Bad Country: A Novel

by CB McKenzie

  I guess your hair is naturally pink and your eyes are naturally blue, said Rodeo. The young woman blushed. Rodeo shifted the conversation.

  Did you know anyone that Samuel hung out with?

  We didn’t hang with the same crowd, Rose said. My friends are college kids or Downtowners mostly. Fine Arts people, hippy people, Fourth Avenue people, you know.

  Patchouli and dreadlocks, Kierkegaard and world music types?

  Rose frowned. I guess so, if you want to stereotype.

  Is a cliché the same as a stereotype? Rodeo asked.

  Rose shrugged as if she understood the distinction.

  But you wouldn’t really hang with some kid like Samuel, right?

  Little Sam …

  His name was Samuel Esau Rocha, said Rodeo.

  Whatever, Rose said. She stared at Rodeo.

  Rodeo played the contest until the young woman turned to the window again.

  Sam didn’t really hang with anybody I know, Rose said.

  Who did he hang with then?

  He sold dope to little middle school brats and the high school rats but he was not even cool enough for any of them and so he hated them and he hated Nerds and he hated Goths and he hated Chollos and … Rose stared at Rodeo. Sam hated Redneck Indian Cowboys from the Res the most.

  I been called a lot worse, Rodeo said. He sipped his coffee. Go on, Rose.

  And he hated his family, especially his grandmother. That bitchwitch.

  That’s a lot of hating, Rodeo said.

  But he wasn’t even a serious hater, you know. He was just … He was just sort of nothing, you know?

  I don’t know much about Samuel, Rose, but by his poetry and what people say about him, said Rodeo. And now he’s dead. That’s why you need to tell me about him.

  He wasn’t any kind of person, said Rose. The woman seemed frustrated. He had no real identity. He was sort of like a generic dispossessed teenager. Not ugly but not really that cute except for those huge dark eyes of his. Not smart but not retarded. Rose paused. He wasn’t even serious about not being serious, you know what I mean?

  Not really, said Rodeo.

  Well, like he didn’t even care that much about dope or destruction or pulling down the hegemony. Sam didn’t stand for anything or even do anything.

  Samuel liked to read and write poetry, go to concerts, Rodeo said. Samuel liked you, Rose.

  A lot of people like me. Rose folded her arms under her breasts to make them bigger. I have tits. A lot of people appreciate a good set of tits, didn’t you know that, cowboy?

  Rodeo sipped his coffee and looked into his cup. I do know that, Rose.

  Well then.

  But you didn’t like Samuel? Rodeo asked.

  He only read dumb kid shit like Harry Potter or crazy conspiracy books. And he only went to concerts to fit in. He would go to anything at the Rialto if there would be some crowd he could pretend to be with. And he went out because he hated staying home with that old bitchwitch of a grandmother he seemed chained to.

  Rodeo nodded slightly to encourage the young woman to continue.

  You found his books, so I guess you searched his room or something? Rose asked.

  I did.

  Well, did you find some huge collection of CDs or a guitar or turntables or anything that would tell you he really loved music? Rose asked. Even a harmonica?

  You didn’t like Samuel, Rodeo said.

  He was a loser.

  Rodeo stared at Rose until she looked at him and then looked away again.

  Should I feel guilty about that? Rose asked.

  I don’t know you good enough to know what you need to feel guilty about, Rose, Rodeo said. But every sane person has something to feel guilty about.

  Well, I don’t feel guilty about anything, Rose said. I don’t believe in it.

  If you say so, Rose. Rodeo redirected the line of questioning from the existential to the practical. How did you and Samuel meet?

  He hired me, said Rose.

  Hired you to do what?

  Not what you think, she said.

  What do you think I think? Rodeo tried to keep his face neutral.

  Rose looked beyond the parking lot at the white blue sky.

  Rose hesitated. I used to do some things.

  Like what kind of things, Rose?

  After college I was trying to save money for my jewelry business, you know. It was really important to me, my art was.

  How so?

