope of hiding it. ‘How you been, bud,’ said Jimbo with yet some worry held just behind his eyes. James answered with extreme pleasantness, as if he had not kept purposefully away these past months. Probably he talked too much. He felt like he was watching himself remotely from a great distance. His mother refrained from asking questions for once, except to invite him to church in the morning. ‘Sure. I’d love to. It’s been long enough,

I guess. Yeah. I’ll see y’all in the morning. Sure.’

Never in his life had he wanted so badly to be sober.

The next morning he filed into the big white building with three or four hundred others, hopeful of understanding something for which he had so far been too young. But after the obligatory ‘Greet you neighbor’ bit, where everyone stands and works in a circle showing their teeth and declaiming joy at the presence of others, it was only for his mother’s sake that he stayed. ‘It is such a blessing to have you here,’ said a small woman, old but not too old, as she pumped his hand. ‘We are so happy to have you,’ said she, red lips pursed with pornographic humility.

He recalled another Sunday in this sanctuary. Too short to see over the next pew, he sat scribbling with a stub pencil on a bulletin when a woman’s scream rang out, high and piercing toward the back, stopping the sermon. Most people did not turn around to look, but several did.

Murmuring became general. Little James twisted up onto his knees and saw people shuffling

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 about the rearmost pew. A man ran out the door. His mother told him to sit down. It seemed to

James now that everyone had understood instantly that the lady had not been stricken with the holy spirit. It had not been that kind of church, nor that kind of scream. The preacher’s mouth hung open, until he left the pulpit and strode with graceless quickness up the aisle: just a man in a robe. Before the ambulance had carried the lady away—to her death by stroke, James would eventually learn after relentless questioning—the preacher was back at the pulpit, his hair still lacquered in place, his beatific smile as usual except that a small child could now see through it.

This preacher, the current one, was older and less happy-seeming and James liked to believe that he would handle a heartattack better, would act like a human being and own to being at least a little rattled. Today’s bulletin included the usual list of names to include in your prayers. Pray for the healing of their ailments that they may stave off eternal bliss a bit longer.

Today’s sermon was to remind everyone that they only had one real boss and, while they should of course respect their superiors when it came to their jobs, they should always serve

Him in their hearts and not, quoting scripture, ‘human masters.’

By the middle of August the only green grass anywhere had been watered regularly, and patronage at the Cedar Shack was at an all-time low. For which James accepted some blame.

Low-down and ignorant as he was, to a lot of customers he was uppity:

‘So I tole eem, said you best back the fuck off less you wanna feel my foot in your fuckin ass.’

‘What’d he say then?’

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‘Not shit. Cause he knew I would. Which he might’a liked, cause he’s a faggot. . . . Hey, boy, what’s that book you got your nose in?’

‘The Autobiography of Ben Franklin.’

He had taken it from a shelf at his mom’s, where it would have remained a decoration indefinitely.

‘The hunerd dollar bill guy.’

‘Right.’

‘Ya, there was a dude at work several years back readin that one. Or some other one. He was real book smart. Didn’t have no common sense, a course.’

James said no more for the look of gratified contempt the man wore, he only turned his nose back into the book. It was not the first time he had heard it suggested by a man without much schooling that education and common sense were mutually exclusive. ‘You gone have to choose, boy. Which is it gonna be, the books or the sense? Don’t thank too hard now, afore ye decide.’

He took Jimbo up on an offer to paint his offices over a three day weekend for $500, with which he planned to take a trip somewhere, probably West. It would surely have worked out to a better hourly rate had he not sampled the laughing gas. Along with any anxiousness, it laid waste to his work ethic, such that he found himself reclined on an operating chair, staring blankly at a cork board covered with photographs of smiling children. He did not smile himself, let alone laugh. When he next stirred, the paintbrush in his right hand had dripped a pool of coagulating Sonoran Sunrise orange to the carpet, in the shape of a wrinkled old man’s head.

He breathed no more gas but drank at least a gallon of coffee, used toothbrushes around the trim and just had everything cleaned up before the doors opened Monday morning. Jimbo

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 said, ‘Looks great, bud. Better’n you do.’ He laughed, then got to business. ‘I owe you some money.’ Reaching back for his wallet, he took on a look of aggrieved obligation. ‘I was thinking could give you a choice. You can take it all, of course. Or you can take three hundred and a scholarship to school this fall. I guess you know which one I’d prefer.’

‘A scholarship.’

‘That’s right. It’s for young men of promise.’

James went soft and warm and tender inside. Then it got worse.

‘You’re smart, James. Like your mom. It’d be a shame if you didn’t put it to some use.’

Unable to match such naked sincerity from his stepfather, he felt sick by comparison, and it was with sinking, helpless good sense and gratitude that he accepted.

A city seemed like the thing. Going down the river had been bold, or something, but going away from people had been the wrong move. He sort of knew some people in Austin, which had no shortage of people. His mother seemed almost psychotically pleased, deranged with relief, when she informed him that she had found him a place to live: in a condo with the sons of two country club friends: junior frat guys at UT.

When he told Cricket goodbye, he had not yet told her that he was leaving. It was late on a Friday and the bar was as empty as the tip jar. He was not prepared when her face went soft, her mouthcorners turned down. ‘My boy’s goin off to college,’ she said.

He laughed suddenly harder than he understood, then thumbed a tear from his eye.

‘Man, do it,’ she said. ‘Leave this motherfucker and don’t look back.’

He nodded his head stiffly and said in a voice smaller than he intended, ‘I’ll be back.’

‘To visit,’ she said. ‘You try to come back and stay I’ll whip your skinny ass. Go be a doctor or some shit. For real. Don’t look at me like that, you could do it. . . . I coulda done

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 something but, shit. If you don’t lose it you . . . See what I mean. You fucking lose it. I’ve done been outa school like, nearly twenty years. You believe that?’

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Shut the fuck up. When did you graduate?’

‘Last year.’

‘For real? So you just—Hold up, how old are you?’

He eyed her askance, as if bracing for a slap. ‘Twenty. Almost twenty.’

Her expression had changed utterly. ‘I could lose my liquor license, asshole.’

‘I served a couple of cops one day while you were gone.’

‘Dirty mother fucker. So is your name even Wendell?’

He offered his hand. ‘James. Nice to meet you.’

She slapped his hand and looked away, stewing. ‘I shoulda known,’ she said finally. ‘You fuck like a teenager.’

Seeing that she had hurt him her tone softened, but she went on: ‘I got nothing if I don’t have my liquor license. You don’t understand that cause you just a fucking kid.’

‘It’s not like I had a choice.’

Eventually, by degrees, seeing the truth in this, she poured two shots of bourbon. They hugged for a long time. Then she left him to close up. She had a date to get ready for.

His roommates called him Dirty, of course, even after he asked them, cordial as could be, to use his Christian name.

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They liked to sit around watching football and shoot each other to death in video games and manage their personal web pages and drink expensive beer and smoke expensive weed, often all-at-once. They were members of a fraternity. James was brought along to the first social event of the school year at their big antebellum frat house. In preparation for a live concert the bow of a pirate ship was under construction in the backyard beside an enormous live oak. The new pledges went about on their knees hammering at planks while a few of the elders stood nearby directing like guards in a gulag. James listened to talk about stock prices and Mexican beaches, scenes from porn videos and true tales of ejaculate aimed to degrade. One of his roommates, introducing him after several drinks, said, ‘This is Dirty. He’s a like for-real country dude from my school. He could show you how to, like, gut a deer and make clothes out of possum skins.’ A kid with curly blonde locks and cherubic cheeks, charged with deference and challenge, said, ‘So, Dirty, do you use a rifle or a bow? I find bow-hunting takes a lot more skill.’

‘My name is James,’ James said. ‘And I’ve never killed anything in my life. Excuse me.’

These loud drunk girls showed no more interest in him than the quiet sober ones had the night before, and he was more conscious of his acne scars than he had been in months.

Conversations tended to die shortly after he said ‘community college,’ so he started lying. The night became immeasurably more fun. A couple of days later, from his tiny undecorated room he overheard himself talked about in the den, amid the bubbling of the bong.

‘Yeah, I know,’ said one, his tone barely hushed. ‘Todd said he was telling people his dad owned a ski boat factory.’

‘I don’t even think he has a dad.’

‘He’s so full of shit.’

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‘I know. It’s sad.’

James stood in the doorway to the den. ‘What’s sad?’

‘Oh, hey. What?’

‘What up, dude.’

‘Dudes.’

He looked from one to the other, to the other, to the other. They were not ashamed but they were scared. The bong rested on the table between them, the heavy whorled glass to class up the using. He told them they were the most chickenshit motherfuckers he had ever seen.

They did not move nor even look at him but only feigned tepid outrage. Then one of them did look up.

‘You just have to understand, man. We never wanted you to live here.’

He said it like he was being nice.

‘Well, I guess if everybody’s momma wasn’t paying his rent I wouldn’t have to.’

So it was time to find another place. Being paid up through September, he had a month in which to do so. In the meantime, he and his roommates were invisible to each other. Which was both awkward and fun. He had an old ten-speed bicycle, courtesy of Jimbo, and found getting around the city much easier on two wheels than on four.

People people everywhere. Girls galore, but not one looked at him twice. Glib ambition amock, rendering him pleasantly anonymous. And lonely. He rode beneath the mammoth glass buildings and around the state capitol, past the booming football stadium on gameday and through the university campus, occasionally sitting in on classes. To bulk up his legs and lungs, he rode into the rich hills to the west. Which was too difficult, so he criss-crossed the hip neighborhoods south of the river and the poor neighborhoods east of the interstate. (There was

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 really no such thing as poor and hip, though some liked to pretend.) He sat in restaurants and listened to people talk. He sat in bars, when his ID worked, and listened to music. He went to the classes he was enrolled in, except when he didn’t. He watched elementary school kids get out of school and socialize one afternoon, until he realized what he looked like. He got a call from a strange number, which was his cousin Wayne. They talked for the better part of an hour. Wayne was getting certified as a welder and was going to quit his job as soon as he could.

Each told a version of what had happened to him after Shreveport. Everything seemed less dramatic and more absurd in hindsight. Which was as usual.

On a warm afternoon James fell asleep on the grass in a park near the river. A bright light awoke him: a flashlight from the darkness. ‘How we doing?’ the cop asked.

‘I was better a few seconds ago.’

‘Is that right. Been drinking a little, I see.’

‘No sir.’ When he sat up something rolled off his chest and fell plink beside him. A forty ounce beer bottle. He stared at it helplessly. Some joker. Some anonymous asshole comedian.

He looked up and told the truth, but the cop only wanted an ID. He stood and complied.

Something moved in his crack. He swiped at and the cop flinched for his gun. James brought his hand around slowly. ‘Sorry. A bug was trying to crawl in my butt.’

The cop went back to filling in the ticket on his touchscreen device.

‘Sir, I swear I didn’t drink that. Somebody probably took pictures of me. I’m probably on the internet getting laughed at right now. Don’t give me a ticket too.’

‘You can try that on a judge, Wendell,’ said the cop as he tore the printed citation from his handheld device. ‘But I doubt you’ll get very far with it.’

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Wendell was hit with open container and vagrancy. ‘And throw that bottle away. You got ten days to respond. Find a bed next time you want to sleep.’

James got on his bike and, riding past a garbage can, dropped in the bottle and the ticket. Then he headed for the crowdedest part of downtown, and wove a slow path through the

Friday night rabble. Thousands on the streets, humans like a river. A hairy bouncer with a brass ring through his septum like a stud bull regarded this youth and his ID for a long moment, then turned, the card pinched between knuckles, and yelled to a man behind the bar, a little psycho-eyed character. James snatched Wendell and ran out, parried from a group of pale kids draped in black, turned the corner and into the nearest door ducked, feeling happy.

It was a two-story danceclub. He took full advantage of a space cadet doorman and an extraordinary vodka special—drinking was fun again!—and stood in a corner watching the shiny drugged-out hornballs gyrate and grind. Some with elaborate moves that surely required home practice. Most only pantomimed coitus or, in some cases, appeared to do the actual deed.

One couple conversed while dancing: smiled and yelled and squinted to read each other’s lips, they were so eager to converse. James thought this was hilarious. Most of the others were alone out there, no matter how closely they danced.

A few vodkas later the strobe lighting is to be believed, and he must go or else face the consequences. On the sidewalk some force—perhaps the turning of the earth, against which he has lost his natural correction—pulls him to his left and down, so he must lean away from it with all his force of will, must lean against the building beside him, the iron window bar a stile on a carousel. Must not drink so much.

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With each step the distance between his head and feet stretches elastically. Like a shadow pitched high against a wall he feels enormous and ephemeral. Here is a horse. Sadness in its bulging brown eye. You know, don’t you buddy. But I can scratch where you can’t reach.

‘Back up!’ a man commands. A cop looms in the saddle like the rest of a centaur, and

James still thinking, What happens when you shit? ‘He’s not your pet.’

‘Sorry officer.’ Raising an unsteady two-finger salute, then to the horse: ‘Officer.’

‘Hold up, smart-ass.’

Radio raises to mouth but James hears not what is said for he has drifted away feigning oblivion into the streetcrowd. Another bark from above, the clop of hooves and he dashes, keeping low, inspecting bellybuttons. Drumming erupts somewhere ahead: a storm of drums that draws him near. A schoolbus above the crowd and before it a horde of drummers beat their drums various-and-together with leaping hair and jouncing smiles. Hippies. James has never seen any so committed and is a little surprised that they actually exist. Several hop like they are on pogo sticks, some howl or scream and all wail with blurry abandon: a stocky bearded kid slapping a heartbeat against a five-gallon water bottle, a girl in dreadlocks indian-style rattling a stick in a cast-iron skillet like she’s scrambling eggs, a pair of sweaty youths punching the side of the bus almost without violence. The bus wants to be a work of art: features a mural collage by multiple hands. The crowd grows denser, accuring planet-like with its own gravity.

Glancing back, James glimpses the cop still watching him, speaking again into his radio. He sheds his shirt, as several revelers have already, throws it away and begins to bounce as if he might disappear among the overlapping rythms. All enfolds toward a vague oneness and James or Dirty or whoever is in the thick of it. Locked into a beat that suits him, he tows a psychic thread, tangling everyone together. Any moment now they’ll begin to trip and fall.

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Somehow everyone knows to stop at once. A cheer goes up and out into space. Cops move in to break the party. You can’t park this thing here, move it or else. He files onto the bus, which begins to move. With the pink Capitol dome alit out the window like a fat rocket primed for takeoff he hauls a hand-rolled cigarette to his lips and sucks in all he can get.

Eventually he quits coughing, quits talking, goes to sleep.

•

‘Jim, wake up. . . Jim.’

‘Huh?’

‘Wake up. I heard something.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. It was in the house.’

‘Well, was it—’

‘Shh. See, there it is again.’

‘God damn. That’s in the den.’

‘Keep your voice down. What’re you doing?’

‘Getting my pistol.’

‘You keep it under the mattress?’

‘Uh hu.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since always.’

‘Why did you never—’

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‘Shh. . . .’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, it doesn’t sound human.’

‘It could be somebody trying to sneak in.’

‘That doesn’t sound like sneaking.’

‘They could be on crack.’

‘Sounds more like coughing.’

‘Maybe they’re old. Or sick. Go see.’

‘I’m going.’

‘Should I call 9-11?’

‘No. Not yet. Just sit tight.’

‘Be careful.’

‘I will, baby.’

Jimbo crept behind the pistol to the bedroom door, cracked it open and listened. The sound came again, louder. A dry rustling or beating, always in about a two-second burst. Down the hall toward the den he went with the hammer cocked. This noise could be a robber’s ploy to draw him out into the open, so that he must pause before stepping from the hallway with every hair on his body attuned. The sound again. From inside the den to his right. Light bleeding in from the lamp in the kitchen: just enough to see by. He crouched to come in low, beneath the bad man’s aim.

Nothing in sight. He stood and scanned the room. The sound came again. From the fireplace. Something in the chimney. He flipped on the overhead light and walked over with the pistol hanging down at his side. If someone had tried to break in like this, Santa Claus style,

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 then he had trapped skinny idiot, for the flu was closed. He turned an ear toward the sound, which came again right on cue. He grinned.

‘What is it?’

Prissy emerged from the hallway in her robe with arms folded tight across her abdomen.

‘You want to see?’

‘No!’

Jimbo laughed.

‘What is it.’

‘I’m pretty sure I know. We better open the patio door.’

‘What for?’

‘So it can get out, after I open the flu.’

‘Stop!’

‘It’s okay.’

‘What is it?’

‘I believe it’s a sick old crackhead.’

‘That’s not funny. Seriously, what is it?’

‘I guess we’re about to see.’

‘Jim, don’t.’

He reached in and took the steel handle, pushed it up, open, then backed away to join his wife: held her with one arm, the pistol with the other. Another flurrying sound, clearer this time, and she flinched against him when an animal dropped down onto the hearth.

‘Oh my God. It’s a black duck.’

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‘A wood duck. That’s soot all over him.’

‘The poor thing. It’s so cute.’

‘Can you imagine what he’s thinking.’

‘It probably just wants to get out. And you didn’t open the door.’

‘Shit. Hold on.’

When Jimbo moved, the duck jumped into flight with a plume of soot: brushed across the bookshelves and banked, hit the ceiling fan and fell onto the couch.

‘My God, stop it!’

‘You want me to shoot it?’

He opened the door and backed away as the duck, having waddled from one end of the white couch to the other, took flight again, tipping over the lamp on the end table and crashing into a curtain, tangling and smearing the length of its bright floral pattern with soot as it fell.

‘Jim, help it.’

‘I’m trying. Maybe if you walk toward him it’ll flush him out.’

The duck stood on the white carpet like a coiled spring.

‘I don’t want to scare him.’

‘Baby, it’s too late for that. Just move toward him real slow.’

She did, with gentle encouragements: ‘Go on now. Just right over there. Quit ruining my house.’

When she was within a few feet, it jumped and flew again: passed under the track lighting on the vaulted ceiling, wheeled and dove and was gone.

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Soot sifted down over everything. Jimbo grinned huge. His wife did not. He closed the door and deadbolted it, laid the pistol on the end table crossing the den. Her chin wrinkled and her bottom lip stuck out. He gathered her against him, swayed gently.

‘What was it doing in the chimney?’

‘Wood ducks nest on land. Usually in a hollow place in a tree. It was looking for a place to lay its eggs.’

‘So it was a female.’

‘I guess so.’

‘Bitch.’

He laughed and so did she, a little. He held her tighter.

‘Look what it did.’

‘I know. It’ll clean up. Come on, let’s worry about it tomorrow.’

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Taking you to bed.’

‘I’m not going to be able to sleep with the den like this.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about sleeping.’

She banged him in the chest with the heel of her hand.

‘What?’

‘Now?’

He stared at her dumbly.

‘That’s what you’re thinking about.’

‘Well, why not?’

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She rolled her eyes and went past him toward the kitchen. ‘You can go back to bed if you want. I’m cleaning up this mess.’

His mouth opened—but there was nothing to say. Except, ‘I’ll get the god damned vacuum.’

•

James awoke to a series of soft jolts, vehicular hiccups, sunlight flickering at his eyelids and a cool wind over half his face. He did not want to wake up all the way but had never been able to choose. His eyes opened and the backside of a pair of legs cleared into focus across the aisle. A ruffled skirt hiked to the hips and a naked round bottom staring back as dumbly. The legs speckled with dark stubble, tapering like a plucked chicken’s. Ass shuddering lewd and beautiful with each bump in the road. James peered into that darkened cleft and was assured of the gender by a smile. The feet hanging off in the aisle were dainty, black across the soles. He lay studying this scene for some time. Also recalling what he could, or would, of the night before.

A tree upon a cliff beside a lake he could only smell. A ropeswing into the darkness, disappearing down, swallowed, spinning, surfacing happy, but coughing: gagging on poisoned air—no, gnats. Struggling through a cloud of them, clambering up the cliff. Back on the bus in the lanternlight like a guest of some outlying tribe and all the talking. Opinions he wasn’t aware of, the profoundest of topics dispatched of with broken elated platitudes and insinuations, everyone understanding perfectly. James was glad he did not recall most of the smart things he must have said.

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When he sat up his head swooned empty, then filled with ache when the blood arrived.

Thick furred tongue and battered brain. Something smelled bad. Raising the old quilt upon which he had been lying to his nose, the smell came rotten awful and he threw the quilt away and kicked it off into the aisle. But the stink stayed. He sniffed about and kept recoiling from the stink, which seemed to change positions. Because the culprit was his own hand. He exhaled despair, laid the hand aside on the seat, a curled claw as far from the rest of him as possible, and looked out the window.

The road was two lanes through hills of limestone, scorched grass and short, dusty oaks. James had never seen any land like it. He found himself nearer the back of the bus than the front, in a sort of hutch made of two seats facing each other, with the backrest of a dismantled seat bridging the space between. Also beneath him was a thick, custom-fit section of memory foam in a cotton slip. All that he could see over the seats was the driver’s wooly reddish brown hair with its few scattered braids, and the driver hunched slightly to sip something. Leaning into the aisle: bare feet and hands and hairdos dangled from the hutches.

The bus came reached the bottom of a hill and starting up the next the driver downshifted, the engine roared in agony and rage. The chicken legs jiggled toward the seatback.

Climb in with them, see what happens.

James looked past her feet down the aisle, which passed to the back door between mounds of gear and provisions. In the rear third of the bus were no seats or hutches at all. A deep square plywood cabinet covered the windows just behind him. Backpacks swung from hooks on the ceiling, and plastic tubs and coolers stacked like oversized building blocks.

Nothing here was very old, except the bus itself.

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Sunlight came full to the side of his face and he turned from it squinting, the bus topping the rise, its engine relaxing, nosing downward, the sunlight flickering through the trees again, accelerating in neutral and the drone of the tires oversounding the engine. At the bottom of the hill the road crossed a greenish river or stream. The ticking of the expansion joints slowed like a dying clock and the driver veered to the roadside and stopped with a graduated smoothness that woke no one. With the engine still running the driver levered open the folding door and, perhaps glancing James in the big rearview mirror, took the handrail and fell from the bus in a swooping plunge.

James got up to follow swooning a little. Bootheels clicking down the aisle as he scanned the hutches, looking mainly for something to drink. A hefty rosy-cheeked lad lay on his back with a girl on either side, one nestled into his curly beard, the other turned away but reaching back, her hand lost beneath the waist of his drawstring pants. Sleep had not erased nor did the beard conceal the shit-eating grin on the lad’s face. With his inoffensive hand James scratched disappointedly at his random patches of stubble, traced a fingertip over the trench in his cheek, which seemed to be getting shallower, smoother. In the nook behind the driver’s seat sat a gallon milkjug with about a quart of orange liquid in it. Stepping down to the roadside dirt, he popped the lid. The smell inside the jug went straight up through his nose to his brain like a memory elixir, sweet and tart, taking him back to the trailerhouse of his childhood. The drink the astronauts took to the moon. Little James had climbed from the dishwasher to the countertop to eat its concentrated powder by the spoonful, leaning over to the sink now and again for a mouthful of water. It had been the best thing in the world, and was again. Liquid mercy, spreading joy to his famished cells. He drained the jug and felt a hundred percent better.

For about ten seconds.

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The bus, in the early light, was covered in roundish overlapping patches of whitewash, most containing painted pictures or hand-printed quotations. It looked altogether like some exotic cloverpatch, although somehow desolate. Pathetic. The largest patch, centermost, featured the leader of an old travelling band whose name James did not recall, a jolly bearded man with tiny spectacles beneath space cadet eyes, holding a guitar whose fretboard curved away and conformed to green hills in the background, becoming railroad tracks upon which travelled a storybook circus train, the animals staring at you plaintively from behind bars.

Elsewhere: a glossy silver waterfall plunging between purple cliffs watched over by an array of glowing planets or moons in the dark sky beyond, a realistic-but-equally-incredible peacock, a

Tibetan flag beside the one from the Alamo: COME AND TAKE IT, a marionette controlled by another marionette whose own strings angled away out of frame, a chimpanzee in a tuxedo with a hamburger on its head, a swerving patch of reedlike mushrooms, a tree sloth with a tennis racket, Sasquatch in silhouette, Mark Twain, the Man in the Moon.

A roadsign identified the river as the Llano. James walked toward it through dry grass and gravel. The driver was in the middle of the stream, stroking slowly against a weak current.

He drew a breath and went under, curled up and drifted, refracting away downstream like a flesh-colored egg. Resurfacing he stretched out and stroked for the opposite shore, then stood up in water to his waist, his beard lengthened and slimmed, hanging in wattles onto his pale and nearly hairless and slightly concave chest, wwhich gave over to a soft-looking paunch. So far James had not known whether the driver had seen him but now they were looking directly at each other.

‘Water,’ the driver said, pushing his hair back over his skull, his teeth China white.

James looked down at the river as if he hadn’t realized what it was made of, then to the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 character on the opposite bank. ‘Got to take advantage,’ the driver said. And raising his arms over his head, he twisted and flopped into the river.

There was something theatrical about the whimsical peacefulness on display here. The driver held position against the current, then doubled his effort and began inching upstream, opening half his mouth with every fourth stroke. Or am I jaded? Or from too small a town, inbred with fear and suspicion. Or is it just the hangover.

When all of his clothes but his boxer shorts were piled beside him, the jagged stones beneath his bare feet were nicely cold and painful. The pale green water before him looked deep enough, probably, so he jumped in a shallow dive before he could overthink it and the bracing chill, the body electric. He had not really been awake before. Never bouyant, he drifted along fishlike just above the rocky bottom in the trough of the stream. She came to mind, as she was prone to, without pretext: an image of her not quite happy, not quite looking at him. Her hair was short and muddy brown, like it had been the last time he had seen her, but she was sober.

He surfaced and breathed and lay on his back drifting, doing just enough to keep afloat. A lot of men would say that what he needed was another girl, new tail. James wasn’t sure they would be right, but he was more than willing to try it. Someone from a different blood like, preferably, lots of someones: wallow in pussy till you’re bored with it. Till you can call it pussy without feeling squeamish.

James rolled over and stroked toward a rocky area across the stream from him and sat up in water to his bellybutton. The driver leaned against a shelf of rock in a slow-swirling eddy, arms spread high and dry, the river at his chin: as if it all belonged to him. James had heard his name last night. Something fairly plain, not a nickname, like a lot of the others. The river felt

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 warmer than the air above it now and he could have been very comfortable were the driver not staring at him. He moved to stand, to leave.

‘You were making me laugh last night.’

‘Oh yeah. What’s your name again.’

‘Foster.’

‘Aha,’ James said, and just before giving his name in return the driver said it for him.

‘You really made an impression.’

‘I was afraid so.’

‘No, it was good. You were beyond the temporal. You were cracking me up.’

‘Oh yeah. Well, I’m not sure I was trying to be funny.’

‘Exactly. That’s what made it so great.’

‘I got carried away.’

‘I like that. Carried away.’

The river passing between them hardly seemed real.

‘Where you from, Arkansas?’

‘Almost.’

‘Ah.’

‘What about you. California?’

Looking at the sky again, this Foster cycled a breath as if slightly put out. There was something annoying about him that annoyed and made James a little nervous and anxious to impress at the same time: a sort of overbearing aloofness. ‘Dallas,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t been there in a while.’

‘Is it your bus?’

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‘No. Not really. It’s pretty much community property.’

‘Pretty much.’

‘I’m not totally sure who, like, officially owns it. I don’t think anybody really cares to tell you the truth.’

‘So y’all just like, go around playing drums and—’

‘No, these guys are just catching a ride up to the Northwest. But it’s pretty fun, actually.

I play the guitar and write some songs, but it’s fun to just let go like that. Just go fucking primitive for a little while.’

‘Yeah, well. I was just wondering how y’all make your money.’

Well, like I said, I write and play, and sing. Lay the case open on the sidewalk, type of thing. And these guys, these drummers are chipping in a few bucks, you know.’ Foster drew a long breath with an exaggerated nod. ‘And people make things to sell. Ah, Jet paints these trippy outer-space landscapes, with spraypaint and magazine pages. Rocky makes hoola hoops and digeridoos out of PVC.’

James didn’t know what a digeridoo was, but it didn’t sound like much. ‘And y’all make enough money that way, to just travel around and—’

‘Money money money money money.’ The driver was now planed out and kicking languidly at the surface. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that money’s the most boring thing in the world to talk about.’

‘No.’

‘Well, to answer your question, so far nobody’s had to suck any dick.’

James grinned at this and Foster grinned at the sky.

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‘Something always seems to come along. It’s just good old-fashioned faith in the universe, really. And the more you need, the more you need, you know. I try not to need too much.

James looked upriver, under the bridge to the bend, where a black-and-white cow stood in water up to her swollen pink udders. He looked again at this Foster person. The distance across the river seemed vast.

‘Are y’all going through Wyoming?’

‘Most likely. This is the best time of year to go to Yellowstone. You gonna roll with us a while?’

‘Nah, I’m already too far. My truck’s back in Austin.’

With sudden vigor: ‘Forget about your truck for a minute, man. Be a passenger. Be a land pirate.’

James grinned. ‘A land pirate.’

‘Why not? Are you married? Got some important job to go back to?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Have you been out west much?’

James consulted the map in his mind to confirm before answering, ‘This is the farthest

I’ve been. Right here.’

The driver looked disgusted or offended. ‘Jesus. Then you have to.’

The river sounded like a lot of whispering. One bluejay chased another over its surface.

James couldn’t tell if it was play or assault.

‘Yeah, I appreciate it. It’s just, the farther away I get the more it’ll cost to get back.’

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‘Plus, man. I’ve got a feeling about you. I did when I first met you. Like you’re here for a reason.’

‘Yeah. Cause I got drunk.’

‘The way it works is, stay as long as you want, as long as you’re cool.’ His hands opened forward. ‘And leave when you feel like it.’

‘How do you know—’ James reconsidered his smart-ass comment. But there was something about this kid—he was well into his twenties but you would not call him a man— that asked for it. As if he were coated in high-grade teflon. ‘How do I know if I’m cool?’

‘You have to catch a wild animal and fuck it.’

They laughed, then sat watching and hearing and feeling the river flow past. After a minute or two Foster dove under, swam across and climbed ashore downstream from James, hopped a few times, flinging his fingers then rolling his shoulders, pushed his long hair behind his ears and started toward his shirt, which hung from a limb over a rusted and collapsing barbed-wire fence, which bore glossy new ‘No Tresspassing’ signs at regular intervals. He was about six feet tall and loose as if he was made of ropes. ‘No, man,’ he said, turning to face James, who was up and pulling on his shirt. ‘To be completely sincere, it’s just: Be good to each other, don’t think you’re better than somebody else. Contribute what you can, enjoy life daily.’

James pulled up his pants. It would be warm enough today for wet underwear. ‘Well, what would you charge me for a ride, just to Wyoming?'

‘It’s not Greyhound, man, there’s no fee. But if you want to donate to the community chest, just do what you can. Whatever you think’s fair.’

Boots back in place, James took out his wallet. ‘Those aren’t necessarily the same thing.’

‘Yes. They are.’

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He looked down on almost a hundred in cash. ‘How’s ten dollars.’

‘Great.’

James grinned, dubious, and glanced up the ditch toward the bus. ‘That thing runs on gasoline, right.’

‘It gets better mileage than you might think.’

‘Here’s fifteen.’

Foster took the money and pearl-snapped it away in the breast pocket of his plaid shirt, started back to the bus and James followed, the new sun warming their backs, their shadows tapering toward the road. ‘Oh.’ Foster held up an index finger and turned back part way. ‘I remember what made me laugh. You were talking about meat. You said something like, “Y’all vegetarian motherfuckers are gonna git left behind by the meat eaters, and some day you’re gonna git eaten.” ’

Foster turned back laughing. James did not care for the impersonation, even if it was a good one. He did not like this Foster person, with his laughing fucking face suddenly ratlike.

Nor was he sure about the person he had been last night: belligerent with opinions, starting to believe his own bullshit.

‘You said people gain some of an animal’s spirit and strength when we eat its flesh. The

Indians and mountain men knew it, and probably there are scientists who know it, but they keep it to themselves because they know there would be an outbreak of cannibalism.’

James barely managed a smirk. ‘Yeah, if only I’d been joking. It might’ve been funny.’

‘No, it was great! You had me about convinced, bro. I was thinking about carving into big Cody. Or at least going to find a cheeseburger. The dark side was calling me.’

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James grinned now despite himself, begrudging, acquiescing. He felt he was being pandered to and could not have said why.

‘So is that a rule. No meat.’

‘Not really.’ They were beside the bus now. Foster leaned against it, patting and stroking a riveted seam as he talked. Above his right shoulder a cartoonish chameleon stood on a sheet of plaid, goggle-eyed and arching like a cat on a frying pan. ‘Most of us try to stay away from processed food and drugs. But it’s a free country, you know. We’re just living in it.’

‘What do you mean processed?’

‘Eh, it’s hard to say exactly. Just, anything that needs a chemist. I guess the drugs is the more important part. Nobody’s going to flip out over a Dorito.’

‘No meth.’

‘Right.’

‘Oxycontin.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Cocaine.’

‘Eh.’

‘Is there more Tang?’

‘It’s fantastic, isn’t it. Yeah, there’s a shitload more.’

James was glad to hear it, and kept to himself his near certainty that Tang did not come from a plant.

‘There’s plenty of everything, man, plenty of everything.’

They looked at each other for a distended moment, Foster blithe and deranged, James amused and helpless, wishing again to go back to Austin and his things. If he really wanted to

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 get to Rock Springs—and he was not at all sure that he did—he could drive himself, by God.

Alone with plenty of time to sort out his thoughts, rather than with a bunch of smelly strangers. . . . But somehow it was already decided that he would get on the bus and keep going. Perhaps Foster sensed as much, for he raised his hand and slapped the bus hard. ‘Saddle up, bro!’ He showed his top row of white teeth in not quite a smile, and up through the open door he went. ‘We’re burnin daylight!’

James looked into the woods beyond the barbed wire. Lots of open space between the trees here, but still no answers. He got on the bus.

There were millions of dead trees. Some unstoppable beetle was slaughtering evergreens, boring holes narrower than a pencil for to hibernate in the warm core. Too many holes meant death and all the bigger trees had too many holes in them. The forests were in bad shape but the beetles were a great big prosperous family.

Still it was stunning. The size of it, the grandeur and whatnot. Closer to the sky—to the sky during the day and to outer space at night. The massive mountains forbidding, forboding, inviting.

Encamped near a very small and very elevated tourist town in Colorado, James stuffed some things into a backpack and started toward the tallest peak he could see. It seemed to call or dare him. At the steepest and rockiest section, near the top in the dry cold gray, clouds having crept in with the afternoon, scooting by inches along a precarious ledge, feeling more ridiculous than brave, he slipped and fell, clawed at the cliff and caught himself: a finger lodged in a crevice. Dislocated. A long reverberating expletive sailed down over the valley. Freeing the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 finger he looked at it: distended crooked. Pushing it back where it belonged he made a sound which was clear enough in meaning though it was no word at all. For the first time since his boots had broken in he wished that he had something else on his feet. On a small promontory or notch with death below he gingerly shucked one then the other, ran his belt through the fingerholes so that they hung at his side and went on barefoot.

People call a high mountain a peak because that is the most important part. Boots back in place but feet no less numb, he sat shivering and seeing now and again through gaps in the clouds for miles upon miles, possibly back into Texas. Feeling proud and somehow respected by the great bulk beneath him.

Which feelings left him before he even started back down and would not return ever. It seemed he would have proved more by stopping ten feet short, though he could not have said what that would have been any better than he could say what he had proved already. The only thing sure was that he had to get back down if he wanted to keep living.

Back among the first trees he got a fire going and, having no blanket, spent most of the night curled on the dirt, turning and turning with never more than an hour’s sleep at a time. In the early morning the moon was up giving enough light to move by. There must have been bears in the brush, big cats in the trees. For the first time in months he wished he had his pistol.

Dawn crept over the mountain across the valley. He reached a place where he could see most of the little town below and the school bus. Tents and blankets like scattered garbage, people like insects.

Following a little tumbling stream there was of course plenty to drink, but he had not brought enough food. That he had deprived himself on purpose seemed possible, then likely.

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For this whole thing was unnecessary and dangerous. Which words meant less the more he considered them. You can apply them to almost anything, so they mean almost nothing.

He became lightheaded and hypnotized by hours of steady descent over uneven ground.

A snake awoke him. Coiled on a stone beside the water, sunning itself, it looked at him. A rattler not rattling, probably close enough to strike. It did not back away. James did. A bare water-polished branch lay beside him, the small fork at its tip not an accident. He crouched and stretched the fork toward the serpent’s head. It left the stone and slid over wet gray soil with no apparent effort. Passing behind another smooth stone, its head emerged and James jabbed down on it. The body writhed and curled but the head did not move. James called the snake a son-of-a-bitch and told it what he had done to it. Its body curled and curled around the stick: a gesture that began to look like supplication. Holding pressure, James passed hand over hand for a closer look. Had it just behind the jaw. When the tail grazed his ankle he shuddered and hopped back, nearly letting up. Then he pushed harder, burying the head in the dirt.

‘Just wait,’ he told it.

When, a very long minute or two later, it was still flopping about, he did the humane thing: turned his weight into the branch, driving the head deeper beneath the dirt. The branch snapped and he fell to his knees, grabbing up the shorter portion and plunging it dagger-like at the buried head. Four or five times. Until blood welled up from the ragged hole. The rest of it still moved but in a slow automatic sway that said its clock had been stopped. He wrapped his fingers around the rattle and lifted, the body stretching taut then sucking free. The head was still mostly together but the neck was a mess. He inserted the forked stick there, lifted it and looked it into its eye. It had looked no different when it was alive. There was the same terrifying purity, with not even the possibility of fear.

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‘Going to eat you,’ he told it.

He slept more soundly this night, on flatter, softer ground with a surprising amoung of the dense smoky meat in his belly and the cut-off rattler in his hand. When he awoke, the flayed skin and bloody, monotonous carcass, which had been on the other side of the fire, were gone.

He wrote his mom and Jimbo a real letter, on paper:

Well I gess you no by now it didunt werk out with those guys, they were jelus of me or

sumthing. I had no place to liv so I went away on a bus. Thees peepol are a lot nicer.

We are on are way to Yellow Ston I think. I wood call but my fone is no werking. Sory

about skool Jimbo but there is a hole box of books here, I will reed sum. There supose to

refund 80 per sent to the credit card sins I droped my clases. I will pay you back the rest

thanks for trying. And I got Paul to make shur my truck is ok. Yall dont wery I am fine.

It is hard to explane but I dont see how it could be different. Love,

James

Feeling mean, he rewrote it more properly, keeping the part about his phone, which was true only by the slimmest of margins: he had turned it off.

And they were nice people, generally, though that was about the most you could say for a lot of them. Here and there James sensed among them some low-voltage conflict, but complaints were always mild and passive-aggressive, if they were voiced at all, and he never heard a real argument. No one ever voted on anything, yet all seemed to take for granted that they were a democracy.

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The hitchhikers were invariably more interesting. Foster picked up some but not others, apparently according to intuition: would take his foot off the gas pedal squinting down toward the figure on the roadside and, seeing the face, either hit the brake or the gas pedal again. Once he drove off from nearly a complete stop, upon viewing a skeletal purple-eyed man through the folding door. The man’s expression changed not at all, being already filled to capacity with despair and dismay. James laughed, then realized what an asshole and stopped, then laughed again, quieter and more darkly.

In New Mexico there had been an old black man bent to one side who called himself

Lobo the Hobo. Who had been in Vietnam:

‘Were you in the jungle?’

‘Aw, yeh.’

‘The shit.’

‘Yep. Deep in the shit.’

‘What was the shit like?’

‘It was scary. Back then it was. I was just a kid, like you. Now it don’t seem so bad.’

And who gave tips about hopping freight trains before asking to be let off near a railyard. He was going to Arizona, to clean up around an RV park for seasonal retirees from the snowbound North.

They took a woman to Colorado Springs, where she had a brother. She called herself

Scout. The sapped skin and disappearing teeth, the jumpiness and dissociation suggested what is called an amphetamine problem. But if she did have one of those she kept a good attitude: climbed onto the bus grinning, went wall-eyed and pretended to lose balance. ‘Whoa,’ she said.

‘I’m back!’

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Several of those nearer the front of the bus laughed and then were introduced, Scout making no effort to remember names. Taking the open seat behind the driver, across the aisle from James, she laughed again. ‘This is too fucking much,’ she said. ‘What are you kids doing?’

‘Just living the dream,’ Foster said.

‘You got that right.’ She leaned and looked down the aisle, grinning and nodding at the several curious faces while Jim Morrison sang about riding the snake. The bus had a great sound system. ‘I feel like I am dreaming.’

She told some things about herself, and about the brother she was going to see, who ran a garage near the interstate, had been there for thirty years and ‘thinks I got no sense at all.’

‘What do you think?’ James asked.

‘I think he might be right. But I know about some things that he doesn’t. And I don’t worry about shit like he does, cause I don’t have near as much shit to worry about.’

‘What kind of things,’ said James.

She looked at him and raised her top lip in an ugly way. ‘Huh?’

‘What do you know about that he doesn’t?’

‘Forces,’ she said. And she went on and on about the forces we can’t see that are behind everything, which she understood much better than her brother, who was living a life of illusion. ‘Hi head’s so far up his own ass his mouth is in his stomach, so all he gets is what’s already been chewed up.’

James had never been more confused. Foster asked why she was going to see her brother if he was such a drag?

‘Oh, I’m gonna work for him for a little while.’ She turned and looked out the window.

‘I’m busted-ass broke.’

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Some days later, when they departed the little mountain town near which James had killed the snake—apparently they had made enough to move on, though there hadn’t been many tourists and no one had spent more than a couple of hours at a time in town selling—the driver continued north, toward Wyoming.

The idea of entering that state—least populated and tied for squarest—got James feeling anxious and puny. What does it make you to come looking for him? A punk, is what.

‘Father!’ ‘Son! How I have dreamed of this day. Let me embrace thee.’

Again and again he had gone months without thinking of the man, and then only vaguely. But in another way, he had never stopped thinking about him. Who was probably just some asshole, not worth knowing.

‘Where’d you get that?’ Foster asked. He was driving up a mountain. The bus wailed and a burnt smell came from the engine.

‘What?’

‘That rattle.’

The tail was on a string around James’ neck, but inside his shirt. And Foster was not even looking at him.

‘Found it.’

‘Where?’

‘On the end of a snake.’

‘When you were away.’

‘Yeah.’

Foster grinned and so did James: almost sheepishly.

‘Did it rattle at you?’

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‘No. I just saw it.’

‘They’re learning not to.’

‘Not to rattle?’

‘Right. I read about it a couple of days ago. They’re learning it gets them killed. It used to mean: “Here I am. I don’t want to bite you, but I will if I have to.” But with people, white people, now it means: “Here I am. Come kill me.” So they’re learning not to do it. Evolution works a lot faster than most people think.’

Near Steamboat Springs they came upon a man with a backpack who appeared more or less respectable, drifter wise: jeans and a collared shirt, short hair and no beard. When he climbed onto the bus the look in his eyes and the smell of him wiped the welcoming grin from

Foster’s face and sent James gagging and ducking away, clamping his nose shut. The man went stiffly down the aisle without ever having changed speed. James looked at Foster, who was watching in the big mirror that gave him a view of everything. The drifter sat with his legs straight out in front of him in one of the hutches, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes forward and terrible. ‘Unbelievable,’ Foster said.

James saw that Foster was astonished, but there was also, for the first time, worry upon his countenance. ‘Yeah. That ain’t right.’

‘I didn’t think it was possible to smell that bad.’

Foster shifted into gear. James glanced back again and saw that a few people in the drifter’s vicinity were up and moving away with great concern. The one James had studied that first morning, the one with the chicken legs, who was called Sweet Dee, was trying to talk to him—she really was sweet—but he said nothing, kept looking forward, and Sweet Dee was soon afraid and moving away as well.

