In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  What’s that? I said. A Shy Hunter?

  The black leather shine of Rose in the unrelenting service station light. The shine on his shaved head. Rose’s eyes at me were two bits of hard coal. The shine of coal.

  Family secret, Rose said.

  Rose took off walking again, and it was the rub of leather chaps tight around hard muscle. Rose’s ass. The unrelenting fluorescence on the hairs of Rose’s ass. Two combat-boot steps and, just like that, the shine was gone and Rose walked into the night.

  So what’s he afraid of? I said loud, Andy Warhol? What’s he so afraid of?

  In the unrelenting fluorescence, I put my hand above my eyes. My skin was beige, dull green. No shine.

  The shadow of Rose in the Manhattan night kept walking up Second Avenue, didn’t look back.

  Your genitals, Rose yelled, He draws your genitals. Not your eyes, your lips, not the slope of your neck.

  My hand went down from above my eyes and touched my neck.

  And so what if Andy Warhol did draw my cock?

  Now I was yelling too.

  How would I get it back? I said, Do I have to be a Shy Hunter?

  Then smooth, just like that, one long dark leap and Rose was out of darkness, back in the service station light, right there in my face, Rose’s face. His smile. The gap between his two front teeth.

  Second rule, Rose said. You got to be one to get one.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  The liar’s space.

  That’s what Bobbie called the gap between Charlie 2Moons’s two front teeth.

  Don’t know which came first, Bobbie said, The liar’s space or the lying.

  But Charlie didn’t lie. Charlie liked to tell stories, tall tales. Probably because of all those books he read. Like Robinson Crusoe, A Tale of Two Cities, Huckleberry Finn. As soon as Charlie opened his mouth to tell you about something that happened to him, or to his mother, Viv, or to his grandfather, Alessandro, or to his horse, ayaHuaska, you could bet your life there was some truth in what Charlie was telling you.

  Bobbie said Charlie was a born bullshit artist.

  Maybe it’s the truth. But I think it was Charlie’s nature to tell a good story, which means he expanded on some of the details.

  Mostly Charlie’s stories were about his father, his famous fancy-riding, trick-riding father, who was a full-blood descendant of Geronimo, who worked as a movie extra in Hollywood and hung out with Gene Autry and Roy Rogers and Tom Mix and Gary Cooper and Randolph Scott and Cary Grant and John Wayne.

  Charlie’s father discovered Clint Eastwood. Charlie said his father one day was buying himself a new saddle in a saddle shop in Beverly Hills and the guy waiting on Charlie’s father was Clint Eastwood, and Charlie said his father took one look at Clint and saw Spaghetti Western written all over Clint’s face.

  Another story Charlie always told was that his father had supernatural powers that he inherited from the spirit of Geronimo, and one of these powers was that his father could change into different animals any time he wanted.

  Mostly, though, Charlie said, What my father turned into was Wolf.

  One day lying around in Bobbie’s bedroom, listening to Johnny Mathis, Heavenly, Charlie told Bobbie and me that his mother, Viv, of Viv’s Double Wide Beauty Salon, wasn’t a hairdresser at all, she was an alien being who had come to earth to gather information about the effects of despair on the cosmos. Charlie said the task of his alien mother on this earth—being an Indian and woman and all—was to study despair by feeling it.

  Then there was one night when Charlie and Bobbie and I were up in the barn, in the back, where the bales of straw and the straw on the floor were. We were sitting on the old white-trash couch, the black-and-white wedding diamond quilt over us, a kerosene lamp for light, the floor swept clean of straw around where the lamp sat. It was nice up there in the barn, listening to the big old Zenith radio.

  The only station we could get was KSEI. On Saturday nights KSEI played the top ten hits, and every Saturday night for sure—if Father wasn’t home—you could find Bobbie and Charlie and me up in the barn, sliding a two-step on the straw on the barn floor, slow dancing, jitter-bugging, listening to Patti Page singing “The Tennessee Waltz” and Tennessee Ernie Ford singing “Sixteen Tons,” and then, of course, “Love Me Tender” and “Hound Dog.”

  Father had taught Bobbie how to roll cigarettes with one hand, and Bobbie was teaching Charlie. Bobbie was showing Charlie how to undo the Bull Durham pouch with your teeth, how to hold the paper, how to lick the paper.