  My art defined me, she said. I thought it did at least, you know. I thought if I didn’t make it as an artiste of some sort then I wasn’t anything. I wanted to be known for my art. My family wouldn’t support me and my art so …

  Rodeo looked at the traffic that crawled along a feeder road from a disemboweled interstate that fed his hometown with traffic.

  You’re judging me, Rose said. She glared at Rodeo. You shouldn’t do that, you know. You shouldn’t judge me.

  I’m not judging you, Rose.

  You’re judging me with your eyes.

  I’m not even looking at you, Rose, said Rodeo. Maybe you’re looking at yourself.

  The young woman laughed from deep down in her throat.

  Does that part of your life have anything to do with Samuel? Rodeo asked.

  No.

  Well then, Rose, I am seriously not interested in it. Rodeo looked at the young woman. Not at all.

  Rose looked at him and then looked at his pie.

  You gonna eat that pie?

  Rodeo slid his pie in front of Rose and she cut off a slice with his fork and put it in her mouth and chewed and swallowed carefully.

  I didn’t find any jewelry in Samuel’s room, Rodeo said.

  He never bought any from me. He wasn’t interested in my jewelry. He was seriously not interested in it. Nor in sex either if that’s what you got stuck in your brain.

  You and Samuel never made out?

  It’s none of your business.

  So you helped Samuel with his poetry?

  I’ve actually got a college degree in creative writing from ASU, la de da …

  Rodeo said nothing.

  … so I ran a little one-line ad in the Personals of the Tucson Weekly—”Need Help With Your Poetry?” He called and we hooked up.

  So, Samuel took your ad serious, Rodeo said.

  I guess he did, Rose said.

  How was it? Samuel’s poetry?

  Rose shrugged. Typical teenage angst and ennui, you know. I wrote that crap too when I was young. But there wasn’t much I could do for him. He had it in his mind that this shit he was writing would get published and he’d get a scholarship to a creative writing program somewhere like I did and get out of his hellhole. But that wasn’t going to happen for him, you know.

  You told Samuel that? That it wasn’t going to happen for him though it happened for you?

  No. Rose seemed indignant. Why should I? I’m not a stuck-up bitch. He was paying me to help him and I actually tried to help him but he wouldn’t take my advice, so I finally gave up.

  How did he pay you, Rose?

  What do you mean?

  What did he pay you with?

  Dope when he had it, Rose said. Sometimes quarter rolls and dollar coins he stole from his gran. I didn’t charge him that much. I wasn’t trying to rip him off.

  Did you have any other customers for this editing service of yours? Rodeo asked.

  Some old fuckers called me up, you know, and I met them but they just wanted me to suck their dicks while they read their bad poetry to me like that would be a treat for me.

  And you weren’t in that business anymore, right, Rose?

  Rose put down her fork and glared at Rodeo.

  I get the feeling you don’t like me, Rodeo Grace Garnet, she said. Is that right?

  It’s not really my business to like or dislike people, Rodeo said.

  I understand that, you know, Rose said. I really do. I know how business is. Sometimes you have to do business with people you
don’t like, don’t you? She pushed the pie plate away from her and then brushed her hands together. But I am not really doing any business with you here, you know. So now I need to be moving on. Thank you for the pie and see you around.

  Rodeo reached across the table and grabbed the young woman’s wrist. After years of clinching a bridle rope against tons and tons of torque Rodeo’s grip was unnaturally strong. Rose grunted in pain.

  That’s not a good thing to do to me, the young woman said.

  Sorry, Rose. Rodeo let go of the woman. It’s just that you might be through with me but I’m not through with you.

  You can’t intimidate me, you know. Rose gathered up her big hobo handbag but Rodeo reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, thumbed out a twenty and slid it over next to her half-eaten pie.

  Let me hire you for a quick editorial job then, Rose.

  Rose glared at Rodeo but then glanced around and then took the money and pushed the bill into her bag and sat back in the booth.

  You got three minutes, mister. She said this in a practiced way.

