The Life and Adventures of Lyle Clemens

by John Rechy

  “Didn’t we pay you enough?” Brother Bud said.

  “Too much,” Lyle said guiltily.

  “Why the hell’dya cause all that pandemonium out there? Why?” Brother Bud moved in.

  “Because the Demon that Brother Dan pulled out of that kid hopped into me!” Lyle cried out. He quivered his body, head shaking.

  “What?” Sister Sis adjusted her wig. “You mean—?”

  “Yes!” Brother Bud seemed resurrected. “Of course, the demon’s ways are wily—but no match for Brother Dan! Damn! This is going to be terrific!

  “A televised Armageddon,” Sister Sis predicted.

  Sister Sis and Brother Bud marched Lyle back onto the stage.

  When Brother Dan saw Lyle advancing, he pulled back, out of his daze. He sprang to life when Sister Sis and Brother Bud announced:

  “The Devil hopped out of that little pervert—uh, child—who was freed right before our eyes, and—”

  “—that old demon hopped right on over and seized the Lord’s Cowboy,” Sister Sis finished.

  Gasps! “The Lord’s Cowboy has been seized by Satan!” … “The Devil has landed on the Lord’s Cowboy!”

  “—and now Brother Dan will purge the demon in the fiercest struggle witnessed in this holy tabernacle!” cried Brother Bud.

  Resurrected by the call to arms against the entrenched demon, Brother Bud hopped higher than ever, high, then landed with a shout, his Bible cocked at Lyle. “Have you been possessed by the Demon that I—through the intercession of the Lord—purged from that perv—that innocent child?”

  “Yes!” Lyle made a deep, growling sound.

  Brother Dan hopped back.

  The angel children hummed delicately over the lower moans of the chorus. The auditorium swayed in terror and ecstasy in anticipation of the approaching exorcism.

  “Save the Lord’s Cowboy!”

  “Drive out the Wretched Demon!”

  “Purge the Lord’s Cowboy!”

  “Yea, yea, the spirit of God lives in Brother Dan!”

  “Pull Old Satan out of the Lord’s Cowboy!”

  Lyle breathed harshly, loudly, eyes rolling.

  Burly guards took their station behind him, readied to grasp the cleansed body.

  “I cast you back into hell, Evil One, who has seized this servant of the Lord, our own Lord’s Cowboy!” Brother Dan swung his Bible around like a saber.

  Sister Sis’s tambourine trembled. “The Evil One will flee under the power of the Lord and Brother Dan!”

  Brother Dan broke into tongues: “Brolt-yum-christa-welk-arribayare!”

  “Save the Lord’s Cowboy!” prayed the congregation.

  “Set the cowboy on the straight and narrow!” an old man gasped before he broke into raspy coughs.

  Lyle remained upright, his guitar dormant over one shoulder.

  “The power of the Lord commands you, Evil Spirit, to exit from the Lord’s Cowboy!” Brother Dan shouted—and pushed at Lyle’s forehead with one hand. “You are gone, Demon!”

  Lyle did not move.

  “You! Are! Purged!” Brother Dan punched at Lyle, hard, with each word. “Now fall! You are slain in the spirit! Fall!”

  Lyle did not move.

  Brother Dan shoved harder, harder, several punches.

  “Ole Devil still holds me,” Lyle groaned, “Ole Devil won’t let go, I feel him—” He clutched his groin. “I feel him groping me now. Grrrr-grrrr, quiverin’ with lust, grrrr. Ole Devil givin’ me a hard-on, Ole Devil coaxing me to jerk off. Hmmmm, grrrr!” He began to open the fly of his jeans.

  “What did the Lord’s Cowboy say?” a woman in the front fringe of the stage asked, cocking her ear. “What is he doing?”

  “I think he said—I think he’s—”

  Brother Dan stood before Lyle, arms out wide, blocking him from the sight of the cameras and the congregation. “I said, you are saved and slain in the spirit! Didn’t you hear me?” He grabbed Lyle by the shoulders and shoved him back forcefully.

  “Stop shoving at me, you damn fake!” Lyle shouted, and shoved him back. “You’re the one who’s got a demon up your ass!”

  The burly guards lunged at him.

  “Don’t let ’em push you around, Lord’s Cowboy,” shouted one of the angel children.

  “Shove ’em back!” another coaxed.

  “Punch the suckers,” someone in the front row of the congregation said.