  Neither one of them would let me learn how to roll because I was too young. I told them that I was already a sub-teen and sub-teen meant it was high time you started smoking, but both Bobbie and Charlie shook their heads.

  The only thing Bobbie and Charlie ever agreed on was me. What was best for me.

  Ray Charles was singing “I’ve Got a Woman,” and Bobbie was singing along, her eyes closed, chin up, rolling her head back and forth like you do when you’re alone in your room, her brown hair long enough to fall back.

  Charlie’s hair was long, pulled back wavy and braided into one big braid. He finished rolling his cigarette, put the cigarette in his mouth, lit the cigarette, and inhaled, and when he exhaled Charlie said, You know this here barn we’re sitting in is haunted.

  It was summer because we were all barefoot. Bobbie was rolling a cigarette too.

  Charlie 2Moons, Bobbie said, You told us that shit the first time we ever met you.

  Charlie leaned in closer to the flame, the flame in Charlie’s eyes.

  I’m serious! Charlie said. This barn is haunted, Charlie said. And it’s not only haunted, Charlie said, It’s sexually haunted.

  Bobbie didn’t move her head. She wiped her wrist across her brown bangs and just kept looking at the hand rolling the cigarette.

  What do you mean sexually? I said.

  Charlie 2Moons, Bobbie said, Every goddamn time you open your mouth that space between your teeth gets wider and wider.

  It’s the truth! Charlie said. I’ve experienced it myself.

  Bobbie raised her head up, just her head, gold flecks in her eyes. She lifted up her butt cheek, farted.

  The Green Door was playing on the Zenith.

  You experienced what yourself? Bobbie said.

  Charlie raised his head up too, looked right into Bobbie’s brown eyes, didn’t blink. Being sexually haunted, Charlie said.

  What the fuck does that mean? Bobbie said.

  Charlie poked his chest up, his chin out. His hands started flying all over in the air.

  You’re a girl, Charlie said. You wouldn’t understand.

  Bobbie moved her face closer to Charlie’s. She took a match out of the matchbox, struck the match on her thigh, lit her cigarette. Blew smoke into Charlie’s face. Tossed the stick match onto the broken green dish we had for an ashtray.

  What’s girl got to do with it? Bobbie said.

  I’m not a girl, I said. I don’t understand.

  Shut up, Will, Bobbie said.

  My forearms.

  Charlie struck a match with his thumbnail, lit his cigarette, blew smoke into Bobbie’s face, tossed the stick match onto the broken-green-dish ashtray.

  Girls don’t have cocks, Charlie said, Now do they?

  Bobbie sucked on her cigarette, wiped back her bangs.

  You need a cock to be sexually haunted? Bobbie said.

  Helps, Charlie said.

  What’s it help? Bobbie said.

  Helps you get a hard-on, Charlie said.

  A what? Bobbie said.

  A hard-on, Charlie said, smiling his gap-tooth smile.

  Bobbie smiled too, a little bigger but not really a smile.

  Bobbie Parker! Charlie said. You of all people can’t tell me you don’t know what a hard-on is.

  Bobbie quick-looked up from the kerosene lamp, over at Charlie. The gold flecks in her eyes were fire.

  What’s a hard-on? I said.

  Shut
up, Will, Bobbie said.

  You’ll find out soon enough, Charlie said.

  Bobbie leaned back on the couch, pulled her leg up, leaned her head on her elbow, flicked the ashes off her cigarette into the broken-green-dish ashtray.

  Bobbie’s face was real red, not Indian red but blotchy red, the way she got.

  You dumb son of a bitch! Bobbie said. You fucking men don’t have a clue.

  When I looked over at Charlie, Charlie was biting his thumbnail, and I knew it was the truth. Charlie was a fucking man without a clue.

  Just like that, Bobbie got up and walked down the length of the barn, walked down the stairs, her footsteps inside every board on the floor of the brick barn.

  The Everly Brothers were singing “Cathy’s Clown.” I poured some tobacco into my hand and started rolling it up.

  Charlie looked like an Indian James Dean with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his eyes squinting, the cigarette going up and down, up and down, as Charlie spoke.

  You’d better not let your sister catch you doing that! Charlie said.

  I don’t do everything, I said, Bobbie tells me to do.