  I found a few of Samuel’s poems, Rodeo said. In a notebook hidden under his mattress.

  I bet that’s not all he was hiding under there from his grandmother, Rose said.

  Samuel wrote a poem about Black Mountain. Did you help him with that one, Rose?

  Yeah.

  What did it mean? Rodeo asked.

  The editor wrinkled her brow.

  I think he got assraped or something, she said. By an Indian? Or by the spirit of his dead ancestors supposedly or something? She looked at Rodeo for confirmation. Rodeo shrugged. Well, that’s what I read as the literal line under the bullshit. I told him to just do a straight narrative poem of something like that. Make it real.

  Maybe it was real and he wrote the poem to make it unreal, Rodeo said.

  Maybe. Rose shrugged again. Anyway he wouldn’t listen to me, so that was that.

  Rose fixed her eyes on the half-eaten pie on the table.

  There was another one, about death and a little girl …

  Yeah, I remember that one too. Obviously about his sister. I told him the same thing, to make it straight, just describe it straight.

  Was he describing something he did? Rodeo asked.

  Rose sat up straighter on the booth seat.

  He felt really guilty about his little sister, you know. Rose sighed and looked directly at Rodeo. But he wrote about guilt a lot, all the time. And his poetry about it was never pretty or unique.

  Guilt is not pretty, Rodeo said. But it is usually unique.

  Well, it was very fucking tiring, this kid’s guilt. Rose paused. But he didn’t run over his sister, I know that.

  How do you know that, Rose?

  Because he didn’t even have a car to drive the night the little pageant queen got killed in a hit-and-run.

  How would you know that, Rose?

  She hesitated. Because he was here that night, she said. He walked here and then some guy picked him up on a dirt bike right here in the Howard Johnson’s parking lot the next morning.

  Samuel was here at HoJos, in the motel, the night his sister got killed? Rodeo asked.

  Yeah. I rented a room and was having a pay party and I invited him because I knew he would bring some smoke.

  What’s a pay party?

  People pay a flat fee at the door to party. I buy a keg and spread the word.

  You make money on that?

  I always break even and get to party for free. I invite a few minor dealers who will bring some smoke or whatever so kids can score if they want. It’s a win/win for everybody.

  So Samuel was here all that night? The night his sister got killed?

  Yeah. He was supposed to leave but he didn’t, Rose said. He stayed all night. Crashed on the floor. I remember stepping over him the next morning.

  Why was he supposed to leave? asked Rodeo.

  What?

  You said, “he was supposed to leave.” Why was Samuel supposed to leave? Were you kicking him out?

  No, I’m not a bitch, the young woman said. I told you that. It was a party. I wasn’t kicking him out. But his grandmother, who is a bitch, called him pretty early on that night and he was supposed to go pick her up from the Casino and take her back to her house but he blew it off.

  Did Samuel usually drive his grandmother around?

  Sam and his grandmother had a deal, Rose said. His parents didn’t want him in their house, never had once his sister the beauty queen was born, I guess, and he never had enough money or balls to move out on his own. So he lived with that old lady and in exchange for rent he did errands for her and when his grannie got drunk at the Casino he would go get her and drive her back in her car.

  So Samuel’s grandmother would drive herself to the Casino?

  She always drove herself out there, Rose said. She hated for him to have that shit car even for a while. And then she’d get drunk playing slots and later on call him and he’d come get her.

  How did Samuel get to the Casino?

  He walked all over town, said Rose. He could walk all day. He liked to walk around. He said it cleared his head. Even in the middle of the summer he’d be walking for hours and hours. He was crazy that way.

  And Samuel walked from his house to this HoJos on the night his sister got killed?

  He walked here, partied, passed out and stayed the night on the floor, said Rose. The next morning I think he made a local call on the room phone and then a little later I heard a dirt bike in the parking lot and looked out and saw him riding off with some dude.

  Did you know the dude?

  No clue.

  What did he look like?

  Skinny, old, terra-cotta tan like half the guys around here.

  Rodeo looked directly at the young woman, nodded.