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‘Maybe the springs will improve his attitude,’ said Foster.

They were headed that day to a hot spring in southern Wyoming.

‘If his fucking smell improves he can keep his attitude, far as I care.’

‘Maybe that’s the problem. He’s pissed off because he smells so bad.’

James looked back again. ‘He’s more than pissed off. There’s something wrong with him.’

‘Go ask him where he’s going.’

‘Fuck that.’

‘Tell him the driver wishes to know his destination.’

‘I think his destination is just—wherever we’re going.’

Foster bit at his bottom lip, shook his head. ‘This is fucked up,’ he said. ‘What do we do?’

‘Maybe he just wants to go to the hot springs.’

But he did not even dip a toe in the pool, which was a simple open-air concrete baisin against a hill beside a river. He only sat on the ground above it, creeping everyone out.

‘Hey man,’ Foster said grinning, waist deep in the hot water, smiling up at the drifter.

‘Hey, you. Sir.’

The man’s head turned and with eye contact a faint shudder passed through Foster and his smile fell, but reappeared. ‘The water’s really nice. You don’t even have to take any of your clothes off.’ He gave a little nod of encouragement that made James have to turn away for laughing. ‘It feels great, man. It’ll change your whole perspective.’

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The man unzipped his pack and reached his hand into it. James readied to dive under and avoid the bullets, Foster gave up smiling. From the pack the drifter took a deck of cards.

He started arranging them on the dirt beside him.

Nor did he speak or touch the water for the next two days. They found a place to set up camp within a half mile of the spring, down a dirt road beside the river, and busriders were often on display walking back and forth. The drifter sat and played God knew how many games of solitaire, invariable of demeanor. With familiarity he became somewhat less intimidating, but no less aromatic. James learned to keep upwind. The sulpher in the springwater created a barrier of sorts when you were in it, but it was so hot that James could only stand it for a few minutes at a time. Others would laze about the pool for hours on end, often staring and tapping at computerphones—many of them didn’t have two dimes to rub together but they all had touchscreen electronics—just on the verge of consciousness.

Nor did the drifter ever miss a meal. The first night he had three grilled cheese sandwiches: cutting in line, parting the crowd and reaching into the frying pan with his bare hand when he wanted another. Since then his appetite had levelled off but remained hearty. Nor was there any hint of gratitude.

‘We’ve got to fucking do something,’ said Foster in the firelight. ‘Look at him.’

‘I know. He’s the worst.’

‘That army jacket he wears says Krieg on it. Maybe that’s his name.’

‘Or the man he killed to get it.’

‘Maybe if I call him by his name he’ll start talking.’

‘Try it.’

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But Foster only looked through the flames at the drifter, who was all alone on that side of the fire, shaving with a straight razor, dry, no mirror.

Jet sidled up between them. ‘I got him to smoke this morning,’ said he in his vapid voice, now laced with fear. Jet was the one who did the landscapes of distant planets: would set up on a sidewalk with cans of spraypaint, newspaper for a canvas, and spray and dab and smear the paint with glossy magazine pages, and before you knew it a finished product was before you.

‘He smoked the whole joint by himself, like it was just a cigarette. . . . It didn’t make any difference.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Foster said. ‘We’ll ditch him next chance we get.’

Which chance came the next day, after they packed up the camp and left town. At a gas station beside the interstate the drifter went into the convenience store. Apparently he had money.

‘Go man,’ James said. ‘Just go.’

‘I can’t. Jet’s still in there. Shit, we should have planned this better.’

‘Jet’ll be fine. He doesn’t know where he is anyway. Just drive.’

‘I can’t leave Jet, man. He makes too much money.’

‘This dude’s never going to leave on his own, I can tell. He’s just going to keep pushing everybody around.’

‘I know. Go get Jet and we’ll leave his ass.’

‘There he is. Hey Jet! Let’s go, man, hurry up!’

But Jet only hurried when he made his pictures. He squinted up at the cloudy sky as he drifted toward the bus, slushy in hand.

‘Hurry the fuck up, man!’

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‘What are you talking about, James?’

‘God,’ said Foster. ‘There he is.’

The drifter was staring out the convenience store glass, eating something. James jumped down to the parking lot, grabbed Jet by the shirt and pulled him aboard. The folding door to the bus flattened shut as the door to the convenience store flew open, whacking a newspaper machine.

‘Hit the gas, man, here he comes!’

Foster had already hit the gas, but acceleration was not the bus’ longsuit and the drifter ran with shocking speed, the tail of his army jacket flapping behind him, his face a twisted grimace coming on like a film strip through the windows along the bus’ flank. At the road

Foster had to stop for a semi truck and trailer. The drifter drew back a fist and slammed it against the door, spidering the glass. ‘Shit!’ The next punch splattered blood and the glass caved in. ‘Fucking go, man.’ A pickup was coming on but Foster turned onto the road anyway, the drifter still at the door, something like a small club in one of his hands but still punching with a bare fist and making a low wretching noise that still wasn’t words. In the sideview James saw the pickup slew gravel on the roadside, and the drifter left behind, stopping and staring, breathing hard. The thing he held was a turkey leg. With the bloodied hand he grabbed his crotch and squeezed and twisted, showing his teeth.

‘God,’ said Foster.

‘I know. We should have killed that guy.’

Foster looked at James curiously, but did not disagree. He looked back to the road and started to laugh. So did James, louder and harder, and Foster keeping one bleary eye to the road. They laughed longer and harder, but it was not contagious. Everyone else was still afraid.

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Interstate 80 went straight through Rock Springs some hours ahead, to the west. Since Texas

James had been telling himself that only if the bus happened to go through Rock Springs would he consider knocking on Reggie Haskell’s door. Doing so would make him pathetic, it seemed.

But to not do so while in the same town as the man would make him chickenshit. So it was with a congested mixture of relief and disappointment that he observed Foster turning the bus north onto a smaller road.

Harsh country: pure and bleak.

A narrow muddy river which, according to a roadside placard, a wagon train of

Mormon settlers had crossed twenty three times.

A place called Jeffery City that was barely a town: the uranium mine sealed off, buildings boarded up and not even a For Sale sign in sight. Even so, Jet set up on the sidewalk and made a few of his pictures. Watching him work from a distance, James decided that he was less interested in money than in art. Then, noting that he had arranged himself downwind of his work—a fine mist rising and passing over his face—James understood that Jet was less interested in art than in paint fumes.

Even the gas station had closed in Jeffery City—and the bus was in dire need of fuel, which no one but James seemed to notice—but there was a bar, keeping the handful of locals alive. Where got the busriders good and drunk. Foster plugged into a dusty amplifier and sang into a microphone. Two of the Oregon drummers contributed percussion. The singer and lead guitarist had some ability, and considering his audience he varied his song selection toward country and classic rock. There was something a little precious about him, but the crowd liked

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 him. Even James caught himself singing along at one point, and why not? For whom are you playing cool?

The music over, on his way to his hutch James passed Foster at the bar talking with the lady that owned the place, and heard him say, ‘If you’ve got it, I’ll buy it. Name your price.’ And in the morning, on the road again, James looked at the gas gauge. They were full.

From the first James had taken charge of the fire: gathering and chopping wood, circling rocks, igniting and maintaining. He did not know who had done it before, if anyone had, and no one ever offered to help or even thanked him. Nor did he take much offense at being taken so thoroughly for granted, for these people seemed to take practically everything for granted.

In the mornings he was generally the first up—occasionally Foster was beside the fire strumming his guitar or reading something on his big electric screen, having not slept at all— and the tawdry spectacle of the camp, like a cut rate circus beset with malaria, could make him want to be anywhere else. But the feeling was bound to pass. They really were nice people, for the most part, and it was always easier to stay than to leave.

He and Foster wrote the first verse of a song together. James came up with the words and Foster the music, which was simple enough. It seemed again that a mainstream country song would be easy a relatively easy way to make money. James had heard enough of the stuff,

God knew. Give the people what they want: good times and easy rhymes.

Left the house, went out and drank a few with a crew of my friends.

Shot out the lights, was a night that seemed like it never would end.

Came home late, feelin great, but there wasn’t no good way to spin it.

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Had to eat crow, don’t you know that she loved to rub my nose in it.

Perfume was on my shirt somehow, now I feel like a kid in detention.

(Pause, tonal shift) So I’m on a mission, to get permission for fishin.

James thought it might be his ticket to a career in songwriting. As he could not play the guitar and Foster was difficult to engage for more than a few minutes at a time, he started learning to strum the basic cords. For hours and hours. He could hear what he wanted in his head, but God damned if he could make it in reality.

They camped near another hot spring, this one miles down a dirt road, deep in the mountains.

It had gotten cold and was likely to get colder. James had never known one of these winters, a real winter, but knew in his bones that one could kill you if you weren’t careful. Again the busriders lounged like overgrown cultures of bacteria. Narrating a nature documentary in his head, James walked up to the edge and looked down upon a mound of dreadlocks. A roach crawled out and looked around, then returned to shelter, its host oblivious, laughing feebly at something not funny, beer dribbling from his mouth. James shuddered, not from the cold.

At a gas station in Jackson a motorhome parked alongside them, dwarfing the schoolbus, looking like something that belonged to NASA. You couldn’t see through its glossy black windows. A white-haired couple descended an automatic hydraulic stoop just as James exited the bus. The lady wore an eye patch with flowers on it. Otherwise James thought she looked like his mother in two or three decades. She went into the store, but the man stood facing James

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 like a grinning gunfighter. His body and head were almost perfectly round, his grin punkin-like with square teeth under a stiff baseball cap. He wore plaid shorts, though it was a cold day, with black socks and penny loafers splayed pigeon-like. ‘How you doin?’ he said loud and direct.

James returned the greeting and the man said he was fine, just hoping to make it out of the mountains before it snowed.

James gestured. ‘I guess it wouldn’t be so bad to be stuck inside that thing.’

The man played at glancing behind him, spoke against the side of his hand: ‘You don’t know my wife.’

James laughed but the man no longer even smiled. He rocked back onto his heels and gestured as James had. ‘That your rig?’

‘No sir. I’m just a passenger.’

‘I hope you didn’t pay too much for your ticket.’ The man smiled again with this dig.

‘No sir. I’m saving my money till I can afford one like yours.’

‘Well, good luck. What’s your plan?’

‘I’m still getting it together.’

‘I see.’

‘How’d you do it?’

‘Grocery stores.’

‘What’s the name?’

‘Was a little chain called Savemore. Don’t exist anymore. We started losing to the big guys several years ago, and finally got bought out. That’s the dream anymore—to get bought out.’

‘I wish somebody would buy me out.’

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‘I tell you, I don’t believe I’d start a business today if I was your age.’ The man grinned and shook his head, grateful for standing in his own shoes and not James’ boots.

‘Why do you say you wouldn’t?’

‘I say it from experience. You wouldn’t believe how bad it’s got, son. Between the government and the big companies, which there ain’t much difference between anymore. And your customers—they just go off toward the brightest light. And it’s only fixin to get worse.

Fore you know it there’s gonna be about nine people that owns everything.’

‘Well,’ James said. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m not trying to be negative,’ the man said.

‘I know.’

‘Just honest.’

‘I appreciate it.’

The man turned back and tried his door to make sure it was locked, regarded the young man before him with a wary double-take, wished him good luck and waddled off toward the store. James had planned to go buy a candy bar or a bag of chips, but he was down now closer to fifty dollars than a hundred. He got back on the bus.

In the national parkland of northwest Wyoming the busriders were gawked at and photographed like any other wildlife by the season’s final tourists: old folks on climate- controlled buses and impossibly wholesome families in sensible vehicles regarding them like a herd of exotic deer. Bedecked and begrimed like an itinerant ranchhand, James was most conspicuous of all. He went off alone with a couple of granola bars and books, but spent less

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 time reading than he did staring into steaming vents and at geysers and fumaroles, etcetera.

The earth is not dead inside, it is terribly alive. Thousands of fish floated to the surface of the lake, boiled and ready to eat. Foster had to take a roundabout path to the exit because a section of the road had melted. Just before leaving the park, they came across a pack of wolves devouring an elk carcass, their muzzles covered with gore. No one said a word.

Just into Idaho James was on the bus playing cards with a girl with whom he had gotten friendly, a tall sinewy creature called Tanya. Angular bird-like face and too many piercings to keep track of. Small plain eyes. ‘I’m bored,’ she said. ‘You wanna take a walk?’

If it seemed like inuendo that was because it was. Stepping off the bus, she said, ‘You might want to bring a sleeping bag.’

On a little patch of grass in the woods, her smell offended somewhat, and the inside of her mouth was not inviting, but he was no quitter. Perservering required a little imagination and a lot of fortitude, which gave the ordeal the tenor of battle: they rolled in the bag like an angry bear trapped in a hollow log, her long hard legs wrapped around and around him. At some point the bag fell away, and looking down at their flesh joined in the good clear light, at the simple mechanics of reproduction, centuries of hard-won civilization sloughed away like so many layers of dead skin. When she finally finished he felt like he had murdered her.

Rummaging for provisions in the back of the bus, he found a dark blue parka buried in a plastic tub: brand new with the tags still attached. The driver maintained a northerly course, and there

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 had been talk of Canada. These fools were going out to meet winter, when even a goose knew to go south this time of year. They were going to get marooned and snowbound, destitute in a foreign country, and would they turn cannibal? James was not curious enough to find out.

When he got off the bus Butte Montana there were a few people he might have said goodbye to, but they were either asleep or very stoned. Recently he had caught himself exhaling and yawning simultaneously, and had been disturbed beyond description, so that

James was utterly and depressingly sober when he stepped down to the parking lot of a fast food Mexican place to a chill wind under a gray sky. And here came the driver, carrying a broad cardboard tray of paper-wrapped foodstuffs. To feed the livestock.

‘What up, dude.’

‘I’m out.’

‘What?’ Foster stopped and stared. His beard had lost its relationship to the contours of his face and become a mask, but his eyes at least pretended alarm. ‘Where you going?’

‘Just—South.’

‘Did somebody piss you off? Did I do something?’

‘I just need to go.’

Deep disappointment now. Anguish. Well, don’t just take off, man. I know people everywhere. Just ride a little further, man. Till we get somewhere.’

‘Where is that?’

‘I just mean, we’ll find you a ride. I know people all over. I’ve got a buddy in Spokane that grows mushrooms. We haven’t even got to trip together. And we’ve got to finish that song.’

‘Yeah, well, if you’re ever in Texarkana . . .’

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‘Texar-fucking-kana.’ Foster shook his head. And would it be stranger if he pretended to care so much or actually did? ‘We don’t even have each other’s info, man. Hold this.’

James took the tray of tacos. Foster produced a leather wallet, from which he took a white business card. James separated the first two fingers of his right hand to accept this and

Foster took back the tray which, too large to be made of such thin cardboard, drooped to one side and spilled a taco.

‘Call me if you need anything. No matter where you are.’

‘Okay.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Okay.’

‘You’re a good dude, James.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re like an old soul.’

James snorted mixed-up laughter. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘I’m serious, man. I love you.’

‘Okay.’

‘Just—okay?’

‘I love you too, man.’

‘Thanks. You’re really leaving.’

‘I really am.’

‘Well . . . . At least take a taco.’

‘Okay.’

‘Take two.’

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‘One is enough.’

‘You might want another one later. You got enough scratch?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ve got extra just now. It’s no problem. Some old guy gave me a crazy fat tip yesterday because I knew a George Straight song.’

‘I’ve got plenty.’

‘Well.’

‘Thanks for the ride.’

‘Take care of yourself. Call me any time.’

‘Okay.’

‘A wise man once told me, “The best thing you can collect is people.” He collected lots of things, but that was what he believed. And you’re somebody I’d like to stay in touch with,

James.’

‘Okay. Bye.’

‘Good luck.’

James turned away. Somebody had to. Heading toward the roadside, he looked at the business card. All that was on it, in plain black print, was a phone number, Dallas area code.

The interstate was close ahead: elevated, leading to everywhere. He ate a taco as he walked toward it. The big trucks with their banshee screams. Find a truckstop and ask around for a ride. Or better: a bus station. If ye have funds enough for a ticket.

Here is a casino, once a Pizza Hut. Windows blacked, flashing neon marquee and a full parking lot in the middle of the day. James walks on by: leaves the poor suckers to their affliction. He turns east alongside the service road, where, sharing a building with a liquor

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 store, there is another casino. You would never guess if not for the sign, which is only painted on the glass. These people aren’t trying to scam anybody. Humble gaming here. James feels suddenly attuned to Wavelength of Eternal Victory. He remembers that fortune favors the bold, but (already hedging his bets), ascending the plywood wheelchair ramp to the Sunken

Treasure Casino, he assures God that he will not be greedy: will quit just as soon as his money has doubled.

Ten minutes later, his net worth reduced by better than half, he stood outside again breathing with effort. The financial hole in him was indistinguishable from the spiritual one.

The air felt colder than it had before, as if a layer of atmosphere had been removed and more of outer space was leaking through. Robbed by his own stupidity, he looked back at the place, knowing now what its name meant. There had been no mercy whatsoever. God had not even laughed. It was more like a visit to the doctor’s office.

Well, he had had enough of buses anyway. And there would be no calling dear mother, no money sent by wire. (That is, of course, unless there was no other way.)

He found southeast on the horizon, which was mountains. It was only to keep in that direction. Walking the entire way was a daunting proposition, but only for a moment. Then he felt himself expand with the sheer space of it, the distance between himself and home. Which was vast, but simple. After the mountains, the plains, cross the Red River and you’re there. He went alongside the service road figuring: two thousand miles, give or take. At five miles an hour that’s thirty, forty a day. Thirty, being conservative. So sixty, seventy days. If you don’t take any days off. Puts you home in time for Christmas. Yourself for a present: the prodigal giftwrapped in a blue parka. It would be hard, sure, but everything else would be easy afterward.

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A big white pickup pulled over up ahead of him on the interstate onramp and put on its emergency lights. James bolted for it. He showed up breathing hard at the open passenger-side window. There were four doors and the driver—he was around forty, with a small hard-looking red face and a neat handlebar moustache—was the only soul in it. James grinned. ‘You’re not going to Texas, are you?’

The man looked at him long enough to blink three times, then said, ‘Nah, just to

Pocatello. You kin ride in the bed if you want.’

The driver looked back to the road, the window raising.

Wherever Pocatello was, it was south. And walking from Idaho would be practically as good as walking from Montana anyway.

Taking up most of the space back there was a crazy pile of fresh yellow wood chainsawed into imperfect cubes, each about the size of a man’s head. James swung his pack up and in, stepped on the bumper and the driver started before he was over the tailgate. There was no clear space. He clambered carefully toward the cab, then started moving blocks, stacking them. Even when there was enough room to sit, he kept stacking blocks. The wind was oblivion and when the first raindrop struck him—a fat cold one just below his left eye—he had not noticed that the sky had lowered with nasty-looking clouds, gray and brown and black. He kept stacking blocks. If he kept low against the cab it was pretty dry. He could see by the blur just out beside the truck, which was doing better than a mile a minute on the interstate, that the rain was heavy.

The truck slowed and the rain fell directly upon him. Parked on the roadside, the light at the back of the cab lit and the driver appeared beside the bed. He did not seem bothered by the rain. He blinked twice at his passenger, then looked down curiously at the neatly stacked

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 rows of blocks. They were almost a perfect four by four by eight, with just one missing, which made James want to cut down another tree. The man looked to James again, smiled.

He said his name was Panguitch, and James did not care if it was his first or his last. In his instrument panel were pictures of his kids and one of himself with a rifle and a dead bear.

He asked about Texas, said he used to be a rodeo cowboy when he was younger and had always considered going there, because it was the only place there were enough rodeos that you could actually make a living, if you were good enough.

‘Were you good enough?’

‘I was a heck of a bulldogger,’ the man said with little evident pride but plain honesty.

‘Most guys were a lot biggern me, but not many of em ever beat my time.’

‘I always wanted to ride bulls.’

‘Ya, well,’ Panguitch said. ‘That’s just dumb.’

It kept raining. James’ leather seat was soft and warm air breathed from the vents at just the right rate. He took off his coat and put it in the backseat floorboard with his pack. The level of comfort was such that he barely felt alive.

Panguitch did not ask who he was or what he was doing. In the afternoon when the rain had quit or they had outrun it there was a stop for fuel and James was left alone in the truck, with the keys. He got out to stretch. A fat man stood pumping gas in head-to-toe camouflage with a gutted bull moose in a trailer barely big enough for it. A few fingers of the palmated antlers overhung the side of the trailer and an incongruous little black boy stood with his father touching at them, both grinning, the son amazed, the father amused. Panguitch came out of the store and gave James a bottle of water and a candy bar.

‘You drive a while.’

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The man got into the back seat and was asleep within two or three minutes. Coming into Pocatello, James was about to say something when Panguitch groaned and sat up. It was about thirty minutes before dark.

‘Home.’

‘Yep. Where we going?’

‘Where are you going. The bus station?’

‘I can get out anywhere.’

‘Well. I’d invite you to supper, but if I brought home a stranger my wife’d have a fit.’

‘It’s okay. I appreciate the ride.’

Panguitch rubbed one side of his face. ‘She’d be nervous as heck the whole time.’

‘It’s cool.’

‘She watches too much TV.’

‘I could just get out right here.’

‘You got some money, don’t you?’

‘I’ve got plenty.’

‘Well. I don’t guess you got a gun.’

‘Not on me.’

‘I wouldn’t hitchhike no more without one. You can’t ever tell.’

‘What about me?’

‘Eh, I could tell.’

‘Thanks for the ride.’

‘Thank you for driving. I had a night, last night.’

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James pulled into the parking lot of a motel restaurant, grabbed his stuff from the back seat and he and Panguitch shook hands. Good luck, good luck. Inside the place a sign on a pedestal said to seat yourself. It was an old diner of vynl, formica and stainless steel, cake bells and taxidermy, all varnished tacky and fine with cigarette smoke and the mist of grilled meat.

He sat at the counter, his pack at his feet. There were two other customers, a miserable-looking aged couple, but no employee in sight, nor a sound from the kitchen. There was not even the smell of food, but the old people were eating. They did not seem to enjoy their food but they were eating it.

A waitress came out of the kitchen tucking in her shirt and muttering to herself, looked at this scruffy potential customer without welcome and asked if he would like to order something. He got a water and a baked potato, ‘A big one, please. If you’ve got different sizes.’

She did not respond. But she did bring him a nice fat spud, which he loaded with sour cream and margerine and bacon bits, so-called. He ate about half of it and wrapped the remainder in foil.

At the motel counter a sleepy-looking man from India told him the price of a room. It was more than he had.

‘I just want to use the bed,’ James explained.

The clerk seemed confused. The price did not change.

James sat at the computer in the little lobby and opened the view-from-space map.

Home was due southeast, and there was a city park just a couple of blocks away. He felt he should check his email, but didn’t want to. Same with the news. His two typing fingers brushed over the keys in light circles. He opened a map and found Rock Springs. It was on the way to

Texas, only a little over two hundred miles. His throat tightened as he looked down from outer

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 space, grim with resignation. He did not zoom in far enough this time to see the shadow figure in the back yard. Still, just looking at the house, which was a plain rectangle like all the houses around it, he filled with nausea and panic, as if some dormant Stone Age organ had awoken to perform a function not only obsolete but harmful.

In a little copse between two ungroomed spruces or firs he kept warm in his sleeping bag on a bed of needles breathing the perfume, cleaned out by it. In sleep he saw Reggie

Haskell exiting a grocery store, staring shock-eyed from between the automatic doors, both of them knowing. Then the man looked down in horror at his open hands, like a murderer in a melodrama. But it was only that he had forgotten his groceries. Back inside he went. James awoke in gray dawn, hot and unable to recall the man’s face.

The day passed beneath his feet, mostly along an all-but-abandoned highway parallel the interstate, the surrounding terrain standard Western: sagebrush and hills before mountains with dark green rashes of forest higher up and snow higher still. The weather was fine and he faced no decisions worth mentioning. No one stopped to offer a ride, though by the afternoon he wished that someone would. Rail lines also followed the interstate and on them three trains passed totalling hundreds of cars and mountains of coal. He had got it from Lobo the hobo that coal trains were a smooth ride, being so weighted—‘Keep away from boxcars. They’ll beat yo ass to death.’—but these were all too fast to consider jumping. His pack grew heavy as a corpse but there was nothing in it that he might not conceivably need. When darkness and cold arrived he felt like a plain fool for coming to this condition and did consider again the people in

Texas who would help were he only to turn on his phone and use it. But that was still no decision at all.

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The moon came up white and nearly full, lighting his path, the yellow stripes shining silver, the land around him like a sketch in charcoal and mercury. The moon seemed to make its own light, and to lend some of its strength. The tendons around his knees tightened, his spine straightened, his shoulders spread and pushed back against the straps of his pack. His feet were numb but not blistered. Good boots.

The electric marquee of a fast food restaurant hung in the dark in the distance and then replaced the moon, which could not fill his belly. The menu was adorned for the weight conscious and James scanned for the best ratio of calories to dollars, knowing it would all taste about the same. He washed his hands without looking in the mirror, then looked at a newspaper while he awaited his fish sandwich. Another confused asshole shot a bunch of strangers and got just what he wanted: the front page.

This was the turnoff for Highway 30, which climbed and meandered riverlike into

Wyoming. With a net worth of twenty-four dollars and a reflective arrow uprooted from a sharp turn wedged behind the straps in back of his pack, he walked the roadside. The backs of his legs began to ache from the climb and the moon kept rising till it was hidden straight above.

Eventually the road levelled off, and at what must have been two or three in the morning he came to a town. It appeared first in warm yellow lights. Closer, it was very clean and very small and very asleep, such that he felt he was sneaking around on private property. The name of it was Lava Hot Springs, and the springs were easy to find: just off the main road, with curly-Q slides and a broad steaming pool. He walked along the chainlink fence that maintained regular hours and kept out the unpaid, feeling the water, sinuses soaking in blessed humidity. The water that welled up here had to go somewhere. They couldn’t put a fence around all of it.

Indeed, behind and below the developed springs was a treelined creek. Beside it he dropped his

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 pack and a faint orgasmic groan escaped him. He rolled his shoulders, concaved his spine and, as if still wearing the pack, stumbled on his heels and fell back onto the grass.

Lying flat staring at the moon with a strange vapid clarity of mind.

He rolled onto hands and knees, crawled toward the water. Touched it. Got to his feet and walked upstream carrying his pack. Crouched and checked again. Warmer. A little farther steam arose from the water in a slice of moonlight. There he shucked his boots and socks and dropped his feet into the water. So wonderful it scared him a little. He lay back looking up into the black foliage of a big cottonwood tree, a few silver patches of sky showing through. He closed his eyes.

All the next day he sat around convalescing. It was a more peopled area than it had seemed in the night, with some recent condos nearby, well-groomed white people and dogs on leashes.

Partly to appear less vagrant, he started on a book. By the end of the day he had read the whole thing. Then, proud of himself, he wanted a beer. He was soaking and pondering one, when a woman helloed from the bank above him. A husky dog leashed and seated beside her. Like its master, it had passed breeding age, though both were well built. The woman, in a white suede track suit, might even have been pretty with a different look on her face. He asked could he help her?

‘You can’t camp here.’

‘I’m not camping.’

Her head cocked slightly to one side and she gaped at him. ‘You’ve been here all day.’

‘Is it against the law?’

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‘I can call the Sherrif and you can ask him, if you like. I thought I would do the nice thing and tell you myself.’

He cocked his head slightly and squinted. ‘Are you serious?’

Rage flashed in her eyes: emerald green.

‘You’ve got pretty eyes,’ he said, which surprised and confused them both.

‘I just came over to warn you,’ she said with failing conviction. ‘If you stay here much longer, someone will call.’

‘Thank you then.’

She walked away, buttocks pinching up bunches of suede. He believed her, but he did not believe that someone would be her.

He camped about a quarter mile downstream beneath some brush at the edge of a city park and, keeping with the bum’s tradition, dined on a can of beans and a forty ounce malt liquor. At sunrise he was on the road, feeling strong. It was warm enough that the parka could hang on his pack behind him. The road trended downhill and then bent sharply toward a valley that looked small in the bright sun, where crops had been planted in circles within squares, and within the circles rolling sprinklers stopped for the season, the whole thing like a table covered with broken clocks. At the next stream he stopped to rest and eat. There wasn’t much water but he could see a few small fish. With a piece of cheese on a hook on a line on a willow branch, he caught one and pulled it in. It was the simplest and best thing in the world. The fish were nearly as dumb as dirt, but were not entirely unaware of what was happening to them. On a forked green stick over a small fire he roasted three tiny trout. He quickly ate everything below the heads but fin and bone. Then he looked at the heads. A real Indian, or even a pioneer, would not let all that nutrition go to waste. He brought one to his lips and sucked at an eyeball. A

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 gout of acrid snot-stuff hopped into his mouth and as his head turned aside he hacked it off into the weeds.

Still, it did seem to him that the earth provides most of what we need free of charge. All that he would need else to stay right here would be a small cabin with a fireplace. And an axe, and a rifle. With a scope. And the property rights, of course. And maybe a dog. And a pickup truck. Then again, maybe it would be better to live in a town. A small town, but big enough to hold at least a few loose ladies. Maybe Reginald Haskell would turn out to be alright and they would live close enough to meet up now and then and go fishing or something. No big deal, neither of them expecting too much: just two guys who happen to like some of the same things and who happen to be related. Which seemed like it should be enough by itself.

And had his mother driven the man away. Nagged and worried, tried to domesticate him. Would not abide the rugged outdoor type. It was easy to imagine. So was Rock Springs: high and dry with snow-capped peaks in the distance. The den redolent of woodsmoke, a chandelier of antlers, tanned hides and hand-tied flies. The two of them with glasses of whiskey, warming: ‘I’m not much with words, James. I know I only wrote you every year on your birthday, but—’

‘I never got any letters from you. So that must mean . . . .’

That you, sir, are a fucking Fool.

If you are a man you do not need another, except maybe a friend or two. You certainly do not need one who abandoned you. Which is what happened. ‘Know what that white stuff is on chickenshit?’ a man who rented a tractor had once asked him, pointing to a fresh example on the grass. Dirty had not known the answer, so the man had told him, ‘It’s chickenshit too.’

Absolutely God damn right.

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James started to feel puny and ridiculous again. But he had spent enough time feeling like that, and anyway he had put himself on this path, for better or worse, such that avoiding the man—assuming that he eventually made it to Rock Springs—would also be chickenshit too.

Maybe just to look at the house would be enough. Probably it would. Look at the house and know all you needed to know.

A train came along at just over walking speed. From an open window in one of the engines a man glared down as if to deter this aspiring hobo: a roundfaced man with small features and a chin beard. But the track ran on a gradual bend and soon the man was out of sight, where there was no apparent reason not to toss his pack up onto a platform between two empty coal cars and grab a handrail and climb up. He crouched there like a gargoyle beneath the cant of the coal bin. With a bad joint in the tracks his teeth clapped and his brain hit the roof of his skull and the car on which he rode bonged and shuddered. But it beat walking. He sat on his pack for a cushion and a shock absorber and leaned on his haunches. The train seemed to be gaining speed, though the trend was uphill. The sky clouded, the temperature fell toward freezing and he put on the parka.

Soon it was all moving at a brisk clip, too fast to jump off and no road in sight anyway.

Now passing through an aspen forest in shades of red and orange like impressionistic fire, the train pouring itself higher and deeper into the mountains. Here was the problem with free transportation: there was no telling where it would go and no stopping it. The direction was roughly north, and if his memory of the map was correct there was nothing to the north but a blank wilderness. He had studied the area vaguely for a moment, drawn to that blankness, and now he was in it, or headed into it, if the train didn’t change direction.

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The train didn’t change direction. Nor did it slow: acceleration was imperceptible but gradually evident, and James’ worst fear was not that he would freeze to death or starve—he was well enough prepared—but that the engineer had died and fallen on the switch and the train would keep gaining speed until some mad catostrophy occured. Or I’m already dead.

Clipped by a truck on the roadside and this is the way of judgment.

Fat, watery snowflakes whipped around the car in front of him and slapped at his rubbery face. His coat had been smartly made by people in Southeast Asia who would never see snow. He cinched the cord around the rim of the hood till it puckered about his eyes. For at least two hours he sat facing the dark gray car just ahead of him, across the knuckle joint, which occasionally rollicked and clanged but did not slow a nit for the awesome power of those unseen engines. The scenery was the surface of the planet: just the right distance from the sun: best of all possible worlds.

The incline steepened and the train slowed. The wheels wailed and screeched and the snow came more gently. His knees were shaking, his jeans not nearly enough, and would this thing keep climbing into colder and thinner air indefinitely, higher than he would ever know.

The tracks levelled off. The train sped up, but only for a few minutes before slowing to a full stop. Where a sparsely forested hill rose steeply to his left and a willow-dappled glade sagged to his right, before hills made of piled purple-brown boulders—burgundy—which, capped with snow, appeared as so many frosted desert items. The snowflakes had become smaller but more plentiful. The fog of his exhales was thick as smoke. He crawled to the leftward edge of his platform and peeked toward the front. An enormous machine or facility reared up beside the tracks and overhung the train, about twenty cars ahead, with a sharp- angled steel hood. Must be where the coal gets loaded. Behind it the hill was gashed open and

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 the biggest dump truck on earth sat coughing gouts of steam from dual exhaust pipes. James crawled to the other side of the platform and looked up that way. There were sideview mirrors on all five engines. In which he saw no eyes. He took his pack and heaved it toward the willow brush. It fell short—pitiful arms—sat bloated and red in the new snow until he hopped down and grabbed it up and dashed off into cover. He looked through a gap in a willow toward the engines. A man climbed down from the front one and looked in his direction. Perhaps directly at him. James moved into thicker cover, had to lower his head and push into the tangled entwining reedlike branches. Which seemed to have volition, like so many arms that might lift him up to hang helpless until he expired and turned to leather. There was no turning back and no going ahead with caution, no picking your way through. There was only to duck your head and push. The separating of the branches was a continual ripping sensation and the branches across the vynl parka sounded like a swarm of bees. Snow sifted down and melted over his face and neck, cold. The parka tore. A few tears ran from his eyes and he did not crack even a bitter smile for there was nothing funny about this. Poor decisions have led you to this place and if you die here you will deserve it.

He burst stumbling into a small clearing upon slick wet cobblestones. Caught balance, sought bearings. The train was not visible, but the roof of the loading machine was. The crash of poured coal like a breaking wave. A stream of exhaust thickened and tracked slowly to his right, the engine quieted and the exhaust thinned. A minute later came another crash. If they were going to load the whole train it was going to take some time. Plenty of time to get to some hidden place farther down the tracks and wait for a chance to climb back on. James turned to look about the clearing and saw what appeared to be trail, a tunnel into the willows, leading in the wrong direction. On the other side of the clearing was a similar opening. James

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 approached and it was indeed a passageway, with a curved ceiling of branches a few feet taller than he, and large hoofprints along the muddy path. Which was soon covered with a thick loam or mulch. Sucking at his boots like crippled beggars in the gloom. If a moose came along there would only be to turn tail and run. Stomped and gored by a moose would at least stand out on the obituary page.

The footing firmed again, finally. Then his right leg plunged to the knee in muck, water pouring over his bootshaft. Incoherent curses flew from his mouth, no more useful than the puffs of fog that accompanied them. The water was so cold he could not even feel it. He wrenched his foot free, soaking his gloves the process. The boot remained in the muck. He pushed his sleeve up to his elbow, dragged up the boot and poured out the chunky black water.

Motherfuckinshitasscocksucker. James sniffled as if to suck the tears back into his eyes, tugged his wet sock up tight and pushed his foot into the boot. Ahead was more of the same, so he doubled back and took the other path across the clearing. Which moved toward higher ground and the piled boulders. From atop a slab very much the size and shape of an old Cadillac he could see past the loading machine into a hollowed-out mountain. Where more enormous machines did man’s bidding. What was left of the jungle that had once been here, the dry refined concentrate of it had been taken out scoop by scoop, train by train, and hauled away for electricity and dollars.

A blowdryer would be nice. He wiggled his toes, such that he could, as he went along the base of the hill, now and again over spilt boulders and rocks that tailed off into the dense brush. Just ahead was a white hillside, here and there with slabs of the burgundy rock standing tall, many of them eroded about the base and middle and spread out on top to look like snow- capped mushrooms. Behind one of these he stopped, ate a peanut butter granola bar and drank

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 some water. A gust of wind came hard and brutal, but not angry. He shivered and zipped the coat to the neck. Then he must consider the numb lower half of his right leg.

With a dry foot in a dry sock in a plastic bag inside his damp boot, his right foot was warmer than his left. He regained sight of the tracks, worked over and down the other side of the hill and with the tracks in sight found a little nook behind a few more of the the coarse-grit burgundy mushroom boulders. Which were really of several colors when you looked close. The tracks were a stone’s throw away. He leaned and peaked from behind a boulder and saw that most of the train was still to be loaded. He crouched and let the weight of the pack spin and seat him. Reclined at a soft angle and warm enough, bones and muscles sort of melted into each other. There would be no way to sleep on the train. When it started moving, it would be slow, and loud: would wake him surely. . . . Just for a few minutes. His eyelids fell shut, snapped open and batted. What if the train went back the way it came? He stared at the blank sky shedding snow. He heard the dim crash of coal and felt as heavy as the pieces of rock that surrounded him. His eyelids fell shut.

The drone of engines and the whining of wheels passed over the toes of his boots and crept up his legs and over his stomach, his chest. But did not quite reach his ears. His dreams were dark and labyrinthine: would have meant nothing were he to recall them later. The train rolled forward and stopped. Rolled forward and stopped. Even when the siren’s screech of a dry wheel did reach his ears, there was a powerful part of him that fought for sleep. The skin of his forehead raised but his eyelids were stuck together. Enormous effort was required to draw them open. His head wiggled and strained before the rest of his body would move, where the snow that had settled upon him burst off in a flurry but the backpack was still asleep. On his feet, there was no train on the tracks. Yes there was: moving away, still slow enough. He

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 trotted after. It was gaining speed, he broke into a run, his progress diminishing as he neared the first joint between cars. Where he would be a little less visible than he would on the ass end. He climbed up and squatted beside his pack, breathing hard with a dim idiotic smile. The ride was much smoother now that the car was filled with coal.

In the night the train stopped for several hours between a mountainside and a river. Bright stars overhead. The band of the Milky Way beginning up the tracks at the silhouetted neck of the valley, arching straight up before him and over the mountain behind. He knew that he was looking at the nearest stars—our sun a dim dot among them—in this arm of a spiral galaxy, the whole thing turning around a super-gigantic and eternally ravenous black hole in the center: everything circling the drain. Which may be a portal to another reality though we will probably never know.

In the morning the train descended a long dirt and sagebrush desert. For a long time it did not slow down. When it did, it was to enter the town of Rock Springs.

There was no switchyard, only a parallel track, lined with boxcars. His train kept rolling slow, not slowing, so he shouldered the pack and hopped down, stumbled and toppled, the pack driving him hard into the rocks and cinders.

His shoulder and elbow were hurt, but not injured (his golf coach, also the football team’s defensive coordinator, had instilled in him awareness of the difference between the two).

His legs were stiff and numb still: blood just beginning to flow and feed. The dry coarse rocks beneath him made little screeching sounds when he moved to get up. He lay flat, cheek

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 blackening, and took a few breaths. With increasing deliberate slowness. The smell was not bad. In fact it was good: rich and earned.

The train squealed to a stop. James righted himself, shrugging free of the pack. Tufts of polyester wool poked out of the coat in a few places. Soot or brake dust had darkened most of his front side. Going to show up looking like a fucking charity case. Like I didn’t have a choice.

‘Hey.’

It was a man approaching, at a ponderous militant walk alongside the train, hands in his denim jacket: a large man with a pink face agrieved. James stood and shouldered the pack. The man came on with a hint of desperation, as if already regretting what he was about to do. James walked backward, then sideways. The man stopped. His jaw jutted like a tray and he tried to hide the difficulty with which he breathed.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Just wait,’ the man said. His voice was deep and clear, but he had the worst look in his eyes. James thought of his old boss, Mr. Will. ‘Just wait right here.’

‘Why?’ James asked. By now his legs fairly hummed with readiness to run.

The man looked past him, down the alley between the two trains, glanced behind himself, then fixed James with that awful look again. ‘I can’t have you kids riding back here.’

‘You’ve got pretty eyes,’ James said.

‘Fuck you,’ said the man. In the history of the world, no one ever meant it more. He came on again, murderous. James turned and ran, a crazed grin on his lips, the air stinging his eyes, leaching tears. Even with the pack his feet flew beneath him, and it was good to be young.

For about fifty yards. Then, lip raised, sucking wind, he checked to make sure he wasn’t followed. The man was going in the opposite direction, talking on a cell phone.

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James unzipped his coat and crossed the knuckle between two boxcars. After a broad empty lot scattered with weeds was a street, along the other side of which dirty vehicles were parked, some missing wheels or covered with tarps, and behind these a string of modest houses in various stages of decay. He took off the jacket and stuffed it into the top of the pack and wore just a v-neck t-shirt. The temperature wasn’t much above freezing but the sun was out, the only clouds in sight clinging to the mountains far to the north. He took from a pocket the address he had written on a slip of stationary and started away from the tracks. For food and directions.

The policeman didn’t bleat his siren or flash his lights, he only rolled up slowly and lowered his window. James glanced at him—sad-looking older guy with bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows and moustache—and raised a hand and smiled, kept walking.

‘Hold up there, son.’

He did as told. The policeman leaned partway out of his window, droopy eyes drawn up keen. ‘Where you headed to?’

‘Four seventeen DeKalb Street.’

At this legitimate destination the man’s surprise was evident. ‘Who lives there?’

‘My, ah . . . . My father.’

‘You don’t seem too sure.’

‘I’m not.’

The man considered this, fruitlessly. ‘You come in on the train, did you.’

James opened his mouth—but silence seemed wisest here.

‘Why don’t you hop in. We’ll see what we can figure out.’

James looked dubiously at the back seat. ‘I think I’d rather just walk, if it’s okay with you.’

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‘I ain’t arresting you. Less you give me a better reason to. Toss your gear in the back.

Sit up here.’

James did as told. Even in the front seat he felt incarcerated. They had gone a few blocks before the policeman spoke: ‘It’s a pretty good ways to that address.’

‘Is that where we’re going.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Wendell. What’s yours?’

‘I’m officer Hubbard. What were you doing on a coal train, Wendell?’

‘I, ah. Got tired of walking.’

‘Those railroads, they don’t like folks riding without buying a ticket. I could take you in for it, but I don’t believe you could pay the fine. And the railroad’s not gonna pay us to put you up, so I’m gonna settle for your promise that you won’t do that no more.’

Hubbard looked at his passenger like he really believed in promises.

‘I don’t ever want to see a train again.’

Hubbard smiled. There was a lot of crinkled loose skin on his neck. He was older than he had first appeared.

‘I don’t even want to hear a train.’

‘Not the most comfortable mode of travel, is it.’

‘No sir.’

James looked out the window. Supermarket, scrap yard, motel. It was not a pretty town.

‘Does your dad know you’re coming?’

‘No.’

‘What about your mom. Does she know where you are?’

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‘I’m an adult.’

Hubbard’s look was touched with wry amusement. ‘Just give her a call,’ he said. ‘She’s worried about you.’

‘How do you know she gives a damn?’

‘Same reason you’re riding in the front seat. It’s obvious enough.’

They passed between a pair of trailer parks, one with trees and one without, headed for the northern edge of town. The radio crackled and a lady dispatcher spoke jargon which apparently did not apply to Officer Hubbard.

‘I guess it’s been a while since you seen your dad.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And you came all the way from, what, Texas?’