  Yes, you do, Charlie said.

  After a while, we heard Bobbie at the stairs and I quick put the tobacco back in the Bull Durham pouch.

  Charlie just looked at me. Charlie never made fun of me, or put me down, or made me feel small in any way ever. He just looked at me.

  Bobbie walked up to us and threw some magazines down on the straw on the floor in the kerosene lamplight.

  Charlie’s eyes got real wide and he leaned back like the magazines were some kind of black magic or other scary thing that you like to be scared of.

  One of the magazines was Playboy, and there were two other magazines, I don’t remember the names, with half-naked women in them. I’d read the magazines before lots of times. Bobbie kept them in the secret place in her closet, along with Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The Song of the Red Ruby, and Peyton Place. I read all those books too, but I never told Bobbie.

  Charlie 2Moons, Bobbie said, her hands on her hips, Here’s some education for you. Read these and then get back to me about just what a hard-on is, OK?

  Charlie didn’t say anything, just picked up the Playboy and opened up to the centerfold. Charlie was breathing hard and sweat was coming out his forehead. I thought he was going to pass out.

  A woman’s got a vagina, see, Bobbie said and pointed to in between the Playboy bunny’s crossed legs.

  Some call it a vagina, Bobbie said, Some call it a pussy. I like to call it and everything around it my Deep Flower, but when I’m feeling especially horny, I call it my poon.

  When a woman gets hot, Bobbie said, Her poon gets wet, and inside her poon is the most wonderful place on a woman’s body, and that place is called the clitoris.

  Clit, Bobbie said. Clit’s inside the poon. And the clit gets hard when it’s right for a woman, Bobbie said. If it ain’t right, forget it, but when it’s right the clit gets hard and stands up like a man in a little boat.

  Granted, Bobbie said, The clit don’t get as big as a cock, but to a woman size doesn’t much matter, and even though the clit don’t get as big as what you call a hard-on, the clit’s got it all over the hard-on, hands down. Hard-on shoots its cum out in one big load, while clit just keeps on purring and purring and purring and cumming and cumming.

  With a hard-on, Bobbie said, It’s usually a one-shot deal. If you’re lucky, maybe two.

  But with a clit, Bobbie said, And a nice wet poon, you can come for days.

  Charlie threw the Playboy down, jumped up off his butt, and, just like that, ran off into the dark. Charlie in the dark groaning groaning. Then silence.

  When Charlie came back into the light, Bobbie was rolling another cigarette, her head bent, her eyes looking down at her hand.

  Bobbie’s splotches were fading back into skin.

  Roll me one of those, would you? Charlie said.

  Bobbie laughed. One laugh, chest up and down. She flashed the gold flecks of her eyes up to Charlie.

  Need a steady hand to roll a smoke, Bobbie said, Now don’t you?

  Yup, Charlie said.

  This time Bobbie’s laugh wasn’t hard and loud.

  Bobbie licked her tongue across the glued end of the cigarette paper.

  But I know what you mean, Bobbie said.

  About what? Charlie said.

  This barn being sexually haunted, Bobbie said. Every time I come up here alone I start pulling back the petals, digging deep into Deep Flower, just pumping poon.

  Me too, Charlie said. Sometimes two or three times a day.

  You whack off three times a day? Bobbie said.

  Sometimes more, Charlie said. Got to tame the savage beast.

  What’s whacking off? I said.

  I’ve never done it more than twice a day, Bobbie said. At least so far.

  Charlie opened the Playboy to the centerfold. Laid the centerfold out in the kerosene light. Charlie traced his finger along the woman’s naked back.

  Bobbie? Charlie said.

  Yeah? Bobbie said.

  This is a big stack of magazines, Charlie said. Full of half-naked women. You a lesbian?

  Bobbie sucked long on her cigarette, let the smoke come out her nose.

  I never saw Bobbie look that way, not once, except for that night. She hacked and spit and I was thinking all hell would break loose, but instead Bobbie’s face got soft, her eyes got big. Bobbie’s lips lost their cuss, just like that, and out of the blue, Bobbie was showing Charlie and me the only part of herself she could keep safe from Father.

  Bobbie knelt down next to the kerosene lamp, laid her forearm right up next to the fire.