  The burly guards grabbed Lyle by the shoulders. He wrested himself free. “Fuckin’ fakes!” he shouted at Brother Bud and Sister Sis. “Fuckin’ fakes! You’re the goddamned perverts—and that wasn’t a tumor in that jar, it was squashed jelly beans!”

  Sister Sis’s tambourine blasted, blasted, blasted. Brother Dan stomped on the floor. Brother Bud joined them, and they all broke into harsh tongues:

  “Namligdrahcir!”

  “Senrabevilc!”

  “Retsehcdrefla!”

  “Nedlohnehpets!”

  “Drofslairbnerak!”

  The choir sang loud praises to the Lord, drowning out the Angel Children’s pristine voices.

  Queries floated about the congregation: “Is the Lord’s Cowboy saved?” … “Is he going to sing and dance again?”

  Lyle marched off the stage. Sister Sis and Brother Bud and the two guards ran after him. One of the guards spun Lyle around and held him, the other punched him hard in the face.

  “Ouch!” Lyle said. Before his fists could punch back—

  “You’re under arrest!” a controlled firm male voice said.

  Two serious-faced men in shiny suits appeared and faced Brother Bud and Sister Sis. “You’re under arrest for grand larceny.”

  Lyle shook his head, dazed at the events and by the pain in his cheek.

  “Fuck, why fight it?” Brother Bud extended his hands to be handcuffed.

  Sister Sis attempted to run, but was caught by one of the two men in shiny suits. She glared at Lyle.

  “—absconding with foundation funds, fraud, tax evasion—” the second staid man was saying.

  Sister Matilda! Lyle thought. Sister Matilda had uncovered them, had tried to warn him to stay away, but when he wouldn’t, she encouraged him to Stay put and watch them, reminded him with the jelly beans. She hadn’t taken any funds; she had fled in order to bring all this about.

  “—a part of it all.”

  One of the two harsh men faced Lyle, who only now registered the words that Brother Bud had just said, or maybe Sister Sis had, both of them, that he, Lyle, had been a part of it all.

  “Did you know what they were up to? Were you an accomplice?” one of the men in shiny suits asked Lyle.

  He must have known—something—must have from the beginning, and he’d taken the money they’d given him, become a performer in their nasty circus, and he knew about the jelly beans, even if just a while ago. He said guiltily, “I guess I did know.”

  “I guess you did,” one of the staid men said. “We saw you at the bank with their shield, that flunky Thomas Clarence.”

  5

  Lyle in jail with Mr. Magwitch.

  Brother Bud and Sister Sis were booked and jailed, along with their accomplice at the bank, Mr. Thomas Clarence, who had “kept their accounts.”

  Lyle was put in a jail cell, waiting to be interrogated. His wrists hurt from the tight handcuffs, and, God, it was awful to be in a cell. Iron bars! They made you feel captured—and afraid, very afraid—like his life had been taken away from him—and he felt alone, very alone, even if he wasn’t alone.

  “Name’s Magwitch. What they got you for, fellow?” his cell mate asked him. He looked like a big-rig truck driver, hefty, with a flowery tattoo on his thick biceps.

  “Lyle Clemens, glad to meet you Mr. Mag—”

  “—Magwitch. So whatya do?”

  “I don’t really know what they got me for,” Lyle said. “I think for helping someone with grand larceny,” That’s what he had retained from a desk sergeant writing on a form. Or wer
e they holding him for exposing himself?

  “Whew!” Magwitch was impressed.

  Should he ask his mate why he was here? He didn’t have to.

  “Guess why I’m here?”

  “Ah—” What to say that would please him? “Ah—”

  “Bank robbery. Needed to get some money for an ungrateful adopted son. But I didn’t get away with nothing, shit. Just set off all those alarms, and then those fuckin’ bank clerks busted out singing gospel songs louder’n the goddamned alarms!”

  “You tried to rob the Lord’s Bank?”

  “Yeah! That’s what they call it. How’d you know?”

  6

  Mr. Cowboy is born on the road.

  Hours later, Lyle was interrogated. No, he had not opened an account at the Lord’s Bank—but he didn’t tell them he had cashed the check. He told everything else truthfully, that he had been warned—but, just in case, he didn’t use Sister Matilda’s name. He had, though, opened one button of his pants and …

  An exasperated detective threw his hands up. “Aw, lettim go, the Lord’s Cowboy hasn’t done anything to hold ’im.”