‘You got it.’

‘Well, I ain’t gonna ask you what all you done to get here, besides hopping a train. But let me tell you something, Wendell. Once you get on the wrong side of the law, it can be hard to get back. You don’t have to be a bad guy, even. You do one thing, then you do another. Next thing you know you got a record. Can’t get a job. Know what I’m saying?’

‘I just caught a ride.’

‘I know.’

‘The train didn’t know the difference.’

‘I understand, but—’

‘I thought this was supposed to be a free country.’

‘Not when you’re on private property.’

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James bit his lip. A little flock of trick-or-treaters in thin plastic costumes exited a fast food burger place, windblown, showing their plain clothes beneath. ‘It’s all private property,’

James said.

‘Well, be that as it may, next time you get a ride in a police car you’re likely to be in the back seat. Understand? And going somewhere you don’t want to go.’

‘I never stole anything.’

‘I believe you.’

‘Never hurt anybody. . . . Not really.’

‘Sometimes we don’t know what we’re gonna do until we do it. It’s all situational. I’m talking about keeping yourself out of those situations.’

James kept quiet. If a lecture was the price of a ride then so be it.

Hubbard turned and the street bent downward enough that they could see onto the roofs of houses four and five streets away. Beyond which the desert began. Evidence of

Halloween was minimal, save one poor-looking house that went all out with skeletons playing cards, a rope-tied man on a torture rack, a witch bent over a bubbling cauldron of gore. This neighborhood had been built in the seventies or eighties but had not aged together: some properties appeared in near mint condition while others seemed to await a bulldozer.

The radio crackled again. James did not pay attention to what was said but whatever it was it got Hubbard’s attention.

‘I God. Gonna have to let you out here, Wendell. Grab your gear. DeKalb Street’s just ahead. The last one.’

‘Thanks.’

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James got out and took his pack from the back seat. The passenger side window came down and he bent to look in.

‘Call your mother,’ Hubbard said. ‘She’s worried about you.’

He U-turned and drove away, putting on his lights, and it seemed to James that there were good people everywhere. Enough, anyway, to keep it all from going to shit.

Four seventeen DeKalb Street wasn’t particularly run down or well kept. Its gray vynl siding hung loose in a few places. The two windows in front were curtained with blankets. A one car garage door once varnished with patches of faded exposed wood. The front yard was mostly dirt, with patches of low sage like clover. The front door matched the garage door and it seemed a great mistake to have come here. There was no stoop or porch on the front of the place, just the door. On the bare dirt beside it a jack-o-lantern with an upsurging mouth seemed to howl like a coyote or a wolf. James’ heart pulsed just behind his throat, there wasn’t quite enough air. ‘Fuck you,’ he said to the man behind the keyhole.

But it was crazy to come here like this. He put up a grin that wouldn’t hang. Then he knocked. He rang the bell, heard it chime inside.

No one came.

And was he relieved and was he disappointed. He walked away and back up to the street where businesses were. He got a double cheeseburger and a chocolate shake. They were indescribably delicious. He had enough money left over for two more splurges such as this. Buy a big jar of peanut butter, a loaf of white bread. He wrote in the back of a book: ‘You’re either hungry or you’re not hungy, then everything else.’ (He was fond of underlining words at that time.) And maybe he had eaten too much, even for such an empty stomach. So be it: better to ere on the side of caution.

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He cleaned his face, his hands and his crotch in the restroom, then sat in the restaurant for a couple of more hours. No reason to rush. When left it was after five and he thought he would try Reginald Haskell’s one more time, in case he had only been at work for the day.

James had assumed that the man was here to drill for oil or gas, as he had offshore, but maybe he had a regular nine-to-five kind of job and was home by now.

Nope. He walked away and from the intersection of DeKalb and the street that ran up the hill, turned back for a last look. Felt a goodbye to the place, to all of it. It was like swallowing a horse pill, but he could like this as an ending. Seeing the house was enough.

Would have to be. Even had the door opened, there would have been nothing to say.

To his right was the hill and the town and the rest of the world. To his left, the pavement gave over to graded gravel and a cattle guard and the low desert hills beyond. Closer to the cattle guard, there was a sign on a post with a lot printed on it, but upon which ‘No

Tresspassing’ was not obvious, such that James managed not to read it at all, and further, managed to cross the cattle guard in his boots without injury. He walked over a little flat wooden bridge over a dry wash and up onto the other side of this shallow valley. Toward folds in the land where he could hide. He had a pretty good book going, and walking at night took less energy anyway.

From the spot he chose he could raise up and peak over a slab of dirtbrown rock into the backyard of number four seventeen. He read and peaked now and then. Saw a few more trick- or-treaters, most of whom did not appear to be in any sort of costume. Soon enough it was dark, and so was the house. James sat up on the rock now that there was no reason not to. The moon was just a sliver but even such a town as this blotted out nearly every star. By and by, the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 rock was just accomodating enough to attempt to sleep upon. After padding it with dirty clothes from his pack, he lay down and did doze off.

Not for long, it seemed when he awoke. Nothing appeared to have changed. He stuffed the things back into his pack and started down the hill. There was enough light to see by and after crossing the little bridge he did not go on toward the cattle guard but turned right and went along behind the back yards. Half of them filled with junk and some with no fence at all and possessions spilling off into the desert.

At four seventeen he kept still and quiet for a few minutes, looking across the yard to the dark house, listening. Traffic in the distance. A TV show with a live audience. There was a fence on the back of this place, but it was only waist-high pickets, once painted white, with several broken or missing. In the backyard he stopped and listened a few minutes more. Beside him was a snowmobile on a trailer, mostly covered with a tarp. He went up to the back door, onto a small square concrete patio where a hottub sat defunct. He listened. No one was home, he was sure.

The door was locked. But a window beside it was not. He cracked it and listened.

Cracked it more, listened. His heart and lungs made noise in his head that he couldn’t quite quiet and he could not hear as well as he would. There was a missing place in the mini blinds and peeking through he could see a little inside. The pulse of a green light on a big flatscreen

TV, the plain room around it visible and not, but always there. He took off his pack. Shouldn’t leave it out here. He pushed the blinds aside and dropped it within. If someone was home, maybe it would get shot instead of him. He listened. . . .

As he ducked inside, a sort of alert calm settled over him. He surveyed the room in the pulses of green. The TV was enormous. A turtle looked at him through the glass of a

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 terrarium. Not nearly enough space, even for so lethargic and homebound a creature. A guard dog if only it could bark. There was no loose garbage but on the coffee table and floor were leaning and toppled stacks of of magazines. Maxim. Playboy. Sports Illustrated. The place had a faint, funky, locker room smell to it. There were a set of elk antlers affixed to a laquered board on the wall. There was no fireplace.

He could see into the kitchen and the clock on the microwave, also green, read 2:13AM.

He opened the refrigerator. Several cans of beer, a slice of cheese wrapped in clear plastic, an open carton of eggs with one left, condiment packets from fast food places. With the light from the refrigerator he could see into a little dining room off the kitchen. Upon a table there were a few guns. He left the fridge open and went in. A rifle and a shotgun lay in pieces, with rags about, the smell of gun oil like a robot aphrodisiac. There was also a revolver with the cylinder open, empty, but cartridges standing upright on the table beside it in neat rows. Six of these he pushed home, and left the room with the pistol in his right hand, just in case. It was a heavy thing with a fat short barrel, and holding it he did not feel more safe, only more dangerous. He went back through the den into the little hallway to the bedrooms. He opened the first door he came to and flipped on the light. A weight bench and a rack of dumbbells, a treadmill with a flatscreen in front of it. Slutty pinup girls on the walls.

He did not turn on the light in the bathroom but could smell that it was not clean.

There was a lamp just inside the next room. Which revealed a king size bed, very much unmade. The lamp sat on a long wood dresser, upon which a few photographs sat up in frames.

The resemblance was obvious: like looking into the future. Reggie smiling with a large trout.

With a plumpish black-haired woman on the deck of a cruise ship. With two black-haired kids, a girl and a boy, on the rim of the Grand Canyon.

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Also on the dresser was a Mason jar filled with quarters. James set down the pistol and opened a drawer. Old t-shirts and boxer shorts. He opened another. In which was a leather shaving kit. In which was a small butane torch, a glass pipe bulbous on one end with a cavity blackened from use, a ziplock bag containing pulverized crystals. He shut the drawer and started to leave, but his eyes were on the Mason jar. His pack was full, but the jar was so dense and heavy that it made its own room. He took up the pistol again and left.

He went back into the kitchen, to check the pantry for peanut butter. Which also found space in his pack. He stuck the pistol in a coat pocket and opened the door to the garage, flipped on the light. Junk everywhere. Stacks of cardboard boxes, a file cabinet with open drawers spilling papers, fishing poles leaned in a corner, hip waders, a pinball machine filled with broken glass. There was a little flatbottom boat on a trailer and there was a motorcycle. A

Triumph, black and chrome. Glossy, with a broad leather seat like a saddle. The key was in the ignition. James’ heart beat strong again. He turned the key a click and the instrument panel lit up. It was better than three-quarters filled with gas. He looked around the garage, and if a god was watching he did not care. He squeezed the lever on the left all the way down to the handle.

This was the clutch. The foot lever below was the shifter. The righthand lever was a brake, and that handle twisted: the throttle. He did not know how old the bike was but it was surely older than him. Over the rear wheel was a small platform. On which he could secure his pack.

Looking for a strap of some kind, he found that one of the lower drawers of the file cabinet was filled with photographs. Reggie with other men around a card table and lots of people James did not know. The black-haired woman several times. Reggie was smiling in every single one. The pictures got older toward the bottom, Reggie younger and more James- like. Until he stood at the altar with Prissy. Who was very young and pretty. And beneath this

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 a gallon ziplock containing more photographs glossed and furred with black and purple mold.

A small boy in a baseball uniform, posed on one knee with a bat across his shoulder, the sun in his eyes. James knew this boy and he was not his father. The team name, Giants, had been his own in t-ball. When he opened the bag a rank smell escaped which made him turn away. He turned the bag up at arm’s length and shook its contents out into the drawer. The photographs were somewhat distorted and stuck together, and all featured James Haskell, from babyhood up to the age of about ten. And here is a note. His mother’s handwriting: ‘These are some extras I had, in case you want to . . . .’ a patch of mold interrupted mercifully. Get out of here. A strange distance between his head and everything else. Beside the cabinet was a sack of charcoal and a bottle of lighter fluid. Which he took up and doused the drawer with. Took the book of matches from his pocket, jerked one across and dropped it in: Poof. The easiest thing in the world. He went over to the motorcycle and pressed the ignition switch. The starter turned over and over, over and over, fired. Rumbled clean and strong and something spilled from James’ clenched heart. He hit the button on the wall for the garage door, which started with a jerk and raised slow and smooth with the whole world outside. The flames from the photographs higher behind him and crackling. Smoke puffed from the paper-filled drawer above and gathered on the ceiling. He was on the bike and the flames behind him said We will take care of this, you must go. He jacked up the kickstand with his heel and the toes of his boots slipped feeble on the smooth concrete as he walked the bike toward the downsloping driveway and, when it began to roll on its own, drew back the clutch lever and kicked it up into first, hopefully, something behind him fell, and plunging level onto the street the bike wobbled, he released the clutch and it lurched and was falling, fell and banged his knee against the pavement, then lay on his right leg, the motor going burbleburbleburbleburble and the back wheel a spinning blur. He dragged

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 and kicked himself free and grabbing clutch and brake wrenched the bike up into place with an adrenal groan, the pack like a corpse on his back. Glancing about, feeling for the first time like a criminal: no new lights nor people in sight. He threw his throbbing knee over, drew a breath and let the clutch go. It was fast even in first gear and James had lead in his thighs, copper in his mouth. The bike veered toward a parked car and he leaned hard against it, goosed the throttle and it leapt, unwiggling. Turning right, onto the street that led up and out, he slowed some and then facing the long hill ahead he throttled up. The bike consumed the hill, James relaxing slightly and slightly with the power. He shifted to second and got up to fifty before slowing for the next stop sign. Where he looked back.

Flames in the open garage and smoke coughing out, rising into relief against the moonlit sky. He faced the road ahead. A pickup passed by and then the road was clear. He started toward the interstate. The night was cold such that he did not much feel his knee. He remembered the turtle, and considered for a moment going back to rescue it. Which, more than anything else, let him know that he was not in his right mind.

Passing under the interstate the rumble of his engine flew at him from all directions, and when he plateued, heading west, a semi truck screamed by, its wind shoved him onto the shoulder where he stiffened and shivered, more passenger than driver. He gunned the throttle, shifted higher. His eyes stung and watered. Noise filled his head. He drifted into the fast lane, shifted again and overtook the big truck that had recently passed him. The bike seemed to lose its grip on the pavement, where the slightest nudge could send it and him flying away at a deadly angle into the desert and so be it.

The headlights onrushing across the median began to look like they belonged to police cars. He released his grip on the throttle and settled in at just above the speed limit.

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•

‘So, you work at the depot,’ she said, slouched toward the elbow that was on the table, playing with her food. Maybe she was just nervous, or spacey by nature. Wayne could deal with those, if she was sweet.

‘Not any more,’ he said. ‘I just went into business for myself, actually.’

He hated that he said ‘actually’ just now, in a way that he found pretentious coming from others. But she perked with interest, asking what kind of business?

‘Welding.’

‘Oh,’ she said, and seemed to find nothing more to say, taking a tiny bite of grilled chicken. Wayne did not want to go on like some salesman, but he had asked her out, after all, and any kind of talk was more comfortable than the silence. He told her that he had recently gotten his license and had set up shop in a barn outside of New Boston (they were in a steakhouse in Texarkana), and seeing on her face how appealing that sounded to her, a grin ticked onto the lower half of his face and he added, ‘There’s still a few rats but I don’t mind. I kind of get lonely in there, to tell the truth. Especially since I haven’t got any work yet.’

In the next room, in a booth beside a dark-tinted window that looked onto the parking lot and the interestate, a young woman said, ‘You should just know.’

‘You mean read your mind?’ Darnell said. ‘I’m sorry, baby, but I don’t have that ability.

If that’s a deal breaker then—’

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‘You shouldn’t have to read my mind to know I want my aunties and uncles to come to my wedding, and they can’t afford to fly to Mexico. Or that I don’t want to get married in freaking Mexico.’

‘On the beach. It’s nice.’

‘All I ever hear about is people getting killed down there.’

‘All they probably hear about is people getting killed up here.’

‘Fine,’ she said in a higher-than-normal tone.

‘What’s that mean?’

She sipped iced tea through her straw, cheekbones swollen, lips puckered, abstractedly insouciant.

He said, ‘I was just thinking we could do something different than what everybody does.’

‘We wouldn’t be the first people to get married on the beach in Mexico.’

‘It doesn’t have to be Mexico. I just don’t want a bunch of folks around just for the free food. If we did it somewhere a little harder to get to, and somewhere nice, it’d only be the people that really want to go.’

‘You mean that can go.’

‘If somebody really cares, they’ll find a way.’

‘How? Tell me how my broke-ass uncle can find a way. Without breaking the law.’

‘I could probably get his plane ticket.’

‘You mean your parents could.’

He shot her a look. ‘The main thing is—’softening—‘I think it would be more special that way. For us.’

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She glared at him. ‘You don’t think it would be special no matter where it happened.

You think the location determines whether it’s special or not?’

‘God dammit,’ Darnell said, flitting his hand in surrender. She looked disgusted. He grinned against losing his cool. The grin seemed to be working, so he held it on her. ‘More intimate, I mean.’

A smile came upon her now and she was perhaps a little embarrassed.

‘Why are we fighting?’ he said.

‘Because you’re an asshole, can’t communicate.’

‘How about Florida,’ he said, reaching across the table to take her hand, which felt as right as ever: lithe yet capable of crushing him completely. ‘Or at least Galveston. Come on, baby. You got to give me something to work with.’

•

The quarters were two hundred-fifty-nine dollars worth. A machine in a supermarket in Salt

Lake City counted them for him and, for a reasonable fee, gave him cash. Twenty-five ten- dollar bills and two singles looked like a small fortune. George Washington looked up with tacit approval. It was enough, anyway, to keep him away from Texas for a while longer. That now and again an urge to head straight for home was fundamentally flawed because in truth he had no home. The closest thing he had to a plan was to see the Pacific Ocean at some point, and a redwood tree and the Grand Canyon. The bike never tired, it only got thirsty now and again.

It wanted to go always, and as James had gained assuredness they had settled into a loveless symbiosis. The bike stuck to the road on some corners with what must have taken some kind of

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 effort on its part, and the long unwinding growl of its engine filled him to the top of his skull. It was glad as a machine could be that it had been stolen. Certain humans, however, had a different perspective, so he travelled mostly at night.

Through Reno and around Lake Tahoe, he camped beside the American River: a frothy tumult out of the Sierras. He took the pistol out and looked at it in the firelight. He threw it into the river, and was not sorry to see it go. The hypotheticals in which he might need a three- fifty-seven magnum filled with hollow-point bullets were all in truth ridiculous, and there was of course the matter of its registered owner. Out there in the darkness, lawmen were putting the pieces together. That Rock Springs cop who had delivered him to the scene of the felony had thought his name was Wendell. James took Wendell out of his wallet and flung him into the fire.

What he had done did not seem entirely real, but he had done it. And he did not regret doing it so much as how he had gone about it, and there was no undoing any of it. This train does not reverse. There are no alternate realities but only this one, which could never have been otherwise, and his part in it was apparently to be stupid. He knew that if he was smart he would not have come to this place. And that seemed to be all that he had learned. California was different somehow from any place he had been before. The light, the air, the people—he did not really care, or hope to know. This life seemed increasingly strange with time. Not long ago he had dreaded the opposite: that the world would become more obvious and boring, interminably.

So at least that hadn’t happened.

In Oakland he bought a second-hand peacoat and another pack, both gray, which was as close as he could get to invisible. He sent a postcard to his mom and stepdad, leading with a thin alibi:

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I’ve been in California a few weeks. Looking at the Pacific Ocean currently. Took a

picture but it was just a lot of water so I got this card with seals on it instead. Saw some

yesterday. They didn’t want the rest of my sandwich. Also saw some very big trees.

Hope y’all are OK. Worry not. Love,

James

He camped on the beach somehwere. The crashing waves did not pacify him, and when he did finally get to sleep he was awoken soon after, cold and soaked from the waist down by the risen tide.

He entered Los Angeles on a highway broad as a football field and still thick with traffic at three or four in the morning. A little gang of suped up Japanese cars whipped past at better than a hundred miles an hour. James dropped the throttle and followed. Heart fluttering like the intake valve on his engine, head battering the wind, streetlights strobing and the city growing larger to swallow him.

Even in the middle of the day, in Hollywood for example, he no longer worried about the police. There were too many people around demanding attention. He perused the stars on the Walk of Fame, not recognizing most of them. He had never had any ambition toward acting, but if he saw a sign for a casting call posted on a door he might go in, might be a perfect fit—the genuine article, antedote to a plague of smug desperation—and wind up on the big screen, careful not to be too impressed with himself.

He saw no such sign, nor did any casting directors stop him on the street. He was approached by two separate haggard individuals, of either sex, who stood too close and unloaded vague, pressing hard-luck stories which concluded in a plea for cash. James thinking, I must look better than you, at least.

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Without Wendell he could not drink, but he hadn’t the money and didn’t much want to anyway. He went into his first sushi restaurant. Raw fish sounded unaccountably delicious. He worried some about his unkempt facial hair and dirty white t-shirt, but was served with aplomb. He never wanted to eat cooked fish again. He overheard the waitress talking to a waiter in hushed tones:

‘Are you sure that’s him?’

‘Yeah. He rides an old motorcycle like that.’

‘Whatever. That show sucks anyway.’

When the bill came, it was for nearly half his remaining funds. He wrote ‘Thanks for watching’ on the ticket and left loose change for a tip. He had probably just about enough money to make it across the desert.

There was no moon over the Grand Canyon, so he sat leaning back against his pack and slept till morning. Cruising along the south rim in the early sun at well past the speed limit, hugging a turn somewhat in the wrong lane, a police car slid into view and they veered out of each other’s paths, a lady cop instantly irate. In his sideview the cruiser’s brakelights lit as it passed out of sight around the bend. He dropped the throttle to flee. But here was a place to turn off: a dirt path into the sparse forest. He took it, soon to a clearing, with the canyon beyond. Sliding to a stop, he dropped the kickstand and dismounted, unsnapped the bungie cord from his pack and pushed the pack to the ground, took the handlebars, released the clutch and jogged along beside the bike. A few steps short of the edge, he gunned the throttle and let go.

The bike did not sail outward majestically but fell clunking and scraping away as he dashed for the pack and then for cover, near the lip of the canyon, behind a clump of spiny brush.

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Where he sat catching his breath. The bike lay broken over a rock somewhere below. It would die more slowly than any animal or plant. The sounds it had made falling had been awful. It Perhaps post-apocalyptic man would find it and how would they see it?

Something, maybe a police car, drove past out on the road. It kept going. He slid the pack off his shoulder and set it beside him. He looked at the canyon. It continued to perform a trick of appearing to expand while remaining obviously the same size. He took out a book and tried to read.

The protagonist seemed like a decent and interesting enough guy—CIA nuclear weapons expert with a crippled daughter—but James just could not bring himself to care. He set the book down beside him and looked out. Said hoot, and a few seconds later heard the sound again, not returning whole but dimly dissolving far below. Then twice in succession, Hoot!

Hoot! and it was like sonic water balloons bursting and soaking into the canyon floor. He drew a breath and yelled, sort of. He yelled again, louder, but still holding back. For what? Who?

There was no need for there was no one, nothing. There was only a lot of useless shit inside him. He drew a deep sharp breath and then let go with pure sound. At first it took effort but soon, as when vomiting, it would have been more difficult to stop than to continue. He lost concern even with his pitch and ran out of breath high and wild, scared and exhilarated, and heard the last of his scream soak away into that enormous emptiness.

When his scream returned to him, several seconds later, he jumped and did consider insanity. But it was not him after all. It was some other fool down in the canyon somewhere, cackling and whooping and then yapping like a coyote. James howled, long and unwinding.

When he finished, the person in the canyon was singing something. James could not quite make

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 it out, but it was a happy tune, with extra-loud punctuations and strained variations in pitch: the song of a rum-soaked sailor on shore leave.

Before long he was back into the book. This time he got into it, and and stayed in: spent hours far from the present tense, with people he did not give a damn about.

It was right away colder with dark and, following the road east, his new coat was not as warm as his old one. At one point in the small hours he began to feel the cold at the ball of his left foot. A hole had worn throught the sole of his boot. To slow its growth he kept off the pavement. A sharp pebble came in. He stopped and sat on his pack, laid shin across knee and, in the process of pulling off his boot, stopped. A narcotic inertia arrested him and held him for a long moment. Where from a blankness he saw that the road was slightly brighter than its surroundings. It glowed in the starlight, snaking away into the night. And no one else saw nor ever would.

The trees which blocked the stars on either side of the road became shorter and fewer.

The land was of such a coarse grit that the pavement was easier on his boot. When a vehicle came toward him its headlights were much too bright, its engine much too loud, and when one came up behind him, from the darkness all around its lights collected his shadow before him, concentrating until his form lay clear and elongated for an instant before vanishing in a blinding flash.

In a dry creekbed he swallowed a spoonful of peanut butter, gagging a little in the process, then leaned back upon his pack and slept.

At dawn, he found himself in the desert proper. His foot was tender. Walking at least made it numb. At a certain point it occurred to him how phony the whole thing was. How unnecessary was his position, was everything since he had left Texas, with people who would

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 help him at a phone call’s distance, people who wanted to help him. He had not thought of

Destiny very much, or very directly, since he had left Texarkana, but he thought of her now.

He thought was that she would probably help him, if he asked for help and there was something she could. And there was no anger when he thought of her. None at all. He did not remember fucking her, he remembered laughing with her.

And what stupidity has led you here?

The next day, when he got a ride, he did not care at all if it was due to his limp.

Sympathy was as good as money or any other means to an end. The driver was a young Indian man and the truck was older but very clean, with red carpet on the dash. The man listened to standup comedy on the radio, grinned often but rarely laughed and never talked until, in

Flagstaff, he stopped at a gas station and said, ‘This work for you?’

‘Actually, could you take me to the bus station?’

He could, and when they got there something that James hadn’t been paying attention to made the driver laugh harder and longer than anything yet. James thanked him and got out.

It was only a looping drive and a ticket window.

The price of a ticket to Dallas was a hundred eighty dollars.

‘Are you shitting me? I could fly for that.’

The woman behind the glass exhaled, all pretense of pleasantness dropping away. ‘Then fly,’ she said, fluttering her hand in a shewing motion.

‘I’m sorry. How far can I get on sixty?’

He could get to Albequerque. Where he would be broke, in Albequerque.

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Shouldn’t have dumped the bike. Should have chanced a getaway, or hid out in the woods for a time. Maybe the cop had never even turned back. Could be home by now, where the

Red River would swallow it just as well.

He sat on a bench and found his phone and turned it on. To call home. But first he hit the button for his voice mailbox.

‘You have eight new messages’

Only eight.

He deleted the first one as soon as he heard his mother’s voice. Same with the second.

The third was from Darnell. ‘Hey man. Your mom doesn’t know where you are. You ought to call her. And, uh, call me too. I’m getting married, in February. I need you to be in it.’ He sounded very different. He sounded happy. ‘It’s crazy, right. She’s not pregnant or anything.

Holler back. And call your mom. She’s worried about you.’

The next message was from Jimbo. James listened to the first four words—‘Hey, bud.

Your mom—’ and deleted it. The next three were sales calls: a computer trying to sound up- beat and trustworthy. The last one was from just yesterday. It was from Destiny.

What with his heart swelling and pulsing up into his head, getting between his ears and his brain, he missed the first half of what she said. He was on his feet when he played it again.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘It’s your birthday, right. Well, I hope it’s a good one and . . . . it’s kinda hard to talk all by myself! I wish you woulda just answered. I miss my friend Dirty. Cricket said you moved off to go to school. I been taking a couple classes. Give me a call sometime, if you want to. Bye.’

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He was pacing when he played it a third time, and no longer limping. It was almost unbelievable. ‘I miss my friend.’ He called her back, but pushed ‘End’ several times rapidly immediately after hitting ‘Send.’

Better to wait. To get home first. He pulled up his mother’s number and looked at it. In the picture beside it she was very close and turning toward the fish eye lens which stretched her face strangely and blurred her nearest eye. That he had chosen it because it was unflattering puzzled and shamed him. He clicked the button that blacked the screen.

Instead of calling home for money, he bought a cheeseburger and a chocolate shake. If she had missed him after all this time, she would still miss him in a few more days. And it would be better just to show up at his mom’s door anyway.

He found a piece of cardboard, took care to make it straight along its edges and used up a ballpoint pen writing:

Will Work for Cheap

At a busy enough intersection, beside a traffic light pole before a gravel apron where debris had collected and where a potential employer could stop, he stood with strong posture holding this sign, also holding up a firm, sane grin that promised one his money’s worth. Small snowflakes fell but did not stick. He heard a plane fly over, heading east.

A woman in rattling older car gave him a dollar bill, said, ‘God bless,’ then rolled up her window and stared at the light until it changed.

About an hour later, a man in a minivan pulled in. James stood at the driver’s side window with one hand on the sill. The man wore a cheap starched shirt and tie. Fleshy, small.

James’ first thought was that he was in real need of help and there might be good money here.

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‘How you doing,’ James said. ‘Is there—something you need done?’

‘You could get in,’ the driver said. ‘We could talk about it.’

James did not fully comprehend that the man’s hand lay atop his until he looked down and saw it. And the man’s eyes like water pouring down drainpipes. James dragged his hand away robotically. In profile now, the man was the ugliest James had ever seen, and yet James said, ‘I’m sorry,’ meaning it absolutely, though he could not have said what he was sorry for.

The minivan drove away. Bumper sticker on the back door: ‘My child is an Honor Student.’

The snowflakes had gotten bigger. Which caused them to fall more slowly. The traffic blew them out of the way: would not let them touch. None of the passing glassed-in faces looked at James. He looked down at his pack and knew it would be heavier the next time he picked it up. A grim line of thinking absorbed him. To escape which, he started working on a song. A foot-stamping ballad-anthem. He kept the sign up even while moving his body to the beat. He came up with a few verses:

Everybody’s chasin’ love and money,

And there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it honey

We both learned better than to swim upstream,

But that don’t mean that we can’t dream

We’ll get a big ole house with a pool in the yard,

Just look around, it can’t be that hard

I’ll love you and you’ll love me,

If you don’t believe it just you wait and see

Now it needed to bust into a chorus: it was getting repetitive. But instead of thinking of a chorus, he imagined a life as a successful songwriter in Nashville, with Destiny along for the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 ride: the two of them in a fine restaurant sipping good whiskey and some whitehaired bigshot stops by the table just to say hello, and, ‘I just listened to it, James. It’s absolute dynamite—’

BLEEP!

James jumped. A policeman sat behind the wheel of a shiny black SUV. His hand hung out of the window, motioning James to come over.

James did not move. Would not. If this man wanted to talk badly enough he could get out and walk over himself. Which he did. Smiling unhappily. He had questions. They were gentle at first, but James was not in the mood to talk. He knew that he was not going to talk and that was all that he knew. He scarcely listened, though he did comply passively with the officer’s demands as he was stripped of his coat and patted down and placed in the back seat. A word occurred to him: processed.

Which processing continued at the police station. Where no one seemed too put out that he would not speak.

‘He was dancing all by hisself,’ said the one who had brought him in.

‘Can he hear?’

‘I think so. Deaf people don’t dance, I wouldn’t think.’

‘Why not?’

‘Cause they can’t hear music.’

James listened to them continue this debate from safely within his body, and did consider that he had gone a little insane: that this was what crazy was like. But if so, there was nothing to do about it. Could he have forced a sound from his throat it would not have been speech.

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He was not fingerprinted or stripped and made to wear a jumpsuit, but he was frisked again, his wallet was taken and he was placed in a holding cell. Which was really quite clean.

Almost immediately a guard came along—clip-clop, clip-clop—and dropped a small paper bag through the bars of his door.

For some minutes the bag sat on the cement floor while James looked at it. There was a smell in this place, dank and chemical, that kept his stomach tilted to the verge of turning. He knew that something important was inside the bag, but had no clue what it was. He went over to it and picked it up. There was an apple inside, and beneath it a white bread bologna sandwich mashed in the middle. Holding these one in each hand, James realized that were he never to speak again, he would still be fed and given a place to sleep. If he refused to eat they would probably even force food into him. Which was the strangest thing he had ever heard of. And if he kep quiet for long enough, when he did speak again the whole world would listen.

In the cell across the way were four men. While James was alone in his with three extra bunks. The other men were not asleep, but neither did they speak to one another.

‘Anything you say can be used against you.’

This phrase came to him, and the longer it was with him the more comfort it gave him.

Actually (in movies at least) it was, ‘Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.’

So he had been smart to clam up: had known what he was doing all along. Muteness as strategy. Crazy like a fox. He felt cagey, in his cage.

Then he remembered they had his ID out there.

The men in the opposite cell were released one by one, and the guard never even glanced in James’ direction. The longer he sat—and time moved at a different speed in here, or

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 did not move at all, such that it was difficult to even guess how long it was—the more bleak his situation seemed. Until he was making plans for a long incarceration. He would learn to paint and write poetry, and develop a stunning physique: would be the most able and interesting ex convict in the world when he got out. Whenever that might be.

At some point—he assumed it was night, though there was no way to know for certain—a voice at his door said, ‘Haskell.’

It was a new guard: even bigger than the last.

‘Come with me.’

The guard opened the door with a key on a retractable teather, then stepped back watching the prisoner’s hands as he exited the cell. The prisoner had decided that if he said anything, it would be, ‘I want to talk to a lawyer.’ The next door opened for them automatically, and after passing another with a glass block at the top, through which a crazy- haired woman said something in Spanish either lewd or insulting, they turned and passed an open laundry room where women emptied a washing machine into a rolling canvas recepticle.

An escape vehicle, perhaps.

In a small room James sat at a black table and waited. A dark mirror covered most of one wall. Upon it he picked a place to stare cooly, in hopes of looking directly into someone’s eyes. Which would spook them: put the pigs on their heels. The door was across the table from where he sat. It opened and a man, a cop in jeans and a polo shirt, entered holding a clipboard.

He was around fifty, with no hair on top of his head, and he looked tired. He did not wear a gun.

‘James Haskell,’ he said. ‘I’ve got someone here and, uh . . . .’

Exhausted or flustered, he moved aside to make room for someone else to enter: a portly woman in a floor-length burgundy gown with lots of extra fabric, graying hair pulled straight

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 back. She flashed James a failed smile. Then she began performing sign language. With utter sincerity. James blinked at her. She made firm eye contact as she repeated a sign, more demonstratively the second time and still more the third, slapping fist into palm. Then she turned to the cop and shook her head no.

When she was gone, the cop closed the door, pulled back the other chair and sat leaning forward onto the table, looking at James from beneath his brow. Parallel ridges defined his pate, as if his brain was showing through. ‘How are you?’ he said.

James opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

‘Well, my name is Officer Wade Spitz and it’s like this, Mr. Haskell. If you keep this up much longer—by which I mean any longer—you will be booked for refusal to cooperate with law enforcement. You’ll appear before the judge, and if you won’t talk to her, things will get worse for you. You could remain in our care for a while longer, and or fined, and there’s a very good possibility that you could be deemed mentally unhealthy and end up in psych ward.

Indefinitely. Where it would be left to the head doctors when you could leave. Is that where you belong?’

Officer Spitz now leaned back in his chair and drummed his hands lightly upon the table. ‘I—’ James cleared his throat. ‘I just want to go home.’

‘To . . . .’ Spitz picked up his clipboard. ‘Texarkana.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘What are you doing in Flagstaff?’

‘Just passing through.’

‘Where have you been?’

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James’ lips parted, then came back together. Finally he said, ‘I don’t understand what

I’ve done wrong.’

‘Soliciting, for one. There’s an ordinance against it.’

‘I was standing right under a billboard.’

Spitz’s face contracted. ‘It’s not one of our major concerns, normally. If you had engaged with the officer that stopped to talk to you you probably wouldn’t be here.’

James saw the look of clinical detatchment that Officer Spitz wore and looked away from it.

‘Did you want to get brought in, James? Do you think you belong here?’

‘No sir.’

‘Sir. That’s a Texas thing, isn’t it.’

‘I guess.’

‘So where are you coming from?’

‘The canyon.’

‘What were you doing up there?’

‘Looking at it.’

‘It’s a big hole.’

‘It is.’

‘They say there’s one on Mars a lot bigger.’

‘Right. Which means there used to be water.’

‘That’s right.’ Spitz opened his eyes wider. ‘Are you a college guy, James?’

‘No sir.’

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‘I went to college. And I say what difference does it make. There’s no one on Mars to see it. This one you can drive right up to.’

Spitz waited. But James had nothing to say.

‘Is that what you did, James? Did you drive?’

James blinked a few times before answering: ‘Walked.’

Spitz’s eyes opened wider again, though not so wide as the first time. ‘All the way from

Texas?’

James just looked at him.

‘Is there some reason you don’t want to tell me where you’ve been?’

‘Just privacy.’

‘Privacy.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I don’t want to know about your love life, James. I just want to hear a story that adds up. That explains your behavior.’

‘I want to talk to a . . . .’

‘A lawyer? Well, that would seem a little extreme to me, James, since we haven’t charged you with anything.’

James felt that Spitz had some strategy in using his name so often, but didn’t know what it was. ‘Then I’m free to go?’

‘No. You are being detained for questioning, currently.’

‘Till when?’

‘Till I hear a story that adds up, or we decide to charge you.’

James exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘I was trying work. I wasn’t out begging.’

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‘Still soliciting. Where were you before the canyon?’

James made himself breathe more deeply and slowly.

‘Why are you angry?’

‘Because—what have I done?’

‘I told you. Do you not remember?’

Spitz was keeping his cool to the utmost, which of course only made James angrier. The man was toying with him and it was working. James said, ‘Before the canyon, I was in Texas.’

‘When did you leave Texas?’

‘Ah . . . About two weeks ago.’

‘And how did you get from Texas to the canyon?’

‘I was on a bus, some. And I caught a couple of rides, later. Does that all make enough sense for you?’

‘I suppose. We run across kids like you now and again. But I still don’t understand why you’re so upset.’

‘Because, sir, I’ve been locked up in a jail cell.’

‘You seem awfully nervous.’

‘I am. I don’t like this. Maybe some other people do. I just wanted to earn a little money so I could get home.’

‘Do you live with your parents?’

‘No. I live alone. And I just want to go, sir. I’ll even pick up garbage on my way out of town.’

Spitz grinned. ‘You won’t find much. This is a very clean town.’

‘I noticed that.’

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‘How is it in Texarkana?’

‘I’d say there’s probably a medium amount of litter. Average.’

‘And I bet you there’s a medium amount of crime.’

‘I guess so.’

‘How much crime do you think we have here?’

‘Not much, I would think.’

‘That’s right. Not too much. See, it’s all connected. One thing leads to another.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘The small things lead to the big things.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘The money in your wallet,’ Spitz said. ‘Is that all you have?’

James nodded slightly.

‘Why didn’t you call somebody back home?’

‘What for?’

‘So you didn’t have to hold up a sign.’

‘What makes you think there’s anybody back home I could call?’

‘Are you saying there’s not?’

James looked at the black glass. ‘Just don’t tell me to call my mother, please.’

‘Ok. Who are you going to call then?’

‘Why do I have to call anyone?’

‘Because you don’t have enough money to get anywhere.’

‘I do if I walk.’

‘Is that what you want to do?’

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‘Sure.’

‘I noticed you’re limping a little.’

James did not look at him.

‘Let me tell you something, James. And this is about the last thing I’m gonna tell you, because I’ve got other things to do.’ Spitz pointed across the table. ‘You kids don’t know shit about what the world is really like. Some of the people out there, the risks you take going around without transportation, or protection. Listen, they caught a guy here last year down by

Tempe had a freaking torture chamber buried under his back yard. Guess who he kept in it.

Drifters. Runaways. And besides that, if we let you walk out of here as you are you’d be a vagrant. Indigent.’

‘I guess there’s an ordinance against that too.’

‘You’re damn right.’

They looked at each other for a long moment. Spitz took a phone out of his pocket and slid it across the table. James looked at his own phone, then at Spitz, who said, ‘I’m about done being a nice guy. I don’t care who you call, but if you don’t get somebody to provide you with means of support, or at least a bus ticket, we’ll just keep taking care of you right here.’

James looked at the phone and considered the numbers that were programmed into it.

But the number that made the most sense, that he wanted to try first, was not one of them.

‘I need my wallet, please.’

The policeman took the wallet from his pocket and slid it across the table. James found the plain white card with the Dallas number. Which was answered before the second ring.

•

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Officer Hubbard received his coffee with thanks and watched Reginal Haskell move across the room to his seat in sweat pants and a v-neck t-shirt. The man had sustained a bad injury: his left hip wouldn’t rotate, such that he had to swing that leg along to get anywhere. Behind him a floor-to-ceiling sheet of plastic divided the den from the breakfast nook, and sunlight came in through a charred opening that gaped from the doorway that had led to the garage up through the roof.

‘Well, you got yourself a skylight, at least.’

‘Yep, that’s true,’ said Reggie in his measured drawl, which had gotten thicker, if it had changed at all, since he had left Louisiana. ‘It it rains here so seldom, I may not fool with fixing it.’

‘But you do have insurance.’

‘At’s right. For now.’

‘Are they—have they talked about dropping your coverage?’

‘No, they just want to make sure I didn’t start the fire. Which they know I didn’t, cause

I was out of town. But they want to make sure I didn’t pay somebody, cause I fit the profile, I imagine.’

‘You lost your job in the fields.’

‘Right. Fell sixty foot. Which the company didn’t help me with, which is a whole other story.’

‘Have you been employed anywhere since then.’

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‘Oh yeah. I ain’t the kind to just sit around, even if I am crippled. Did you see that little trailer out parked on the street. I started dragging it out to work sites, cooking for the men. I don’t mind cooking, and a lot of those sites are out where there’s nothing.’

‘And that’s where you were when the fire happened.’

‘Right. Up toward Eden. I said to the insurance lady, “If I’m so desperate, how could I pay somebody to start a fire? And if somebody was trying to burn a house down, why would they start the fire in the garage?” She didn’t have nothing to say, of course. Those insurance people, they don’t mind taking your payment ever month, but when it comes time for them to pay they do everthing they can to wiggle out of it.’

‘Does your policy cover arson?’

‘It does. As long as you didn’t have anything to do with it, of course. As long as it was somebody with no connection to you.’

‘Do you have any thoughts about what might have happened?’

Reggie leaned back in his EZ chair and scratched an ear with a shoulder. ‘It was

Halloween,’ he said. ‘I figure it was probably kids out vandalizing, stealing, whatever. Starting fires.’

‘We considered that. It’s a possibility. We didn’t have any reports of other incidents in this neighborhood, though. Mr. Haskell, do you have a son?’

Reggie looked befuddled, concerned. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you have a picture I could see?’

After a long moment, Reggie said, ‘What’s this about?’

‘The night that your house was burned, I gave a ride to a kid, about twenty years old I guess, into this neighborhood. He said he was going to see his dad on this street. I don’t

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 remember what address he said, I had to drop him and go off on a call. But he was a rough- looking kid. Came in on a coal train. I thought he was alright, you know, just a little dirty. But when I heard what had happened to your house here, I thought I’d better ask about it.’

Reggie sat stone-faced. When he spoke, his voice did not seem to be as connected to the rest of him: ‘I guess so.’

‘Does that sound like it could be your son?’

Reggie’s head began to shake no. He did not make eye contact. ‘No. My son’s only about twelve. He lives with his momma in Lafayette.’

‘I see. That couldn’t have been him then. He said he was from Texas . . . Are you alright,

Mr. Haskell.’

‘Yeah.’ Reggie snapped to. ‘It’s just—strange.’

‘It is. Was anything stolen?’

Reggie blinked several times before answering, ‘No. Not that I’ve noticed.’

‘Hmm. And have they determined where exactly the fire started?’

‘In a file cabinet.’

‘U-hu. And was in that?’

‘Nothing,’ Reggie said. ‘Just some old papers and pictures. Nothing important.’

•

‘James! What’s up, man. Where are you?’

‘Flagstaff.’

‘What? I’m in fucking Vegas right now! Are you coming?’

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‘Ah. I’m in the police station, actually. Ah. You said to call if—’

Foster was now laughing. When he calmed enough, he said, ‘That is great, man. This is fate. This is so fucking fate. So what did they get you for?’

‘Ah, nothing, yet. But they say I need a bus ticket or they’ll call me a vagrant. Even though I’ve got some money. They say it’s not enough, so—’

‘Say no more, bro. You can tell me all about it when you get here. Can I call you back at this number?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘Cool. Just sit tight for a minute. I’ll take care of it.’

‘I’ll pay you back.’

‘Bro, it is not a problem. Vegas has been good to me.’

There were no flights that day but a bus was leaving in twenty minutes. Foster said to ask the cops to hurry. James did not, but Officer Spitz got him to the station on time. The bus was headed opposite the direction he needed to go, but any direction away from the police station was good. He was asleep before the bus was out of Flagstaff.

It was night when he woke up in Las Vegas. Foster was five minutes late to the bus station, and when he arrived James did not at first recognize him. He had lost most of the beard and kept only a broad sweeping moustache and a soul patch. He wore a pearl-snap western shirt, jeans and ostrich boots. He was clean, and apparently drunk.

‘What up, bro.’ They slapped hands and Foster drew him in for a hug. ‘Shew. You don’t smell too good.’

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‘Yeah, it’s been a while.’

‘No shit. We’ll get you cleaned up, if you want. But first, I’ll bet you could use a beer.’

