“What are you talking about?” Fletcher turned up the collar on his coat against a wind that was no longer playful but biting.
“I wanted to bring you to a place that might give you confidence for what’s ahead. I expected to zamoosh into the Rumpus Room, but I can see from your stance, and your smile, that this is what you needed.”
“Needed . . . for what?”
“Fletcher, things might get a little strange from now on.”
“Might?” Fletcher’s eyes bulged as if he were harnessed in one of Dodd Beckerman’s chokeholds. “Might get a little strange? What are we going to do?”
“A little exploring.”
Panic trickled down Fletcher’s throat and into the pit of his stomach. He swallowed hard.
“What are we going to explore?”
“You,” said Tandy, and in one great swoosh of wind, he felt himself in a race with the speed of light, and he was winning.
Part II
6
If Fletcher hadn’t been wearing chaps, his landing on the scrubby ground of the high desert might have hurt a little more than it did.
In all that there was for his mind to process—the soreness of his right hip, the smell of hot dogs, the lilting notes of calliope music—the thought that asserted itself first was, I’m wearing chaps!
As he stood, brushing the dirt off his black leather–covered thighs, he saw he was no longer wearing his brown crepe-soled oxfords.
I’m wearing black-and-white cowboy boots!
“Hip!” The word was punctuated by a clap on Fletcher’s back that nearly sent him sailing.
“You, sombitch, it’s about time you showed your candy ass around here!”
“Aw, leave him alone, Stretch. Least he’s dressed.”
Resisting the urge to run screaming into whatever abyss was out there (and he was now convinced there were plenty), Fletcher instead examined the rhinestones glittering on the cuffs of his fringed jacket. When he looked up, it was into the faces of a tall man in a jean jacket and Stetson hat and a shorter, older man in a Stetson hat and a jean jacket.
“Geez, Hip, you all right?” asked the older man.
“Yeah, you look like you seen a ghost,” said the tall man. “Or maybe you just looked in a mirror.” With wide strides, he began walking and added, “Don’t know which would be scarier.”
Fletcher seemed unable to fire the neurons that would command his feet to move, and the older cowboy seeing he wasn’t following them stopped and scooped air with his hand, urging Fletcher forward.
“C’mon, Hip!” he said. “Show starts in ten minutes!”
The only motion Fletcher was capable of was to pull at the skin between his nostrils, but his old nervous tic made him even more nervous, when he felt something he’d never before felt under his nose—hair, and lots of it.
I’ve got a mustache!
He didn’t have to touch his head to know that he was wearing a cowboy hat, but he did anyway, knocking back the brim with his hand.
“Curly, tell Hip to move his ass!”
“Hip, c’mon!”
His brain, realizing its helplessness in making sense of a senseless situation, finally gave his feet permission to move, and Fletcher, rubbing his right hip, limped after the jean-jacketed pair, toward a tent.
During his gimpy hundred-yard jog, he took in all he could.
Cacti and stunted, gnarled trees sprouted haphazardly from the weedy ground and in the distance, set against an immense blue sky, the jagged peaks of mountains.
I’m in the desert, he deduced. Maybe Arizona.
A sign said otherwise: “The Twenty-Nine Palms Chamber of Commerce Welcomes You.”
Fletcher, an armchair adventurer who had supplemented the Norman Rockwell reproductions Olive hung on the wall (“Gad, Fletcher,” she had told him, “if only the world were a Rockwell painting”) with maps of the world, knew where Twenty-Nine Palms was. California.
He was at a carnival in California. Children slalomed between adult obstacles, their fists clutching pink cones of cotton candy, braided lollipops, electric-blue sno-cones. A few rickety rides flung or spun riders in steel cages and a Ferris wheel made its creaky orbit in fits and starts. Passing a parking lot full of dusty pickups, Fletcher followed the two cowboys to a small trailer parked near the big top.
“Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot,” said the tall cowboy when Fletcher stood shyly in front of the steel mesh steps. “Come on.”
The trailer was littered with crumpled bags from Carl’s Jr. and In-N-Out Burger, with flattened cans and tipped bottles of beer, with a fan of playing cards, a splayed paperback book, and folded sections of the L.A. Times.