  Where would he go? Where was Sister Matilda? Anaheim was desolate. In the news every day, there were stories about the two evangelists who had been embezzling, lying, cheating in every way. As he was packing his things to move out of the motel, the television on, he heard a newscaster:

  “And yet, letters keep coming in for them, with donations,” Anchor-woman Mandy Lange-Jones said with a slight smile, “despite the fact that a purported tumor turned out to be squashed jelly beans, mixed with darkened mucilage.” She restrained a chuckle. The coanchor, Tommy Bassich, shook his head, restraining a chuckle. “Unbelievable!”

  Mandy Lange-Jones continued, “New allegations are surfacing against the founders of the Lord’s Headquarters—secret funds, laundered money, back taxes, an account in Switzerland, all handled by bank official Thomas Clarence.”

  On the screen appeared Brother Bud and Sister Sis, heads lowered reverentially—Sister Sis’s hand securing her wig—as they were being led to be booked. Noticing the camera, Sister Sis entreated heaven. “The Lord shall see that we overcome.”

  He would journey to the nearest city that seemed to promise him shelter from these events: Los Angeles.

  Following directions two of the angel children in the choir gave him to the outskirts of Anaheim where he would catch a ride “easy,” Lyle stood by his suitcase at the edge of the highway, his guitar over his shoulder, his thumb stuck out.

  Cars whizzed by. People turned to look. One car paused—and moved on. Lyle sat on his suitcase without putting out his finger. A car braked.

  The driver was a plump, jolly man, about fifty, smiling widely. He wore a plaid cap, slacks that matched. He had a full mustache, which drooped at the edges. Lyle thought he looked like one of the characters in the old mystery movies that Sylvia and Clarita sometimes watched on television. “Hop in!”

  Lyle did. The car was full of papers that looked like maps, or graphs.

  “Your horse died on the nation’s highway?” the man chuckled, a hearty laugh.

  “I never had a horse, never even rode one. Maybe I never even saw one except in the movies.”

  “Naw?” the man seemed incredulous. “Settle down. I got a feeling about ya, boy. You’re a lucky sign, I just betcha. He extended his hand to Lyle. “Mr. Fielding,” he identified himself.

  Lyle introduced himself to Mr. Fielding as Mr. Clemens.

  “Glad to meetya, Mr. Cowboy,” Mr. Fielding said. “Where ya headed?”

  “Los—” An airplane roared loudly across the darkening sky. “—Angeles.”

  “Hot damn! I told you you’re my good luck. That’s where I’m headed!—and then back, back to my beautiful bride-to-be. Bet you got one yourself, right? Maybe several?”

  “One,” Lyle said dreamily. Beautiful Maria. He was tired and sleepy—he hadn’t been able to sleep in the jail bunk while he waited to be interrogated—and so he dozed now, a long time, woke now and then to hear Mr. Fielding ask him if he was real tired and saying that he’d better rest up, rest up for “luck-bringin’.” Lyle even dreamt—scattered dreams that included Sylvia Love and Maria facing each other, angrily, or as friends, and then dancing off together up a hill, where each tried to shove the other down.

  When he woke, they were still driving—he didn’t remember that Los Angeles had been that far when they had flown in and been taken by limousine to Anaheim. “How much longer we got?” Lyle asked. It had turned dark outside.

  “We’re almost there!” the man exulted. “Las Vegas, hut-dam!”

  “Las Vegas? I thought you said you were going to Los Angeles?”

  “Damn! I thought you said you were going to Las Vegas. You must’ve got wrong directions because you were headed the wrong way.”

  What the hell, Lyle thought. He leaned back to fall asleep again.

  “Listen, cowboy. I’m playin’ my lucky hunch—I always do. You’re my good luck, I felt it when I saw you out there on your suitcase. I’m a gamblin’ man, rode through life on lucky instinct. We’ll be a pair. You tell me how to bet, and I’ll—”

  “I’ve never gambled, Mr. Fielding,” Lyle said.

  “Great! I knew it. My instinct said, That’s your lucky man. Take him with you. Trust your luck. Know what I mean?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Fielding.”