James shrugged.

‘I love it!’ Foster said. ‘This is the real Vegas. Most people never see this part of town.

They want the illusion. Come on.’

James followed him over to a waiting taxi. Foster banged on the trunk and the driver popped it. James threw in his pack, then stood there for a moment. He was still not completely awake. The air felt like nothing: exactly between hot and cold. When he climbed into the back seat, Foster was saying, ‘Take us to the shittiest bar you know of, please sir. The dirtiest one that’s not too far from here.’ He turned to James with a loony leer. ‘So crazy to hear from you, bro. Today of all days. It’s perfect. I’ve got something to talk to you about.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to. How you ended up in the fucking

Flagstaff jail.’

James looked up at Diamond Joe’s Casino Palace, gawdy and guilded with a huge cartoon likeness of Diamond Joe grinning and winking on the marquee.

‘Where’s everybody else? Where’s the bus?’

‘They’re down by Lake Havasu. They’re fine. That’s actually what I want to talk to you about. Oh! Driver, right there. That’ll work. Yes, that place looks perfect.’

The driver turned into a little strip mall where, between a nail salon and a head shop, was a sad-looking little place called Blind Richard’s Pub.

‘Saeed bin Abdullah,’ said Foster, reading the ID on the dash. ‘Where are you from,

Saudi Arabia?’

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‘Yes, that is correct.’

‘So your country’s main export is oil, right.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know why that stuff’s so valuable? Because it’s fucking great stuff. Petroleum is life, Saeed. Life is value. Gasoline is refined, purified, concentrated life. The earth did all the work, and it took millions of years. You can’t get something from nothing. People love to bitch about oil, but you know what, there’s a reason we use it: because it fucking works.’

‘I agree completely,’ said Saeed bin Abdullah.

‘You’re a good man,’ said Foster. ‘Here. Take this.’ James saw him pass a hundred. ‘Will you wait for us? I don’t want anyone else driving us around this city. There are too many crazy people.’

‘I am sorry, but I cannot just wait indefinitely.’

‘Whoa, buddy. I meant for you to keep the meter running. I don’t expect you to wait for nothing. Cool?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good man.’

James followed him into Blind Richard’s. There were about a dozen others present: slouches all. The bar stretched across almost the entire left side of the place, with a brass footrail, and there was a shuffleboard table to the right where two very old couples pushed their pucks with perfect precision, men at one end, women at the other.

‘Beer?’

‘Sure.’

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James sat at a table. None of the others in the place could be called young. Willie Nelson on the stereo. It was Friday night.

‘Janice is bringing them over,’ said Foster returning, taking his seat. He looked at

James. ‘It’s a dying breed around here. I love it.’

White teeth showed beneath his moustache, squinty eyes above. James wanted to be gone.

‘So what’s up, man.’

‘Ah, just trying to get back home.’

‘That’s what you said last time I saw you.’

‘Yeah, well. I got sidetracked.’

‘It happens,’ Foster said. ‘All too easily. I heard the other day, “If you want to hear God laugh, start making plans.” ’

Janice arrived with their beers.

‘Thank you, sweetie. Keep them coming.’

Foster took his directly to his mouth. James only sipped his a little. It was delicious. He drank half of it in consecutive swallows. Then he looked at the bottle a moment warily. ‘So you’ve been having some good luck, in the casinos and whatnot.’

‘Eh, I wouldn’t call it luck. I’ve got a system that works.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Uh hu. I know you’re skeptical, but I’m serious. It’s so simple no one thinks about it.

Like, for example. If you make a bet, say a big bet, and you lose, what are you most likely to do next time?’

‘Not bet, most likely.’

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‘Exactly. But if you do bet, how do you bet? Do you think people are more likely to bet bigger or smaller?’

‘Smaller.’

‘Of course. And they do. But that’s the wrong instinct. That’s the loser’s mentality. See, when I bet—say I’m playing roulette—and I lose, then I bet three times as much the next time.’

‘And what if that loses?’

‘I bet three times as much again. I just keep tripling my bet until I win. So it’s always a profit.’

Foster looked at James wonderstruck and cocky. James said, ‘And I guess you always eventually win.’

‘It’s the law of averages. Anybody could play the way I do, they just don’t have the discipline.’

‘Or the funds.’

‘No, no. You start small. You still can’t be greedy.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t think I want to go in any casinos. I just need to get back home. I really do.’

‘I need to go back to Texas,’ Foster said. ‘I am going, tomorrow. I heard yesterday my granddad died. So there’s going to be a funeral and everything.’

Foster had changed with this admission: had become somber. It seemed phony but only for a moment.

‘And, uh, I was going to ask you to go down and be with the bus while I’m gone.’

‘Sorry, man. I can’t. I need to be back, like, two months ago.’

‘Got a girl back home or what?’

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James shrugged, semi-bashful.

‘Get her to come out here, man. Get her to go with you. I’ll get her a plane ticket.’

‘Man, thanks but, she’s got a job. I need to get a job, or something. I can’t just—go around broke anymore.’

‘You wouldn’t be broke.’

‘I mean, with just enough, or whatever.’

‘It’s not like that.’ Foster finished his beer. ‘I’d make sure you had plenty.’

James looked at him as closely as he could. ‘Is that how it was when you were driving?

Were you paying the way?’

‘No, man. Not really.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘It’s not like that, bro. We made most of our own money. Probably.’

‘I knew it,’ James said. ‘I think I knew it. I just didn’t want to.’

‘Some places we turned a profit. Jet’s a money-making machine on a busy sidewalk. You just need extra to make it through the dry spells. You’ll have a debit card, basically. I don’t like it, man, but that’s the way the world is. I’ll make sure it’s got enough on it. And there’s a roadside assistance policy, in case you break down. You can go pretty much anywhere you want, except Mexico. You and you’re girl could have a good time.’

‘When I asked to drive that one time you said I needed a commercial license.’

‘Eh, you’re technically supposed to. But the bus never gets pulled over. Cops just don’t want to fuck with it. And if you do get a ticket I’ll pay it. You’ve got to do this for me, man.

There’s nobody else.’

‘How many are there now?’

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Foster looked at the ceiling as if the number were printed there. ‘Eight.’

‘Just get one of them to be in charge.’

Foster exhaled audibly. ‘I can’t, man. Believe me I’ve thought about it. But none of them could do it.’

‘What about Cody?’

‘He can’t drive.’

‘You mean he’s a bad driver?’

‘No. He literally doesn’t know how.’

‘What about Tanya then. Is she still around?’

‘I can’t trust her. She holds back on her profits. I know she does.’

‘Well, why do you give a shit about any of them? Why don’t you just let them figure it out for themselves?’

Foster turned his disenchantment full upon James. ‘Seriously man? Damn. Maybe I was wrong to ask you.’

‘I mean, why do you have to take care of them?’

‘Because it’s our duty as humans to take care of each other. The more capable help out the less capable. It’s the only way to live.’

James looked away, unable to match the naked sincerity and tending to believe it. He finished his beer. Janice took their empties and left them with fresh ones.

‘I can give you five thousand,’ Foster said. ‘Extra. If you can stay with them for a while.’

‘What the fuck.’ James laughed, bittersweet. When Foster’s expression did not change—there was still a pleading desperation there which may or may not have been

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‘That’s—That can’t happen.’

James leaned forward, looked seriously across the table and spoke more quietly than before: ‘So you’re, like, rich then.’

Foster raised one shoulder, sipped. ‘By modern standards, yeah.’

They shared an unnamable disappointment for a moment. Then Foster said, ‘You’ve got to promise, man, that you won’t say anything to anybody. About me helping out or whatever.’

‘I don’t plan to talk to anyone.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I do.’

‘Good. So will you do it?’

‘Hell. No.’ James drank, grinned. ‘So did you just decide to do this one day, did you just say, I think I’ll buy a school bus and drive around the country giving people rides.’

‘No. I pretty much took over for this guy I went to college with. I think he took over for some other guy. I’m not sure where it started.’

Foster produced a tiny canister of breath mints, opened the single serving hatch in the lid, shook one out and popped it into his mouth. But he did not suck on it, he just swallowed it.

Then he offered one to James.

‘No thanks.’

‘It’s not what you think.’

Foster stretched his arm out and raised his chin to intimate insistence. James offered a cupped palm and accepted a small white pill.

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‘What is it?’

‘You’re gonna need it. Don’t worry, it’s not pharmaceutical.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just that there’s nothing to worry about.’ Foster looked at him blankly: changing tact.

‘You’re in fucking Vegas, man. Loosen the fuck up.’

This seemed to make good sense. James shrugged and popped the pill, washed it down with beer. ‘I just don’t like things that make me nervous,’ he said.

‘It won’t. It will just give you energy.’

‘One day,’ James said, ‘I listening to you and Cody play on a sidewalk. I saw a twenty dollar bill in the hat and couldn’t figure out how it got there.’

Foster cracked a grin. ‘I might’ve slipped in a few extras here and there. It made Cody feel good. He plays better when he feels good.’

‘And when you were carrying the tambourine around through the crowd.’

Foster crimped his palm and held it for James to see. ‘You palm it,’ he said. ‘I was going to show you how if you would stay. You sure? It’s pretty fun.’

‘This is unfuckingbelieveable.’

‘Man, I don’t want you to feel insulted, like I think you’re for sale or whatever. Cause I respect you, I really do. But I could pay you ten thousand. It would be worth that to me,’ he touched his chest, ‘to have you there.’

James looked at him. He tried to look wry and amused, but Foster was serious about this money. ‘How long will you be gone?’

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‘See, that’s the thing. I don’t know. I think my granddad might have made me the executor of his estate or something. So I’ll probably have to deal with lawyers and shit for a while. But I’ll get back as soon as I can.’

James considered as he finished his beer, looking toward a flatscreen behind the bar where Court TV was on: a judge in a real trial speaking very slowly. He looked back to Foster.

‘Bull shit,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to be in any hurry to get back.’

Foster frowned at his empty mug for a long moment. ‘It was better a few months ago,’ he said. ‘You made it better, but it was never the same. We had some fun people at first. I guess nothing lasts forever.’

James stood. ‘I’m getting another.’

‘Put it on my tab.’

‘Fuck you.’

This made Foster laugh. He leaned back with , eyes closed, Adam’s apple hopping.

James paid for his own beer. The pill seemed to be doing something, or maybe it was just the beer after a few weeks without any: he felt lighter, less connected to the floor. He felt like he could dance.

Back at the table, Foster said, ‘I can see your mind’s made up, man. I respect that. You must know something I don’t. Which is fine. I’ve got another idea, someone I could ask, back in

Dallas. Speaking of which, how are you getting back?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll probably have to ask my mom for money.’

Foster drank, dabbed the foam from his upper lip with a napkin then looked at James again like: eureka! ‘You should just fly with me,’ he said. ‘To Dallas, in the morning.’

‘Man, thanks but—’

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‘But you know a better way back? What?’

‘I mean, are you sure? Cause I can just call—’

‘Don’t call your mom, man. Hang out with me tonight. Fly back with me in the morning. I’ve got a lot on my mind, man. It won’t be be good for me to be alone, you’d be doing me a favor.’

‘I’m paying you back for everything when we get to Texas.’

‘Whatever, man. We’ll go get cleaned up in a minute. You’ll probably make enough to pay for both of us. Fuck the money anyway. Plus, as I remember it, I’m the one that talked you into leaving Texas in the first place. Right? So I’m responsible for you.’

‘No, you are not.’

‘Regardless, tonight’s going to be fun. You can be my attorney.’

‘Okay. I’m ready.’

‘Alright! That’s my bro!’

The lady shuffleboarders were looking their way, peeved.

‘Let’s go then.’

‘The plane leaves at seven,’ said Foster standing. ‘That gives us about eight hours.

Should be plenty of time.’

He went and paid the tab, leaving a nearly full beer behind. On the way out he sidled up to James, wrapped an arm around his neck to pull him close, but quickly released and recoiled, blocking the endangered side of his face with an open hand. ‘I forgot,’ he said. ‘Remind me to wait till you’ve had a shower before I do that again.’

‘Just don’t do it again.’

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Foster’s eyes darkened in his direction but after walking out first he held the door open for James to leave.

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Flush

‘Billy Boy stomped through the group of wild-haired ladies and

went out the door, but flung back the words, “If you’re so

smart, why ain’t you rich?”

- Eudora Welty, ‘Petrified Man’

THEY HUNG ON to the front seat chatting with the driver, getting his life story, and everyone became friends on the way across town. James remained intentionally ignorant of what he had swallowed, but whatever it was kept him awake. Better than awake: it seemed he had been sleepwalking through life until now. Saeed bin Abdullah had departed his family and exchanged a holy desert for a heathen one for money, what else? This man was a true adventurer, he had real guts. And there are billions of others out there living lives yet more dire, but no one wants to hear their stories, let alone tell them. People want wealth and charm

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Las Vegas was tacky, beautiful, absurd, stunning, insulting and several other things as well. The Strip looked like Pleasure Island from Pinochio, but after going up to Foster’s room at

Caesar’s Palace, where a bell boy brought new clothes—jeans and a peach-colored button-up for James, a loose-fitting monkey suit for Foster—and a pretty Japanese lady covered James’ face with hot lather and shaved all patches but his moustache—which did make him look older: maybe even twenty-one—he was almost sure that he would not end up a jackass in a salt mine.

It seemed like a great town, if someone else was paying, and accepting charity was easier all the time. It didn’t seem to be anyone’s money. The whole place was like a sprawling playground made of money, money like the water in a waterpark, doing most of the work for you. They ate tender red steaks, issuing low moans through the wet sounds of chewing, then had more pills for dessert. Foster, with high pale cheeks and large eyes, appeared slightly extraterrestrial. The small hours became a sort of waking dream with raw edges and no shadows, the many people around them like so many ghosts in an interminable afterlife. There were no reminders anywhere that tomorrow was Thanksgiving. When he would surprise his mother, and call

Destiny. In the meantime he turned twenty dollars into two-hundred-twenty at a blackjack table—albeit in the dubious currency of plastic discs—two hundred of which he forced upon

Foster, who immediately tossed it away at a craps table: debt settled. They saw a magician in a small lounge: a man at least sixty years old under caked-on makeup. Foster leaned in close and

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His phone was dead. A sign? No, an obstacle: a test of will.

‘Hey, let me borrow your phone.’

Foster’s eyes alit and suspicious in the lounge light. ‘To call your lady?’

‘You don’t have to know everything. Just give it to me.’

‘It’s three in the morning, man. Four in Texas. I feel it’s my duty as your friend to say no.’

‘Fuck you. Just give it to me.’

Foster looked to the show and did not respond. James, with subsiding ire, watched the magician fan a deck of cards for a happy clapping old couple in front. He recalled how soundly

Destiny had always slept—so dead-to-the-world, so unangelic—and decided to wait and call later. Once back in Texas. Like he had known in his right mind.

In the meantime, drinks were in order. He snagged a waitress. The show ended with the magician extracting from his mouth a live mouse by the tail. Foster made a weak fart noise and clapped twice with emphatic insincerity. They went to the long golden bar in the sports betting lounge. The booze seemed to sober them up. Until the pills wore off and they turned out to be drunk after all. They went up to the room with a woman Foster had picked up somewhere. She was older than either of them, and sexier and better dressed, and it came to James gradually that she was a prostitute. So they went into the room with her and sucked cocaine—which

Foster assured was ‘totally pure’—up their noses and were again no longer drunk. And Foster

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 talked a great deal for a few minutes and then said, ‘Well, what now?’ looking at the woman, who said that her name was Candiss, who tried to look sultry when she said, ‘What do you want to do?’ And Foster said, ‘I guess I would like to see you naked. But only if you really want to.’

And Candiss was caught a little off-guard but quickly put her face back on and said, ‘Sure,’ as if she really wanted to, and Foster said, ‘You can be completely honest. You’ll get paid either way.’ He stood and went over to her—she sat on the foot of the bed—and gave her a certain amount of crisp folded cash, which she did not look at but only tucked into her purse, which was tiny, and looking up at Foster she did not know what to say. She looked over at James, who sat frozen in a chair and could offer no help, and Foster took more money from his pocket and held it out to her, and she hesitated but not for long: took it and deposited it in her purse as well, and Foster said, ‘Do you want to now?’ He said it very gently, and she stared up at him breathing a little much, her chest heaving slightly with whatever she was feeling, and James wanted to leave but also wanted to stay right where he was, which he did, and Foster brought still more cash from his pocket, and looking at it with every emotion you could think of, she said, ‘I do.’ And she did.

They shared a bottle of champagne on the way to the airport in the first gray of dawn,

James’ pocket stuffed with cash after trying Foster’s betting system. Foster said, ‘So what the fuck did you do, after you left? How’d you get to Arizona?’

‘I walked at first. Caught a ride. Then I stopped to see my—father person. In Wyoming.

He wasn’t home, so I sort of started a fire and took his motorcycle. Rode that into California.

Lost it at the Grand Canyon. . . . That was just a couple of days ago.’

Foster had sobered up a little. ‘A fire,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

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‘Did it burn whole house down?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t wait around to see.’

‘Huh,’ Foster said and watched James for a long moment. Then he grinned and started to laugh, and laughed and laughed and grabbed James by the neck and squeezed and shook and said, ‘I love it!’

In the air, cradled uncramped in their first class seats, climbing toward altitude, the morning sun shone up from beneath. The city shrank and receded, darker in the daylight, and they had left not a dent or a scratch upon it to mark their passage.

Foster, on a distal branch of a crossword puzzle, saw that he had chosen the wrong word. James, watching, saw that instead of changing it, he filled in the boxes that connected to the mistake with compatible words that were blatantly wrong answers. James found this strange, and stranger yet, one of the words was destiny.

The plane levelled out and the Captain said his soothing spiel. James clamped his nose and blew the pressure from his skull, and on a boarding pass peaking above a seatback pocket he saw that Foster was a last name.

‘What’s the K stand for, Charles Foster?’

Foster grinned dimly, nice and fucked up. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s just a K.’

James laughed as much as possible in his state, which was very little indeed.

‘I’m serious. It’s from my grandad. It was his middle initial.’

‘Did it stand for something with him?’

‘No. I think his was Howard. Or Harold. But he used a K since he was like, about twenty

I guess.’

‘Why?’

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‘I don’t know. I never asked him. I don’t know if it stood for something, or if he just thought it sounded better than his real name. Better than Kelvin H Foster.’

‘So that’s what’s on your driver’s license—just a K?’

‘Yep.’ Foster studied James, dimly concerned. ‘Have you never heard of Kelvin K

Foster?’

Now that he mentioned it, the name did sound familiar. It had a distant mystique, maybe, like Thomas Alva Edison or Kubla Khan. But James could not honestly recall having heard it before just now.

‘Well,’ Foster said. ‘When he died, two days ago, he was one of the richest men on earth.’

In the wonky moment that followed, James heard the scream of jet engines and the shuddering rush of wind over the shell of the plane at full volume. He looked at this person beside him: his ‘friend.’ It took more effort than usual to give his voice volume when he said,

‘No shit?’

Foster shook his head no. ‘Top twenty, anyway. Probably the richest in Dallas. There’s a couple other guys who claim it, but with them it’s mostly just assets. Granddad had em all in straight cash.’

‘Like a b—’ James quietly belched, glanced about him and leaned in closer. ‘Like billions?’

Foster nodded yes. In addition to drunk he appeared glum and resolute, as if his name and all this money were some noble burden, like a mother with dementia or a paralyzed wife.

‘Several,’ he said, and now he seemed as impressed as James was, but he went on: ‘Old man

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 busted his ass his whole life. Never let up, never relaxed, never took a vacation. Made himself a big-ass pile of cash, then died. Just like everybody else.’

James had nothing to say. Foster turned to him quickly. ‘I loved him,’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I loved him dearly. He never lied to me. Not on purpose. He’s the only one in my family I can say that about.’

‘I’m sorry he died.’

‘Eh. He lived a long time. You can’t be too sad.’

‘How did he make his big-ass pile?’

‘Polymers, mostly. His dad was—well, actually his granddad, my granddad’s granddad, had a soap factory. He like, boiled old horses and goats and shit and made soap out of them. I think it was called Harold’s Soap Factory, or some obvious shit like that. And then his son, my great-granddad, he went off to college and got a chemistry degree, and he came up with, like, chemical methods for making cleaning products. He moved the company from Connecticut to

New Jersey and got a few patents for shit that’s, like, still used all the time, even though other companies cheat and change just, like, one little thing so they don’t have to pay the copywrite fee or whatever. It’s fucked up. But anyway, his company was called Foster-Stroud. He had this partner who got bought out later, and then he killed his wife and his stepdaughter, like, with a fucking knife. He was a total fucker, but . . . . what was I . . . . Oh, Stroud. So, him and my great- granddad—he and my great-granddad, excuse me—they got some contract with the government in World War Two, which was good for them or whatever. But it was my granddad, Kelvin K, who really, like, took shit to the next level. He was pretty much a self-made man. People used to say his mom was the brains behind Foster-Stroud anyway. He could have gone to any college he wanted, but he went off on his own, like, under a fake name, and spent a

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 year or two just, like, working on farms and shit. And he took over when his dad got old. He educated himself, pretty much. Like us. He read in Time Magazine about polymers, then went out and hired all these, like, awesome scientists to develop new ones, new polymers. He moved the company to Dallas, cause it’s easier to do business there, tax wise. It still is, which is one cool thing about it. He got into lots of other ventures or whatever but polymers was always, you know, the cow. The cash cow.’

James was still trying to think of what a polymer was. The flight attendant came by and

Foster, slumped against the arm of his chair, held up two fingers and asked for that many glasses of champagne. James didn’t want anything but did not say so. He said, ‘What about your dad?’

‘Eh. He’s kind of a joke, to be honest. I mean, I love him I guess, but he was never, like, a dad. It’s hard to explain. I think he did too much acid. He went around on a yacht for a long time. Until his money ran out. Granddad gave up on him years ago. Now he just goes to

Europe and does a lot of blow.’

James nearly brought up his own disappointing dad, but his life seemed so inconsequential next to the one beside him as to not merit mentioning. He said, ‘So he’s not involved with the polymers.’

Foster emitted a single insincere note of laughter. ‘No. Dad is only interested in dad.’

‘So who’s in charge now?’

‘Eh. That’s sort of hard to say.’

The champagne arrived, but neither of them drank. Foster stared into space. ‘A few years ago, Granddad called me to his office. And he basically told me I was going to take over, pretty much, when he died. I talked to his lawyer yesterday—who is now my lawyer, I guess—

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 and it sounded like that was still going to happen. But there’s this other dude, this CEO, cause when Granddad got too old to run shit by himself he hired some Ivy League douche bag. Art

Crutchfield. Granddad stayed in charge till he was eighty, but he started to get a little senile or whatever, and this dude’s done okay, I guess. The company hasn’t shrank. Shrunk. Anyway I’ll get the details later, but I can tell nobody likes this Crutchfield much, and I might have to fire yankee ass. Cheers.’

Foster held up his plastic flute of golden bubbly. ‘To the future,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll both do great things.’

It was nice enough in the mouth, but once swallowed there was no effect at all. James became aware—like the long, clear, slightly distorted view out his window—that he would not do anything of great importance before he died. While the person beside him might. Could.

But for now, they still had a few things common. Neither of them knew quite what awaited him on the ground in Texas, and both wished the flight was going to be longer. Soon enough each would lose the battle with himself, and just when their sleep got deep and dark they would land and have to wake.

‘Granddad was a genius,’ Foster said, reclining and closing his eyes. ‘But he wasn’t perfect. Like, he thought people worked their best when they were afraid. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, whatever. I mean, he just wanted people to do their best.’

‘And he was from a different time.’

‘Right.’ Foster let his head roll in James’ direction and opened his eyes. ‘You had to be fucking tough to make it back then. See, this is why I wanted you to stay with the bus, man.

Cause you’ve got this, like, down home kind of common sense that really educated people don’t always have.’ Foster reached for the seatback pocket and fished out a soft blue sleeping mask,

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 covered his eyes with it and settled back against his seat. ‘But I’m glad you said no. Cause now you can work with me, in Dallas. I could use you.’

‘What if I don’t want to be used?’ James said while envisioning a circle drive, thick green hedges, a tall solid house.

‘Man, you know what I mean. We can help each other.’

And then he was asleep. And James was already dreaming before he joined him.

His mother answered the door. Having seen him through the peephole, she was already misty- eyed. She seemed to have aged several years. Something within him broke, a fragile dam, and he met her on the threshold. She laid the side of her face to his shoulder and grabbed up bunches of his shirt. He didn’t shed as many tears as she did, only his share. He said he was sorry, which surprised him. When she stepped back she held on to his shoulders appraising, then said,

‘You’ve grown.’

Behind her Jimbo came lurching into the hall, alarmed. Seeing James he composed himself a little. They shook hands, then fell toward each other and hugged for the first time.

James felt like a kid and for the first time in a long time it felt good. Afterward, Jimbo nodded stiffly. ‘Welcome back, bud. Happy Thanksgiving.’

‘My goodness,’ his mother said. ‘I felt like I’d see you today. I don’t know why but I did.

And you look so good.’ She nearly broke down again. ‘I expected you to show up looking like a tramp.’

‘You should have seen me a couple of days ago.’

‘I’m glad I didn’t.’ Her mouth became a straight line. ‘You worry me to death.’

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He looked at her and said again that he was sorry, though without speaking.

‘Well, come on,’ she said. ‘We already ate but there’s plenty left.’

He tried to tell them what he had been doing, but it still wasn’t easy to explain. It made no more sense in hindsight. Finally he said, ‘Just screwing around, really.’ They asked after

California and where else he had been—Jimbo teasing about a motorcycle trip out west the next summer and James’ mother laughing, promising to follow along behind him in her car— but James did not have much to say. Places blended together in his memory. He said, ‘It’s a big country.’ His mother asked if he had been to Wyoming? The way she asked, he thought she had probably gotten a call from Rock Springs. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Never did.’

He took off his boots and reclined on the loveseat with his legs over the armrest, feet toward the fire. He told them about the job he might have in Dallas. Jimbo had heard of Kelvin

K. Foster.

‘Man alive,’ he said, turning walleyed away from his football game. ‘Seems like you did more than just screw around then.’

‘Just barely. By accident.’

‘I guess that’s good enough. It’s true what they say, “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.” That your car out there?’

‘No, it’s a loaner. I’ve got to take it back to Dallas pretty soon.’

‘Well. You go to work for those people, I guess you’ll be able to afford one of your own before long. Man alive, James. That’s great.’

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‘It’s not for sure. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. He was drunk when he told me.’

‘You better hold him to it,’ his mother said seriously. ‘He ought to not make promises he doesn’t mean to keep. Drunk or not.’

‘That’s not what I mean. Just forget it, please.’

‘You better not forget it. You need to follow up on it.’

Weak and crestfallen he laid his head over and looked at her sideways image.

‘Don’t give me that,’ she said. ‘You can’t pass up on opportunities. You don’t get that many in life. I don’t know if you understand that.’

‘Jesus Christ. I was going to see about it, Mom. You’re making me not want to.’

‘You would, wouldn’t you. Just to show me.’

‘Baby, he’s tired. Let him alone.’

‘I will. I just don’t understand.’

‘We’re just glad you’re back, bud. And you look good, and it sounds like things are going good for you.’

‘That’s right.’ His mother cycled a breath. ‘Do you want some more sweet potato pie?’

‘No thanks. I’m stuffed.’

Jimbo turned up the volume a little on the game. James pulled off his socks, draping each over its corresponding bootshaft, and let his bare feet dangle toward the fire, above which his stocking was already hung, lumpy with gifts. He yawned for several seconds. All day, since an unsmiling flight attendant had jostled him awake, sleep had been stalking him, and now it covered him like a heavy blanket and he disappeared into it.

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He awoke in the night with an actual blanket over him, the fire down to coals. He looked at his phone. It was just after midnight. She answered.

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Hey.’

‘I guess it’s too late to say Happy Thanksgiving.’

‘You can say it if you want to.’

Her voice was small and tender. She was glad to hear from him. He said Happy

Thanksgiving and she said it back.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s good to hear your voice. I missed you.’

‘I missed you too.’

‘Are you at your mom’s?’

‘No, I’m home. I was there earlier. She’s got this boyfriend.’

‘You don’t like him.’

‘His name’s Jim Beam. Or he says it is, like that’s cool.’

‘You’re not home alone, are you?’

‘I sure am.’

‘I see. . . . Are you still in the place with all the pine needles?’

‘Yep. But they raked em up, finally.’

‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

They spent the next two days together. It was easy: the easiest time he had ever spent. They picked up not where they had left off but beyond that point, and that he was not surprised was

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 the most surprising thing about it. And he did not care if it would last forever, he was only glad that it was happening now.

Some of Saul’s things were still around. James kept not asking about him, until finally he did. They were on the couch watching a made-for-TV movie about a woman with multiple personalities and relationships with wildly different men. When it went to commercial, James said, ‘So what happened to your roommate?’

‘I guess he liked it in there,’ she said.

James made a clicking noise—the best he could do for commiseration. ‘And they let him back in, didn’t they.’

‘Yep. Parole violation.’

He hugged her against him and kissed the top of her head.

Her hair was all her own now: shiny dark brown and curling slightly at the ends just shy of her shoulders. It was prettier than it had been when dyed. He saw no evidence of amphetamines. Her sun-starved skin was all a creamy white. She fairly glowed in the dark. She looked him in the eye when they were in her bed and he did not wonder where her mind was

(though at other times, of course, that was still a complete mystery). She was always the first out of bed. He would take her by the wrist and pull her back in, and she might stay or she might insist and twist free, but she always made the right decision. Watching her go could be sweeter, somehow, than having her stay. They talked very little of the past and not at all of the future. None of it strictly made a lot of sense but they didn’t ask questions.

The first time they separated, he had lunch with Darnell at the Dixie Diner. Crispy chicken fried chicken, blackeyed peas, butter melting into hot yeast rolls. Darnell was in a good

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 enough mood, but he was not playful. He was about to get married and was well on his way to becoming his dad.

‘You still driving the forklift?’

‘Um hm. Got a new boss.’

‘Where’d Mr. Will go?’

‘The graveyard.’ Darnell laughed, and was a little ashamed. ‘Benny found him on the floor in his office. Been there since the day before.’

‘Shit. Suicide?’

‘Nah, his heart.’

‘Ahh.’

‘I know. Me and Benny and Don went to the funeral. It was just one old lady there, besides the preacher. I think it was his mom. It was bad sad.’

‘Dammit. Who’s in charge now?’

‘Well, they should have promoted Benny, but they hired some other dude, used to manage a car lot. He’s always trying to upsell and tack on accessories. He’s a coke head for sure.’

‘I always thought Mr. Will owned the place.’

‘Nope. He was just hired help, like us.’

‘Huh. So was Will his last name or his first? I always wondered.’

Darnell looked at him with exaggerated confusion. ‘His last. Are you serious?’

‘Well—’

‘Why would he call himself Mr. his first name?’

‘It would be a little strange but—’

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‘It would be crazy. Unless he was, like, the host of a little kids’ TV show.’

‘Well. Mr. Will won’t any more, will he.’

‘Nope. I wouldn’t have thought I’d miss him.’

‘What about DJ Darnell—is he still alive?’

Darnell smiled, wistful and embarassed. ‘I still make music, when I’ve got the time. But lately it’s just, you know, getting ready for the wedding. Trying to keep my grades up, applying for business schools.’

‘That sounds fucking awful.’

‘It’s not. It’s good. But, you know, I guess the DJ is dead. Like Dirty.’

‘Not dead,’ James said. ‘Just laying low.’

‘Alright then.’

‘Have you seen Cricket lately?’

Darnell chased his chicken with sweet tea, smiled. ‘Just the other day. I stopped by after work, for the first time in a while. She gave me a big hug. I like to drowned. She’s swole.’

‘Like, bad?’

‘Woo. Like a tick on a crippled dog.’

‘That’s good. Did you just come up with that?’

Darnell gestured bashfully that he had. ‘She asked about you. I told her you disappeared.

You ought to go see her.’

‘I will.’

‘And you’re shacked up with little Cricket.’

‘Yeah, for a few days.’

‘How is she?’

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‘Good. The purse-snatcher’s stuff is still around.’

‘But he’s back in the pen.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who cares then? I’d be fuckin all over his shit. Wiping up my cum with his shirts, wiping my ass with his socks.’

‘He’s got some expensive shirts in the closet. They look cheap to me but the price tag’s still on a lot of them. And there’s five or six new pairs of shoes. I’m sure it’s all shoplifted.’

‘Let me know if you want to get rid of it.’

‘I do.’

‘Then get rid of it. I don’t want to tell you your business, man, but that girl wants you to take charge. Just tell her. She’ll like it. Watch.’

Back at Destiny’s later that day, during Wheel of Fortune—she was much better than him at solving the puzzles—he tried to approach the topic delicately. He said, ‘So what are we gonna do with all this stuff?’

She said, ‘What stuff?’ just to make him answer.

‘All this gypsy paraphenalia.’

‘Gypsy what?’

‘I don’t mean it as an insult. It’s what they’re called, right.’

‘You think Saul’s a Gypsy? Who told you that?’

James tried to remember, and did. ‘Your friend. Carleigh.’

‘Man, I told that bitch a long time ago, his mom married a Gypsy guy one time. That doesn’t make him a Gypsy.’

‘I thought they only married each other.’

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‘No. And I think it is insulting, to them. They want to be called Roma or something.’

‘Like the tomato?’

She looked at him with frank disappointment. ‘Yes, James, like the tomato.’

‘So he’s not a Roma.’

‘Hell no. . . . I mean, not that it would matter if he was.’

‘Why do you care then?’

‘You’re the one who cares, clearly.’

‘You got upset when I mentioned it. I don’t give a shit what he is. I’d just rather not have his stuff around.’

‘Well, it’s not your house, is it.’

‘You want some rent money?’

She stared at a local commercial for a furniture store.

‘You want me to leave?’

‘You can do whatever you want to.’

‘Come on now. Quit this bullshit.’

She scooted away from him and sat with her legs crossed, a hand clutching ribs, knotted against the arm of the couch.

‘Quit messing around.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yes you are. You’re just trying to get me upset for some reason.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Because you’re evil.’

She cut her eyes over at him, just barely kidding.

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‘I’m just trying to be straight with you. I’m just telling you how it is. I don’t like having all this paraphenalia around.’

‘Quit using that word.’

‘I don’t like having all this shit around.’

‘Who gives a shit what you like?’

‘You do.’

She watched the details of a Tahiti vacation unfold on the TV. The cash value was announced and the audience applauded. ‘I’ll box it up,’ she said. ‘When this is over. Oh come on!

Who starts with G?’

‘Come over here and sit by me,’ he said.

She acted like she wasn’t going to, for a moment.

Half an hour later, feeling antsy just sitting while she went around keeping her promise, he got up and helped. He asked if Saul had family who could hold onto his stuff? Aligning bottles of cologne in a cardboard box, she replied in a higher-than-usual tone: ‘Nope.’

He made half an effort to fold and stack a silky rainbow of dark-hued shirts. ‘He must miss his wardrobe.’

Her back turned, she didn’t reply. The next thing she said was, ‘Don’t be mean.’ And he knew that he should have left until this was done.

There were three boxes: one to sell, one to give away, one to throw away. He dropped some photographs in the third. The next time he looked, he saw that they had been taken out.

He told her he would be back later.

Cricket was carving something into the bar with a steak knife when he opened the door.

She wasn’t so big.

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‘Wendell,’ she said. ‘You’re home.’

He nearly laughed. He couldn’t tell how much she was joking. As well as heavier, she had become either quicker or slower. She came out from behind the bar without the knife.

When they hugged, she chuckled into his ear. ‘That still cracks me up,’ she said. ‘Fucking

Wendell.’

They swayed back and forth for a moment like slow-dancing schoolkids.

‘It’s good to see you,’ he said.

She said the same, slapped him on the back and headed for the beer cooler, asking if he wanted one.

‘No thanks.’

She shut the lid and sat on the cooler. He chose the stool with the most cushion left.

‘I don’t want anything to drink or smoke for—I don’t know. At least a year.’

‘Did you just get back in town?’

‘Thanksgiving.’

‘And you’re just now coming to see me,’ she said, pretending disappointment.

‘Well, let’s see. I went and saw my mom first. And then I saw your niece.’

‘Oh, you did.’

He felt a little proud and a little peaceful and did not much try to hide it. ‘I’ve been at her place a couple days.’

Cricket became a picture of pleasant surprise. ‘Man, that’s good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad.’

‘I like it.’

‘You like her.’

‘I like all you women.’

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‘Yeah but you love that girl.’

He fairly blushed. ‘Really? I thought I was more subtle.’

‘Men always think that. You were, like, worse than obvious. I remember the first time y’all met. Right here.’

James looked in the mirror at the empty pool table area where they had first spoken.

‘What was that,’ Cricket said, ‘About two years ago?’

James had to think so much that he became embarassed. ‘Not quite,’ he said finally.

‘Well, you got back at the right time. Old dumbshit just went back to jail about a week ago.’

‘Oh yeah. Lucky me.’

‘Man, but it ain’t like that. She was tired of his ass anyway. He’s sorry. I mean, he’s a pretty nice dude, but he won’t work. Just rats around. Says nobody’ll hire him cause he’s got a record. Shit. I told him I’d pay him a little to paint the front of the place. Gave him a little to buy the paint. You think he ever showed back up? Sorry ass. She was getting ready to drop him, which is why I think he went out and did what he did.’

Beside the steak knife that Cricket had been holding a jagged Ichthys had been carved into the bar. Half circled round it, also in the bright beige of raw wood, was an unfinished snake with a diamond pattern along its back. James picked up the knife. ‘What did he do?’

‘Ah . . . . You better ask her, man. I figured you knew. It ain’t my place to tell her business.’

‘Come on.’

‘Nope.’

‘Was it in the paper?’

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‘Yep.’

‘Then it’s not a secret. Come on. I hope he moved up from purses at least.’

‘You could say that. Dumbshit robbed a bank.’

‘No.’ James slumped weakly against the bar. ‘You mean, tried to rob.’

‘Nu uh. He got away with some money. The caught him later on.’

Jealousy covered James like a burning rash. He twisted the tip of the knife, gouging a hole in the bar. ‘Like, with a gun and a ski mask?’

‘Hell fucking no. With a note.’

‘No gun?’

‘Nope. Just a note that said he had one. Wearing a cap pulled down low and sunglasses.

People do it all the time.’

‘Oh.’ James cycled a breath. ‘Good.’ He laid down the knife and breathed easier. ‘So what then, they got him outside.’

‘No, he got away for a little while. They put a half-ass picture of him in the paper, from the security camera. Then that day—the day it was in the paper—the man in the jewelry store in the mall got suspicious. Cause you can tell just looking at Saul he’s not supposed to have a bunch of cash. And he went in the back, he said to get a diamond or something, but he looked at the paper. Called the cops.’

‘Did he put up a fight? Did they arrest him right there.’

‘No, the jewelry store dude played it cool. Took his money. They nabbed him in the parking lot. Same fucking place as last time. You believe that? You’d think he’d learn.’

‘I guess it wasn’t a big lady with a purse this time.’

‘Nope. Just cops.’

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James laughed softly. But only for a moment. ‘What did he buy?’ he said. ‘At the jewelry store.’

‘Big fat-ass diamond ring.’

‘For himself?’

Cricket gave him a sympathetic smirk.

‘Damn it,’ James said. ‘And then he got hauled off to jail.’

‘Yep.’

‘God dammit.’

‘You look disappointed.’

‘I’m not. It’s just . . . . Lucky motherfucker.’

‘Life is strange,’ she said.

‘Stranger all the time.’

‘How about this. I’ve been going to church.’

‘Ah ha. I was wondering why you looked so healthy. It’s Holy Glow.’

‘It’s Burger King,’ she said. ‘I been slippin.’

‘You look fine.’

She feigned insult. ‘Fine?’

‘Like fine. Like fine as hell.’

‘That’s what I’m talking about.’

‘So church.’

‘Yep. Me and Zeke found this—’

‘You’re still with Zeke then.’

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‘Man, don’t be so surprised. Zeke’s a pretty good dude. And the church we been going to is real chill. It’s off in the country in a old gas station. The preacher—you think he’s ugly as sin at first, but he’s, like, real smart. He used to be a Baptist but he’s not down with all that judgement bullshit. You don’t got to dress up if you don’t want to. Everybody drinks.’

‘At church?’

‘Hell no, we don’t drink at church. We drink after church.’

Filling out her jeans nicely, Cricket moved with short, laughter-addled steps toward the liquor bottles, which were arrayed loosely beneath the mirror in dried sticky puddles of their own contents. ‘Speaking of which. You sure you don’t want a Welcome Home drink on the house?’

‘I guess not. Thanks.’

‘Look at him,’ she said. ‘Abstaining. And you ain’t even found God. Have you.’

‘I don’t know. What’s he like?’

She returned to her place, one foot on the lip of the beer cooler, arm draped over knee,

Southern Comfort sloshing a loose whirlpool in a dirty glass. ‘Love.’ She shrugged and drank.

‘That’s what He is. Ain’t nothing else worth a shit in this world.’

‘Cricket. I’ve met some people lately who would say that. But you’re the only one that means it.’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘Come here.’

He stood on the bottom rail of his stool and she met him over the bar. He kissed her neck. She pulled away just enough to find his mouth, her lips parted and next he knew their tongues were chasing each other in circles and he had a fistful of hair at the back of her head.

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She turned away and he went back to her neck, but she was shaking her head now, unyielding.

‘Quit,’ she said. ‘You got to quit.’

He looked at her from close range, breathing like he’d been running. ‘Sorry.’

She tried to grin. ‘That ain’t the kind of love I’m talking about.’

They separated to either side of the bar. On his feet, James said he was sorry again.

She carried her glass toward her bottle. ‘Me too. It’s my fault.’

Turned away from her, forward bent, he reached below his waist and tucked himself up behind his beltline, until the blood should drain. ‘You’re right about that,’ he said. ‘You’re too sexy for your own good.’

‘What the fuck ever,’ she said, but she was blushing a little as she took up her perch on th beer cooler once again. ‘Sexy like a pig.’

‘No. I like it.’

She gestured as if her looks were utterly beyond her understanding. ‘Maybe so. Zeke claims he likes it.’

‘Of course he does.’

The door opened. It was Destiny, swallowed by an oversized camouflaged parka for it was cold and drizzling out. James spun ninety degrees to face her, passing his shirtsleeve across his mouth, smiling without trying.

‘I knew you’d be here.’ She dragged the zipper down and tossed the coat onto the bar beside him.

‘Have a seat.’

‘What’s up girl,’ said Cricket. ‘Want a beer?’

‘Hell yes. There’s nothing else to do in this weather.’

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Cricket hopped up and slid back the lid.

‘I guess you better grab me one too,’ James said. His left hand quivered slightly but uncontrollably. He grinned at his girl, hopefully with some charisma, and said, ‘Hey.’

‘Hey to you.’

‘How’d you know I’d be here?’

‘Thanks,’ she said and sipped from her longneck. ‘What do they call it?’ she asked

Cricket. ‘Women’s intuition.’

‘That shit’s real,’ Cricket said.

‘What about me. I don’t get to have intuition?’

‘You got a little bit,’ Destiny said.

‘More than most men,’ Cricket added. ‘You’re sensitive.’

Destiny giggled.

He looked from one to the other, pretending a scowl. ‘I’ll start slappin some bitches around. We’ll see who’s sensitive.’

‘No you won’t,’ Destiny said.

‘Keep runnin your mouth and find out.’

‘He wouldn’t.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Cause you’re not some stupid asshole,’ Cricket said.

‘That’s right,’ said Destiny.

‘I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’

‘You’re stupid, but you’re not an asshole.’

‘Well, maybe sometimes I’m an asshole, but I’m never both at the same time.’

