Bull Head (15 page)

I have no idea what he's talking about.

“She likes to hold it above her head when she's on top, gyrating and grinding like a belly dancer.” Travis hunches forward, leans over the table. “Goddamn. What a night.”

“Do you ever tell the truth?”

The woman has blue eyes that bore right through you like you were some unwanted dog coming in from a storm. We called her “the Bride” because she shuffled around town in a filthy, tattered wedding gown, sat in the doorways of postcard and T-shirt shops, sketching. Nobody in their right mind would go near her. She was a certifiable loon. “Was she any good?”

“She's got a good pussy.” Travis laughs and punches me. “Pay up.”

I dig into my pocket and count out five twenties, my tips from
the last two days, drop them on the table. A dumb-ass wager; a hundred bucks for each girl we get in bed. The loser also has to sleep with her; if he doesn't, he pays double.

He folds the knife into its handle. “I couldn't leave without a little souvenir, could I?” He slips the knife in his pocket. “Now it's your turn. Let's see if you can rise to the challenge, buddy boy.”

It was the start of summer holidays; I had just turned thirteen. My mother dropped me off at church. She gave me the choice to go with her, but it was hot out, and I didn't want to make the hour-long trip and wait in the pickup outside the bar while she drank and played the slots all afternoon.

In church, I held the hymnbook in my hands, mouthing the words. Across the aisle, a girl with shiny black hair that hung halfway down her back sang with her parents. I knelt on the flattened padding of the kneeler, pretending to pray, but most of the time I stared at my watch or glanced at the girl, hoping she would notice me.

After, I climbed up the riverbank to where Harley lay on the hood of his truck, squinting into the sunlight. “Boy, it might be Sunday but that don't mean you need to be so pokey.” He rolled off the hood and opened the door. “Get in. We're running late.” He had promised my mom he'd keep me busy over the summer at his buddy's place, a cattle ranch jammed against the border in the south country.

Harley drove fast, picked at his teeth with the corner of his cigarette package. I shifted in the seat against the door, stared
out the window as trees gave way to open patches of bare land. We turned off the blacktop and drove the gravel.

“Learn anything at church this morning?”

“Yeah.”

“What's that?”

“We're all going to hell.”

Harley chuckled. “Amen to that.”

The road snaked up through the valley above the river. Cattle stood scattered through meadows below the timberline and in clusters along the river. Harley drove with one arm on the window, the other on the steering wheel.

“You got a girlfriend?”

I shook my head.

“Why not. Good-looking guy like you. Lots of girls'd be interested. Anyone catch your eye?”

I shook my head and leaned my forehead on the window, gazed at the land rolling by through the side mirror. A cut line along the ridges ran east-west, the boundary between countries slashed through the forest like a thin scar.

“You gotta take what you can. Ain't no one give you what you want.”

I felt him studying me.

“Your mom at work today?”

“Guess so.”

“Don't cause her no grief, you hear? She's got enough on her plate.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, you understand, or just yeah?”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“Good.” He geared down, drove across a cattle guard. The vibration rattled through me.

The next night there's no sign of Travis; I feel obvious, sitting alone in the Northerner, pretending to read a paperback while watching the Aussie work the room. She glides between the tables, black curls bouncing on her shoulders, stops at an older American couple's table.

“Lemme try one of them elk burgers,” the woman says, not lifting her head from the menu. Her husband sits with his thick arms crossed, orders a rye and coke. The Aussie glances back and gives me a bright mega-watt smile. She writes down their order and pours me a cup of coffee before heading into the kitchen.

After half an hour, the American woman pushes her plate toward the waitress, two small nibbles taken out of the burger, traces of ketchup smeared on the plate where the French fries were. “I ordered a beef burger.”

The Aussie picks up the woman's plate, tells her she'll be back in a moment with a new order. The woman's husband grunts as he gets up and leaves the table.

“That's all right, honey, we've had enough. Just take it off the bill and we'll call it even, okay?”

When the Aussie hands the woman the bill, the woman picks through her change purse, holds each coin up in the fluorescent lights. “I don't know how y'all can tell your coins apart.” Her husband waits outside, lights a cigar, and paces back and forth on the sidewalk. She drops a few coins on the table and leaves.