  You know Charlie 2Moons, Bobbie said, Your skin is almost as white as mine.

  And those waves in your hair, Bobbie said. Injuns got straight hair. Where did you get them waves?

  LATER ON, WHEN Bobbie and her magazines had gone back to the house, Charlie and I stayed in the barn. Charlie came over to me and lay down next to me on the straw. My head in the crook of Charlie’s arm, my ear on his heart.

  That sister of yours is something, Charlie said.

  She’s a lesbian, I said.

  Then: What’s a lesbian? I said, and moved in closer.

  A lesbian is a woman, Charlie said. But she really ain’t a woman. What she is is a man with the power to suck his cock and balls up inside himself and push his chest out into titties.

  Did you make that up? I said.

  No, Charlie said. It’s the truth.

  Mice in the straw, a gust of wind in the slates on the roof of the barn.

  Does it work the other way around too? I said.

  Which other way? Charlie said.

  Can a woman, I said, Have the power to push out her clit into a cock and suck in her titties?

  Of course! Charlie said.

  Then, I said, With that power, I said, Bobbie could actually be a boy.

  She could, Charlie said.

  Charlie cupped his hand over the lantern, blew out the flame. Charlie’s skin in the broken bits of moon was the same color as mine. The wind was warm, stirring up the straw, shaking the barn, rattling slates. I pulled myself in closer to Charlie.

  Charlie? I said. Maybe I’m really a girl who can push her clitoris out and suck her titties in?

  Not a chance! Charlie said. I mean, you’d know, wouldn’t you?

  It’s always me, I said, Who screams like a girl, I said. When we play Door of the Dead, I said, No matter how hard I try not to.

  That’s when Charlie kissed me. The first time Charlie ever kissed me. On the mouth, just a little, just before we went to sleep.

  A blow of love. Wounded. Absolute. Ultimate.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Fiona was pissed at me for bringing Argwings Khodek to her performance piece without telling her.

  In Café Cauchemar, standing under the Sistine Chapel God, staring at Fiona’s cruel lip, a life all its ow
n, I made my face go New York drop-dead fuck-you, took a deep breath, and spoke.

  My mother’s nerves.

  Susan Strong, I said, You are a conniving bitch.

  And: How dare you. I said, Take my private life, I said, And put it up on the stage.

  The curl of Fiona’s lip, Fiona’s hands on her hips, her black hair flying up every which way. Fiona said, If the shoe fits, wear it.

  I almost slapped her face.

  Instead I said, You didn’t have to, I said, Bring Charlie 2Moons into it.

  Fiona said, I didn’t. Harry improvised!

  So, I yelled at Harry. What the fuck you doing with my private life? It was bad enough, I yelled, having my cock up there on the stage, let alone you drag Charlie’s name through the fucking mud.

  Harry’s pink face went fuchsia. The mud? The mud? Harry said. You call our performance piece mud? Get a grip, Mary! Charlie’s name just came out of my mouth. I knew you were looking for him, and onstage at that moment it seemed appropriate so I said it: Anybody out there seen Charlie 2Moons? You should fucking thank me for helping you to find your old fuck buddy. Fuck you, asshole.

  No, fuck you, Harry! I said.

  And I didn’t bring Argwings Khodek, I said, I gave him a free ticket. It was synchronistic that I sat down next to him.

  Fuck your synchronicity, Fiona said.

  Fuck you, Susan Strong! I said. If you want to tell the truth so much, put your poon up there on the stage. Leave my cock out of it.

  Poon? Fiona said. Is that what they call it in Ohio, poon?

  Fuck you! I said. It’s Idaho.

  My, my! Fiona said. Mild-mannered Clark Kent isn’t stuttering now!

  Fuck you! I said.

  Go fuck yourself! Harry said.

  Fuck you! I said.

  FOR ME, THE whole fiasco was over after the first night. But not for Fiona and Harry. Neither one of them spoke to me until the day Chef Som Chai came back to work.

  It’s tough—working alongside of people, standing together at the bar, the dessert station, at the espresso machine, smoking at the garbage can—not looking at them, not speaking to them. Especially Fiona. I really missed talking to Fiona, looking at her. Missed not being talked to, looked at by her blue eyes.

  The chef came back on a Thursday. I was polishing silverware in Section Two. Fiona walked in the door.