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‘Quit while you’re ahead,’ said Cricket.

He grinned at them both, tipped his beer but had trouble swallowing for the lump in his throat. ‘Hey, let’s call some folks up here,’ he said. ‘Where’s Carleigh?’

‘Gone.’

‘Where?’

‘To stupid Korea with her boyfriend.’

‘He’s stationed over there?’

‘Yep. She says the people are weird but the barbeque’s good.’

‘Well, do y’all want to go to Shreveport then?’

‘Hold up, big shot,’ said Cricket.

‘Oh, he is,’ said Destiny. ‘Did you see what he’s driving?’

‘Nu uh. You got some new wheels?’

‘Loaned.’

‘It talks to you, and you can talk to it. When you’re going a hundred, it feels like you’re only going like fifty.’

‘Rich college friends, huh.’

Destiny shook her head as she swallowed. ‘He didn’t go to college. Don’t let him lie to you. I took nine hours. Two Bs and a B plus. He’s getting more ignorant while I keep learning shit.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they’re pumping you full of knowledge,’ he said.

‘You better believe it,’ she said, and deepening her voice, she quoted the local college’s motto: ‘Teaching the Skills of Tomorrow, at an Honest Price.’

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He burst with tight laughter, hunched forward and beat his fist against the bar three times. ‘Oh shit. It’s so true. You took earth science, right. Who’d you have?’

‘Gluter.’

‘Right. Walks like a duck.’

‘He does. And he does this thing with his lip.’

‘He’s got a tic. I tried to ignore it.’

‘How could you?’

‘I was only in the class a few times but, Gluter’s hard to forget. When he’s talking he hooks his thumbs through his beltloops and rocks back and forth.’

She nodded, red-faced with beer dribbling from a mouthcorner. Eventually she swallowed. ‘I sat in front, and he would—’

‘Right in the front?’

‘I’m a good student. But I started sitting in the back cause he would stand in front of me and do that move, like you said, with his beltloops, and his crotch was like, in my face, over and over.’

James laughed and they moved on from quirks of personality to anecdotes about poor

Mr. Gluter, who did seem to care about teaching the ways of the earth to young people. Cricket sat on the beer cooler and lit a cigarette. Her niece and her favorite employee had all but forgotten she was here, but that was okay. She knew some things they didn’t, things that made her a little sad just now, even if she couldn’t have said just what they were.

But mainly it was good to watch them together. Her preacher was right.

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‘Hello.’

‘Is this Mr. James Haskell?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘My name is Annette. I am Mr. Foster’s personal assistant.’

‘Oh. Hi.’

‘Mr. Foster asked that I send his apologies for not returning your call sooner. He also wants you to know that he has been very busy and regrets not being able to call personally.’

‘Ah, that’s okay. Tell him that’s okay. I just wanted to ask about getting his car back to him, mainly.’

‘Yes, Mr. Foster did hear your voice message, and to that end he has invited you to his family’s annual Christmas party. You could return the car then.’

‘Okay. Is that Christmas Eve, or—’

‘It will be this Saturday. If you can give me an email address I will send you the official invitation. Please RSVP if you plan to attend, and do not share the invitation with anyone.There will be a bar code at the bottom of the invitation, which you will have to present upon arrival.’

‘Okay. Can I bring a date?’

Traffic was barely any less or slower for the dense fog covering the streets of Dallas. Those who had to work tomorrow mostly had such jobs as it didn’t matter what condition they showed up in, so long as they showed. Parties were in swing on every block and on every level of the residential highrises that vanished from sight about the mezzanine and ascended on this

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 night into the clarity above the clouds, so that more than one penthouse proprietor, gazing down with a vague sense of drifting conquest upon the fuzzy glowing chaos below, felt that he had finally gotten his money’s worth. But none of the parties was as exclusive as the one to which James and Destiny had been invited. If only they could find it.

‘Did you catch the name of that last street, at the light?’

‘I think it was Becker or something.’

‘Okay. Shit. I don’t think we can be too far. I’ve got the map pretty much memorized but

I don’t remember any Becker.’

‘Doesn’t this thing have GPS.’

He didn’t answer.

‘I’ll bet it does.’

‘I was trying not to use it.’

‘Why?’

He pulled into a liquor store parking lot to tap at the screen in the dash. They needed nothing from inside, having stopped about half way from Texarkana, after the last of the dry counties—he had spent nearly the last of his Vegas money but hadn’t let on how busted he was—and having now in the cupholder a whiskey and Coke in a plastic cup, the ice melted and the Coke flat. He didn’t worry about drinking while driving this car. On the way here they had passed several traffic stops, all modest vehicles if not downright shitty, and he had been unable to recall having ever seen a car as valuable as the one he was in on the roadside with a cop at the window. Two men who might have been homeless left the store with brown paper sacks, one raconteuring, the other staggering a little, smiling broken teeth, having the time of his life.

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The GPS had a saved location called Home. He touched it. The car, in its clean and dead female voice, asked if he wanted the shortest route or the quickest?

‘Surprise me.’

The car said it was sorry, it didn’t understand, and repeated the question.

‘You decide.’

Destiny said, ‘Quit,’ but the car said, ‘Okay. Plotting your course. Continue straight one half mile.’

He said thank you but it did not say you’re welcome.

Within the loop freeway that enclosed Dallas proper, Home was the center, the bull’s eye.

‘God,’ Destiny said. ‘Are these houses?’

‘Yep.’

‘They must not have real jobs if they’ve got time to put up all these lights.’

‘They pay people to put them up.’

She looked at him, appalled. ‘That’s cheating,’ she said. Then she looked out her window again, helplessly enchanted, and said more quietly, ‘People should put up their own Christmas lights.’

Of course a ten-foot red stone wall surrounded the property, which covered an entire block. Lush ivy covered long stretches and there was no razor wire along the top. With the car’s voice muted, driving uphill they passed a closed and darkened iron-and-timber gate, made a left and passed a long stretch of wall with no egress, made another left, downhill, and passed another closed gate, crossed a small bridge over a creek that passed under the wall through rod-iron teeth, made another left and here was the way in. A big man wearing a black jacket

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 and a blacker goatee sat in a guard’s booth looking calm and vigilant at once. A black man, friendlier, stood at the hinge of the open gate speaking into a limousine. James did not turn in: drove on past sipping the syrupy lukewarm drink.

‘God,’ Destiny said.

‘Yeah.’

He made the corner.

‘I didn’t think there were any hills in Dallas,’ she said.

‘I think they’ve got the only one.’

He drove them slowly along the perimeter of the property again. She stared out her window at the wall.

‘How’d you like to live here?’ he said.

‘Here?’ She was incredulous, but interested.

‘No. Dallas.’

She raised one side of her lip and squinted the eye above it. ‘With you?’

‘Uh hu.’ He looked back into the small cone of his lights along the foggy street.

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know. Might be fun.’

Her sour look gradually dimmed. ‘What would we do?’

‘I might have a job. You wouldn’t have to do anything. Just spend my money.’

‘Oh, you’re fixin to be rich, huh.’

‘Not like these assholes. But my friend that lives here said he wanted me to work for him. With him.’

‘Doing what?’

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‘I don’t know. He just inherited some big company.’

‘And he wants to give you a job? What kind of company is it?’

‘Polymers.’

‘What’s a polymer.’

‘I’ve been meaning to look it up.’

‘Oh God.’

He sipped the drink though he did not like its taste. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen. If anything. But if I get a job here I want you to move with me.’

‘What if I didn’t want to live with you?’

‘You want to live with somebody else?’

‘No.’

‘You want to live alone?’

She huffed. Smirked. ‘No.’

‘Okay then.’

‘It’s just . . .’

‘What?’

‘I don’t understand. It just sounds like a lot of bullshit, honestly.’

His expression veered toward humility. ‘Maybe so,’ he said. ‘I don’t know any more than you. Nor do I give a shit, really, if we move to Dallas. I’d choose you over Dallas any day, baby.’

‘Aw, you’re so sweet.’

‘No, I’m addicted.’

‘Right. Cause I’m so good-lookin.’

‘You got that right. These city girls can’t hold a candle.’

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He stopped the car and put it in park. ‘Come here.’

About a minute later, he shifted to drive again. She checked her face in the visor mirror, bulged her bottom lip with her tongue and scratched at the border of her red lipstick with a red fingernail. Her red dress veed to the notch in her sternum and the slit in the long skirt was open to the soft part of her creamy thigh. He shuddered. She frowned and pulled out a mascara wand.

‘Quit. You look great.’

‘I do not.’

‘You can’t improve on perfection.’

‘I look like some ignorant redneck,’ she said. ‘I sound like one too.’

‘Well, so do I. We probably both do to these people. So what. I don’t think anybody is gonna give two shits about us, honestly.’

‘Who’s gonna be here? Besides your friend.’

‘I don’t have a clue.’

‘Why are we here then?’

He laughed. ‘I don’t know. To bring this car back, I guess.’

She took a sip, shook her head. ‘This is stupid. How do we get back to Texarkana then?’

He flung hs hand up and tapped the padded ceiling. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know a God damned thing!’

His laughed like a maniac.

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Just promise me you won’t let one of these smart rich dudes steal you away.’

‘Right.’

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‘You promise.’

‘Sure.’

‘Got your face on now?’

‘No. I still look poor.’

‘You look like a billion dollars.’

‘So this dude that lives here, your friend.’

James said as he made the final corner. ‘He’s more just a guy I know. We get along okay. I don’t know. We’re friends I guess.’

‘Whatever. So he was driving the bus you were on.’

‘Right.’

‘I still don’t understand what you were doing on that bus.’

‘Neither do I.’

He finished the syrupy drink and rolled down his window. The black man bent sideways, nearly to a right angle, and smiled in on them.

‘Good evening,’ he said.

‘Yes sir. We’re here for the festivities.’

‘You’re at the right place. I recognize this car, don’t I.’

‘I borrowed it.’

‘You’d be Mr. Haskell then.’

Destiny snorted.

‘I would indeed.’

‘Can I see your invitation, please.’

‘Certainly. It’s just on my phone. I didn’t print it out.’

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‘That’s no problem. Thank you, sir.’ He scanned the bar code with a little handheld device which issued a Ding. ‘There you are, sir.’

‘Please don’t call me sir. You’re older than me.’

‘No problem, Mr. Haskell.’

‘Just James, please.’

‘No problem, James. Mr. Foster asked for you to please put the car in the garage. Just follow the drive.’

‘Okay. Thank you. What was your name?’

‘My name is Thomas.’

‘Thank you Thomas. We’ll see you later.’

The grounds glowed with the fog in shades of yellow and white from incandescent lights ensconced in treeforks. The two-lane cobblestone drive wended upward, past a turtle pond, a tennis court.

‘Look,’ Destiny said.

In the direction she pointed, he saw only trees.

‘There’s a man out there,’ she said. ‘He was watching us.’

‘Must be security.’

‘It’s spooky here.’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s like we’re going to see the President.’

‘I think the last one lives around here somewhere.’

The house was more visible now: red stone like the fence, two or three stories and every window alit. They broke from the trees upon its full length, or width. It was enormous but not

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 gaudy. No fountains or statuary. Still Destiny, staring out his window, whispered, ‘Dammit, man.’ She looked scared.

A pair of skinny valet parkers in expensive-but-unkempt black-and-white uniforms stood with a podium cabinet at the junction of the drive and a well-lit walkway that crossed the lawn to the front door, which had some stained glass in it. James passed them by and followed the drive around the end of the house, where it spread out in a broad square expanse of cobblestones. In the far right corner were four shiny cars, three limos and an older GMC pickup splattered with fresh mud.

‘Doesn’t look like very many people,’ she said.

‘It’s only eight o’clock.’

‘Can’t we just drop the car off and go down to Deep Ellum or something.’

‘What’s the matter, baby. I never knew you to get intimidated.’

‘What do you expect?’

He spun the lid from the whiskey bottle and took a swallow. ‘Fuck these people.’

‘Give me that.’

‘We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. Let’s just see what happens.’

Having turned toward the house, they faced five broad, windowless, slate-colored garage doors. He told her to get out and open one up.

‘Shut up. There’s probably a opener in here somewhere.’

They looked for a minute but came up empty.

‘Hold on.’

He tapped the Un-mute button on the dash screen. ‘You are home,’ said the car.

‘Open garage door,’ said James.

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‘Garage door opening.’

And indeed it was: the one farthest to the right. He gave Destiny a sly James Bond grin as he drove in. She rolled her eyes, then smiled, meaning it, took another sip from the bottle and shivered.

‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Fuck it. Let’s crash this bitch.’

‘At’s my girl.’

‘Let’s redneck it out.’

‘Hell yes!’

He put it in park and asked for the door to close. They got out. The garage was typical except for its size, which was larger than most houses, and the array of vehicles it contained.

They strolled along past the hood ornaments holding hands like a couple in a museum. Use your imagination, it was probably there.

‘That looks like the way in,’ he said, for of the several doors along the wall facing the hosue it was the largest and the only one made of wood. Music reached them faintly from somewhere beyond: heavy, bluesy rock.

‘Should we just go in?’

‘Unless you want to slip off in the back of that big Cadillac for a quick one.’

‘You’re so romantic.’

He opened the door. The music doubled in volume but was still far away. The hall— about the width and length, if not quite the height, of a touring bus—was lined on both sides with burning gas lamps, tall doors and old and or foreign objects. There was indeed a suit of armor. It faced an ancient-looking stone likeness of a soldier sentinal with a spear. The face had been obliterated—clearly by a man, for the rest of the statue was in fine condition, even to the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 rows of serration on the spear’s tip—but it still seemed to be staring across the eternal voids of the hallway and time into the dark slit in the knight’s helmet, so that walking between these two figures, despite or because of being freshly drunk, James and Destiny both stiffened and hurried a little. There were display cases, no two alike but all made of hardwood and lead-lined glass, which crawled and glimmered with the lamplight, each like a small contained fire until you looked directly in. They contained powdered wigs, chastity belts, microscopes, impaled grasshoppers and beetles, Beatles, firearms, branding irons, samurai swords, first editions of

Don Quixote and The Wealth of Nations, original copies of the Magna Carta, the Warren Report and the North American Free Trade Agreement, a stuffed musk ox on a patch of fake snow, an anaconda with half a goat still to swallow, more firearms. On the wall there were of course framed photographs of Kelvin K. Foster, looking like his grandson with a larger head, fraternizing outdoors with five of the last six US Presidents and a few Latin and East Asian leaders whom James did not recognize. He wondered what Clinton had done wrong.

There was a lot of loud talking ahead. One man made all of it. The acoustics of its path to James and Destiny muffled the deepish voice so that they understood little. Something about food. Beyond the last display case at the end of the hall was an opening through which electric light fell, cheap and harsh in comparison. The talking grew louder, though no clearer. The last case held ceramic Japanese figurines in a finely detailed pastoral setting, kimonos and bound black hair ubiquitous, and the opening gave onto a kitchen, open to the left, floor-to-celing walnut cabinets, stacked ovens and a hooded grill on the right. In the reflection of an oven door

James could see the back of the man who was talking. Life a lifesized shabby imitation of the encased figurines, he wore a silk Japanese robe and his long gray hair fell lank from a high

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 pony-tail. He gestured loose-wristedly as he talked. He said, ‘You won’t find any better. Believe me, I’ve looked,’ but it sounded like, ‘Y’wont fine iny butter. B’leave me, ahv lucked.’

‘Let’s keep going,’ James said quietly, unsure why he had looked at the reflection rather than directly at the man.

‘For sure.’ She held to his hand and they moved along, left into another, narrower hallway, then to a foyer, where there was again room to breathe. A cute girl in the same white coat as the car-parkers sat on a high stool between the front door and an open coat closet. All gestured hello. James saw he and Destiny in a floor-length mirror.

‘Stop.’

She faced herself and looked bashful. He hugged her lightly from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. He told her she looked beautiful. She seemed almost sad, turned her mouth and kissed his hand, then squeezed it between her cheek and shoulder. He turned on the little camera he had in his pocket, held it in front of her stomach and took their picture.

The door opened. A tall old man with sparse yellow hair entered, wearing what seemed to James the winter attire of a London gentleman. Or was he a younger man, early bald with taut shiny cheeks and a geezer’s posture: survivor of some bad accident? Behind him came a skittish blonde woman, definitely young, swollen titties well displayed between a long opened fur. It wasn’t really cold out. Behind the woman was another woman, older, shorter and less

Aryan, pushing a baby stroller. The stroller was brand new: its seat, reclined fully into a cradle, was covered in clear plastic. And a baby was in it.

‘My God,’ Destiny said. She approached the new arrivals putting on a smile. ‘Hi, sir.

Mam. Is this your baby?’

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The man, giving over his coat and scarf to the girl, seemed to have to think about it before replying, distantly, ‘Yes, it is.’

The silent young mother smiled blithely.

‘He is so cute,’ Destiny said. Then, like it just occurred to her: ‘I worry about that plastic.’

The man seemed to notice it for the first time, and seemed upset, though he said nothing.

‘My mom always told me not to play with plastic because I could suffocate.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ said the mother with mild, airy panic. ‘It seemed like it was supposed to be that way. I thought it was to make it easier to clean it.’

‘Um hm. Yeah, I can see how you could think that, but I think I’d probably take it off if it was my baby. Just to be safe.’

‘Oh yes,’ said the mother. ‘Rosa, didn’t you know?’

Rosa didn’t know. She seemed least alarmed of all. The husband blinked excessively with confusion or embarassment as he examined his wife, the child’s nanny, Destiny. The mother gave her coat to the girl saying, ‘See. This is why I didn’t want to leave him at home without me. He’ll end up suffocated.’

The husband said, in no particular direction, ‘Let’s get it off there, then.’

Rosa bent slightly and picked at the plastic with her fingernails. Destiny knelt saying,

‘Pick him up.’ Which Rosa did, and Destiny dug her fingers into the plastic and dragged it apart. James crouched on the other side and together, exchanging only one brief grin, they unsheathed the stroller of the potentially lethal polymer. James wadded it up and dropped it into a wastebasket beside the closet. The coat girl flashed her teeth professionally. When he

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 turned around, the husband was facing him. He said nothing but gave a small appreciative nod when he tucked a folded bill into James’ breast pocket. He gave another one, pinched between thumb and finger, to the coat girl, then led the way onward, turning left through a broad gabled opening just short of the staircase. James looked at Destiny, smiled. He reached into his pocket.

‘Dammit. Just a twenty for saving a baby’s life.’

‘At least half of that’s mine.’

He turned out his elbow and she took it. Following the baby’s trail, toward the music, she said, ‘These people are freakin cuckoo.’

Before reaching the music they could tell that it was outside and that it was live.

Through a door into the backyard the music hit them full: Pink Floyd: ‘The Great Gig in the

Sky.’ On a bandstand across a peanut-shaped swimming pool, a woman wailed the orgiastic, wordless vocal solo while the rest of the band played tight and powerful, semi-droning, slowly ascending. They had no cohesive style of dress but their music was a series of controlled explosions, and Mother Nature contributed her own stage effects with the fog, lending authenticity to the trip back through time that was this song. The only thing the band lacked was an audience. A single female danced alone before the stage. A fat man in a sports coat and khakis smoked a cigar and threw a stick into a pool for a white Labrador retriever. No other guest could compete with the dog for sheer happiness. An elderly black bartender stood behind a squat Tiki bar and an array of bottles. Otherwise James and Destiny were the only ones outside. A wall of glass fit for a small airport looked onto a ballroom or enormous lounge: a big room where a few people, in varying shades of formality, either mingled or didn’t. The room sprawled resplendent with low lighting, leather and hardwood furniture, in one corner an

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 appropriately enormous Christmas tree on a mound of presents, in another a recessed bar behind which another man, this one white, poured a glass of wine for a lady who waited bent upon a cane. Nearer, the young mother stood in profile. Having deposited her baby and nanny some place, glass of wine in hand, she laughed hard at something said by an old man who wasn’t the one she had arrived with, her chest heaving.

‘Can you still breast feed with breast implants?’ James wondered aloud

‘Quit staring.’

‘Come on. I don’t give a damn about those things.’

‘Right.’

‘They’re gross.’

‘That’s why you can’t stop staring.’

‘I was just wondering, you know. It seems like they’d have to disconnect stuff.’

‘What stuff?’

‘The milk stuff.’

‘I’m going to get a drink.’

He followed her. Passing the pool, the dog climbed out, dropped the stick beside them and spread its feet. ‘Oh God,’ Destiny said and James bent over closing his eyes and making himself as wide as possible to block the spray. When he came up, wiping his face with his sleeve, she sort of frowned with her mout and smiled with her eyes. She thanked him and meant it.

‘I’m ugly no matter what,’ he said. ‘If you got wet in that dress, these old men would start having heart attacks.’

The bartender had a towel ready for him.

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‘Thank you, sir. Two of your best whiskey, please. Rocks.’

‘Scotch or bourbon?’

‘Ah . . . I’m not sure.’

‘I’ve got some really good Scotch here. Would you like to try it?’

‘Yes please.’

The song ended. The girl in front of the stage whooped and applauded.

‘Where’s your friend?’ Destiny asked.

‘I don’t know. Thank you, sir.’

James’ chin drew into his neck and he shivered, making an ogre face at the stuff in the glass. ‘Shew. I think we better try the bourbon. That’s jet fuel.’

‘It’s an aquired taste.’

‘Must be. Is that stuff expensive.’

‘Very.’

‘I wouldn’t give five dollars for the whole bottle.’

The bartender smiled.

‘That guy’s looking at you.’

‘Where?’

‘In the band.’

It was Mr. Foster, to the far right. He had been playing rhythm guitar with his head down and now, the song over, he looked at James through little round shades, his teeth like aglow in the ultraviolet stagelight. He leaned toward the rest of the band and said something, then stepped to the mic.

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‘This next one was written by myself and Mr. Dirty James Haskell, who is here tonight.’

‘Woo hoo!’ yelled the girl in front of the stage.

‘Listen for it soon on a country music radio station near you. And one. Two. One, two, three.’

The melody had changed, had gotten brassier, catchier, but James knew which song it was before the singer—stocky and middle-aged, with honey brown skin and a pork pie hat— started to sing. He sounded exactly like Waylon Jennings as he rhymed on how boring his town was on a Tuesday night.

But come Fri-i-day when the workin week’s done,

I’m gonna pull on my best boots and pocket my gun,

Hop in my old truck and, give them new tires a spin.

I’m goin out in the coun-try to fi-i-ind me some original sin.

And then it really started to rock, in the most commercial sense of the word. He liked the lyrics less than he had when he had written them. Still, he was a little proud to hear the song played for his benefit. . . . Yet he felt that it had been stolen from him. Foster had only helped a little with the chorus, and had taken first credit just in his introduction. James hated him a little just now, with his store-bought band.

Destiny seemed impressed though. Amused and impressed.

‘Did you really help write that?’

‘They make it sound a lot better than I did.’

She sipped. ‘So this is, like, really expensive whiskey.’

‘Yep.’

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‘I can’t tell any difference.’

‘Neither can I.’

‘I guess it takes practice to be a snob.’

He laughed just before he drank. ‘It’s exhausting, I’m sure. And we’re way behind.’

‘I know. Those people with the baby treated us like slaves.’

‘They did, didn’t they.’

The song was in a musical interlude, a trough between the second chorus and the final verse. Foster, having taken the lead, was chasing the scales up and down the fretboard and almost catching them. On the bus, James had thought that he was talented, but here tonight, with a tall and skinny black guitarist at the other side of the stage, he was passable at best.

‘I think if I see that yellow-haired old man again,’ James said, ‘I’m gonna wad up his twenty and throw it in his face.’

‘Oh, I’ll bet you will.’

‘Treat me like a slave.’

‘I’d rather have twenty dollars than a handshake.’

He looked at her, a little stunned, again. The word love seemed arrogant and bloated, distorted by misuse. But he nearly said it to her just now. Instead, the final verse began and she listened to his words: silly words he had forgotten, from the mouth of a man he didn’t know.

By the time the song was over, the fat man had joined the girl in front of the stage.

They both applauded as Foster stood his guitar on its stand and hopped down from the stage, where the band kicked up a buoyant, jazzy rendition of ‘Mack the Knife,’ the singer now doing an impeccable Louis Armstrong. The girl peeled away from the fat man and walked with Foster across the lush lawn. The fog had lifted.

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‘What’s up, bud.’

‘Hey.’

They shook hands

‘What’d you think?’

‘Like I told her, I couldn’t have made it sound like that.’

‘Me either. These guys are amazing. I think I played it for them once and they had it finished in like, fifteen minutes. I mean, it’s just a country song but—I don’t deserve to share the stage with them, really.’

‘That’s so not true,’ said the girl, then to James and Destiny, miffed: ‘He’s so modest. It’s gross.’

‘No,’ Foster said. ‘It’s true. But it has been nice to jam with them. You know, as a break from all the other shit I’ve been dealing with.’

He looked toward the house, heavy with an unseen burden.

‘Well, this is Destiny.’

‘Charles Foster,’ he said offering his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You too.’

‘This is Margot. She’s sort of my old lady.’

‘Shut up,’ Margot said, and giggled. She was about Destiny’s height weight, but you would probably think she was prettier if you were meeting them both for the first time. Her cheeks were a little more sunken, her nose and chin a little more pointed, her eyes a little larger. You couldn’t tell how much of her honey brown hair was collected under the clean red bandana that covered the top of her head. Were it Halloween she would have been Rosie the

Riveter. Foster, also vaguely in costume, looked like a sixties rocker late to the party in his

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‘go upstairs and see what everybody’s doing.’

They followed him into the house, Margot keeping beside and just behind him, James and Destiny holding hands at a comfortable distance.

‘It’s a mixed crowd,’ Foster said, gesturing toward the big room, where furniture still outnumbered people at least three-to-one. ‘Granddad always had a Christmas party. Even though he hated parties. So this is kind of a celebration of him.’ He glanced back at James. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many phone calls I’ve had this week. Apologizing and making excuses.

Lying. But they’ll still be a decent crown before it’s all over.’

A woodwind and drum kit combo struck up behind them, inside the house. Mellow-but- hopeful, the horn sleek and lazy.

‘What instrument is that guy playing?’ James asked.

‘Oboe,’ Destiny said.

‘How did you know that?’

‘Cause I played one in the stupid school band for like a week one time.’

‘Ha ha, band nerd!’ Foster said.

‘Look who’s talkin,’ said she.

They turned into an aquarium room, for which admission could be charged. Dark but for the dim blue tanks all around, it was pleasantly like being under water. There was a spiral staircase in the corner.

‘Let’s just chill for a bit,’ said Mr. Foster, or Foster, or Charles, or James’ friend. ‘I want this night to build slowly, so people don’t even realize how awesome it is later.’

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The steel spiral staircase shivered and clanged as they ascended it like some enormous musical instrument poorly played, and they emerged into a cavernous gameroom. Billiards, table tennis, a bowling lane.

‘Fu-un,’ said Destiny, quiet and trilling.

The only light came from the wall at the far side of the room, onto which a football video game was projected, looking real for a moment, and before which four hairy heads peaked in silhouette above a bloated, boomerang-shaped couch. The air was hazy with some fruity narcotic smoke, thicker as they approached the bright screen—compelled toward it not unlike insects— and irritating James’ eyes. It’s source was a hookah, about the size of an average first grader, on the floor in front of the couch. Two more people—twenty-something and casually-but- expensively dressed, like all but James and Destiny, whose attire was more formal but less expensive—lounged on giant square pillows holding hookah wands, looking not so much dreamy as stoned. The two gamers, staring screenward with their mouths open, said, ‘Hey.’ One of the three girls on the couch looked up from her tablet computer and sort of tried to smile.

When he had been with the bus James had seen enough scenes more or less like this to last a lifetime. The game reached the half, with some tepid grousing about an unfairly shed tackle, and

Foster said, ‘What up.’

‘What up.’

‘What up.’

‘This is Dirty James. He was out West with me for a bit.’

Everyone but the two on the floor said what up or how’s it going. James introduced

Destiny and the enthusiasm of the next round of responses was halved again. Margot climbed onto the couch beside the other girl, looked at the screen and said, ‘God, that bitch. We should 315

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 go to New York soon.’ James went to the hookah and took up one of the wands: dark wood carved into the shoulders and head of a mythical reptile, with between its scaly eyelids a narrow slit through which it may watch you.

‘That’s peach tobacco and Moroccan hash,’ said someone. But James did not particularly care what it was. Destiny took a little puff also, coughed and patted her chest. Then she looked at James and said, like it was so obvious she shouldn’t have to say it: ‘Let’s bowl.’

She beat him by twenty points, and the second game was worse. With the ball in her hands she was stiff and mechanical, but the moment she released it she loosened up with sudden grace. The occasional gutterball inspired operatic disappointment, while spares and strikes, which were more frequent, occasioned brief, supple dances.

They went down and looked at the fish for a while. There were some stunning exotics, but they found themselves standing finally before the freshwater tank, watching catfish and alligator gar, among other species they had only ever seen on the end of a hook. After they kissed for a minute, he said, ‘You want to go look around some more?’

And she said, ‘Yes.’

At eleven o’clock they sat up against an ornate hardwood headboard and watched the ball drop in Times Square on an old box television. Destiny said she and her mom always watched the ball drop together. She got up nude as a water nymph, found her purse on the floor and called

Pauline. James could hear a lot of yelling and laughing on the other end of the line.

‘Okay. . . . Okay, I love you’ Destiny hung up. ‘ God, she’s trashed.’

‘I’m just about sober.’

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She smiled sweetly, holding her dress against her. ‘Me too.’

‘Come here.’

‘Nu uh.’

The panties were on now and she was making quick work of the dress.

‘Come. Here.’

‘Fuck. You.’

‘There’s nothing good out there.’

‘We’ve been in here long enough. It’s rude. Get dressed.’

‘Nobody’s missing us. And nobody’s been in this room probably since before we were born.’

‘I know. I almost sneezed a couple times from all the dang dust. Get up. Help me make the bed.’

He did as told, and still it occurred to him. It seemed that whatever fears he had ever had about his life had been unfounded. The sound of the band outside, which had been patiently mining a dirty psychadelic jam for some minutes, bled through the window. Before leaving the room James parted the heavy wooden blinds and looked down on the backyard. The crew from the gameroom had joined the fat man and the dog in front of the stage, which Mr. Foster had retaken. Cokebottle shades and crooked grin back in place, he gyrated pelvically and strummed two chords in alternate, low and high, the amped effect like broken glass or coins poured into a jar: Ching, Chang, Ching, Chang. The song would be better off it, James thought. But almost nothing could have bothered him much just now, and the people in front of the stage all swayed and dipped and twisted convincingly.

‘Want to shoot a game of pool?’

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They descended the main staircase. The coat girl sat on a stool with nice posture.

Destiny said she was hungry, and so was he, now that he thought about it. The crowd in the big room had about doubled since they had last looked, but the banquest spread was still enough to feed several times as many. The guests seemed either very drunk or very bored. The youngest people at the party—excepting the baby of course—carried their solid porcelain plates away toward the pool table, but in the aquarium room a small crowd blocked the stairs.

The man in the Japanese robe was one of them and again he was doing all the talking. He gesticulated almost constantly, though seemingly at random—as if from some glitch in his nervous system: the same one that muddled his speech—but somehow his drink never spilled, and he was liable to laugh at any moment: unrestrained and apparently somewhat painful, the man’s laughter was a long quavering gale of noise which grated on the ears beyond reckoning.

The contorted face that accompanied it did not help.

‘So Byron had his spear but I said, through the headset, y’know—These new underwater headsets are great, by the way. I put some good tu-unes on the transmitter and, Ba- a-a-a-a-ah!’

No one else laughed, though a trio of men in rumpled safari gear—all around the speaker’s age, which was approaching sixty—wore seedy, satisfied grins. A pair of blondes with about as many years between them as the man in the robe, each in a black and red array of heels, fishnets, miniskirt and halter top, lounged on the stairs, the higher one playing joylessly with the hair of the other, appearing sedated or simply bored to the verge of drooling.

‘Excuse us please,’ said James.

‘Oh, hey. New victims. What’s the password, Ba-a-a-a-a-ah!’

‘Just wanted to go up the stairs.’

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‘Oh. Well don’t let us stop you.’

‘Thanks. Excuse us.’

One of the girls moved enough for them to pass, seemingly with great effort, and they started up.

‘I’m Kelvin Foster Jr.,’ said the man in the robe. ‘This’s my house.’

James stopped and turned back, as did Destiny above him.

‘James Haskell.’ He met the man on the floor and offered his hand. Under the robe a silk shirt was half open to a lot of white hair and a ruby-studded medalion. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Ya, ya.’ He dropped James’ hand after a surprisingly firm shake and fixed his attention on the young girl in the red dress descending the stairs. ‘And who’s this?’

‘This is Destiny.’

‘I’d say so. Pleased to meet you.’

‘You too. I like your house.’

‘Oh, you do. Well you can come back any time. I used to know a girl named Destiny,’ and now he addressed the group at large: ‘Had a behind that wouldn’t quit, I’m telling you.

This chick could really dance. Jee-sus.’

‘You’re fucking talking about me,’ said one of the girls on the stairs, thoroughly annoyed but not surprised. ‘Asshole.’

The other men had already been containing their laughter. Kelvin Jr. rollicked with recognition. ‘Oh my! She’s right here. Ba-a-a-a-a-ah! Why didn’t you fuckers remind me.

Destiny, meet Destiny. Ba-a-a-a-a-ah! Shit. But hey, you can really dance though, girl. Keep your chin up. But not like you, I’ll bet. Here.’ He fumbled for a pocket in the lining of his robe and handed Destiny a card. ‘I don’t give those to a lot of people. You call me any time.’

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‘Why would she call you?’ James asked.

The room became quiet such that you heard the hum and bubbling of the aerators in the fishtanks.

‘Why would ah . . . .’ Kelvin Jr. cast about in vain for assistance. ‘Well, because she might want to. You never know. I’m a—Hey, who the fuck invited you anyway? Kid talks to me like I’m some—What’d you call yourself again?’

There was real anger, possible violence and more than a little desperation in those foggy eyes.

‘My name is James. James Haskell.’

‘Well James Haskell, she can stay if she wants to but why don’t you get the fuck out of my house, m’kay?’

Kelvin Jr. smiled loose and crooked, showing no teeth.

‘Why don’t I whip your fucked up old ass?’

‘Ha!’ blurted a girl on the stairs. One of the men put his hand on James’ chest and he flung it away, spilling strawberries from the plate that he held in his other hand.

‘Dropped some of my food,’ said Kelvin Jr.

‘You best get out of here,’ said another of the men, looking scared half to death.

Destiny crouched to pick up the strawberries, then stood and started toward the door, turning back after a few steps. ‘Come on,’ she said gently but in the imperative, offering her hand. ‘Come with me.’

James gave Kelvin Jr. and his entourage a brief and final inspection, then made for the soft hand that awaited him, bootheels throwing echoes about the room. As they went out the door, Kelvin Jr. said, ‘Merry Fucking Christmas.’ The other men errupted in laughter. James

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 wanted to turn and fly back in there and she must have known it because at that moment she squeezed his hand tighter. The sound of the mumbled voice, holding court once again, faded as they moved toward the lively lounge music, which now featured a woman singing ragtime.

‘Slow down,’ Destiny said. ‘Quit pulling me.’

‘Sorry.’

Having trouble getting enough air, he glanced about the grand hallway they were in, avoiding her look of motherly concern. He shuttled his plate onto a nearby table, spilling a hunk of meat.

‘Hey,’ she said, now smiling a little. ‘Relax.’

‘Shouldn’t have come,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t have taken the car. Shouldn’t have gotten on the fucking bus. I just want to go.’

‘It’s just some ignorant old dude,’ she said. ‘You punked him out anyway.’

James gestured toward the backyard. ‘It’s no different out there.’ He pushed his fingers through his hair. With the twenty the strange old man had given him he had twenty-eight dollars and some change. He felt surrounded, imprisoned. Easy at hand was a dim but real version of himself a few short decades later, following Mr. Foster like one of the men who followed Kelvin Jr.: another simpering lackey to the Almighty Dollar.

‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘We can go if you want to.’

He grinned tight and bitter, though tender of eye. ‘Sorry baby. You look so pretty.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘If that word means anything, I mean it.’

‘I know. I love you too.’

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‘But I’m broke.’ He breathed slow and deep. ‘We should have gone to that pasture party in Snuff.’

‘It’d probably be more fun.’

‘It definitely would.’ He laughed a little, swiped a tear with his finger. ‘This is absurd.’

‘I’ve got some money.’

‘How much?’

‘Like, over a hundred. Jim Beam gave me some Christmas cash. He’s trying to impress.’

‘Yeah. . . . I just don’t think we can get back on that, on what we’ve got. Can’t fly. Can’t rent a car. I think you’ve got to be older to rent a car anyway.’

‘I’ll bet we could take a bus.’

‘I didn’t bring you here to ride a bus back.’

‘Well,’ she said with mild but real frustration. ‘What then?’

He huffed. ‘We could go open a few of those Christmas presents. We could start breaking shit and get ourselves arrested. Spend the night in jail.’

She didn’t laugh. She looked past him. ‘Let’s go in there.’

‘What’s in there?’

‘How am I supposed to know. Let’s see.’

He opened the door and she went before him into a dining room, dark but for dim silver light from a blinded bay window. Destiny pulled out a chair and sat with her plate.

‘You should eat.’

‘I don’t want any of this food.’

‘Don’t be stupid. Try one of these little spinach things. They’re awesome.’

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He huffed and turned to her. ‘Gimme.’ Flaky crust. Some pungent cheese involved.

‘Hmm.’

‘Right.’

His eyes had adjusted such that he could stare at an enormous painting in a goldleaf frame: a bucolic rolling green landscape with a lone tree in the near distance. Around it dogs sat on their haunches looking hopelessly upward and several men in red coats sat horses in attitudes of argument or dismay. In the tree, a fox sat on a limb looking down.

‘Cricket’ll come get us.’

‘Yeah. She would, wouldn’t she. . . . I hate to call her now though.’ He ate another spinach thing. ‘My truck’s in Austin. I hope. But that’s three hours in the wrong direction.’

‘Ask your friend.’

‘He’s on stage. And I don’t want to anyway.’

‘Well, you might have to, James. I mean, you brought us here with no plan to get back, and no money. Do something about it. Or do you want me to?’

‘It’s your friend’s house too, isn’t it?’

‘I think so. I don’t know.’

‘Didn’t he say spend the night?’

‘Yeah. He didn’t say where.’

‘Let’s go find a room. God knows they’ve got plenty. We’ll figure it out in the morning.’

‘Can I have another one of those things?’

‘Get your own. Quit eatin all mine.’

‘Let’s get more together.’

‘You want to go outside?’

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‘No.’

‘Well shit, James.’ She stood. ‘You brought me here. You ought to at least try to show me a good time.’

He could see her clearly but did not need to see at all to know how fortunate he was.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘God dammit. We might have to get drunk after all. Let’s go out and hear some music.’

‘Are you gonna dance with me?’

‘Ah. . . . You really want to dance?’

‘No. I just like to watch other people dance.’

‘So does Kelvin Foster Jr., apparently.’

‘Ew. So creepy.’

‘Yeah, but, you know, he could be the solution to this money problem we’re having. Just a few minutes of your time and—’

‘Shut up.’

‘We could afford to take a limo home.’ James held the door.

‘Shut up.’

‘I think he was in love.’

‘He only loves himself.’

‘I’ll bet he’s got a room somewhere with like, mirrors and brass poles.’

‘We should go find it.’

‘You still want to play pool? Let’s just walk back through there and act like nothing happened.’

‘I’ll bet he wouldn’t say shit.’

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‘Only one way to find out.’

When they re-entered the backyard James was eating an open-face prime rib and sourdough sandwich with horseradish sauce. He had a glass of good bourbon, but just now it tasted awful: no better than Scotch or transmission fluid. He pitched all but the glass onto the lawn. Destiny shivered and grabbed her elbows. When he offered his shirt, which was beige wool, she protested, and he said, ‘It’s my pleasure,’ which was true. Then in just a t-shirt, he headed for their overnight bag, which was still in the car. She said she would stay and listen to the music.

He had left the key in the car and the doors wouldn’t open. He was just getting good and frustrated, feeling bedevilled, when he realized that this would make an easy lead into asking Foster where to sleep. He found Destiny in front of the stage dancing a little—her feet kept their place—to ‘Revival.’ People can you feel it, love is in the air. Foster was one of the two singers and sounded better accompanied. James placed his hands on Destiny’s hips and began to sway with her. She did not look back to make sure it was him. The song ended all-at-once and the applause from the little crowd of now about twenty was loud and honest. Foster went over the man in the pork pie hat, slapped a hard handshake and said something that made the man happy. It wasn’t his fault he had been born so rich: James’ favor swinging tentatively back toward him who now stepped to the mic, glancing at his pocket device.

‘About twenty minutes till two thousand fifteen,’ he said. ‘The future is upon us. I’m going to take a little break. And you guys could probably use a break too, right.’

The band all gestured amenably that they could.

‘I know you’re not supposed to have fireworks in the city limits. Which is why we’re only going to do one.’

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He held up a finger and grinned fiendishly, or tried to. His friends clapped and whistled,

Margot screamed, an old woman looked offended.

‘And it’s going to be really fucking big.’

The house music took over, hip-hop at a low volume, and Foster hopped down from the stage. His friends mobbed him playfully, except for one, who shouted, ‘You suck. You suck,’ then showed his teeth and clapped stiffly a few more times like that toy monkey with his cymbals.

‘Dirty James,’ Foster said. ‘Where the fuck did you go?’

‘Ah . . .’

‘Did you hear the fishin song?’

‘No.’

‘Dammit, man.’

‘We were just looking around a little.’

‘Yeah? I really wanted you to hear it.’

‘I’ve recorded it,’ said Margot brandishing her shiny device.

‘Right on. Yeah, man, I think it’ll sell. I know a dude in Nashville.’

‘Cool. I want to hear it. Uh. I locked the key in that car. Or it locked itself.’

‘It does that. It’s fine.’

‘Yeah, sorry. I was trying to get her jacket out of it just now.’

‘You need in it? Okay, there’s another key in the garage. There’s like a workshop area, toward the left end. That’s left if you’re looking at the garage from—Fuck it, I’ll just show you.’

James looked to Destiny, who said, ‘Go head.’

Foster was already walking away fast and James just barely resisted an urge, chickenhearted but powerful, to trot after him. Foster held the door, his heel impatiently

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 tapping, and for James there was no comfortable speed. As he passed into the house, the billion dollar doorman was plainly concerned.

‘So you were just looking around?’

‘Ah. For a bedroom. I found one upstairs, didn’t look like anybody’d been in it for a while. Hope you don’t mind.’

‘I see. Right on. Fuck no, I don’t mind. Your Destiny’s a cutie.’

Just ahead a few older men stood chatting. At the recognition of Mr. Foster’s approach their little circle broke open and they all smiled, ready to shake hands and chat, but Mr. Foster only saluted and said ‘Gentlemen’ as he glided past.

‘Employees,’ he said, probably loud enough for them to hear. ‘They’re worried about their jobs. And they fucking should be. Starting next week I’m re-interviewing everybody.

From the CEO down to the cook.’ He turned into the big room where the tepid swing music played on. Several people pointed him out semi-covertly and spoke about him but he didn’t seem to notice as he made a little plate of decadent sweets. ‘These slick suits think they can manipulate me. A couple of them have already tried. And granddad’s body’s not even cold yet.

Like that guy back there, the youngest one. He’s a dead man walking and doesn’t even know it.

I’m still gonna make him interview though, just to fuck with him. You should try these.’

James did and said, ‘Ummm.’

Mr. Foster headed out, toward the garage. ‘Check it. Here’s what I’m thinking. I ask a sort of open-ended question about what are the major issues of the future and how polymers can help, blah blah blah—it doesn’t really matter cause the second part is what counts. I give them a balloon, okay, and I tell them to blow it up till it pops.’