The Aussie clears their table and picks up the change piled
on top of the bill. Her shoulders sag. “Those cheap bastards.” She dumps the dishes in the service area. The clatter rings out through the bar. She lights a cigarette, taps her foot nervously against the wall.

I leave a ten-dollar tip for a cup of coffee and head toward her. “Hey, looks like you could use a beer after work.”

Harley and I got out of the truck. We walked across the yard around the back of the barn to the trailer. A few men with duffle bags hung around a couple of quads, and a boy, older than me, perhaps sixteen, stood alone staring at us. One of guys stuffed a duffel bag in one-two-three-four black garbage bags and wrapped it in duct tape. Harley yelled to the other boy, “Hops, get over here.”

The boy walked over. Lanky, farm-tough. He had narrow stony eyes and a vicious scar above his lip.

“Get him set up.”

“Set up how?” He spoke slow, as if each word were an inconvenience.

“Don't be a smart-ass. Show him around. Introduce yourselves. Hell, I don't know. Sort it out. Be ready in ten, you hear?” Harley walked toward the other men.

The trailer was oven-hot, stuffy. Hops fished a joint out of his pocket. “Want any?”

I shook my head.

“Sure you do.” He lit it, inhaled deeply, and held his breath for a moment, studying me before letting out a low, long exhale, the smoke pouring out of his mouth like a dragon.

Pencil nubs and topographic maps crowded a table with a deck of Penthouse Pets playing cards, and an ashtray overflowed with butts and roaches. Outside, through the filthy window, the sun burned high in a blank blue sky, the lodgepole pines blazed and shimmered. Cattle bawled, the murmur of men's voices, dogs barking. Harley chatted with one of the guys on the quad and tied down the duct-taped bags with bungee straps on the back rack.

Hops took another drag and tapped out the joint in the ashtray, slipped it into his pocket. “Come here, kid. I want to show you something.” The quads started up and drove off; their engines buzzed like chainsaws. He grabbed me by the hair and pushed my head down, held me in front of him. He unzipped his jeans. “Open.”

I try to shake my head free, but his grip was strong; he tore my hair, and I cried out. He clenched me harder. “That's it. Open up. Just like your momma does.”

Hops seized my throat and squeezed. I thought this was it; this was how ends. I gasped for air and punched him in the stomach.

“Billy?” Harley called, reefing on the doorknob. “Don't make me break down this door.” The trailer shook. I willed the door to snap off its hinge. “Goddammit, get your skinny ass out here.”

Hops grunted and loosened his hold on my neck.

“I'm here,” I coughed.

“Christ, you're giving me a headache. You got two minutes. Move it.” The door stopped rattling.

I spat into an empty beer bottle where cigarette butts floated in stale beer. My eyes stung and my lips hurt. I turned away.

“Don't cry, little boy.” Hops moved his fist back and forth in
front of his mouth. “You're gagging for it, just like your momma.”

The Aussie and I sit across from one another at the all-night diner. There's another cabbie in a booth and a lone cop, but otherwise the place is dead. She smiles, introduces herself as Linda.

I flip open my Zippo, drag it along my thigh to spark a flame, light her cigarette. It's a move I've practiced hundreds of time while waiting for the next fare.

“That's some trick.” She tilts her head back and blows smoke rings.

“You're pretty talented.” It's a lie, anyone can blow smoke rings. She laughs anyways; a good sign.

“It's easy. Pucker your lips, like this.” Linda leans forward, her breasts push against the edge of the table. Her upper lip is moist. I swear, she could make cleaning toilets sound sexy. I try it and intentionally fail.

“It's okay, not many guys can handle a Zippo like you.”

We laugh. “What's that?” I point to her necklace.

She holds it up in her palm, turns it over. “A rose quartz. A love gem.”

“Does it work?”

“It gives me comfort.”

She squeezes it and lets it fall against her skin and asks about me so I tell her stories and renovate my past so it might fit into her present and get her to come home with me. I tell her I'm saving money to buy a piece of land to build on before prices skyrocket, want to open a drywalling business, start a family, get a
dog, the whole nine yards. I'm not sure if any of these things are actually true. I haven't really thought much about my future, but saying it makes it real, as if I could somehow get there and live out my days in peace and contentment, whatever that means.