“Hey,” said Curly, picking up the newspaper. “There’s my crossword.”
Fletcher’s gaze rode over the open page, then backtracked when he saw the date, 1977. He had gone back in time ten years.
Stretch opened the gray, pleated vinyl door of a closet and then shut it again.
“Aw, what the hell. Let’s just wear what we got on, Curly. No sense givin’ ’em anymore for what they’re paying us.”
“But everyone likes the rhinestones,” protested the older man. “Don’t they, Hip?”
Licking his lips with a tongue that seemed devoid of saliva, Fletcher nodded.
“Sure. Everybody likes rhinestones.”
After rolling his eyes, Stretch took off his hat and sailed it the length of the trailer and onto the grimy folds of a blanket heaped on the built-in bed.
“Fine,” he said, taking off his jean jacket. “We’ll give the assholes rhinestones.”
Minutes later, Fletcher found himself in an improbable position: atop a black-maned horse named Grazi, behind two fringed and rhinestone cowboys named Stretch and Curly, who were also on horseback.
Tandy, he begged for the tenth or twentieth or thirtieth time, help.
Fletcher had only been on a horse once before in his life, and that occasion had convinced him he wasn’t all that anxious for an encore ride.
Bryan Ellis, a kid new to school, had asked every boy in the third grade class to his birthday party, the invitation requesting, “Come Dressed like a Cowboy or an Injun!”
Olive bought a feathered headdress from the five-and-dime and sewed a line of fringe along the side seams of her son’s slightly outgrown brown corduroy pants and a brown corduroy vest and helped him paint bold strokes of war paint across his face and around his bare arms.
“For Christ sakes,” said WW, watching as Fletcher posed in front of the mirror. “What exactly is he supposed to be, anyway?”
“Why, an Indian chief, of course,” said Olive through tight lips.
WW laughed. “A frou-frou Indian chief, if you ask me.”
The boys at the party did not seem overly impressed by his costume either.
“Hey, it’s Chief Squints A Lot,” said Ron Zimmerman.
The Tug-o-War team he was on lost, and during the Wild Coyote Egg Toss he was the first to drop the chicken egg Gene Palmeter hurled at him. And when it was his turn to play Pin the Tail on the Li’l Dogie, a blindfolded and dizzy-from-spinning Fletcher staggered toward the picture of the calf affixed to the shed door and managed to tack the paper tail exactly where the Li’l Dogie’s li’l penis would have been, causing the boys to laugh so hard that Mark Speege pleaded for everyone to stop because he was going to wet his pants. Fletcher stood off to the side, pretending to be greatly interested in the nest-building barn swallows who flew in and out of the hayloft; he had not learned the art of laughing at himself and in fact thought his only line of self-defense was not to.
After cake and ice cream, the boys gathered at the corral for the event everyone had been waiting for.
There were two horses inside, Bryan’s spirited Appaloosa, Streak, and Mabel, a big gentle Morgan. Mr. Ellis took turns helping the boys on Mabel, after which they rode around the corral with the birthday boy and his horse. Only Ron Zimmerman declined the ride, claiming a sore knee. Fle
tcher was fairly certain that if he had used the same excuse, he would have been teased for being chicken, but he was not about to use any excuse; he couldn’t wait to ride. Standing on the fence with the other boys, he joined in the whooping and hollering as Streak, responding to the orders given by Bryan, pranced and turned circles, and as Mabel and her rider carefully plodded by.
Fletcher was the last boy to ride, and when he stepped into the laced fingers of Mr. Ellis for his boost up onto the horse, every single part of his body issued a happy and contented sigh.
“You’re a natural!” said Mr. Ellis as Fletcher took the reins—he was not about to hold onto the saddle horn as some of the other boys had done—and gave his horse a little nudge with his heels.
Howdy Mabel, he thought. It’s me, Hip Galloway, King of the Cowboys! He had the strangest feeling that this was his hundredth time on a horse rather than his first, and Bryan, noticing his confidence, smiled at Fletcher in a conspiratorial fashion.