Down the hall of novelties, Foster turned back beaming self pride. ‘What do you think?’

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‘Ah—’

‘You’d be surprised how many people can’t do it. It’ll be funny at least. But I actually think I’ll be able to tell a lot just by watching people. You know, how they handle it. Plus balloons are polymers, so it’s symbolic or whatever. You know, pushing to the limit. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t ask you to do it. I know what you’d do. And all this crap’s got to go. I’m not going to live in a fucking museum. Stagnant dead bullshit.’

‘What would I do?’

“What? Oh, with the balloon. You’d blow it up till it popped without flinching.’

‘What if I refused to blow at all.’

‘Even better.’ He laughed a little as he opened the door to the garage. ‘See, this is why I need you. You don’t even know how radical you are.’

They came to the aforementioned workshop area, where Foster began opening cabinets.

Most were empty.

‘But I still don’t understand what I would, um. My job description.’

‘Just to be available, basically. Just to give me your honest opinion when I ask for it.

Consultant would be your official title, I guess. Executive Consultant.’

‘But don’t you already have guys that know a lot more than me about—whatever?’

‘About everything, yeah.’ He had found a cabinet wherein hung an array of keys.

‘They’ve got degrees from good schools and years of experience, most of them. Where is that fucker. But you’ve got something they don’t.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Innocence.’

‘You mean ignorance.’

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‘Same thing. But you’re smart too. God dammit, there’s supposed to be two of each.

What’s in the car?’

‘Just Destiny’s jacket and a bag. We can worry about it later.’

‘No, she needs her stuff.’ He looked around, fixated on a nearby door and went to it. ‘All that experience and education—it’s necessary, but it also leads to corruption, and it can be a limitation.’ From a closet he came out with a flat-head shovel, spun it once, nodded in approval and started toward the car. ‘I read a quote the other day that said something like, You can do the impossible as long as you don’t know what it is. And I want to do the impossible. I’m going to. But I can’t do it alone. I need good people. But every tribe needs a chief.’

He set his feet and held the head of the shovel beside the driver’s window, drew back raising his inside leg and whipped it around in a blur. The window shattered and the alarm went off at an awful volume in the enclosed space, James with fingers in ears. Foster scraped shards from the sill with the blade, leaned in and clicked the button on the key, stepped back and made a proud ushering gesture.

James smiled. ‘Jesus. You didn’t have to do that.’

‘Eh. What’s the point in being rich if you can’t break expensive shit now and then.’

James had no response. He got the things from the back seat. ‘Well, thanks again for letting me borrow it.’

‘It’s nothing. There’s too many cars around here anyway.’ Foster leaned against a sleek white European something-or-other and checked his device. ‘Still twelve minutes.’ He grinned discerningly at James. ‘Are you following me?’

‘Pretty much. But what would I do, like, on a normal day? Go to an office or—’

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‘No. That would defeat the purpose. There’s still a lot I don’t know, man. This thing’s going to develop organically, to a certain extent. But you’d basically do whatever you normally do. Go fishing or whatever, but just—be available. In the office the others would infect you.

You wouldn’t be able to help it. Next thing you know you’d be like them. You wouldn’t be able to see the forest for the trees. Know what I’m saying?’

‘Ah. I think so.’

‘It’ll become clearer. For both of us. And I hope we can keep writing songs together too.

Like Lennon and McCartney.’ Foster winked and started back into the house. ‘There’s only so much you can plan. The rest is instinct. I didn’t mean to talk so much about all this anyway.

We’ll meet up soon and get the details out of the way. Like, fuck it, how’s tomorrow?’ He glanced back as he entered the hallway.

‘Sure. I got nothing else going on. I just need to get to Austin at some point to get my truck.

Foster slapped the suit of armor in the jaw as he passed it. ‘Bunch of shit. Oh yeah,

Austin. That’s where this all began, isn’t it. Where we met. Pritchard lives down there. He’ll give you a ride. Unless you want to fly, I could send the plane. He’ll probably head back tomorrow or the next day. He owns a club down there. Stay here in the meantime, if you want.’

‘Where’d you want us to sleep?’

Having turned into the kitchen, Foster opened the refrigerator. ‘I was going to show you earlier, before you ran off to get laid. Was the bed okay?’

‘Uh. Yeah.’

‘Keep it then. I can hardly sleep in a big soft bed after all that time on the bus.’ He drank from a bottle of water and motioned toward the open fridge. ‘Mi casa su casa.’

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James got a Coke.

Foster looked at his device. ‘Eight minutes.’

‘I ran into your dad,’ James said. He didn’t want to bring it up but it seemed necessary.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, I just mention it because he told me to leave and I didn’t know if—’

‘Told you to leave?’

‘Yeah, he said something to Destiny and I said something back and he said this is my house and—’

‘His house? He said it’s his house? This is my fucking house. The title’s in my name.’ Mr.

Foster was bug-eyed irate. ‘Or will be soon.’

‘It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to check because—’

‘Because you don’t want to be rude. Because you’ve got fucking manners. Dude, I apologize.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Mother fucker.’ Some spit or water flew from his mouth. He bit his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘He’s gone. He’s fucking gone.’

‘I didn’t want to start anything.’

‘You didn’t. Trust me, this was coming. . . . Fucking embarrassment.’ He breathed and checked his device again. ‘Time to go. Look, bud, make yourself totally at home. You and your girl. Don’t worry about my dad. He’s nothing. You and I, we’re going to do big things together.’ He looked at James quite plainly as if to assuage any doubt, slapped him on the shoulder and stalked away.

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James stood in the big dark clean kitchen and sipped the Coke. He tried to know how he truly felt about Foster, regardless of the money. But there was no telling where the money ended and Foster began. On the bus, before he had known about the money, it seemed that he had liked the driver well enough. And there had been a mystique about him, but maybe that had owed to his own knowledge of the money. It was all too much to figure.

Destiny was talking to Margot, or listening to Margot talk. So much talking tonight, but what, other than three small words, had really been said? It seemed there would be at least a little more talk as Mr. Foster tapped the mic. Destiny turned back, smiled and thanked him for her jacket.

‘I’ll trade you.’

She took off his shirt while he kept stiff against shivering, for the night had turned cold after all.

‘I need a bathroom,’ she said.

‘Hello,’ said Mr. Foster. ‘You should be able to hear me inside now.’

Men in white jackets were going along the wall of glass opening windows, and from speakers within his voice back on top of itself. People drifted toward the windows and looked at the stage, half willing supplicants.

‘It’s just a few minutes till midnight, which is when I expect this part to really get started, so I’ll keep this short. Granddad always said, “The more you talk the less they listen.” ’

A smattering of laughter. ‘It’s good to see so many of his friends here, and I hope that tonight we have honored him and what he stood for. But I want to look to the future.’

‘Let’s go,’ James said.

‘I can hold it.’

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‘No need. Come on.’

She took his hand and they headed toward the house.

‘But to do that I’d like to use a few more of his words. Granddad could say things that would make you stop and think. For example, “The good life is not the easy life.” I think about that a lot. I hope everyone has a blast tonight. The band and I are going to play as long as anybody wants to listen. But tomorrow I’m going to get and go to work.’

James opened the door for her, but the voice was even louder inside.

‘I’m going to bust my ass for this company, because it’s got the power to change the world. The people here toinght have the power to change the world for the better. I’ve spent the last year of my life out in the world, the real world, and I know that good and evil are not just abstract concepts.’

James looked through the entryway to the big room as they passed: people huddled a the glass looking out and, nearer, an old man, very old and dishevelled and all but in tears at a table alone. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he said. ‘We’re in the same room.’

‘It’s a war that never ends, and the ammunition, like it or not, is money. And as you know, we’ve got a lot of ammunition. But it’s not enough just to have it. You’ve got to know how to use it. Look at the Vietnam War. We dropped more bombs than in all of World War

Two, but the Viet Cong were tunneled in. And we shouldn’t have been there anyway, even though it was good for this company, business-wise, but—Sorry to get off track. The point is, we’re going to have a new focus. And when the history of two thousand fifteen is written, years from now, there’s going to be a whole chapter dedicated to this company. That’s the kind of impact we’re going to make. And we’re not going to do it for the recognition. We’re going to do it because it’s right. Because we should. And because we can.’

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The amplified voice had become a little quieter and warped as they climbed the staircase, so that it sounded not more like the speaker’s father.

‘Another thing Granddad said to me once: “The best investment you can make is in people.” And he invested well. A lot of the people here tonight are evidence of that. And I’m going to continue that tradition.’

‘Is it this one?’

‘I think it’s one more.’

James shut the door on the muffled sound of Foster’s laughter and Destiny made for the bathroom. But the voice now came in through the window.

‘Well, they’re telling me it’s already passed. Screw it. Who decides what time it is anyway. Okay. Ready? Ten. Nine. Eight.’

James fell back on the bed, wrapped a pillow over his face and pressed hard against his ears, hearing only the seethe of his own breath, thinking about nothing: blessed nothing. After some amount of time something tapped the toe of his left boot. He took the pillow away.

Destiny was smiling down on him.

‘Hey,’ she said.

‘Where’s my kiss?’

She leaned down. Just before their lips touched an explosion went off just outside the window and she jumped, falling against him, laughing. He kissed her neck and she squirmed away like it tickled. She stood again, hands on hips.

‘You sleepy?’

‘No. Just tired.’

‘Did you get anything figured out?’

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He cycled a slow breath. ‘As far as I can tell, he wants to pay me to be his friend and stay ignorant.’

‘He’s on speed.’

‘Yeah.’

Outside the band kicked up again, loud as ever.

‘Sounds like a pretty easy job though.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I guess you’re pretty lucky.’

‘Definitely. No doubt about that.’

He looked at her curiously, nearly unbelieving. Strange things afoot lately, but strangest of all, or most wonderful, was still her. ‘Babe, what do you—’ He sat up. It seemed more appropriate. He laid his forearms over his knees and entwined his fingers, narrowed his eyes as if to read small print on her face. ‘What do you think about marriage?’

She blinked a couple of times, then her gaze left him and drifted about the room, finally settling near the foot of the bed. Her mouth was tight and he was sure he had fouled up. He nearly made some deflating remark, but instead he went further: ‘Do you want to marry me?’

Her eyes snapped to him. They were wet and turning red. He couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad. ‘Isn’t it usually a mistake,’ she said, but her eyes widened. ‘When people do it, like, when they’re our age.’

He cycled a breath. ‘I think it’s usually a mistake no matter what.’

‘Then why do you want to?’

‘We’re not other people. We’re just us.’

‘We’re not any different.’

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‘But I don’t want anybody else. You’re the best.’

She started to laugh, then smiled sadly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’

He patted the bed beside him. She took off her shoes and dropped them and, three inches shorter, climbed onto the bed and lay her cheek against his chest. He stroked her hair, dug in and scratched her scalp.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

Her hair felt like that of a doll, but her breath was warm against him.

‘What don’t you know?’

‘Just . . . . My mom’s been married three times, and it was always, like, pretty much a disaster.’

‘You’re not her. I’m not any of those guys.’

‘What makes us different?’

‘We just are. We can’t help it.’

‘You are. You’re a total weirdo.’

‘And you’re a fucking freak.’

‘But you still want to marry me?’

‘I do. . . . I really do.’

Maybe a minute passed, her lying on him.

‘When?’ she said.

‘Whenever. Tomorrow.’

‘You don’t want me to start having babies do you?’

‘No, no no no no. I wasn’t thinking about that.’

‘Good.’

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‘I guess I wouldn’t be upset though.’

‘I freakin would.’

More time passed.

‘What did you and Margot talk about?’

‘Oh, she was telling me about England or Italy or someplace. It sounded pretty cool.’

‘Yeah. I’d like to go over there and look around sometime.’

‘Me too. . . . I guess I’d want to go to England, since they speak English.’

‘It wouldn’t make any difference. They couldn’t understand you anyway.’

‘Don’t make fun.’

‘Or over to Korea. We could surprise Carleigh.’

‘Oh my God. She would lose it. You really think we could?’

‘Sure, why not.’

More time . . .

‘Would you care if I said no?’ he said. ‘To this job. Would that make any difference?’

She stirred a little, and he felt how scrawny was his chest. ‘What would you do instead?

Go back to school?’

‘I don’t know. I might be able to get my old job back. Or what if I didn’t do anything.

Just laid around.’

She huffed. ‘I’ve had enough of that, between mom’s boyfriends and . . . . You couldn’t anyway. That’s one thing I like about you. You do stuff.’

‘Do stuff.’

‘Yeah. You don’t just lay around.’

He considered this for a moment and decided that it was true. He kept stroking her hair.

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‘That time you showed up at my door,’ she said.

‘Oh God.’

‘After you were gone, I kept thinking about it.’

He stroked her hair. He breathed. ‘What did you think about?’

‘Just, you. And me. What I was doing. . . . I pretty much quit smoking after that.’

He knew she didn’t mean cigarettes.

‘Just knowing you were out there,’ she said. ‘And still thinking about me.’

‘I never stopped thinking about you.’

She squeezed him tighter. ‘It meant something. It was like, you wanted me to be better.’

‘You make me want to be better.’

She sniffled. Her voice was soggy: ‘I don’t know why.’

‘It doesn’t matter why, does it.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I guess not.’

He shuffled along backward into their new place holding up one end of their new couch,

Darnell held the other end. His phone rang. ‘Hold on a second.’ They set the couch down.

‘What’s happening, boss.’

‘Man, I know you’re sort of joking, but don’t call me that, please. It’s negative energy.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay. So I’ve been thinking about kids.’

‘They’re the future.’

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‘Yes, they are. Right on. And the world they’re going to grow up in is going to be more and more connected. You agree?’

‘Right, with the internet and whatnot.’

‘People fear what the don’t understand. . . . You agree?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fear leads to conflict. War.’

‘Sure.’

‘So I was thinking about the circus.’

‘Right. The circus.’

‘I was thinking: What’s the best way for kids to learn about other parts of the world, so they don’t fear other cultures? How do they receive information? How do we open their doors of perception? And what I decided was, even with all this technology, there’s no substitute for, you know, reality.’

‘Okay.’

‘Do you agree?’

‘Sure, yes.’

‘I’m not talking about propoganda. I’m talking about humans in the same space together.’

‘Right.’

‘But to actually send kids to other parts of the world isn’t practical. It’s too expensive, for one thing—and between you and me, there’s not as much funds available as I thought. So I was thinking about the circus.’

‘Okay.’

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‘Kids love the fucking circus.’

‘It got me pretty excited.’

‘Sure it did. And I love the circus—the idea of it, anyway. But I went to one about a year ago. It was before you were with the bus, somewhere in Oklahoma or Kansas, and it was a huge disappointment. They had one elephant and it had a limp, like its foot was hurt. The ponys had, like, patches of fur missing.’

‘The mange.’

‘Right.’

‘They were mangy.’

‘Must have been. A big hunk of bloody fur fell off right in front of me. I nearly puked.

And the trapeze had a net under it and the acrobats kept falling, like it was no big deal. Like everybody paid to see them fall into a fucking net. You see what I’m saying.’

‘Bush league.’

‘Exactly. The music was prerecorded on some old casette tape. The ringmaster’s undershirt was showing. His jokes were lame. The dancing girls looked like washed up strippers. And when it was all over, nobody had learned shit. Everybody was just depressed. I mean, people in that part of the country are depressed anyway, but they could have at least learned something. So I was thinking: Do it right. You know, first class. No nets. Get real live musicians and comedians. You have different parts of the show based on different parts of the world. Like, for South America you might have trained lamas or whatever. I just wanted to see if you had any ideas. And at the end of each little section, or maybe at the beginning, the performer could say a few things about the way people live in their part of the world, and some history or whatever. You hire performers who are actually from there. And it’s free. The circus

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 travels around constantly, not just to big cities, and it’s free for all kids. Even that little shitty circus I went to was twenty dollars a ticket. Some kids really can’t afford that, right?’

‘Right.’

‘And they’re the ones that need it the most. Every kid in town would go to the free circus. Every kid in America could see it, potentially. It wouldn’t be cheap, but it’d be a hell of a lot cheaper than sending every kid in America to on a round-the-world vacation.’

‘Yep.’

‘And if we can get it classified as educational there could be major tax benefits, which might even negate the cost completely.’

‘Sounds like a winner.’

‘Awesome. I’m glad you think so. Just think about it. Send me an email. I’ve got to go.’

‘Hmm. Hello.’

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘It’s late, huh. Or early. I just wanted to run this by you while it was fresh.’

‘Run it.’

‘The population’s headed for disaster.’

‘Okay.’

‘We’re not dying like we used to. I mean, we’re still dying, but we’re living longer. Yet we keep making kids.’

‘Okay.’

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‘Kids are the problem.’

‘Definitely.’

‘But it’s not their fault. It’s their parents. But you can’t tell people not to have kids.’

‘You can try, but—’

‘This is the biggest problem there is.’

‘Okay.’

‘The biggest. It’s not even close. The more people, the less animals and trees.

Eventually the planet gets overwhelmed, and then war and cannibalism and Christ-knows- what. I know you’re thinking war would actually help the problem, which is true.’

‘You could probably get one started in some small country.’

‘I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it, man. But if history teaches anything it’s that war is hard to predict.’

‘And it’s expensive.’

‘Right. But there’s sterilization. Neutering. If you neutered three out of every four men on the planet there’d be no population problem and no wars. But you can’t just say, Hey, give me your balls.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘But there’s probably a way to make people sterile without them knowing it. Obvious social engineering won’t work. The Nazis tried it, and they started a war that wiped out a hundred million or whatever, but as soon as that was over people started making babies like rabbits. So how do you get the message across to regular people, like you. Or your cousins or whatever. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘No.’

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‘Well, think about it. I’ve got to go.’

‘How would you feel if there were no more pennies?’

‘How would I feel?’

‘Yeah, would you have a problem with it?’

‘You mean, just nickels.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I could live without pennies.’

‘Who couldn’t? I fucking hate pennies. They’re a pain in the ass. And don’t give me

Abraham Lincoln. If he’s supposed to be the greatest President, it’s insulting.’

‘He’s still on the five.’

‘Right.’

‘No pennies. I like it.’

‘Yeah, but here’s the deal. The pennies would still exist, theoretically—which is all money is anyway. And every time there’s a purchase with less than a whole nickel left over, which is most of them, those pennies get automatically transferred to an account to benefit education. We’re talking billions of dollars for kids, and all from money that people don’t want anyway. I think this is a fucking slam dunk. My guys say the technology is pretty simple. We just have to get the government behind it, which I’ve got the lobbyists working on as we speak.’

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‘So I just finished this old movie, with Charlton Heston. It’s called Soylent Green. Have you seen it?’

‘No.’

‘Dude. It’ll blow your mind. Watch it, then get back with me. It gave me an idea about how to produce cheap, high quality food for poor people. Or at least an alternative fuel source.’

‘Did you know what Thomas Jefferson envisioned for this country?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘It’s so much better than what actually happened, and I think it’s totally feasible.’

‘It’s sort of grungy hard rock. I’ve only got the chorus so far. Tuna fish, electric eel. You want to know, the way I feel. Just open wide, and let me in. Don’t be alarmed, that’s just my fin.’

‘My science guys tell me Jurassic Park is impossible, currently. But a Pleistocene Park is absolutely within reach, and it sounds better. Wooly mammoths. Saber-tooth tigers. Sloths!

Giant sloths! Are you with me?’

‘We trade the lumber from the beetle-killed trees in the west to Mexico for their used tires, which they no longer have to burn, which we make into shoes, which we give away.’

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‘Basically, it would be like the Peace Corps, but with the efficiency of a major corporation.’

‘If doctors can induce labor in pregnant women, why can’t climatologists salt clouds?’

‘I’m talking a nation-wide, mandatory urban-to-rural exchange program.’

‘Old West style horse races on the Main streets of small towns.’

‘Life-size statues of random regular people.’

‘The return of the American Chestnut.’

‘Free popcorn.’

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‘The Amazon Rainforest. You’ve heard of it, right.’

‘Rings a bell.’

‘Don’t be a smart-ass. Just listen.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘There are so many plants down there they don’t even have names for all of them, let alone know what they can all do.’

‘Right. There could be cures for diseases and whatnot.’

‘But they keep slashing and burning. Exactly. Nobody fucking knows what’s down there. That’s the beautiful part. I know we’re not a pharmaceutical company. Not yet. But nobody else is really stepping up to the plate on this thing. Just a few rinky-dink operations here and there. And probably—I’d say definitely, there are undiscovered cures for diseases down there, and who knows what kind of psychadelics. As soon as possible I want to start gathering specimens, making medicines and testing them on homeless people or college students. Or at least monkeys. I’ve got the lawyers looking into it. We’re going to buy as much of it as I can, cause, I don’t want to tell you how fast it’s disappearing cause it’ll make you sick. Every time a clock ticks you’ll want to puke. That’s my burden. It doesn’t have to be yours.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And we can analyze construction patterns in these plants and trees for possible polymer applications. Did you hear that? I sounded like I really know what I’m talking about for a second.’

James laughed a little.

‘Actually, this shit’s not all that complicated. But it is kind of blowing my mind, honestly. My guys tell me that until very recently, polymers was considered a closed field. Like

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 geology. All the so-called experts pretty much everyone believed it had reached its limit. But lately, using computers to simulate different combinations, they’ve started to develop new materials again, for the first time since, like, before we were born. It’s insane, the stuff they’re coming up with. It’s really exciting. The materials of the future are going to be very different, and better, than the ones we grew up with. There’s one that heals itself.’

James laughed again.

‘I’m serious. You scratch it, or slash it with a knife, and the wound closes up like it was never there. It takes time. You can’t see it happening. But it fucking happens.’

‘I would like to see that.’

‘I used to think there was a limit to what science could do, man. But after what I’ve seen lately, in our labs, I don’t believe anything is impossible. I really don’t.’

‘Yeah. Wow.’

‘But that forest down there, it’s like a giant laboratory. So many things have already been tried. Nature’s done a lot of the work. I’ll probably go down there next week. I was thinking you should come.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good.’

‘Oh, but—’

‘You don’t have a passport, right. I can get one expedited for you.’

‘No. My friend’s getting married Sunday. A week from tomorrow. It’d have to be after that.’

‘I was thinking we’d leave Sunday. You really have to be there?’

‘I’m a groom’sman.’

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‘But not the Best Man.’

‘No, but—’

‘You think they could move it back a day or two?’

‘The wedding?’

‘Yeah. I could probably help with the cost.’

‘I don’t know, man.’

‘I don’t know why anyone would want to get married anyway.’

‘They’ve had it planned for a while.’

‘Nevermind. Fuck it.’

‘I just don’t know what to say, because—’

‘You don’t have to say anything.’

‘I mean, I don’t know if you’re asking me as a friend, or if it’s part of my job. You see what I’m saying?’

‘Yeah. I told you, forget it. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Hello.’

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Eating breakfast.’

‘I tried to call last night.’

‘Oh. I think I was listening to music or something.’

‘Well, you can put it on vibrate, but—’

‘I sent an email a couple of days ago. About the pennies.’

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‘It got passed along to the project leader. I left a message. Did you listen to it?’

‘I haven’t checked my messages.’

‘Were you going to?’

‘I just got up. You want me to listen to it and call you back?’

‘No. Forget it.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Ah . . . . Man, I’ve got another call.’

‘Bye.’ James tossed his phone into their new papazan.

‘So he’s mad cause you didn’t answer in the middle of the freakin night.’ Destiny came into the den in a new dress, looking absolutely legitimate.

‘Pretty much.’

‘Does he just expect you to be at his beckon call twenty-four seven? Zip me up.’

‘I guess so. I guess I should have answered.’ The price tag was still on it and he very intentionally did not look at it. ‘When I first knew him, you could hardly get him to talk. I guess he was saving it up.’

‘Thanks. I told you, he’s on speed.’

‘Yeah, and I guess he’s under some stress.’

‘Yep. Being on speed is real freakin stressful. He’s gonna burn out. Watch.’

‘It may already be happening. I think he forgets half the stuff he tells me.’

‘How do I look?’

He noticed a black car following him. Maybe.

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In the morning his bank called while they were watching TV. Suspicious activity on his debit card. Purchases in Wisconsin. Asked to confirm his card number, he gave the first twelve digits before suspicion set in. The last four digits he spoke with a weird disembodied helpless dread. The man on the other end of the line said that a representative would be calling him soon, and hung up. James called the number back and it rang ten times before he gave up. He called the number on the back of his card. ‘I think I just got scammed.’ Yes sir, it seems you did.

At a gas station a woman approached. (Telling Destiny about it later, he would refer to her as ‘a well-dressed Mexican woman.’) She came upon him quickly in a gray skirt suit, showing nice legs and teeth, though not exactly smiling. Her pocket device was out before she started talking. It showed a video of a dumpy girl earnestly performing sign language in a white room.

The woman in front of James quickly explained that she was helping her church raise money— she looked like the wife of a celebrity preacher—to distribute this video of the entire Bible in sign language to deaf people. She was pretty in an intimidating sort of way and looking him dead in the eye and his first instinct was to reach for his wallet. His second instinct was to ask himself the question that had formed like a goiter in his mind, which he then put to her: ‘Why don’t they just read it?’

Her look made the easy transition from evangelical to devious, her confidence shaken not at all. She moved along to the last pump and showed the video to an older man with a

Chrysler. She didn’t appear to be at all worried that James would blow her cover. Nor did he.

The old man’s wallet was open when James drove away.

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From the bedroom Destiny yelled, ‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t care. Sushi, I guess.’

‘Okay.’

‘Do you want something else?’

‘No. That’s fine.’

He sat on the couch looking through the plate glass window at the skyline. It was almost pretty at night, but it wasn’t night. In the daylight it wasn’t pretty at all. A fly buzzed around on the glass, trying to get out. James folded a section of newspaper on the coffee table and got up and walked over and swatted the fly, with a little surge of hot blood. Its corpse had fallen behind a chair and lay on its back, wings spread, upon the white carpet. He got down onto his knees reaching behind the chair and pinched it up by a wing. Carrying it across the den toward the garbage in the kitchen, a sudden awful nameless insight arrested him, and he came to a stop with a clenched chest. Then he popped the fly into his mouth and gulped it down.

After which he felt better, though permanently less sane.

•

Snow had flattened the dead winter grass excepting crippled sprigs here and there quavering with a light wind. Having seen sunlight yesterday and refrozen in the night, the groundcover had become a membrane more of ice than snow and separate a few inches from the earth, so that the three pairs of boots traversing this field made aggressive crackling sounds and left dark jagged prints. The first pair were rubber and continued past the knee to mid thigh, filled

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 taut with heavy legs. The second were of scuffed leather, laced tight and worn through to the steel on the left toe. The last pair were made of rattlesnake skin. Their wearer, youngest of the three, was not in peak condition but was glad to be here. For one thing, such legitimate winter—rare in this part of the world, where you might get a week’s worth all year—had always made him feel more awake and alive, what with the abrasive low temperature and, perhaps, a void in his blood established by thousands of harsh prehistoric European winters finding hungry, if slightly confused, fulfillment in such scenes as this: the low rolling land and barren gray deciduous forest with occasional shocks of evergreen. The woods—beginning in a depression beside them, not so far below that they could see over the treetops—angled away sharply left to right, were cut into by a two-lane road and continued until random trees in the pasture beyond colluded to terminate the view. Once, before spending time farther west, this had appeared as an almost grand expanse of territory.

Nearer, at the foot of the gradual slope beside which they walked and bleeding into the woods, was a pond of about an acre. James had once seen half wild cows standing in it. Today there was only ice with, left of center, an oblong patch of gently rippled unfrozen water the size of a swimming pool. Supposedly this pond would be empty, or mostly empty, by the end of the day. Emptying it was supposedly their purpose here. A beaver had dammed a nameless creek, which continued on across the pasture, and Wayne, having recently found a steer dead with a bloated face from a moccasin bite, had decided that the pond had become rancid and corrupted and needed to be re-established and enlarged, with an earthen dam further downstream. It occurred to James, surveying the site of the engineering project shortly to commence, that if the creek got enough water to support a larger pond then the creekbed beyond the beaver’s dam wouldn’t be dry in places and otherwise stagnant: water would overspill the dam and the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 pond would be healthier. There would be more fish and frogs and fewer moccasins. The stinking soupy water was to their advantage. Liquid sin. And left alone would they turn on each other when there was nothing else to eat? Snakes eating snakes, swallowing tails in an elongated circle. How long can a population sustain on breeding and cannibalism, and in what condition would you find the last snake just after it consumed its last family member and competitor? Honed vigorous and cunning or some degraded abomination welcoming its own death?

In any case, in order to drain the pond the beaver’s dam had to go. Wayne carried three sticks of dynamite in doubled and knotted plastic grocery sacks, fingers curled tight through the loop and around the knot. His friend, whose name was Clint, now following the downward slope toward the dam, wore a kid’s red backpack in which a pair of blasting caps, a roll of coated wire and a small box detonator rode each in separate compartments. James had seen these laid out and briefly explained back in the barn, which was now Wayne’s welding shop. Blowing something up was fantastically simple. You put these with those, run the wire to that and, see that handle. You turn it.

It was going to be a genuine explosion, so there was among them a soldierly air: grim and giddy. This Clint seemed the most serious of all, but kneeling to open his pack he wore a slight grin.

‘So you don’t think we need all three,’ Wayne said, holding two sticks in one hand and one in the other like a human scales.

‘I still think just one would probably do it,’ said Clint.

‘I ain’t interested in probably. I want it gone the first time. If we set off more than one explosion out here we’re liable to attract attention.’

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The dam was a mound of earth and mud about the size of a four-door car from the days of cheap gas.

‘All three would take out the dam at Lake Texarkana.’

‘Let’s do two.’

‘Yeah, you ought to save at least one. You might need it some day. Or want it.’

‘So how do we . . .’ Wayne studied the dam like a less-than-sane painter preparing to begin a canvas. ‘We want to get it under, if we can.’

‘Right. It blows up. That beaver’s got an entrance underwater, to his den. It’d be ideal to get it in there.’

James asked if the beaver was still around?

‘Oh yeah. I see him out here.’

‘So he’s gonna be laid up in his den and—’

‘Gonna git a special delivery,’ said Clint, and the three of them laughed, puffs of fog jumping. Which laughter ended rather abruptly.

‘Well,’ James said. ‘I guess it’s not much of a life anyway.’

‘Hell no,’ said Wayne, like that was obvious beyond the need to mention.

‘Fighting those snakes for food.’

‘It’ll be instant. Pretty much.’

‘We need a long stick,’ said Clint, and he and Wayne went to find one, searching the fringe of the dam and along the continuance of the creek, which was mostly treelined. James sat. He had come as an observer and, as already mentioned, was not feeling great. The invigoration provided by the weather was little more than skin deep. He core was soft and sick: like three-day-old fish, for the past three nights had been long ones. Shreveport had hosted the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 bachelor party, where the groom’s small entourage—mostly black by a small majority, like

Darnell himself—were united in debauchery, like on a football team, though they had parted with no plans, or even desire, to reunite. The rehearsal dinner was next, and last night the reception had overspilled the country club banquet hall and closed down the bars. He and

Destiny got cross for no good reason—he found her, after about ten minutes apart, in a crowded corner standing a little too close and smiling a little too freely with some guy she sort of knew from somewhere, some tall guy with a deep voice, and he didn’t pick a fight but neither did he handle it as well as he should have—trying to be strong he only showed his weakness, his fear, his ass—but it wasn’t long before she found him, and they acted like nothing had happened. In the end it had taken just about all of his willpower to have so much fun. Now he hoped that this explosion would blow some of the funk out of him.

Here was Wayne with a long limb, shearing the lesser offshoots to make a pole. Clint, knot-kneed in tight Wranglers with a pale snuff can’s ring on a back pocket, wired up a blasting cap, which was blue-gray and about the size of a hot dog. The sticks of dynamite that he duct-taped around the cap were at least twice as large and not red or even orange but a calm cream color, which seemed very wrong to James. This little bundle Clint affixed with more tape to the end of the pole. He seemed to have blown things up before—Wayne knew him from the

Army Depot and James suspected that he had absconded with lethal materials in the past—for he made the bomb with no apparent difficulty, though with respect for his materials so apparent that you could have called it reverence. Wayne carried the pole toward the pond. At the shore, he stomped at the ice with his heel. It was too thick. He moved gingerly onto the ice, the bomb dangling. He raised his heel to stomp down again, then lowered it slowly.

‘This is stupid,’ he said.

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‘Yeah, let’s bust it up first,’ said Clint. ‘There’s a bodark limb over yonder.’

Wayne returned to shore, laid the pole down carefully and said to James, ‘I was talking to an old guy the other day, at the sawmill in DeKalb. He said giant bodark trees used to be all around here, but they cut down pretty much all of em back in the 1800s to make sidewalks for cities up north. He seemed to know what he was talking about.’

‘It’s pretty much hard as concrete, isn’t it.’

‘It’ll burn up a chainsaw blade.’

Clint came dragging a gnarly twisted limb about the size of one of his legs. At the shore he spread his grip, holding the limb at the thinner end, hefted it, grunted, swung and slammed it down. It jumped from his hands, which clenched hurt into claws, but it broke through.

Wayne picked it up without a word and started on the ice, weilding his club sure and pugnacious as some barbarian forest dweller, bashing a path alongside the dam. Water was just inches from the top of his waders when he turned back.

‘There should be a channel a little further on,’ said Clint. ‘Where it drops off where the creek used to be. I’d just try to jam it as far back in there under the dam as you can git it.’

‘It was startig to drop off there where I quit.’

Wayne threw down the club, wrapped the wire twice around his left hand and took up the pole with his right. Clint held the spool of wire seated and spinning out on a long screwdriver. After a few steps, Wayne stopped and looked back. ‘So this is totally safe? The way we’re doing this.’

‘Hell no.’ Clint laughed aloud. ‘It’s fuckin dynamite.’ Then he sobered quite suddenly.

‘But really, the only way it could go off is with an electric charge. And it ain’t hooked up to the detonator. Cold as it is, you could hit it with a sledgehammer and it probably wouldn’t go off.’

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‘Probably.’

‘You want me to do it?’

Wayne waved him off, drew a deep breath and moved on. He dipped the dangling bomb into the water, prodded and found the channel, turned the pole and pushed, jiggled slightly and found more room. ‘It goes a ways back in there,’ he said with strange excitement, and with the base of the pole just above the water and no more room to shove, he let the pole sink. He unwrapped the wire from his left hand but held it high and dry, letting it pay through as he returned to shore, resembling now a sophisticated modern soldier, now slipping on loose ice and nearly falling, stabilizing and moving on and not even a smile among the three of them for this was serious business.

They gathered in a slight declivity or shallow crater just over the crown of the slope, looking down on the dam. It was enough to protect them from straight-line shrapnel, but it was no shelter at all against debris that shot up and fell back to earth. Clint split the double strand of wire and clamped each to a pole on the detonator, which looked something like a tripped jack-in-the-box, with a fat T-shaped handle sticking out instead of a clown. When he twisted the handle a half turn clockwise it would send a charge through the wire to the bomb. Wayne lay on his belly reaching out and up with his pocket device taking video. Clint was in the so- called fetal position, the detonator clutched against his liver, eyes agleam. James lay on his back looking up. He couldn’t watch the explosion directly, as it might be the last thing he would ever watch, but this way he would see anything flying past or falling toward him. Clint asked if they were ready. They said that they were.

Then it blew up. The ground shook and teeth chattered and air rushed over then sticks and dirt flew over and then a drizzling rain fell across them briefly. They checked one another,

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 exhilarated, then got to their feet without effort: as if filled with helium. James saw a fresh hunk of mud the size of a bullfrog tumbled from the back of Wayne’s leg, then looked down and saw that the pond was draining, just as planned, through a yawing void where the center of the dam had been: the water sluicing away into the thirsty creek. They just stood and watched. And listened. Louder and better than the dull rush of water was the cracking of ice. First near the dam, plates and sheets of ice collapsed and sheered away, and the wavy track of the old creek, long submerged and just revived, revealed itself and carried ice toward the bottleneck at the dam. Most of it passed through with only a little jostling for position, a light rattling noise, and if a sheet was too big it was broken instantly by the suddenly willful water. The explosion had riddled the ice instantly with a spiderweb of fissures, so as the ice lost its support it separated quite easily, if not silently, and what had a minute ago been a contiguous mass was now countless individuals, no two alike. As the water approached equilibrium with itself and thicker ice from nearer the shore drew more slowly toward the site of the explosion, ice dammed the creek once again. They had come down the hill by now and stood looking at the hole the dynamite had made. Where its more or less round shape gave over to the hourglass form of the creekbed, a great mound of ice held back the water. The creek was maybe six inches lower on the downstream side, but that distance was diminishing quickly enough to observe: the dark gray water seething through the piled ice, which was a much lighter shade of gray, with a multitudinous tinkling. Grass and moss, sticks and leaves were trapped within some of the ice and in the water just at their feet the fins of a few scaly fish sliced the surface in slow, confused

S-curves.

Clint took a dip of snuff, offered it around and was politely refused. He had already been looking upstream and now the other two turned to study the aftermath of what they had done.

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James felt as responsible as the other two somehow. Each was aware in his way that tools or at least materials made elsewhere by other men—capable strangers, anonymous accomplices— had done most of the work. The pond had been drained so successfully that, excepting a few puddles, the only water left upstream was in the trough of the once again creek. It had been made shallower, its rounded shoulders made perfect by the soft wash of the pond, and snaking away it met the dark woods among dead, gradually collapsing trees long ago drowned. The generally rising ground beyond the creek was coated in blackish withered growth and chunks of ice became more frequent and thicker with proximity to the recent shoreline, like the pattern in some animal’s skin fading as it draws around the belly. Likewise the blasted debris speckling the white ground on both sides of the explosion: fading out with distance.

‘Blood.’

Clint had said it, and now he followed his eyeline with perhaps too much urgency. The other two, looking down the line of his path, located his object with no trouble: a shredded red flag at about fifty yards. Each was glad that the other did not follow Clint. It was better to watch from a distance with company.

Clint slowed as he drew near, stopped and stared down for the better part of a minute.

When he looked back, he said, ‘It’s a piece of him!’

A mild shiver ran through the both of them. Clint looked around himself more broadly, fixed on something and stood up a little straighter. He followed his eyeline again but this time bent over and picked up what he saw, turned back and held it high, in triumph. A dark something, like the sole of a giant boot. ‘The fucking tail!’

‘No way,’ Wayne said.

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But it was true, and better yet, as Clint came grinning back toward them, examining his trophy on both sides, his head shook with genuine wonderment. ‘And hardly a God damned scratch on it.’

In the welding shop barn the two distant cousins stood before the open door of a big box wood- burning fireplace that Wayne had welded up out of cast iron. A new fire grew inside it, feeding slowly on split wedges of oak just barely dry enough, and on top was a large skillet filled with deer chili, cold but beginning to release little worms of steam. James gave his backside a turn. It seemed a long time since he had found the boat here. A year seemed substantial, accomodating: fair enough. He might reasonably hope for fifty more decent ones—yet the twenty plus already behind him were no more or less gone than months or minutes. The old woman was still in the house waiting for her time to come, to end, still doing nothing since this life is nothing next to the next and the more you do the more risk you run of fouling up and having your ticket revoked.

In this barn James felt comfortable. The explosion had blown some of the funk out of him indeed: tripped a hard-to-reach reset switch, rattled him to particles that resettled in their proper places. He felt good enough to envy Wayne’s shop. The cold air faint with the comforting scent of scorched grease, patches of rough-sawn lumber random and bright over the bad places in the weathered gray walls, racks of steel symmetrical and raw, workbench unbalanced by a vise like a giant open hand at one end, old refrigerator and small stainless kitchen counter, dirty yellow trunk-shaped welding machine with its cables clamped to some just begun and unidentifiable sheetmetal project laid across sawhorses, upon which, under the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 bright worklight, Clint worked at the beavertail with a boning knife, carving away the gore and carving further to make the base a straight line: making it more presentable, innocuous, his. It all added up to James being more certain than ever that the soft life would make him soft and eventually suck the life out of him. Which process had already begun.

‘Hey, before I forget.’ James took a prepared roll of cash from his fob pocket and offered it to the man beside him.

Wayne looked at it with apparent concern, but he took it.

‘Thanks again for the loan.’

‘Sure you can spare it.’

James nodded.

Wayne put the five hundred dollars into his pocket. ‘Thanks. I might end up needing it.’

For the honest tone of Wayne’s voice and for the untroubled, unprosperous atmosphere of the shop, James felt obligated to ask how was business. Thankfully Clint spoke up first, asking if either of them had had any experience with beaver tails. Negative.

‘I was thinking maybe smoke it, to cure it.’

‘Or pickle it,’ said Wayne.

‘I don’t want to keep it in a fuckin jar.’

‘You could take it to a funeral home and let em embalm it. There’s probably a Youtube video.’

‘Probably so,’ Clint said and took out his device.

Hanging by a leather strap from one of several nails on the wall nearby—along with a spatula, a bread knife, tongs—was a big wooden spoon. Wayne took it down and stirred the chili. He was careful but some spilled anyway, sizzled and began to fuse with the hot iron, and

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 though he had eaten breakfast James’ stomach felt critically empty. He inhaled the chili directly through his lungs to his wet, hollow belly, confusing and teasing it. Wayne touched the lavalike surface with a fingertip, tasted it and said, ‘Few more minutes.

‘I like your shop.’

‘Thanks.’ Wayne looked around as if appraising the place for the first time. ‘I like it too.’

‘You liking the work alright? Welding.’

‘It’s work. I just wish there was more of it. It’s picked up some since I opened. Not enough though.’

‘It’ll probably keep picking up, gradually.’

‘It’s gonna have to.’

‘I think he needs to advertise,’ said Clint.

‘How do you advertise for a welding shop?’ James wanted to know.

‘Different places,’ said Wayne. ‘Same as you advertise for any other business. Try to target the right people. But advertising ain’t cheap, usually, if it’s worth a damn. And I don’t have a lot extra laying around to spend on it. I’d do better with a big metal building by the highway, I guess. They say you got to spend money to make money, but you’ve got to have it to spend it.’

‘Ain’t that the truth,’ said Clint.

‘But it’s been picking up a little,’ said James.

‘Yeah, a little. But there’s still days at a time I’ve got nothing to do.’

‘Sounds like my job.’

‘Oh yeah. Dallas, huh.’

‘Yep.’

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Wayne looked at him from slightly above and askance, with amusement and perhaps some small measure of bitterness, even envy—he could not have told you himself—and said,

‘How’s that?’

‘A big fucking mess.’

‘No, I mean your job.’

‘Well,’ James said, and began trying to explain . . . .

‘And what exactly is a polymer?’

‘Ah, it’s basically like rubber and plastic and—’

‘It’s a chain of repeating monomers,’ said Clint. ‘It can be organic or synthetic or both.’

‘Repeating what?’ asked Wayne.

‘Monomers.’

‘Forget it. I don’t even want to know what a monomer is. Did you just look that up on your phone or did you already know it?’

‘What difference does it make?’

‘None, I guess.’

‘I don’t really have anything to do with the that stuff anyway.’

‘Don’t have to know how it’s made to sell it, huh.’

‘I don’t sell it either. I work directly for the President of the company, sort of.’ And

James went on for about a minute more trying to explain what it was that he got paid for, with two anecdotes to illustrate.

‘How much does he call? How often?’

‘It was every day at first. Now it’s been over a week. I think he’s in Brazil.’

‘And he just wants your opinion on shit.’

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‘I saw a guy one time at deer camp in a beaver hat,’ said Clint. ‘Or cap, where the end of the tail was the bill. But he just looked stupid to me.’

‘I wouldn’t wear one.’

‘I don’t know if he even wants my opinions,’ James said. ‘At first, after he called I’d get on the computer and try to do research, and I’d send him emails about whatever it was. The last one I did was about a radio station that only played songs that never get played on the radio.’