  “I’ll explain, Mr. Cowboy. We’re going to my lucky casino at the Bellagio Hotel, and I’m gonna rely on you telling me what to play—cards, machines, horses—”

  “Horses?” Lyle was still half-dozing and wondered whether the man was suggesting he ride on a horse. “I don’t—”

  “On television—races on television, great big televisions. We bet there, right there, wherever races are running,” Mr. Fielding explained happily. “I’ll bet your lucky hunch. As my partner, Mr. Cowboy, you’ll share in the winnings, half and half.” He accelerated. “Lucky day comin’, Mr. Cowboy!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1

  An unexpected detour. The vagaries of chance.

  A head, Las Vegas gleamed, shone, sparkled, burst into lights, gushed water, exploded in electric colors!

  When they arrived, Lyle squinted awake. They had driven to a section of the city that looked like a lit rainbow, if a rainbow would shine at night. A purple hotel loomed, green neon blazed, splotches of electric red shaded the sky. A medieval castle, a Roman coliseum, a palace, a massive pyramid, a sprawling chateau, a pirate ship among palm trees lit yellow, green, blue, red—the London Bridge, smaller though—and everywhere on the streets, which rose, then leveled, then twisted around—were tourists and taxis and billboards with pictures of women dressed only in feathers, pictures of magicians, lions, singers, tigers—

  Was it all really there? An erupting volcano was spewing colored fire. Nearby, a lake rippled like silver foil!

  “It’s something, isn’t it, Mr. Cowboy?—and wait until you see the babes that hang around everywhere!” Mr. Fielding said ebulliently as he drove along a lit driveway, around the lake out of which, suddenly, water spouted in a swaying dance.

  At the hotel, bellboys jumped to greet them, take their bags—Mr. Fielding had a small one, Lyle had only one and his guitar. They entered the lobby, golden arches, paintings on the ceilings, a row of pretty women and young men waiting to attend.

  “No time for nonsense, we’re here to win,” Mr. Fielding said, marching under the arches into a giant room that contained many more. Lyle saw: card tables, domino tables, dice tables, people hovering over them, attendants in green meting out cards—and then, everywhere, clanging, banging, tinkling slot machines, lights popping like electric eyes, more machines alive with winking colors, wheels spinning. More people hunched over them, shoving coins—clanging, clinking, issuing money, devouring money, machines with names, all lit up: FILTHY RICH, DOUBLE GOLD, NEPTUNE’S TREASURE, HOUND, HOW WILD, DOUBLE GOLD, WILD CHERRY PIE. FISHIN’ FOR CASH, PERFECT TE
N. WHEEL OF FORTUNE. HIT THE TOP!

  Along the aisles of lights and clanging slot machines, the pretty girls in tiny red skirts and low-cut blouses carried drinks to those humped over the machines.

  Lyle’s eyes couldn’t take it all in.

  “Choose, Mr. Cowboy! What are we going to gamble on?”

  Lyle read more names on tables: Blackjack, 21, Baccarat, Craps—and there were hundreds of people under what looked like tents, people brimming with exuberance or agitation, groaning, moaning, howling, hooting, clapping, cursing, blessing, weeping, laughing, yowling, hooting—hands waving.

  “You fall asleep again, Mr. Cowboy?”

  Trying to focus on something definite in this sea of shifting images of racing horses, Lyle’s eyes had followed one of the young women carrying drinks sassily on a tray, a dark-haired young woman; her tiny red skirt flared out from her small waist. His eyes followed her as she moved into yet another enclave. He would play his hunches, Lyle decided, like his partner, Mr. Fielding.

  “Over there!” Lyle had pointed to where the pretty woman had disappeared.

  “The horse races on television!” Mr. Fielding agreed. “Naturally, a cowboy would choose the horses. Good instinct.” He was almost panting with excitement. “Let’s go play the horses and win, Mr. Cowboy,” he said confidently.

  They entered the room where the girl had disappeared. There she was milling about the men—all men—who sat intently before individual television screens, horses racing across them. By the side of each screen was a computer keyboard, receiving bets. A huge screen ahead multiplied the images of the horses. Other screens exhibited rows of names, strange names, pretty names to bet on. Attendants moved around, paying or not.

  “Choose a name Mr. Cowboy, let’s go!”

  Clarita had exhorted him to rely on the Holy Virgin Guadalupe. He said a prayer to her and chose: “Cute Gal.”

  Mr. Fielding bet.

  They lost.

  Lyle concentrated on more names on the board. He chose: “Texas Belle.” “Mexican Lady.” He rejected: “Sister Mary.” He chose: “Latin Spitfire,” “American Beauty,” “Great Lady.” He rejected: “Jelly Queen.” He chose—