“Git,” whispered Fletcher, and Mabel, responding to his command, picked up her pace and Bryan hooted and gave his own signal to Streak, and soon the two horses were trotting around the corral to the shrieks of the surprised and impressed boys on the fence.
Fletcher had taken off his feathered headdress for the ride, but the fringes on his vest and pants riffled in the breeze created by his speed.
“Yee-haw!” he shouted, just the way Hip would, and exalting in the thrum of the horses’ hooves on the hard dirt he’d added a joyful, “Yippee-ki-yay!”
It was then that Ron Zimmerman took out the slingshot he carried like a wallet in his back pocket and with careful aim let fly a small stone. He could forgive his own cowardice but felt duty-bound to punish Fletcher’s lack thereof.
The pebble hit Mabel hard in her right flank and she let out a wounded whinny, rearing up against the stinging pain. As natural a rider as he might be, it didn’t change the fact that this was Fletcher’s first time on a horse and surprise caught him unawares, and before he could respond to the Hold On! reflex, he tumbled off Mabel as easily as a load of dirt off a dump truck. His glasses preceded him to the ground, breaking, and when he landed he heard a soft snap, and he knew from the pain that something inside him had broken, too. He got a new pair of glasses and his fractured arm would heal, but the new and exciting confidence he had felt on Mabel was shattered beyond repair.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the announcer’s voice, “let’s put our hands together and give a nice Twenty-Nine Palms welcome to the Daring Desperadoes!”
As his horse followed the other two cantering into the small arena, Fletcher wondered just how many shocks a system could survive. He had an urgent need to tug at the skin between his nostrils, but he didn’t dare let go of the reins.
Considering their circumstances—they weren’t masked and armed and inside a bank vault but instead on horses inside an arena—Fletcher’s assumption that the Daring Desperadoes were trick riders and not wanted outlaws was a fairly easy one to make. This was fortified by watching Stretch race to the center of the arena, rein his horse to a stop, and command him to sit, which the horse promptly did, allowing Stretch to slide off his back. A further indication was given by watching Curly, whose horse was walking with stiff legs.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the announcer, “ever seen a horse do a prettier Spanish Walk?”
And then his own horse reared up on his back legs and Fletcher muttered a string of expletives that had never before passed his lips, at least not in that order or furor. There was no doubt he was going to get thrown—and this time harder than when he was as a kid—but to his complete and thrilled surprise he not only stayed on but spun himself around so he was facing the horse’s back end, then spun again to face forward. When Grazi bowed on bended knee, Fletcher’s surprise grew exponentially, especially when he dismounted by doing a somersault down the front of the horse.
Did I just do that? wondered Fletcher, looking into Grazi’s warm brown eyes as he untucked himself and stood up to acknowledge the audience with a wave of his hat.
To the music of “The Tennessee Waltz” the three Desperadoes led their horses through a series of synchronized steps and rears and dips, after which they chased and roped calves, finishing off by dismounting and standing in a circle, each with their twirling lariats.
“Now let’s see how these fellers do the Texas Skip!” said the announcer, and the applause picked up as the Daring Desperadoes jumped inside their spinning circles of rope, but waned when in jumping through each other’s circles Curly stepped on Stretch’s rope, deflating the sphere to a squiggle of rope on the ground.
This one mistake triggered several others, and by the time they got back on their horses to take their final bows, the applause was more polite than enthusiastic.
In their trailer, Stretch was irate.
“Way to step on my rope, Curly,” he said, yanking off his cowboy hat and sending it across the room with a backhanded spin.
“It’s not like I meant to,” said the old cowboy after a weary sigh.
Stretch muttered something that neither Curly nor Fletcher could decipher, but words weren’t necessary to communicate his anger and disgust. They were the complete opposite emotions of Fletcher, who was having a hard time not cackling with glee.
“And what do you got that smirk on your face for, Hip?” asked Stretch, yanking off his bolo tie. “My second question: do you need help wiping it off?”
“No, thanks,” said Fletcher amicably, watching as Stretch tore off his rhinestone jacket and flung it at Curly, who seemed to be acting as his valet.