‘That’s a pretty good idea.’

‘Yeah, but I could tell he wasn’t reading them. Probably nobody was. Or ever would.

And why would they? Who wants my opinion?’

‘Sure as hell not me.’

‘I know. I barely want my opinions. So I quit sending the emails. And then he mentioned one time that he didn’t get an email about whatever. Whatever was the most recent project he’s never gonna do.’

‘I was about ask you. So he doesn’t actually go through with anything?’

‘Not from what I’ve seen. Not so far. So I’ve just been sending little short emails. Just the first few things that pop into my head that aren’t completely stupid. Or I was. Like I said I haven’t heard from him in over a week.’

‘Guy like that. He’s busy.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sounds like the easiest job in the world.’

‘It is.’

‘But you don’t like it.’

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‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It’s got you all worked up, talkin about it.’

‘I like the free time. It’s nice. . . . But when I used to cash my paycheck, when I worked eight hours a day, it felt good, you know.’

They both knew.

‘But now every time I get paid . . . .’

‘So you are getting a steady check.’

‘I’m on the company payroll. Executive Consultant. It’s direct deposited. Just shows up on the card.’

‘I know some people wouldn’t mind helping you with your problem,’ said Clint.

‘I’m not complaining,’ James said. It wasn’t quite the truth but he had to say it.

They watched the fire. Wayne stirred the chili again and this time gobs of steam poured from it. ‘Ju-ust about there.’

‘Did y’all ever watch The Twilight Zone?’ Clint asked.

‘I saw the movie,’ said Wayne.

‘It’s this old black-and-white show. Used to come on late at night. There was one where right at the first there’s a shootout, and this gangster dies. Little squirrely guy in a suit. Kind of looked like you.’

‘Like me?’

‘Yeah. And the guy wakes up in this bright room. It’s a big suite in some expensive hotel, and there’s this old man in a white suit, with a white beard, and he’s there to answer any questions and make every wish come true. The gangster says, “So if I want a million bucks to be in that drawer, it’ll be there.” The old guy tells him to open it up, and sure enough the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 money’s there. The gangster goes and opens the door and two half naked women come in laughing, and they do whatever he says without asking any questions. They laugh at everything he says. He goes to play pool, and when he breaks, every ball goes in the pocket. So he starts to get frustrated. He says to the old guy, “Hey, buddy, what kind of heaven is this anyway?” And the old guy grins and says, “Who ever said this was heaven?” And then he laughs right in the guy’s face. And that’s the end.’

A contemplative silence took over and nothing was said for a minute or more, until little chunks of chili were hopping from the skillet, launched by bursting bubbles. Wayne put on a heavy glove and carried the chili over to the workbench. From the refrigerator he took a sleeve of saltines and an onion, and from beneath the stainless countertop he took coffee cups and spoons. Carrying these things to the workbench, he said, ‘Clint, did you ever go over to the salvage yard, at the Depot?’

‘Oh yeah. I’m over there about once a month.’

‘So you’ve seen those old guys in there, in that trailer.’

‘Old domino-playing fuckers.’

‘Yep. And they’re on the payroll. I asked Forsythe. Y’all come get some of this.’

They didn’t have to be told twice.

‘They get paid to just set around up there,’ Wayne said. ‘Some loophole, or senority or whatever. They probably make a thousand a week.’

‘I know it. I’m pretty sure they drink, too.’

‘They do. And barely even try to hide it. But don’t they seem like about the miserablest bunch you ever seen?’

‘Yep.’

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‘I mean, other people that work up there are jealous. But if you look at what they’re jealous of . . . .’

‘I know what you mean.’

They didn’t talk much for the next few minutes. They sat near the fire and ate, Clint and Wayne with beers, James with an orange soda in a glass bottle. He would not have traded it for a case of beer. When they had all finished a first cup and sat working more slowly on a second, James said, ‘Supposedly most people that win the lottery end up broke and miserable.

Or miserable then broke.’

‘I’ve seen it,’ said Clint. ‘People buy the stupidest shit.’

‘Everybody wants a helicopter.’

‘Because they’re the ultimate,’ said Wayne.

Man, I’d just save half of whatever it was I won. Cause half is already gonna be a whole bunch more than I’ve got.’

‘You remember about a month ago,’ Wayne said, ‘When the Mega Millions got up to like two hundred million, and everybody went out and bought a bunch of tickets. It’s funny how people will act that way when the jackpot gets up real high like that, but when it’s just, like, seven million, it’s no big deal. Most people won’t buy a ticket at all, and it’s still so much more than they’ve got. Most of them. More than they’d know what to do with.’

‘People find stuff to do with it.’

‘I guess they do. There’s always something else to buy.’

‘You might act the same way. You never know.’

‘That’s true.’

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‘Or maybe they just want to get rid of it,’ James said. ‘Maybe all that money makes them nervous. They want to get rid of it.’

‘Can’t get any peace,’ said Wayne, considering, and then: ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking. How much are they giving you, up in Dallas?’

‘To consult.’

‘You don’t have to answer. I know it’s rude to ask, but I’m just curious.’

‘About a thousand a week.’

Wayne seemed to ponder the number like it was some cosmic mystery.

‘It’s not as much in Dallas as it is here. But it’s enough.’

‘You could get another job,’ said Clint. ‘If you need something to do. Just any old job.

You can come mow my yard.’

‘Yeah, I could come up with some chores for you,’ said Wayne.

‘I’ve thought about that. I considered it. But why would I?’ James looked keenly from one to the other. ‘I don’t need the money. Would you?’

‘Hell no,’ said Clint. ‘The way I look at it. Honestly. Is if money’s not in my hands it’s just gonna be in somebody else’s. And there are a whole bunch of rich assholes out there.’

‘I know it.’

‘There’s millions of them. And most of em like to talk all the time about how broke they are.’

‘I just want enough,’ said Wayne.

‘What would you do?’ James asked. ‘If you were me.’

Wayne opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Then he said, ‘I don’t know. I can’t imagine how I’d end up where you are.’

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‘Blind luck.’

‘That shit’s real,’ said Clint. ‘Like those lottery winners.’

Wayne went for two more beers. Sitting again, he said, ‘Time before last I was at church, the preacher said money can make people feel guilty. If we don’t spend it right.’

‘And then he passed around the offering plate,’ said Clint, his grin too broad to be sly, and they all three laughed.

‘Nah,’ Wayne said. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘He didn’t ask you for your money?’

‘Well, yeah. Sure he did. But he just said the same thing he says every week before they pass the plates around. He doesn’t work up to it in his sermons, like in some churches I’ve been to.’

‘But the donation part is right after the sermon.’

Wayne thought, or pretended to, before answering yes.

‘And the sermon was about how to spend your money the right way and not feel guilty.’

‘Yes. But normally he doesn’t talk about money.’

‘Okay then.’

‘I can’t remember another time, actually.’

‘Okay then.’

‘Quit saying that.’

‘Alright then.’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘Chili’s great,’ said James.

‘It is. Did you kill the deer?’

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‘Naw. Guy across the road gave me the meat.’

‘Nice of him.’

‘I don’t know,’ Wayne said. ‘I think he just had more than he could eat.’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 5

Initiated

THE OFFICE was and was not on the top floor. To enter it you had to get off the elevator two stops before the last, but the ceiling went all the way up, so that it was altogether, as you might expect, big enough to hold a basketball court. Two walls, the long and short of an L, were of hardwood and the other two were of glass. In the glass corner was a sort of conglomerate lounge area with seating for about twenty, no two chairs or coffee tables alike, styles clashing.

Right of here, in the next corner where glass met wood, was a desk, appropriately mammoth, behind which the new boss sat in conversation with someone not present, listening and speaking through nothing apparent. The moustache was not only still present, it had grown larger. To whomever was at the other end Mr. Foster did more listening than speaking. He looked up to acknowledge his visitor, waggled a finger toward one of the two chairs before the desk, which were made entirely of thin white plastic and shaped, in profile, like the letter S. 371

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When Mr. Foster did speak, he said things like, ‘If we squeeze hard enough, something’s got to come out’ and, ‘After we move them, nobody’s going to complain’ and, ‘They can try, but it won’t make any difference’

James did not sit. Hands in his back pockets, he looked around the office. Other than the furniture already mentioned and a collection of statuary in a far corner, it was so much empty space: a marble or granite floor of fantastic variance, cream swirling through patches of blue and green and brown: like looking at the earth from space. All of the statues seemed to be of men but one loomed over the rest: a tall headless figure in a broadcoat with an upraised arm, turned glassward to face the city. James felt he had seen it somewhere, probably on the news, for it seemed to signify the last great American military triumph. The two walls that you could drive a nail into were mostly covered with paintings: highly variable in age and size and style but altogether, with portraits random and regular among them, an audience of captive souls looking down on all that transpired here. The ones toward the top, in the nosebleed sections,

James could not see very well. His eyesight seemed to have deteriorated recently—perhaps just now. Nor did he pick up much detail in the other tall buildings out the windows: they were little more than large abstracted forms, sharing this rarified air with the birds and the billionaires. Mr. Foster looked like he had just gotten married on a beach in his khaki shorts and wrinkled white linen shirt, bare feet on his giant black desk, a three day beard. The whole thing would have been comic were it not so intimidating.

‘Well if a piece doesn’t fit you either change the piece or you change the hole it goes into. You’re the guy with three advanced degrees. Make it happen.’ A horizontal touchscreen projected from his desk, between his legs, and taking his feet to the floor his chair began to tilt forward with slow hydraulic precision and nudging the touchscreen it began to retract. James’

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 boss-buddy-benefactor watched it slide away. When it finished he looked up at James. ‘Does that seem ridiculously slow to you?’

‘It could be faster.’

‘I agree. Little things like that matter. Ergonomics cross pollinate. I mean, who signed off on that?’

‘You should fire them.’

‘Done. He’s fucking gone.’ Foster got up grinning and came around quickly, following his open hand. ‘How you doin, buddy.’

They shared a solid look in the eye, James feeling sized up: small.

‘Fine. You?’

‘Rock and roll. Have a seat if you want to.’

Mr. Foster went back around and took his chair and so did James. But I’m still trying to figure out if this whole thing is a blessing or a curse.

‘Well. Is there any rainforest left?’

‘It seems like it goes on forever. Even when you fly over it, it’s just this ocean of trees.

But here’s what was crazy. You’d think you’d get a discount for buying in bulk, right. I mean, you expect to. But the people down there act like they’re holding all the cards. And they’re broke, practically.’

‘Doesn’t water spin the opposite direction down there when it drains.’

Foster’s response was to squint and show his teeth for about two seconds. Fingers laced behind his head, he put his feet up on the desk again. His soles, nearly black the last time James had seen them, were pink and smooth as a baby’s. ‘We’ll probably backdoor it with Indian reservations and nature preserves. The government down there can pretty much appropriate

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But, as of right now, honestly, there’s not enough liquid to make a difference.’ He exhaled almost wearily. ‘We’re working on that, though. What do you think of the office?’

‘It’s big.’

‘Yeah.’ Mister Foster looked around as if he had not considered the size of the space. ‘I thought about moving to a smaller one, but one of my guys said that your physical space can sort of become your mental space. And my brain works better with plenty of open space around it.’

‘I guess that makes sense.’

‘But I don’t think that was Graddad’s reasoning, honestly. I think he just wanted to make people nervous.’

‘It works.’

‘You mean right now?’

‘Yep.’

‘You’re nervous?’

‘A little bit. Sure.’

‘That’s interesting. Even though we’re friends.’ Foster looked around the office, trying to see it with fresh eyes. ‘It’s just like a human nature thing then. Psychological.’

‘I guess so.’

‘Huh. Well, I’m glad you finally made it up. I hope it’s not to talk about business.’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Good. I’d offer you a drink but it’s a little early, isn’t it. I’ve been staying sober at least the first half of the workday.’

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‘That sounds like a good rule.’

‘Yeah, and lately, actually, I haven’t wanted to drink or smoke much at all. I mean, I used to feel like I needed to wind down, you know, relax. But I realized I was just being lazy.’

‘Well, you’ve got a lot more to deal with now.’

‘That’s true. Would you like a sparkling water?’

‘I don’t know. I never—’

‘Never had water with bubbles in it?’ He laughed in three sharp notes. ‘That’s great.

You should try some.’

‘Okay.’

‘It’s the drunk on the horse,’ he said pointing. ‘You push it on the left side.’

James walked over to a painting of: a man sitting crookedly atop a spotted nag in the desert, turning up the last of a whiskey bottle, tongue outstretched, near eye closed against the sun. Like all the others the painting was in a heavy frame ornate with scrollwork. On the left side was a saddle-shaped divot worn smooth. He pushed there, the wall sank in about an inch then opened: spun around with a semi-circular wet bar.

‘See, that’s a good speed,’ said Mr. Foster. ‘It’s cheesy, I know, but I also kind of love it.’

As James sought his bearings Mr. Foster nudged the touchscreen and it began to extend. He looked toward James in an exaggerated stonefaced stupor, then touched it and said,

‘Annette, find out who installed this wet bar, please.’

James found a bottle of sparkling water in an eye-level refrigerated cabinet. ‘Do you want one.’

‘Please. With a lemon.’

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James brought a glass containing ice and a lemon wedge along with the bottle, and a beer for himself. Mr. Foster accepted the drink but his mind was elsewhere now. He snapped to and opened a drawer, took something small from it, popped it into his mouth and drank from the bottle. Then sitting up straight he held another of the small somethings—a pill—between thumb and forefinger looking at James, opened his mouth wide.

James blinked.

‘Come on, catch. We can do this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s for alertness. It’s all-natural, totally pure. A-a-ah.’

James breathed through his nose, deflating. Then he opened his mouth, getting into the spirit of it. Mr. Foster tossed and James snapped to the right at the last instant and the pill flew into his mouth and Mr. Foster only gave a slight not as if he had expected as much. James swallowed it with his beer just as a faint bittersweetness issued from it.

‘I asked for something without side-effects, and that was non-addictive. Not that that’s ever been a real issue for me, but anyway, they fucking delivered. I’ve got a genius doctor in the lab. He deserves all the credit.’ Mr. Foster poured and squeezed and sipped his drink, then looked at James afresh.

‘So what’s up?’

‘You mean, why did I ask to see you?’

‘Sure.’

‘Ah. Because I think I need to quit.’

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His pulse raced a bit, but it had not been difficult to say and having said it he felt better.

The only sign that Foster had been caught off guard was his silence. His face was well composed, discerning. He said, ‘You think.’

‘I—would.’

‘You need to.’

‘Man, I appreciate this, this job. I really do. But I just think I would be best, for me.’

‘Do you have another offer somewhere?’

‘No.’

‘Are you retiring?’

‘No. I just think I’d be better off doing . . . something.’

‘You don’t feel like you’re doing anything?’

‘Something else.’

‘Do you want a raise? I didn’t know what was the right amount, honestly.’

‘No,’ James said more angrily than he intended. ‘I mean, that’s nothing to do with it.’

‘Is it me? Is it something I did? Because I make mistakes. I’m still figuring this out.’

‘No. I mean, you can keep calling me. I want you to, if you want to. I’m happy to give you my dumbass opinion on whatever.’

Foster stared discerningly, forefingers together in a steeple over his mouth, then said, ‘I can’t say that I understand.’

‘Well, I would rather not try to explain it, if you don’t mind. The more I talk about it . .

.’ James gestured vaguely in the air.

‘So it’s more a spiritual thing then.’

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James’ shoulders raised and his hands fell open, showing empty palms. ‘I don’t know. I just think I would feel better if I had another job, and we were just, you know—’

‘Friends? Buddy, you’ve got to get over this. We can still be friends and work together.

You just compartmentalize. Even if I had to fire you—which isn’t going to happen—we’d still be friends. That’s more important, to me.’

James crossed his arms and sank down into himself a little and looked out the glass.

‘It seems like there’s something else,’ Foster said. ‘I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with the news, about our plant in China. Because I didn’t know what was going on over there and it’s being fixed as we speak. Those people are going to have the best conditions in the whole fucking country. A break room with ping-pong. Unlimited hot tea and eggrolls.’

‘No. It’s just, I guess I don’t feel like I’m earning my pay. I think maybe friends shouldn’t work together.’

Foster’s countenance softened until it verged on amazement. It was a look you might find on a preacher of the Good Word, and James wanted to make it go away.

‘I just quit, God dammit. I don’t want to say anything else.’

‘I’m not going to make you.’ Foster blinked several times, pondering or trying to, perhaps looking at one of the paintings. Eventually he said, ‘You want more responsibility.’

James opened his mouth. All that came out was carbon dioxide.

‘Because I can give you more.’

‘Maybe,’ James said. ‘But I didn’t come here to—negotiate.’

‘I know you didn’t. I can tell the difference. Unless you’re a genius but—’

‘I’m not.’

‘Right. I would know it by now. See, this is why I wanted you in the first place.’

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James disconnected from the person across the desk as his heartrate increased, the room became brighter: the pill took effect. The feeling was familiar enough. ‘All natural’ as this stuff might be, it was still like wearing a very expensive Halloween costume and he felt like a creep.

‘Do you believe in fate?’

‘I don’t know,’ James said. ‘I think I just believe in luck.’

‘Different name for the same thing. Luck is like the fuel that powers fate. This website sends me a new quote every day. You should sign up. Sometimes they’re inspirational and sometimes they just, like, make you think.’

‘I think I’m going to have to think about that one some more.’

Foster’s chair rocked silently and constantly as he talked. ‘When I got the opportunity to take over the bus, it looked like fate. Simple as that. I think behind it was a responsibility to do something unselfish. That still small voice, you know. Last year that bus clocked over fifty thousand miles, and I was behind the wheel for every single one of them. It was hard work, and

I did a lot of thinking at the same time. I knew I would eventually have even more responsibility, and honestly, I didn’t know if I wanted it.’ He looked at James with much gravity. ‘Then one morning—it was when you were with us, I think—I got a quote that said,

“With great power comes great responsibility.” . . . And I thought, shit, you know. It kind of put everything in focus for me. And I knew what I was going to do. What my future was going to be. It was fate. Just like with you. When I first met you I felt something. And I’m not just saying that now, I don’t think. I knew, I know it was fate. I always felt like I could trust you.

And that’s a rare thing, in this world. My granddad didn’t trust anyone, honestly. Not completely. Not even me. But I know I can’t do this alone. Life without trust is lonelier than a prison. That was my quote this morning. See: more fate.’

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‘I don’t understand what you need to trust me with.’

‘Maybe with the future of this company,’ Foster said. ‘Of the planet, if we’re being real.’

He got up and walked around his chair to face the wall of glass, where James could see his front side, smaller and to the right of his backside, in a ghostly reflection.

‘I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.’ He looked slightly to his right, at

James’ reflection. ‘You can quit after you hear me out, if you want.’ He returned his gaze to the city before him. ‘This company could do so much more,’ he said. ‘So, so much more. We should have enough to really change things. We should be able to secure enough rainforest, for example, to ensure the world’s oxygen supply forever. We should be able to make sure that no child ever dies from hunger again. If my granddad hadn’t been so fucking selfish.’

Mr. Foster’s shoulders sank and spread as he unclenched.

‘What, did he have a bunch of money buried with him?’

Mr. Foster turned around. A strange grin passed across his face and left a trace of itself behind. ‘Pretty much,’ he said. ‘Pretty much exactly.’

They looked at each other without communication for a long moment, until Mr. Foster said, ‘I think I will have a drink now.’

James watched him walk silently to the bar like the purposeful businessman he now was.

He poured two tall dark ones and delivered one to James, who stood to receive it, then sat on the near edge of his desk, crossed his legs, raised his glass and nodded. It was straight whiskey.

Bourbon. James made the face and said it was good.

‘Have you ever heard of cryogenics?’

‘Ah. Is that the scientology book?’

‘No, it’s—’

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‘Oh! It’s where you freeze something that’s alive and try to thaw it out later.’

‘Exactly.’

‘A kid tried it for a science project in middle school. With a cat and a chicken, I think.’

‘It didn’t work, did it.’

‘No.’ James sipped. ‘He got in some trouble.’

‘Right, because it’s science fiction bullshit. But you can’t blame a kid too much. He probably saw it in some stupid movie. But there are adults doing it, man. Maybe you know about it. People, when they die—they get convinced by these fucking crackpots, these fucking quacks to have their corpse frozen.’ Foster took a big gulp of his bourbon. ‘Not their whole body, usually just the head. Because it’s cheaper that way, and their bodies are usually old they wouldn’t want them back anyway.’

‘They keep the head in case—’

‘In case one day the technology comes that they can put the brain in a new body, or connect it to a robot or download everything to a fucking computer, what-fucking-ever, it doesn’t matter because it’s not going to happen. The technology’s not coming. A brain doesn’t just turn back on again once it gets turned off. Any real scientist will tell you, the freezing and unfreezing fucks everything up. The whole thing is ludicrous. It’s just old people afraid to die, trying to cheat death, and these slimeballs sell them what they want to hear. It’s fucking pathetic. It’s just wrong. The whole thing makes me sick.’

Mr. Foster looked hard at James for a moment before looking away through the glass again. ‘He liquidated the bulk of his assets and had the money locked away in an account. In escrow or whatever, until he should, you know, until he should be reanimated.’ He finished his glass, grinned with a distant fondness. ‘I said he was selfish, which is true. But he was also

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 smart about it. Like he was in everything. You’d think that something so crazy you could get around it, but the lawyers—they’re motivated, believe me, but even the ones that drew it up say it can’t be changed. . . . Not legally.’

The boss seemed to be awaiting another comment. James said, ‘I guess it’s true what they say. Rich people have problems just like everybody else.’

‘I know,’ Foster agreed, so dense with purpose that he had detected no irony. ‘Actually, it just multiplies your problems. With power comes responsibility. And when I say power, I don’t mean, like—You know what I mean. You know me.’

‘No,’ James said. ‘I don’t.’

‘Man,’ Foster said, touched with dread and heartbreak. ‘Don’t say that.’

He did seem a little hurt, and James felt a little bad. ‘I’m sorry, this is all just—a lot.’

‘It’s heavy stuff,’ Foster agreed, now appearing almost humble and not at all hurt. ‘The lawyers tell me it’s the largest fund of its kind on the planet. And it’s just sitting there. It would do more good if poor people burned it for heat.’

‘And there’s nothing you can do about it.’

‘Well,’ said Foster, urbane and whimsical. ‘Not as long as that head exists.’

They looked at each other, Foster perhaps grinning. When James sipped his whiskey the rim of the glass rattled minutely against his teeth. ‘What if something—’

‘Happened to it? Then the agreement would be nullified. The account would transfer to the company. Earth would become a better place to live.’

Foster sat upon his desk studying James with great interest and, apparently, emotion.

James wanted to stand up and move around, but he felt glued to the chair.

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‘I’m going to do something about this,’ said Foster. ‘It’s a fucking moral obligation, bottom line. It would be wrong not to. But I can’t do it myself. If there was any evidence that the company was involved . . . . So I checked around a little, and there are plenty of ex Special

Forces guys out there who’ll do anything for enough money. I mean anything. But those guys are strangers. Plus, it would only be about the money for them. I think it’s got to be about more than that. Whoever does it has to understand what’s at stake. I mean, if I hired one of these professional badasses, I’d have to worry about blackmail, for one thing. There’s always the chance he tries to turn the tables, then I’ve got to hire somebody else to take him out, and next thing you know it’s a giant fucking mess. You can’t underestimate people’s greed. And I don’t want anybody killed if it’s not absolutely necessary.’

Foster looked with verve to the wall of paintings and locked on one. James’ head wouldn’t turn far enough. His butt came unglued and he stood. Low on the wall—he had not noticed it before—was a lifesize head-to-toe portrait of Kelvin K. Foster. He wore a corduroy suit and his right hand rested upon the head of a bloodhound that lay all but asleep on a small round table, spilling over the edges like melting butter.

‘He’s dead,’ Foster said. ‘He was a great man and I loved him, but he’s dead. And he’s not coming back.’ Foster turned to James beside him. ‘But you and I are alive. And when you came in today and said what you said, about quitting, suddenly it started to make complete sense. I thought: This is why. This is why we know each other. This is why we met.’

James’ heart was working nicely and he felt a little taller and was not at all sure that

Foster wasn’t right about everything he had said.

‘And I think about what you told me. About what you did to your dad’s place. You were so fucking cool about it.’

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‘I was drunk.’

‘When you started the fire?’

‘No, when I told you.’

‘Whatever. The point is you can handle it. It’s perfect. Don’t you see? Everybody wins.

The company, you—everybody. You don’t feel like you’re earning your money. I would argue that’s an outdated concept in a world where machines are taking over so much of the work, but at the same time, I respect it. It’s a natural instinct, even if it is obsolete. So, here’s your chance.

Here’s your chance to earn the jackpot, and help change the world at the same time.’

They were both on their feet now. James finished his drink and Foster nodded toward the empty glass.

‘Let’s have another.’

James gave him the empty glass and, as he walked over to the bar, said to his back, ‘I don’t know, man. I think I’d still probably go with the military guys if I was you. Just pay them enough.’

‘But how much is that?’ Foster said as he poured. ‘You can’t underestimate people’s greed, man.’ He returned with glasses two-thirds full. ‘And, the thing is, it’s not a military operation.’ He sipped, James took his. ‘The place is all by itself in the desert. There’s not even a fence around it. At night there’s exactly one security guard. Just some fucking rent-a-cop. I’m telling you, it’s a fucking bush league, dinky operation. And they’re the most respected company in the whole, the whole head freezing industry. The front door is made of glass. And once you’re inside there aren’t even any locks on the doors.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I sent in cameras. Hidden cameras.’

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‘On people?’

‘Eh?’

‘Sent the cameras in on people.’

‘How the fuck else would I send them? I had one of the lawyers wear one and then I wore one when I took a tour. I’ve got detailed footage, inside and out.’

They looked at each other, sipping and blinking and without communication, until

James said, ‘How much are we talking about?’

‘How much—How much is in the account, or would the job pay?’

James nodded just slightly and his meaning was taken.

‘I don’t know.’ Foster looked up and away as he at least pretended to consider the figure for the first time. ‘How’s five million. That seems fair to me.’

James’ neck and jaw tightened, such that spit began to well up in his mouth, and he was warmer throughout. The number, not entirely abstract, had a narcotic effect: five million opiates like microbial horses running in his blood. He breathed. He sipped his whiskey, control creeping over.

‘Walk with me,’ Foster said.

James followed alongside, careful to stay neither behind nor ahead and struggling with the pace, which was too slow to match the way he was feeling.

‘The company can provide for any equipment you’ll need. It won’t be traceable. I know you’ll want to jam cell phone signals in the area, for example. There’s probably some kind of an alarm. Is it transmitted on the same frequency? Probably not. Can it be jammed? Absolutely.

How? We’ll find out. We’ll make a list. I can help with the planning, but this is on a need-to- know basis, obviously, and nobody else needs to know. Not girlfriends, not even the lawyers.

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And any meetings after today should be conducted face-to-face. No technology, nothing on paper. We’ll meet in some shitty bar outside of town. We might even need to wear disguises, just in case.’

‘Okay,’ James said as they turned a corner, paintings kaleidoscoping in his periphery.

‘But why? I mean, I’m an employee. We’re in your office now. Wouldn’t it just look suspicious to sneak around.’

‘Good point. I’m just being cautious, but you’re right.’

‘And isn’t that a problem. I mean, doesn’t that sort of eliminate me, since I work for you, for the company.’

‘Why?’

‘I mean, if I got caught.’

Foster stopped beneath the big headless statue. The legs and one of the arms had been broken and repaired. ‘That just makes it easier when you get paid, man. We can call it a performance bonus and it won’t look suspicious. And two, again, you’re not going to get caught. We’ll plan it to the last detail. And we’ve got fate on our side.’

‘Okay. But let’s just, you know—’

‘Speculate?’

‘Right.’

‘Alright, fine. If you did, then as long as the job got done and the company wasn’t implicated, you’d still be taken care of.’

‘But the company would be implicated. I work for the company.’

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‘That doesn’t mean we had anything to do with it. It would have to look like you did it on your own. Which is going to limit our options, equipment wise. It can’t look like you had help.’

Foster’s gaze and attention drifted away with concern over this caveat. James felt the whole thing collapsing, and was more disappointed than relieved. The statue loomed: empathetic though it had no head.

‘But really,’ Foster said, ‘it can’t look like some big professional job no matter what. It can’t look like it was funded. You’d have to say you were, you know, disgruntled.’

‘You could fire me first.’

‘Yep. That might be smart. We’ll figure it out. We’ll come up with something. Or the lawyers will.’

Just beyond the glass a blackbird glided by. Foster spread his arms like wings and danced after it, then was only walking again.

‘What do you mean,’ said James catching up, ‘when you say taken care of?’

‘Huh?’

‘If I had to serve time.’

‘We’re speculating again.’

‘Yes.’

‘Serve time. That’s interesting. I mean, who doesn’t? But if you were behind bars, which won’t happen—How does ten thousand a month sound?’

‘On top of the payment,’ James said.

‘The payment for—oh, sure. Of course. That’s fair, right?’

Foster stopped and pointed down.

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‘Look at those people.’

James squinted. ‘I can’t see them.’

‘Down there, in that plaza.’

‘My vision is going bad.’

‘Get some glasses. Get some, like, sports goggles too. Do it this week.’

‘Okay.’ James looked out at the city and knew it was real though it did not seem so. He could make out Pegasus, the red winged horse, on the old Mobil Oil building below. ‘What if the job didn’t get done and I got caught.’

‘That is not going to happen, my friend.’

‘But—’

Foster huffed. ‘Fine. But then no more speculation. Negative thoughts can grow like cancer, man. So, if that happened, there would still be the payment for time served, sure. But if the company was implicated, then there would be no money. Not for anybody. The government would probably go after the account, and they might get it. Which would be worse than burning it, since they’d use it to feed the war machine.’

‘I could say I was taking the head to hold it for ransom.’

‘Yep.’ Foster nodded, sipped. ‘That’s good.’ He shrugged almost flippantly. ‘Or you could just say nothing. Just clam up. . . . I guess that would be suspicious, though.’

‘I could say it was against my religion.’

‘What—the head freezing? Yes!’ Foster slapped his thigh, bent forward and did a quick tap-dance on his bare feet. ‘Fucking A, that’s perfect. You’re from the Bible Belt, it makes total sense. They would believe it.’

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‘I could go on, like, websites for crazy religious people, make a few comments. Nothing specific, of course.’

‘Oh, you should write on the walls, when you do the job, like, something about God or whatever.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Right, Jesus. Jesus wouldn’t like it. Which he wouldn’t, when you think about it.’

‘I’ll find a verse.’

‘I love it. It’s perfect. It looks like some lone nut on a holy mission. See, when we put our heads together, good things happen.’

James leaned his face against the glass. The day had turned dreamlike. Anything was possible: fantastic wealth, a frozen head waiting in the desert like a grail. One among many. His dim smile vanished. ‘But if it’s just your granddad that gets—’

‘It can’t be just one,’ Foster said. ‘It’s got to be several, at least. Otherwise they’ll start looking at who had the most motive. Of course that doesn’t mean they would get anywhere—I have full faith in our lawyers. But still, the best thing would be . . . .’

Foster seemed to be looking at what he was going to say next, as toward some mortally wounded creature that needed to be put out of its misery. James said it for him: ‘Would be to destroy as many as possible.’

‘Yep.’ Foster nodded, scraped his bottom lip with his teeth. ‘The whole fucking abomination.’

James’ recent inspiration had faded significantly, but he did not seriously reconsider his commitment. In a very real way he had no choice in this, and he surely could not complain.

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Earning this kind of money was supposed to be difficult. It had to be. The city seemed to have clarified a little. Maybe this was what a perfect world looked like.

‘Alright,’ James said. ‘I’ll do it for ten.’

Destiny did not like to turn on heat or air conditioning. It was not frugality, it was just her nature, her preference, and it was one of the things that James loved about her. She also did not like to cover windows, which James did not love but which he appreciated just now, in bed on the first warm night of the year, because it meant that Destiny’s naked back was visible in the city’s electric light. The sheet was about her waist. Her breathing was slow and circular: the hair spread over her pillow, emerging from black in silver-green, seemed more awake than the rest of her. He did not feel as helpless as he would have at one time, watching her like this. He could let her go, could probably even stop loving her, if he had to—there had been a time or two lately when, frustrated, he could at least imagine not giving a damn about her, and the manly thing had seemed to be to walk out, silent and purposeful, and get in his truck and take off for a while, get out of town and not say where. But those had only been moments. This in bed was more than a moment. It seemed somehow like his entire lifetime, past and future, collapsed, with everything that would happen having happened already and everything that had already happened still to come, and they would still be together when they were old and gray. In another bed in another place, but together, and she will love you by then as much as you love her.

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‘The stupid windows won’t open.’ She looked at him flustered and saddened and at the same time impervious to those feelings: like it was his fault the window wouldn’t open.

‘I can open the door to the patio.’

She shook her head and walked past the unmade bed into the bathroom saying, ‘It’s okay. The air stinks anyway.’

He was angry, but not for long. The air did stink. She had left the door open but he could not see her, only heard her unzip her jeans and sit on the toilet. He said, ‘Want to move?’

She started peeing and said, ‘Where?’

‘Anywhere.’

‘What do you mean?’

She finished.

‘I mean, I think we’re going to be able to move anywhere we want. Or we could just live nowhere.’

‘You can’t live nowhere.’

‘I mean, just keep moving around. Travelling. We could go to Europe for a while— whatever.’

She zipped, flushed. ‘Who’s gonna pay for it?’

‘We are.’

‘With what?’

He started to speak but she turned the sink on. She always washed her hands. When she was done he said, ‘With our money.’

Her face appeared in the doorway: irritated and thoroughly unimpressed.

‘I’ve got something going on. I can’t really talk about it.’

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She emerged and, walking toward him, looking right at him, said, ‘Why did you bring it up if you can’t talk about it?’

She breezed past him into the den

‘I’m just saying,’ he moved to turn around but his feet did not get the message. He jerked one free and completed the sentence: ‘We don’t have to stay here.’

She was on the couch. She said, ‘I know. I don’t have to stay anywhere.’

‘What do you mean “I”?’

‘I just mean what I said.’ She turned on the TV. ‘I know we don’t have to stay here.’

‘You said I, not we.’

‘You, me, we. Whatever.’

He watched her watching the TV for a moment, then said, ‘We could take a boat.’

‘A boat. Where?’

‘To Europe. We could let the Captain marry us.’

She sort of sniggered and did not look away from the screen.

‘I’m serious. Captains can marry people.’

She cut her eyes over at him and was either truly skeptical or screwing with him. Either way he was irritated. He said, ‘Where would you want to live, if you could live anywhere?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you quit staring at the God damned TV.’

She turned her head very deliberately toward him. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’m trying to talk to you, God dammit.’

‘Quit cussing. It’s ugly.’

‘You’re ugly.’

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‘Nuh uh.’

‘Uh hu.’

‘You don’t think that.’

‘I might.’

She blew a little puff of air from her nose and turned back to the TV. He stood in the doorway feeling more and more foolish, until he walked over to the couch and sat. She scooted over a bit to accommodate him.

‘What are you watching?’

‘This show about lottery winners. It always screws people up.’

‘Yeah.’ He watched a fat man point to an indoor hot tub, then up at the ceiling, which was crumbling and spotted with mold. ‘I don’t think it would us.’

In the gameroom of Foster’s house they ate their all-natural focus-enhancing pills and sat a few feet apart on the long sectional sofa watching a silent video projected on the big white wall. It video was of entering and then touring the Cryo Solutions facility in southern Arizona. It was warped by a fisheye lens but very sharp. They had watched it once already. It was about seventeen minutes long.

‘The question,’ James said, ‘is how do I surprise the security guard.’

‘There are different ways to handle that. You could use a dart gun and tranquilize him, or a stun gun.’

‘But he still might have time to call the cops, use his radio.’

‘He’s not going to be able to call anyone. You’re going to carry a signal jammer. It will eliminate all communication within a half mile radius.’

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‘You can order them online. In fact, you should go ahead and order one.’

‘What about the regular phone?’

‘The land line? Check this out.’ Foster, whose moustache was larger still, swiped his finger slowly across the bottom of the small flatscreen in his lap, where the same video now played in fast-forward, in unison with the projected footage, to which James returned his attention. The view was from Mr. Foster’s chest and at high speed the tour took on the frantic tenor of a rampage. Then it went to normal speed again, outside, touring the grounds. The same man was still leading the tour: pointing out nice saguaro cactus. Foster (in the video) walked toward the building—which was stucco with a Spanish tile roof—right up beside it where a few utility junction boxes were clustered. The view roamed them slowly.

‘Was he not watching you?’

‘I hope not. I was pissing.’ The video paused and a laser dot swept onto the image.

‘That’s the telephone and internet. All the way to the left. And that—that red handle—is the power. One two. It’s like they’re begging for this. You take those out, then you deal with the security guard.’

‘How do I deal with him?’

‘Well, that’s what we’re here to figure out.’

‘Will he have a gun?’

‘We have to assume that he will, yes.’

‘Jesus. Is there just one, all night?’

‘No. Good question. No, there are two. They switch at some point.’

‘What about when they switch.’

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‘That’s good. I like that. I’ll get some footage, see how they do it. You could get the drop on both of them.’

‘What if they start shooting.’

‘They’re fucking rent-a-cops, man. You think they want to risk their lives for twenty dollars an hour. No, man. They’ll lay down. You’ll wear a ski mask or whatever. Cut the power and the phone, creep out of the shadows. You should probably have night vision goggles.’

‘Maybe we should do it on a night with no moon.’

‘Yep. That’s good. I like that a lot.’ He looked quickly over at James. ‘This is fun, right.’

He grinned. He had no facial hair at all now.

‘Yeah, it’s fun for you. You’re not the one that has to get shot at.’

Foster’s grin grew. ‘Good point.’ His grin disappeared. ‘But I’m risking more, in a real way. It is fun, but we can’t lose track of how important this is.’

‘Whatever. Where do I get the nightvision?’

‘Online. You need to be the one that orders it.’

‘Okay. What about tear gas, for the guards?’

‘Eh. I don’t know. If you use tear gas, you’ve got to wear a gas mask, and night vision goggles. Let’s try to keep it simpler. Fewer variables, less margin for error.’

‘I could just creep up in the dark and get them with the tranquilizer darts.’

‘I don’t know. . . . Let’s see when and how they trade.’

‘Okay. Let’s look at the storage room again.’

James grabbed a little sandwich from an immaculate snack tray on the coffee table. The video hurried in reverse back into the building through two more doors and into a short hallway lined on both sides with shiny metal cabinets, where it resumed normal speed. Sound

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‘Everything in this room is stainless steel. Did you expect it to be colder? Everyone does. These cabinets are triple sealed. They’re so well insulated, practically nothing escapes.

It’s twenty below in there, so even in the case of a power outage it would be several days at least before the temperature even got near the melting point. But that’s not even a possibility because we have backup generators.’

‘Are they automatic?’ said the Foster in the video.

‘They start at the push of a button, and they’re serviced regularly.’

‘Did you see that?’ said the Foster beside James. ‘I guess he convinces desperate people.

Which is the only kind of people he deals with.’

‘Where is my grandfather,’ said Foster in the video.

The man in the video walked a few feet, stopped and turned opening his right hand toward the last of the stainless cabinets. ‘Mr. Foster is here.’

‘Open it, please.’

‘Certainly.’

The man gripped a heavy-looking handle and turned it clockwise. When he opened the cabinet fog billowed out then dissipated. In five rows of three were stainless steel canisters large enough to contain human heads.

‘Which one is he?’

‘One row down from the top,’ the man said. ‘On the left.’

‘I would like to see, inside the can.’

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The man shot a harried glance just over the camera. ‘Sir, I advise against that. It can disturb people to see their loved ones in this—condition.’

‘I want to see. How else do I know he’s actually in there?’

The man looked offended, or pretended to, then left the frame. When he returned a moment later he wore a pair of thick rubber gloves. He had to reach up slightly for the canister of interest, strained a little picking it up and then turned with it very slowly. He carried it over and placed it smoking upon a stainless steel table like the votive object of some scientific sacrament. Looking down at it the man said, ‘This is not our normal policy, but Mr. Foster was not—is not a normal client.’ He took hold of the canister on either side again and twisted.

There was a separation at the base and the shell continued to spin, to unthread. ‘You may not be able to see very well, because of the cryoprotectant.’

The shell came free, was lifted off and there remained a slightly smaller cylinder made mostly of glass. Inside it was a deep, dark blue, and there was a human face, ghostly faint. The view moved in closer, much larger than life, and paused.

‘Look at that,’ Foster whispered.

‘This is totally crazy.’

‘I know.’

James’ heart pounded against the back of his throat. The mouth in the jar was slightly open, like his own. The eyes were darkened blanks.

‘It’s almost like all those people are trapped,’ Foster said. ‘All those heads. . . . It’s like they’re waiting to be set free.’

‘I think they’re just dead.’

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‘Well, it’s fucked up either way.’ Foster stood and tossed his device onto the cushion beside James. ‘I’ve got to go for a bit. Stay as long as you want. As long as you need to. Keep watching this till you know the layout with your eyes closed.’

‘Okay.’

‘And don’t worry about the guards. I’ve got an idea about what we can do.’

Foster left.

James stayed for another two-and-a-half hours studying the video, having no doubt that, watching, he was also being watched.

There was no need to dream about the head in the jar, for he thought about it enough while he was awake. But he dreamt about it anyway. Its image was always at the ready: came to him the instant he called for it and too often when he did not. It developed eyes, and who do you think they looked at and for what did they beg?

Destiny said she wanted to see her mom and aunt for a few days and went east. She did not ask him to go with her and he did not ask to go. There had been a distance between them lately, a fixed uncrossable space, even in bed: they could look at each other without seeing, hear without listening, know without knowing. Maybe she had felt it always but for him it was a recent development. He was preoccupied, he knew: had been thinking lately more about Foster and his disembodied grandfather than about her. And, or, maybe they had been spending too much time together and the new had worn off. Maybe it would never be like it had been there for a while.

But even were that the case he would keep loving her. He knew about himself now that he was loyal. There was such a thing as himself and he could change, had and would, but there were

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The money was a part of all this, he knew. It felt like a burden one moment, a ticket to a lifetime of adventure the next. He would help people with it, sick kids or something. He would just keep it in the bank and get a regular job. He would start investing and turn it into a real fortune and he and Foster would philander together. He would travel the world with Destiny.

Yes, they would travel together, and that space between them would close up tighter than ever.

And yet often enough he felt foolish for making any plans at all, for he may be the victim of some vast, long-term con. In these moments everything that had happened since he had gotten on the bus in Austin seemed like an elaborate setting up of James Haskell as the sucker, the dupe, the fall guy, for he knew, further, that he was not smart enough to have ended up here for any other reason but blind stupid luck.

At all times he knew that there was at least some luck involved, and as often as he felt conspired against, he felt special, chosen: on the cusp a large and important life, which he need only be strong enough to accept, which meant breaking free of all the mediocre unchosen who would hold him down with their spite, their silent but constant plea for guilt. As if anyone deserves anything. Shed your fellow man like so many sandbags from a hot air balloon, live a

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His phone rang—he was on the deck in the warm wind from the highway below smoking a handrolled cigarette of “all natural” tobacco and his phone rang, and it was not

Destiny or Foster either one. It was a North Carolina number. He answered, ‘Hello.’

‘Dirty.’

‘Ah—Who’s this?’

‘This is your cousin. Wendell.’

The voice was hard and direct. James coughed and put out the cigarette.

‘Oh, hey. Are you back?’

‘Yep. Guess where I spent last night?’

‘Last night? Are you in Texarkana?’

‘In jail.’

James could neither breathe nor think.

‘You ain’t got nothing to say?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Uh hu. I’ll bet.’