  Thanks, Rose. I apologize for grabbing you, he said. That was out of line.

  The young woman seemed shocked by this apology and disarmed.

  That’s okay, said Rose. I’ve been handled a lot worse, you know.

  I’m sorry about that too, Rose.

  Rose looked at Rodeo as if she were trying to figure out what he meant.

  You take care now, Rose.

  Rodeo had dismissed this witness but it took her a few seconds to figure that out. When the young woman got the message, she slung her big bag over her shoulder and slid to the outside edge of the booth bench, stood and held out her hand. Rodeo shook it firmly and she returned his firm grip and left the building. Rodeo watched her walk across Starr Pass Road until she disappeared behind the Kettle. The Waffle House waitress appeared with a check.

  How was that pie, honey? The rude waitress jammed Rodeo’s check under the pie plate and looked at it on the wrong side of the table and then she looked at Rodeo. That pie work out for you all right, hon? I ask because sometimes it does with that particular pie but usually it doesn’t. And I think that’s because that pie it might look tastier than it really is, she said.

  Rodeo looked away from the waitress, looked at the new supports of the old highway going up like monuments in the shimmering heat in the heart of Tucson, his hometown. The giant supports had vines with leaves carved into their sides, this bas relief now the color of sand would be painted green eventually. A motorcycle with a bad muffler cruised down the feeder road of the interstate and the thin, tanned rider looked toward the Waffle House. Rodeo followed the progress of the bike as it entered the shadows under the overpass. A streak of blue exhaust blew out from under the bridge as the bike roared out of sight. He said nothing.

  Takes all kinds, the waitress said. She turned on a square heel and stalked away.

  Rodeo picked up the check, tore off the perforated receipt on the bottom, walked to the cash register and paid and didn’t leave a tip. He left Waffle House, the Kettle and Rose behind him, returned to his truck and drove with his dog to Fourth Avenue, back to the Buffet where he hoped to talk again with Olin or some other barhound like Olin who might know Ro
nald.

  * * *

  Rodeo had just switched off the engine of his pickup when he heard the roar of a dirt bike beside him and a rangy, tanned, shirtless man materialized on the passenger side of the truck, reached through the open window, grabbed Rodeo’s dog by the collar, pulled the old dog up and his head back and aimed the blade of a skinning knife at the dog’s throat.

  Rodeo reached his right hand under his seat but the man shook his head.

  Negative on gunplay and on creative thinking about the use of conventional resistant force, friend. I can only control this little bike between my legs for so long and then I have to cut and run, if you get my drift.

  Don’t kill my dog, Rodeo said.

  The man managed the running dirt bike between his legs as he tilted up the dog’s head and pressed the blade into the dog’s throat hard enough to elicit a whine.

  You are not leading this dance, friend. But we don’t have to be stepping on each other’s toes here. So like a slow dance put both your hands on the steering wheel though you are not now steering.

  Rodeo looked around but since there was no one in sight he did as directed, put both his hands on the steering wheel of his truck.

  I don’t want to kill your dog and run away from you. But I will.

  The man pressed his knife against the throat of Rodeo’s dog. I will kill your dog right here right now and then kill you just on principle. This is something I can do and that you will both be powerless to resist, the motorcycle man said. Do you understand that, friend?

  Rodeo nodded.

  I’ll make things simple for you then, friend As I keep this knife blade pressed against the throat of your old dog you will keep both your hands on the wheel of this piece of shit truck of yours or else you, boy and dog, die together. I can kill you both in one motion. This is a simple task for me and these are simple instructions for you, so I won’t repeat myself.

  Rodeo nodded again. The man turned off his motorcycle but the noise in Rodeo’s head did not diminish.

  You’re Ronald Rocha, Rodeo said.

  I am he, the man said. But don’t look at me. Look only forward at your hands on what is now the wheel of your life or else your dog is dead as only a beginning to your torment, friend.

  Rodeo stared at his own hands. They were trembling.

  I can’t see how you and me are going to be friends, Ronald, said Rodeo.