Stretch muttered as he took off his chaps, and thinking it might be time to take a little walk, Fletcher said as much.
“Ain’t you gonna change?” asked Curly.
“I’m pretty comfortable as is,” said Fletcher. Truth be told, he wasn’t about to take off the sharpest outfit he’d ever worn any sooner than he had to.
“See you at Josie’s, then?” asked Curly. “’Bout seven?”
“Sure,” said Fletcher thumbing the brim of his hat as he backed out of the narrow, beer-and-old-socks-smelling trailer.
He wandered past the horse barn, the smile on his face so broad that an elderly fairgoer passing him felt immediate pity.
“Look at that poor feeble-minded fellow all dressed up like a cowboy,” she whispered to her sister.
“I hope he’s not lost,” her sister whispered back.
If this is lost, thought Fletcher, let me stay lost.
He couldn’t exactly define what he was feeling because it was so beyond the realm of his normal emotions, but giddiness was definitely wrapped up in there, with a shiny ribbon of awe.
A brawny man loaded down with games-of-chance prizes bumped into him and Fletcher bent to help pick up a stuffed panda bear, a stuffed tiger, an inflatable bat, and a cellophane bag of saltwater taffy.
“That’s quite a haul you made,” said Fletcher.
“Wish they’d give cash prizes, though, instead of this junk,” said the man. “Guy like me could be a millionaire.”
The fancy cowboy watched teenagers pass a joint to one another as they rode on the merry-go-round and then stopped to listen to a barbershop quartet whose bass sang with his chin tucked into his chest but still couldn’t get his note to go quite as low as he wanted it to. Continuing down the small midway, the invisible leash that was the aroma of grease and meat pulled him to the corn dog stand.
As he stood behind a young couple whose hands were tucked in the back pockets of each other’s jeans, there was a pink and violet shimmer and next to him, in a sudden burst of color, Tandala.
“Oof!” she said, stumbling into him.
Fletcher gasped as he caught her in his arms.
“Geez, Tandy! You mind giving me a little advance warning?”
“That’s one thing you’re going to have to get used to, mon,” said Tandy. “Things you aren’t used to.”
“But you can’t . . . just su
ddenly show up like that,” he whispered, looking around furtively for witnesses to the alien’s sudden appearance.
“Of course, I can, Fletcher. People see what they want to see. Or what I want them to see.”
“What’ll it be, bud?”
Fletcher was dazed for a moment, forgetting what this man in a paper hat and a five o’clock shadow wanted from him, and then he remembered his short-term goal.
“Uh, a corn dog, please.” He felt a nudge in his side. “Uh, make that two.”
At the condiment counter, the yellow plastic bottle Fletcher squeezed splatted mustard all over his corn dog.
“My goodness,” giggled Tandy.
“Where were you?” he asked, unable to help the little whine in his voice. “You wouldn’t believe what—”
“—oh, I would,” said Tandala, with a big smile. “I saw you. You were really something.”
Pleasure swelled in Fletcher’s chest.
“Thanks,” he said, and looking up and down, he took in the vision that was a busty, bejeweled, cornrowed woman in full cowgirl regalia: a red skirt and vest fringed in white, and cowboy boots, shirt, and hat of the same two colors.
“And you. You’re really something.”
After acknowledging each other’s somethingness, Fletcher took a bite of his corn dog and sucked in air, surprised by the heat.
Tandala’s bite was more demure.
“Umm.” She dabbed at the mustard on the corner of her mouth with a long-nailed finger. “Mon, oh mon. Hail Mary. Hoola, baby.”
She shut her eyes and under the brim of her cowboy hat Fletcher saw a quick pulse of light in her forehead.
“Tandy!” hissed Fletcher, looking around, checking again for onlookers. “What are you doing?”
“Charmat told me to share samples of earth’s great pleasures, and this”—she held up her corn dog—“is one of earth’s great pleasures.”
“And so you . . . you just took a picture of it?”
“Took it and sent it in a memo,” said Tandala. “But it’s more than a picture—it’s a taste. I think he might enjoy it as much as the daiquiri.”
Mayor of the Universe Page 9