James sought for some better response. Eventually he said, ‘Fuck.’

‘Yep.’

‘What for?’

Wendell breathed what sounded like fire.

‘I mean, was there a warrant out or . . . .’

‘I hope you had a good time in Austin.’

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James exhaled relief, but still felt lower, as they say, than whale shit. ‘Man, I am really sorry.’

‘I agree.’

‘I just totally forgot about that. I’ll pay for everything and whatever you—’

‘Your mom says you’re living in Dallas.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Working for some big company.’

‘Sort of.’

‘Making good money.’

‘More than I deserve.’

‘Uh hu.’

‘Did you . . . .’

‘Did I mention your name to the cops?’

‘I wasn’t going to ask.’

‘I don’t know. I forgot.’

‘Man, I just—’

‘I’ll catch you later, Dirty. Just wanted to let you know about that.’

Wendell hung up.

He called Destiny. She did not answer. He went out that night to what was supposed to be the best strip club in town, but checked his phone more than the naked ladies and left sadder than he had gone in. She called back late the next morning when he was downstairs in the fitness center. She said her phone had been off. They talked for a minute with what seemed to him like strain—short answers and no follow-up questions—then she said she had to go.

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‘I, ah . . . I need to tell you something.’

‘Okay.’

He went into the sauna, where no one would overhear. ‘I’ve been working on something lately. If I’ve been kind of weird that’s why.’

‘You’re always kind of weird.’

‘Well.’

‘Well, what is it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Nah, I’ll tell you about it after.’

‘See.’

‘See what?’

‘Weird.’

‘Yeah, well. Life is weird lately.’

‘I know.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just—I know. It is.’

‘When are you coming back?’

‘I don’t know. A day or two.’

‘Everybody’s alright.’

‘Yep. They’re still crazy.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I still can’t believe you fucked my mom.’

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This statement revealed the truth in her flippant tone: the anger and misgiving. He felt the heat now and the thick air suffocated, but he did not leave the sauna for his soul draining from his body: sucking of the phone and dispersing in the ether between them.

‘I’m not proud.’

He could hear her breathing.

‘Baby.’

‘I got to go.’

‘I’ll call you later.’

She hung up.

He went back up to their place and took a long shower. Then he got on the computer and started trolling fundamentalist websites. Reading threads and posts: looking into minds filled with certainty: crazy people. Some ranted against technology, missing the irony completely. To a heated and frequently misspelled discussion of Satan manifested in various US

Presidents, he contributed: ‘Those who mutilate bodies by cremation will burn for eternity, but the fate of those who freeze bodies will be worse, for they defy God in seeking eternal life.’

It would not lead anyone to him, but it would support his motive were he to get arrested. Probably the FBI would get involved.

In response to his little screed, someone wrote: ‘The body is just a vessel for the soul.’

And someone else: ‘Stay on topic or find another room.’

He closed the computer. He went out and stuffed himself with Mexican food. Foster texted asking him to stop by. ‘Where?’ James asked. ‘The house. Just follow the music,’ was the answer.

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Which James did, and found the boss upstairs in a suite of rooms that had been converted to a practice space and recording studio. There was a lot of soft furniture adorned with musicians, some of whom James recognized from the Christmas party. Cords ran everywhere, like roots and vines over a jungle floor, and the air was thick with weed smoke, though Foster was his usually speedy self, if slightly more harried. He was the only one on his feet and speaking with desperate demonstration to a lanky, subdued young man on a leather love seat wearing a vintage t-shirt and a sharkfin guitar.

‘When you come in, man, when you come in with that riff—and the riff is killer, man, the notes are not the problem, but when you come in, it’s got to be like—’ Foster took hold of an enormous air guitar, ‘like this giant fucking hairy beast just got let out of cage and it’s just raging. Know what I’m saying?’

The guitarist squinted dimly. ‘So, you want me to play it faster.’

‘I want you to play it like a primal fucking soul scream. Like you’re going to be dead in two minutes and it’s the last thing you’ll ever play.’

‘A’right man,’ said the guitarist, glib and put-upon. ‘I’ll try it again.’

Foster turned away and saw James. Smiled. ‘Let’s take a break,’ he said. No one moved or responded in any way. Foster turned back to the guitarist, ‘A hairy fucking beast.’ The guitarist lit a joint. James followed Foster out and had to hurry to keep with the pace down the hallway toward the stairs, before which Foster opened a door. Into an office: large but not enormous: a classy space from fifty years ago slightly modernized: desk and bookshelves to the right, seating and a fireplace on the left, French doors to a balcony straight ahead. Foster sat on the front of the desk. James just stood.

‘Well, I asked you to come here you here so I could fire you.’

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Foster grinned sly and one-sided and James went weak in the knees and hated him as the reality of never-was-going-to-happen established and he resumed his proper place among the rest of the fools.

‘Fire me,’ he said in a quiet voice.

‘That’s the official purpose of this meeting. Just in case. We’ll go ahead and cut you a check for three months severance. You can use that to buy whatever else you need.’

‘Ah . . . . Okay.’

‘So this is my home office.’

‘I like it.’

‘I haven’t been to the one downtown in over two weeks.’ A sort of kooky panic flashed across Foster’s face, brief and dim but genuine. ‘I was starting to go crazy in there.’

‘Yeah. I think I would too.’

‘It got to the point I couldn’t think about anything when I was in there.’ He seemed crestfallen. The moustache was larger still: had reached cartoonish proportions, so that only part of his bottom lip showed. ‘It’s just not me, I don’t think. Not yet. I learned a lot from granddad, but I’ve got to be my own man. Music is the one thing that gets me where I need to be. Thinking right, you know. Living right. . . . But it’s like—I don’t know. It takes inspiration.’

Neither of them had anything to add to that. From looking at nothing, Foster looked to

James. ‘I wish you’d learn to play, man.’

‘I’ve been messing around a little.’

‘Mess around a lot. You’ll pick it up.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You will. It just takes practice.’

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‘I know, but it usually feels too much like work, when I do. I guess that’s lazy.’

‘No, I understand. You’ve got to want it. But you used to practice a lot, on the bus.’

‘Yeah. Things were different.’

‘That’s for sure.’ Foster pulled his legs up onto the desk, crossed his ankles and touched pinkies to thumbs. Breathed. ‘Sometimes I miss it. Especially lately. I made some good music, you know, just meeting people. Playing just to play. Nobody ever recorded anything, it just happened then disappeared. But now, it’s weird. These guys are much better musicians, and we’ve got all the best equipment but . . . . I don’t know. Maybe I need to restructure the contracts, make it more incentive based.’

‘Maybe you need a new band.’

‘I’ve considered that. First I’m going to try harder drugs.’

‘You’ll never know if you don’t try.’

‘Yeah, but it won’t ever be like it was on the bus. When there was no contracts or any of that shit.’

‘Well, you’re not going to make me feel sorry for you,’ James lied.

‘Man, that’s not what I want. I don’t want sympathy. I’m just looking back on simpler times. Which is a waste of time, I know. The future. That still gets me jacked up. It’s just the present, currently, that’s a pain in the ass.’

‘I kind of know what you mean.’

‘It’s different when people think you’re rich, when you have to deal with a lot of people.’

With genuine interest, James asked, ‘How?’

‘Eh. It’s like it’s impossible for—not for people to feel sorry for you, cause that’s not what I want. But pretty much everybody resents you.’

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He looked to James, perhaps to weigh his resentment, and James let whatever sympathy he had for this obscenely rich young man show, and said, ‘I think it just makes people nervous.’

‘Maybe. Are you comfortable?’

‘Huh?’

‘You’re just standing. Have a seat if you want.’

James flinched toward obedience, then walked over and opened the French doors.

‘Ah, nice.’ Foster closed his eyes as a light breeze overtook him. Breathed. ‘I get so wrapped up in my own fucking head lately, I forget about things like air.’

James leaned back against the door frame. The balcony was small and the grounds spread out to his left, sundappled on a beautiful Spring day.

‘I am doing better lately, though. This guy I’ve been talking to, the head shrinker.

We’re getting somewhere. I’m not afraid to be sincere anymore. It’s a big step.’

‘How’s Margot?’

‘Eh. See, there again, it’s different for me. And her. Do you know what symbiosis is?

Symbiotic relationships.’

‘If I do I don’t remember.’

‘So you don’t.’

‘No.’

‘It’s where two different species live together because they both get something from the other. They each do something the other needs.’

‘Like—like the birds that hang around cows.’

‘Ah—probably. Or like bees fucking flowers.’

‘Is that really what they do?’

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‘It’s all about fucking, man. I’m not saying anything against fucking. It’s completely necessary. But symbiosis. That’s how it is with humans. Men and women. It’s got to be symbiotic. Like with me and Margot, or whoever, what’s the point? It doesn’t make sense for either of us.’

James had no response.

‘How’s your little Destiny?’

‘She’s good.’

‘See, it’s different with you. You actually like her.’

‘Yeah, I guess I do.’

‘I feel sorry for you, man.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Well, let’s to get to business.’ Foster’s eyebrows raised and he clacked his fingernails rapid-fire upon his desk three times. ‘I got some drone footage. Of the facility, and all the roads in and out.’

‘I’ve been looking at the satellite view.’

‘This is better. And I think you’re right, about the motorcycle.’

‘Yeah, just makes sure all the lights will turn off. Including the brake light.’

‘Done. I’ll place a phony ad for it on Craigslist. And make sure to use a secure server.’

‘What’s that?’

Foster’s mouth opened and his eyes dimmed for just barely a moment before he faintly twitched and was nonchalant. ‘It just means it won’t be traceable, where it was posted from.’

‘Right. But would it be better if it was? I mean, aren’t most things?’

‘Yeah. . . . I see where you’re going with this.’

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‘Maybe one of us should just go to a library or something.’

‘To post it. Right,’ Foster agreed. He looked neither at James nor happy. ‘Whoever does it should go in disguise. In case there are cameras.’

James found himself concurring, somewhat helplessly though not without excitement.

‘Who’s going to do it?’

‘I’d like to, man, but it’s probably not smart. I never know if I’m being followed.’

‘By who?’

‘Exactly. And I think you’re more, sort of nondescript. Body wise.’

‘I’ll do it. But there needs to be a number to call. Or an email address.’

‘Oh. Right. Just pick a Tuscon number.’

‘Some place where a lot of people work.’

‘Right. It won’t matter. Nobody would ever get that far with it, even if they did get their hands on the bike.’

‘Where does it come from?’

‘The bike?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll take care of it. Honestly, the less you know the better.’

James, feeling very constricted, said, ‘It’s my ass we’re talking about.’

Foster glanced at him with fear which turned quickly and easily to anger. ‘You just need to trust me, man. The less everyone involved knows the better. We’re keeping all the parts separate on this.’

‘Who is we?’

‘I mean, I am.’

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‘How many parts are there?’

‘See, this is what I mean. You already know more than anybody else, by far. You just need to trust me. I’ve got more to lose than you do.’

James did not respond, though his silence implied agreement.

‘And this, the bike, is pretty much the last detail. Rela-a-ax, dude. It’s all good!’

James exhaled, grinned. ‘Just try to get one with a quiet motor.’

‘Stealthy. I like it. It’s unnecessary but—’

‘It won’t hurt.’

‘That’s true. I think we’ve pretty much got it, man. Are you ready?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re the man.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The fuck do you mean you don’t know?’

‘I mean, I’m in. I don’t worry about losing my nerve or whatever.’

‘Good. Neither do I.’

‘I just—’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. It just—doesn’t seem real yet.’

‘It will, when it gets closer.’

‘And sometimes I start to think about all the things we didn’t think about, and it seems like a lot.’

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‘What do you think about, when you think about what we didn’t think about?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Because there’s nothing else to think about.’

‘Like I said, I’m not worried. But it’s almost like I’m worried because I’m not worried.’

‘Stop.’

‘Okay.’

‘That just means you know what to do. It means the plan is solid.’

‘I guess.’

‘There’s no guessing involved. That’s why you’re not worried. . . . You’re not going soft on this, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m just talking.’

‘I didn’t think so. I don’t worry about that, really. Just accept it, man. You got this.’

‘Okay.’

‘You’re the man for the job, I never had any doubt.’

‘Okay.’

‘And you’re going to like having money.’

James looked at him afresh and not without fear.

‘I wake up every morning just jacked up about what I can do for the world. The things I can help change. We can’t lose sight of the big picture here. This is about a lot more than you and me.’

‘Okay.’

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‘You seem doubtful. What’s up with you?’

‘I mean, specifically.’

‘Okay, you want specifics, how’s this. I’ve had some of my guys looking into it lately, and I think we can reverse climate change. Like, pretty much immediately.’

‘Why don’t you do it then?’

‘I mean after this is done. It’s not going to be cheap.’

Foster sat up on his desk sturdy and distant, like a face on Mt. Rushmore, and James did not press for more details.

‘Ten more days.’ Foster reached down beside him for his small flatscreen device and with it turned on the large flatscreen over the fireplace, upon which appeared a gliding bird’s eye view of the Sonoran Desert. ‘Ten more days till the new world begins.’

When she returned they went out and heard some music and had a good time altogether, though she did not drink or talk as he would have liked.

It was quieter in a dimly lit pizza-by-the-slice place which was delicious but apparently not hip. James thought better of mentioning her mother, so he only asked after Cricket.

‘She’s fine.’ Destiny took another bite of her pepperoni and pineapple. Sipped coke. ‘She’s making more money, since the people from her church started going. And her and Zeke got married.’

James’ heart reacted to this news and his eyes opened wide. ‘No shit.’

‘They didn’t even tell nobody.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘What’s crazy about it?’

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He had just taken a bite, so that by the time he swallowed he had stowed away the question of why he felt a part of himself revoked. ‘Nothing. It’s just—surprising.’

‘She’s getting older. I guess she thinks she wants to try it again.’

‘What about you?’

Destiny ate her pizza.

‘I mean us?’

‘What about us?’

‘When are you going to marry me?’

‘Why do you think you want to marry me so much?’

‘Because I love you.’

She rolled her eyes unconvincingly. ‘You just want to keep me all to yourself.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Want to own me.’

‘Not own. I just know I can’t do any better than you.’

‘Yes you could. You’re not that ugly.’

Exasperated yet grinning slightly, he said, ‘That’s not—I’m not talking about me. I mean, because you’re the best.’

‘I’m not either.’

She seemed to mean this absolutely.

‘Yes you are.’

‘How do you know? You never even had another girlfriend?’

‘I don’t need one when I’ve already got the best.’

‘Quit it.’

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‘You quit.’

‘What am I doing?’

His heart was huge now and pumping hard, but he said very softly, ‘Being scared.’

She looked at him almost coldly. ‘Maybe you’re scared to be without me. Maybe you’d be better off.’

‘How? Baby, I need you. I’ve been without you, it was shitty.

Now with a tinge of resentment: ‘I’m afraid you’re putting too much on me and I’m gonna disappoint you.’

‘See. I told you you were afraid. Quit.’

‘Okay,’ she said, and ate her pizza.

‘Where you go,’ he said, ‘if you could go anywhere on earth?’

She chewed. Shrugged one shoulder and said with food still in her mouth: ‘I don’t know.

The beach I guess.’

‘Which one?’

‘Any of them. I’ve never been.’

‘Never been to the ocean?’

‘Nope’ was her curt reply, and he re realized that she was embarrassed. There had always been this between them, this uncloseness that had to do with money, culture, whatever.

It caused both of them to feel inadequate.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘To the ocean. Let’s go right now. I’ve barely ever been.’

‘Now?’

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‘Sure. We’ve got the money.’

‘Are you drunk?’

‘No. I mean, a little, but I’m serious.’

‘Okay.’

He smiled. ‘Okay?’

‘Yeah. Let’s go.’

And they went. To Hawaii: three different islands in six days. One of which was probably the best of James’ life, which is all he would ever care to say about it.

She was very quiet throughout the trip back. James sat by the window. When the mainland came into view, he said, ‘How would you like to live there?’

‘Where?’

‘Hawaii.’

‘Yeah right.’

‘I’m serious. What if we could?’

She laid her head against his shoulder and took hold of his forearm, so that he had no idea what she was thinking until she said, ‘I don’t know. It’s real pretty, but it’s a long way from home.’

The next time he went to the airport it was to fly to Tucson. He did not check any bags but he carried several things with him. He carried a small black backpack, in which were a change of clothes, a small flashlight and a cell phone, which he had never turned on and hopefully would not have to. Less tangibly, he carried his covert purpose and a fear that said purpose would show, despite the inconspicuousness of his jeans and faded green flannel shirt and unhandsome 415

Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 face. But no one talked to him or looked at him twice. They all had their own important reasons for travelling.

At ten after ten—ahead of schedule—he got into a taxi which delivered him to a certain motel on the south side of town. He paid the driver and waited for him to drive away. The night was clear, moonless, cool but not cold. In the desert there is nothing in the air but air and cold endless spectacular space cannot be ignored very long. Wearing gloves now, he passed a small unlit playground where a man slept on a bench, then a church, before the front door of which more bums congregated, one meekly barking, ‘Skew me, sir. Skew me, sir,’ and James looking straight ahead, walking a little faster.

He came then to a storage space rental facility: four rows of units poorly lit and the barbed wire over the chainlink fence sagging in places. Under a flickering security light and before a security camera whose wires had been cut, he entered the gate code and the gate jerked and rattled open. It was very dark within. He took out the small flashlight and started toward the predetermined unit. Some of the units’ doors were up and some of these were empty save scattered garbage while others contained a mattress and a sleeping bag, lawnchairs in a semi- circle, but thankfully no glowing eyes. Most of the doors were down, and into a certain padlock

James inserted a key, which turned. He raised the door. The motorcycle was there: a dirtbike, flat black, vaguely post-apocalyptic. A helmet hung from one of the handlebars and over the back tire were saddlebags, also black. James opened one. Inside, switches and dials facing up, was the wireless signal scrambler, the ‘Triple Band Jammer,’ a steel box the size of a large book. Beside it was a plastic case, smaller, which contained a stun gun or taser. By a push- button trigger, which James lightly touched, it would shoot an electrified cable led by a barbed needle. Then, deeper, were a pair of fencing pliers and a roll of duct tape. In the other bag were

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 the nightvision / infrared goggles and a canvas sack heavy with plastic explosives, detonators with rolled-up lead wires, and a magnetized timer. Beneath this bag was a can of neon red spraypaint, taped to which was a small ziplock bag containing a familiar pill and a note on expensive paper in a tall forward-leaning script: ‘Break on through to the other side.’

Everything, save the note and the pill, was just as James had seen it three days ago, before it had been loaded onto a truck in Texas. From his pack he took the black clothes and put them on over what he was already wearing. The pill he wadded within the note and tossed into an open storage unit. The bike was so quiet he almost didn’t believe it was running.

At a certain mile marker on a certain secondary highway at eleven thirty-five, he pulled off the road, took off the helmet and turned off his lights. The bike had been modified so that even the brake light and instrument panel were disabled by the flip of a switch, and except for a pair of taillights several miles behind him, the road was clear.

Driving a motorcycle at night over uneven terrain wearing nightvision goggles is not the easiest thing in the world, but it’s not so difficult with a little practice, which James had been provided with five nights ago, on the Foster family ranch, which bordered the Red River, which James had stopped and stared at in a prolonged stupor. He had taken off the goggles and there had been enough nightlight to see its shape and movement, and it looked finally like time itself. Putting the goggles back on he had become nauseous. But he was not nauseous now.

Parked on a rise in the land he could see the Cryo Solutions facility about three hundred yards away, obscured by a little storm of light, such that he had to dial down the goggles’ sensitivity, which he knew how to do because he had practiced it. Then he took them off and could see the place even better. But things were still plenty dark up close. He had parked among a stand of saguaro cacti which, vaguely sentient, if not anthropomorphic, would

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 hopefully turn out to be the closest he would have to witnesses. He transferred everything but the Jammer to the backpack. Then he sat to wait for one o’clock, when the security guards were supposed to switch out.

Invisible to the world, he grew cold and let the cold sink in until he shivered about the shoulders and arms. Then he directed all his energy toward overcoming the shivering, but could not, so he just sat and shivered. Eventually he stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. Strictly speaking, he did not want to go down there and do this thing. Of course he had been in a situation something like this before—strangely, strangely, perhaps meaningfully—and had no apparent good reason for doing what he did. Yet here, with enormous wealth at stake, and probably less chance of getting caught, and wealth even if he did, he felt shoddy, desperate, even sinful. But there was no real uncertainty for the decision had already been made—perhaps as far back as the day he was born. Turning away from this would be cowardly, or at least inexplicable. It was going to get done, and beyond that point were only visions of the future. They were even less substantial than memories, but they were all he had to go on. The money itself was still too abstract, too benumbing and bewitching to consider head-on, but the future that the money would afford seemed almost feasible at times. It would be like the trip to Hawaii but unending and worldwide. . . . Even here, in sight of the building with all the frozen heads in it, he still could not appreciate, like he should, the prospect of never having to work again. He was between two worlds, two lives, both of which were his own, and neither made much sense to him, so that there was—and had been for at least since he had agreed to do this—an obscure desire to leave it all behind and make it alone. But he had tried that before as well, and all he really wanted was her and that had not changed. And maybe the

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 world to come would be far better than anything yet, anything he could imagine, had he only the strength and openness to accept it. Which he would try to do, once the money was real.

He checked his watch: twenty till one. He took out the bag of peanuts he had saved from the plane and the bottle of water he had bought in the airport and looking down toward the back side of the building, where the power and communication lines entered, he began to feel for the first time that this might really be something special: an historic moment, even if almost no one would ever know its importance or his part in it. All that money, apart from the relative pittance that he would receive, was like a massive lake held up by a dam, and the people in the valley below needed water. He sipped and swished and spit onto the ground, which was all gravel and succulents. Professional. The word had been occurring to him lately with increasing frequency and import. It was what he had to be now, until the thing was done, to which end he kept playing through the next steps in his mind until a compact pickup pulled into the parking lot and stopped beside the full-size pickup that was already there, and the late-night security guard got out and went inside. In a minute the other one walked out and drove away. James was back on the bike by then, wearing the ski mask and the goggles. He flipped on the Jammer, which made a powerful humming sound—sucking in the waves of the future—and started down carefully, creaking over shards and pebbles, toward the Cryo Solutions facility.

Things went pretty much as he had envisioned, save that reality was altogether more surreal, and in his mind he had never talked to the security guard. After he cut the phone line and shut off the power, he heard the door open around the side of the building and the approach of the guard, slowing as he neared the corner, which James watched in mottled vibrant shades of green and black. The guard appeared there anxious, stocky, of Mexican descent and middle aged, hand perched over his pistol.

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‘Hello?’

‘I’m here,’ James said.

The guard looked blindly just to the side of him, ran his tongue over his lips.

‘Would you please move your hand away from your gun.’

‘Okay.’ The guard raised his right hand, slowly and uncertainly.

‘Go ahead and get them both up, please.’

The guard raised both his hands until his palms showed beside his shoulders.

‘Well,’ James said. ‘I guess we should just do this.’

The guard nodded resignedly. ‘Okay. But please, put it on the lowest setting.’

James looked at the taser in his hand, at first to comply, then said, ‘I’ve got to use enough to put you down.’

‘I worry about my heart. You don’t have to do it at all. I’ll just say you did.’

James was angry now for this was going off script. He took a couple of steps forward, the guard turning his head aside, closing his eyes.

‘Fuck your heart,’ James said. ‘You made a deal. Stick to it or you’ll end up a lot worse than this.’

‘Okay. No problem.’

‘Keep your mouth shut about this. The man you’re working for will take care of you, just like he said. But if you start running your mouth about this you’ll end up in a fucking hole.

Understand?’

‘Yes. I understand. Everything is unlocked inside. I told him though, there’s not much money in there.’

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James pushed the trigger button on the taser and the cable leapt out like an electric snake and took the man in the gut with the loud clicking noise and the man toppled and was only a slow-writhing heap of flesh, moaning low. ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ James walked past the guard, but remembering a matter of protocol turned back and found the man’s phone and took his gun off his hip. Walking toward the entrance, he dropped the clip to the ground and worked the slide—a bullet leapt from the chamber—then threw the gun and the phone in different directions off into the darkness. The door was unlocked, as promised, and the layout was so well known to him already that he did not hesitate in finding the cold storage room. But it was so dark in there that the goggles would not work, even at their most sensitive. He switched from nightvision to infrared and things became more colorful, with blue-framed black voids where the cabinets were and his own hand in flames. But he could not really see what he was doing and so raised the goggles up onto his forehead and turned on the flashlight. Holding it between his teeth and kneeling he took the canvas bag from the pack. The plastic explosives, four cylindrical portions under heavy clear plastic, resembled a package of sausages. Into each of them he plunged a detonator and set about opening cabinets, two on either side of the aisle, and placing the charges within and uncoiling the lead wires. The final one he placed in the last cabinet on the right. As instructed, he unscrewed the stainless lid, raised the glass jar and placed the charge just beneath it. He shined the light into the jar and Kelvin K. Foster, or what was left of him, seemed to know that he had made a mistake. And seeing this head he felt the presence of all the other heads. Dead tissue, he knew, but even were souls trapped within these jars, hoodwinked witnesses to their own indignity, then this was still right, and he was the man for this job. To the jar before him, slightly tilted from the charge beneath it, he said, ‘Fuck you, you old asshole.’ Then he ran that lead wire to meet up with the others at the timer, which just

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 lay on the floor, and inserted the node there and, pausing to consider anything missed, set the timer, as he had practiced serveral times, for ten minutes, and activated it and stood shouldering the pack and walked out.

In the lobby or reception area, still with the flashlight, he took out the spraypaint and wrote one of the Psalms large along the length of the wall, passing over the bathroom door, framed black-and-white desert photographs and a portrait of the company’s founder: HOW LONG WILL YOU PEOPLE TURN MY GLORY INTO SHAME? HOW LONG WILL YOU LOVE DELUSIONS AND SEEK FALSE GODS?

Then he got the hell out of there. He turned off the light and pulled the goggles back down and around the back of the building the guard was sitting up now, looking down between his knees, running his hand over his head.

‘How’s the heart?’

‘Woof.’

‘Don’t go back inside.’

The man began nodding with apparent effort.

‘In fact, you might want to get away from this building if you can. I don’t know what to expect.’

‘Okay.’

‘Can you get up?’

‘I think so.’

The guard put a hand to the ground and leaned his weight onto that arm and seeing him struggle James went over and grabbed him by the elbow and helped him up. The man touched his empty holster. 422

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‘Where’s my gun?’

‘You don’t need it. Just get away from the building. You can say you walked away after.’

‘After what?’

‘You’ll see. Just move.’

James got onto the bike and it started right up. He drove away over the desert, faster than he had approaching but still carefully. The counting of the timer he had left behind was connected with the beating of his heart, which connection did not weaken with distance, so that against his better judgment he stopped again upon high ground and looked back. The interior light in the guard’s pickup came on and he climbed in, and the moment he shut his door the roof blew off the building, a substantial portion of it anyway, with leaping debris smoke or dust, but no fire, and then the sound which was a sharp concussion then a roar, lingering and dying like the defiant rage of some great beast. And his heart was all his own again and Kelvin K.

Foster was dead by any possible legal standard.

He was supposed to return the bike to the storage facility and return himself to the airport so that a plane could return him to Dallas, but the prospect of all that retracing of steps, the nerve-wracking vulnerability it would seem to require, was simply too much. He felt okay on this bike. Though it was legitimately cold now, the helmet was nicely padded and fully enclosed by a black visor, so that while his body suffered his head was relatively warm and serene. From Interstate 10 East he took the first really desolate exit, then a dirt road, and into a culvert for a dry creek stuffed his black clothes, the taser and the Triple Band Jammer. Back on the Interstate, he kept in the right lane, at or below the speed limit. A highway patrolman came up behind him, then changed lanes and passed. He accelerated the sun’s rise by driving toward it, had breakfast in El Paso and was and was not tired. A strange distance had developed

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 between his mind and his body, which felt closer to the machine beneath him. So that despite the fatigue in his body he did not consider lying down somewhere to rest. He only wanted to get back and see her.

Keeping the bike at the speed limit was an anxious draining struggle that did not get easier with time. Fulfillment would have been as easy as lowering his wrist. The twitching needle on the speedometer registered precisely the level of his restraint of the impetuous twenty-year-old still within him. Speeding across Texas was the kind of thing Dirty would have done, and Dirty was there, just below the surface. And that was where he would stay. Not really because of any maturation on his part, but for two simple external factors: money and prison.

About the Guadalupe Mountains he realized that his plane had landed in Dallas without him. Which meant that Foster was probably starting to sweat.

Let him.

Texas went on forever, to no apparent purpose. Though it did become greener throughout the day, by imperceptible increments but truly, and by the time he arrived in Dallas he might have admitted to being tired. And there was the traffic to contend with. It slowed then stopped. A zoo giraffe watched him over the treetops. There were clear lanes along the broken white lines wide enough for him alone. But he kept in place and waited. The more patience he exercised, the finer it would be to hold her. Then a shower, a meal, bed. He was already rich. He had been rich his whole life. And tonight he would tell her what he had done, and she would keep it secret.

He parked the bike in the garage and took the elevator up to the sixth floor.

On the bartop between the kitchen and the den she had left a note:

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Dear James,

This is the third time I tried to write this and Im not gonna start over. Im just gonna go on with it even if it is a mess. I dont want to hurt your feelings but I want to be honest with you cause your my friend. But maybe your feelings wont get hurt too bad cause you feel the same way. I know you know its not right between us. Espeshaly lately its been wierd. Youve been kinda far away and I think its cause your just bored. There are so many girls around here prettier and smarter than me. Your doing good here. You got friends and your making good money and I dont want to hold you back. Im just some ignorent girl from Arkansas, which is where I prolly am if your reading this. Your back from your bizness trip and Im back where I belong. I mite as well tell you Saul is getting out again pretty soon. Thats a part of it. He says he just wants to take care of me and I feel like I need to take care of him. Plus he went to jail for me in the first place. He swears he lerned his lesson about breaking the law and I beleve him. You might not but I do. I guess everybodys got to grow up some time. I wanted to talk to you about all this. I tried to call but you left your phone here. Anyway this is prolly better. Or maybe Im just chicken. Im sorry. I love you but not the way I need to. Ive got to listen to my heart.

Your friend,

Destiny

James stood like a statue with a heartbeat, accepting the reality of the letter. A weird strangled bit of laughter jumped out of him and a tear ran from one of his eyes. He dropped the letter and went to the bedside table for his phone. Five missed calls from an restricted number.

He called Destiny. It rang and rang, and to her voicemail he found himself saying, ‘I got your note. It’s okay. I just hope you’re happy. I love you very much.’

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Then he went out onto the balcony and looked at downtown. Eventually he called

Foster. Who was wound-up tight.

‘Hello? That you, bud?’

‘Yeah.’

Foster exhaled. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m back.’

‘What the fuck? Why didn’t you—Is everything good?’

‘It’s great.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. It went fine.’

He exhaled again, more completely. ‘Right on, man. Why didn’t you answer?’

‘Where are you?’

‘In the office.’

‘At your house?’

‘No. The big one.’

‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

‘Bud I don’t think—’

James hung up. He stopped in the kitchen to stick his head under the faucet for a drink before going down to get back on the bike. The tall glass building which was his object reflected the sun completely as he neared, blinding orange and bigger than the sun itself. All of the people between him and the boss had been notified to let him through, and seeing him their reticence to do so increased with elevation. The big boss himself strode across the ludicrously broad floor the office wearing a broad diffident grin, following his open hand. James gave his

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Texas Tech University, Trampas Smith, May 2016 hand but did not squeeze, was hugged but did not hug back. Foster gestured around in general and said that he was making the space his own—that had been the problem. James saw that the paintings were all gone, with slightly darker rectangles left behind, and Foster said that he was going to mural it over, was going to let whoever wanted to add their part, just like the side of the bus—maybe he would find Jet and let him compose his masterpiece here, and James could think about what he might like to contribute. Then they went and sat and Foster asked a few questions and James gave short direct answers, then asked when he would get paid. And Foster talked and talked, and what he said really was that there was no telling when James would get his money, and when a sufficiently wide gap in the talk finally occurred, James leaned forward looking directly across the big black desk and said, ‘You fucking coward. You should’ve done it yourself.’

It could not be unsaid so James stayed there, hating Mr. Foster’s fucking guts. The boss’ eyes had widened, pearly white, and he said, ‘Watch it’ in a shaky voice.

‘Look at you,’ James said. ‘You’re scared now. You never risked anything in your life.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

Foster seemed injured and at the same time genuinely curious, such that the intensity of

James’ hate was again manageable, and yet the total volume of it had increased. He did not answer.

‘Don’t do this, man. Not you. Are you just stressed or what?’

‘I guess.’

‘It got pretty intense, I’ll bet.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Was it, ah . . . . I mean nobody got hurt, right.’

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‘No. Nobody got hurt.’

‘The guard cooperated.’

‘Yeah.’ James bit his bottom lip. ‘Now I’d just like to get paid. I need to go away for a while.’

Foster winced. ‘Man, like I was saying—I hope you take it better this time, but we have to wait for this thing to settle. I thought you’d understand that. The company can’t just cut a check.’

‘I’ll take cash.’

Foster looked away with a frustrated sarcastic huff. ‘Man, it’s a lot of money. I can’t just make it appear.’

‘Yes you can.’

‘Well, I won’t. How about that. Don’t forget whose deal this is. I’m trying to be the good guy here. I’m trying to show my appreciation for what you’ve done for the company.’

‘Then show it. Like we agreed.’

‘I honestly did not expect this from you. It’s disappointing.’

‘Fuck your disappointment.’

‘Do you not agree that it doesn’t make sense to do it now. Even if the company could.’

‘I want a date then.’

‘After the fund transfers over. I can’t say exactly when that will be. This is unprecedented legal ground. But it will happen, and after that point, honestly, I don’t worry about anything. The rules, the possibilities, are all going to be different.’

‘All I know is I held up my end, and you’re not holding up yours.’

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‘Yes, I fucking am. If you can be an adult about this. This thing has to move at its own pace, man, not yours.’

‘Quit fucking talking and give me a fucking date.’

‘Is that talking tough?’ Foster narrowed his eyes. ‘Is that what it sounds like? I hate to say this, but you’re forcing me to. I don’t know what’s going on with you but I think you’ve lost perspective on this. As far as anyone can prove, or wants to know, you’re the only one who’s done anything. Again, I don’t like to talk like this, but you’re the one that brought the negative energy to this situation.’

‘Don’t fucking threaten me. If I go down, you go down.’

He was speaking lines from movies and they were the truest words that he knew.

Foster shook his head almost sadly. ‘This doesn’t make any sense.’

‘I mean it. I don’t care. Actually, if I brought down a big company like this, I’d probably get off easy. You’d be the one that would have to worry.’

Now looked more genuinely sad, Foster said, ‘No. That’s where you’re wrong. Even I couldn’t bring it down. Even if I wanted to. The company’s bigger than all of us.’

‘I’ll tell everything I know.’

‘What will you tell?’

‘I can tell my story and you can tell yours.’

‘Well, if you wanted to play hardball, that would be your only option. It wouldn’t be ours.’

‘What does that mean?’

In Foster’s eyes there was yet some fear, but it was of a different nature now: a certain lethality behind it. ‘It just means what it means, man.’

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‘You mean you would—kill me.’

Foster looked at him sadly and coldly.

‘Let’s be honest about what we’re talking about here.’

‘I hate that it’s gotten to this point. I really do.’

‘Don’t be chickenshit about this. Say what you mean. You’d have somebody kill me.’

‘I mean the company would do whatever it had to do to protect itself. And I couldn’t get in its way because the company needs me. It needs me to use it for good.’

‘You say that like you know what it means.’

Foster shook his head, crestfallen and baffled, like he had tasted something that had spoiled. ‘What’s up, man? What’s going on with you?’

James breathed in, his breath caught at its high point, a partial exhale forced its way out, chuff. His eyes watered but he did not cry: held back the tears with a strength that seemed to have no other use. ‘She left,’ he said.

‘Destiny?’

‘Yeah. She’s gone.’

‘Damn, bud. I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say so?’

Foster looked down on him in apparent pity for a long moment, then gazed off at something distant and invisible. ‘I hear getting your heart broken sucks. It makes you crazy, right? That’s why you’re acting like this.’

‘I guess.’

‘Do you want a drink?’

James’ head shook softly. ‘I guess.’

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Foster got up and went over to the bar, which was already out. He poured something brown into a high ball. ‘Let’s focus on the good news, man.’ He walked over with the drink, and one for himself. ‘We fucking did it, man. The new world is upon us. Cheers.’

James touched his rim to Foster’s and they each sipped, and it burned and was good.

Foster went back around to his side of the desk and sat.

‘So what do you think your first move’s going to be. When you get the money.’

Foster reclined and rocked his chair softly, glass on his chest. ‘ Actually my thinking has changed, recently. I’ve been more honest with myself, about what’s possible, and I would like to help people, but the truth is, people have to change from within. You know, you can save kids in Africa, for example, and then what? You can put billions toward healthcare, and people will live a little longer, but you can’t keep people from dying. Or you could focus your efforts on education, but will it make anybody happier? You can tell people the truth, but what do they do with it? Like I can tell you, there’s no true and false, there’s only positive and negative. But do you understand what I mean? It’s like, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.’

‘He’ll drink if he’s thirsty.’

‘You know what I mean, man. I’m talking about ultimate reality. I’m talking about setting people free from fear. They have to do for it themselves.’

‘So what, you just don’t give a shit?’

‘No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. It’s just, I’m just thinking bigger now.’

‘How is that?’

‘Two words.’

‘Okay.’

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‘Are you ready?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Outer Space.’

James stiffened, and stood to keep from getting stuck in that chair forever. Something had broken. Foster was saying something about a reusable rocket and a physicist with a theory on interstellar travel when James turned to the glass wall, and the city beyond, hurled his high ball. Which exploded and left a fissure behind, splashed with bourbon. Foster was silent now.

James took hold of his chair, which was of hardwood and leather, dragged it toward the cracked glass, picked it up and swung it with all that he had. More cracks appears.

‘What the fuck, man?’

He picked up the chair and swung again. And again. The fissures multiplied but did not separate and he heard Foster’s voice, dimly though he yelled: “It’s shatter-proof, man! What’re you doing?’ He flung the chair sidewise at the glass, stumbled. A leg had punctured a hole, through which air rushed whistling like steam from a kettle. He picked up the chair with a groan and raised it over his head for an axe-like swing, staggered and it fell behind him. He stood looking at what he had done, breathing hard.

‘I’m going to have to call security, man.’

James could see Mr. Foster, reflected in an ungeometrical section of glass, standing behind his desk and the horizontal screen extending quickly from beneath it. To that reflection he said, ‘Go ahead. Have me arrested.’

‘I’m serious, man. Are you having a breakdown or what?’

‘I’m serious too. Have me arrested. Say I came up here to ask for my job back and when you wouldn’t give it to me I went crazy. Do it. I want to go to jail.’

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‘You’re not making any sense. I’ve got a guy you could talk to. He’s really good.’

‘Fuck your fucking head doctor. Do it or I’ll whip your ass. I’ll make this hole bigger and throw you out.’

‘Is this like a Christian guilt thing or—’

‘I mean it.’ James turned around. ‘Please. Or you’ll have to fight me.’

Foster looked at James like he had suddenly begun speaking in a foreign language.

Then he touched the screen, exhaled audibly through his nose and said with plain disappointment. ‘Get me security up here right away.’

They looked at each other for another blank moment, the distance between them as wide as it had been all along, until Foster said, ‘What do you plan to tell them?’

‘Just what I said. I came to ask for my job back but you wouldn’t give it to me.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all. I don’t want to die.’

Foster squinted discerningly, still confused. ‘But you want to go to jail?’

James was not quite as sure now that he did want to, but he had made this decision and would stick with it. ‘Yeah.’

The door opened and a pair of very capable-looking short-haired men in khaki slacks and sports coats strode in. Foster pointed to the young man who stood framed by the huge busted pane of glass, with clarity to either side. James put up his dukes like an old-timey boxer, picked the one on the left, reared back and took a swing but his punch was dodged and he was easily subdued. He made them drag him out, arm pinned behind his back, struggling just for the hell of it, and yelled just before passing through the door: ‘Good luck with outer space!’

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And Mr. Foster looked to the wall of glass, to the section which was not like the others.

He felt exactly as small and as human as he was. The hole whistled and howled and the world beyond was utterly fractured—though that could be repaired. He walked over and stood the chair up, then sat in it. Through the hole he could see clearly, though he could not see very much besides Pegasus, the flying horse. He sipped his drink and his mind got a little softer, a little duller. Pleasantly. The air rushing in was fresh and clean breaking across his chest and face. He closed his eyes and let it.

•

When the guard came to his cell and told him he had a visitor, he knew who it was. And so he felt taller and wore a smile of sly but genuine happiness all the way to the visiting room. Where he sat where told to sit. The door on the other side of the sound-proof glass opened and

Destiny appeared. Their eyes met with the same expression of tender longing. He had taken her for granted in the past, but not anymore. She sat and they each took up their telephones.

‘Hey, baby.’

‘Hey.’

‘You can’t believe how good it is to see you.’

‘It’s good to see you too.’

He put his hand to the glass and spread his fingers and she matched it on the other side, and their hands were exactly the same size. His eyes misted.

‘You coulda waited,’ he said.

‘I didn’t want to.’

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‘I don’t like you seeing me like this. I’m ashamed.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘Just a couple more weeks.’

‘Yep.’

‘When I thought I’d lost you, baby, I didn’t want to live.’

‘I’m here now.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you, Saul.’

He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Say it one more time, please.’

‘I love you, Saul.’

His eyes closed tight as if he were trying to see into the future. ‘I’m gonna take care of us,’ he said. ‘Just wait and see.’

Just over a hundred miles away, in another ‘correctional facility,’ James Haskell sat in a very similar room, and when the door behind the glass opened his smile fell, but did not disappear entirely. It became sadder, truer, and he meant it when he said, ‘Hi, mom. Thanks for coming.’

‘My God, honey. Are you okay? Has anybody hurt you?’

‘No. Everybody’s been real nice.’

‘I don’t think you’ll have to be here much longer. We’ve got a lawyer working on it.’

‘I’ve already got a lawyer. The city gave me one.’

‘I mean a good one.’

‘Please, don’t waste your money.’

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‘Well we’re not just going to do nothing. I’m not just going to leave you in here.’

‘Maybe I deserve to be here.’

‘Why? What did you do that was so bad? Broke a window?’

‘It was worth over ten thousand dollars, so it’s a felony.’

‘Jimbo and I can help with that.’

‘And I threatened him.’

She drew her lips into her mouth. There were tears in her eyes. ‘The lawyer said—he suggested you could try apologizing. Ask him not to press charges. Tell him we’ll pay for everything.’

‘It’s too late for that, mom. You don’t understand. Please.’

‘What do I not understand? I understand you’re in jail. I understand you didn’t hurt anybody. What happened? I thought you and this guy were friends.’

‘No.’

They looked at each other, without understanding but with love.

‘Mom.’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t worry. It’s only going to be a month, I think. Then some probation. I’ll be fine.’

She looked away, snivelled, then said in a broken voice: ‘And you’ll have this on your record. What are you going to do then?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll write a book. Or just sit around and wait till I get rich.’

He grinned just slightly, then so did she, though she did not know why and her eyes were still swollen with worry.

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‘The world doesn’t work that that way.’

He put his hand to the glass and she matched it, but her look turned hard and helpless.

The wrinkles around her eyes were real, and for the first time she looked old. He could glimpse her both younger and older than she was now and she was always beautiful. Just beneath his own skin was a great swirling deposit of thoughts and feelings, of possibilities and impossibilities, all of which brought forth a sharp and abiding sadness. But he held up his smile, and would keep holding it up.

‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘But the world is changing.’

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