by Sam Shepard
When I finally reached the feedlot there was nothing but cattle and dust and a stench that made your eyes water. I couldn’t see another human being. Miles of cattle. Black. Black and white. Red. Gray. Spotted. All kinds. All sizes. Flies. Shit. The air seemed like there might be a war nearby. That’s what it felt like.
War and death. Mass graves. Desolation. Pogroms. No human beings. Nothing but the constant sound of cattle bawling as though their mothers were eternally lost. I saw a pickup truck, miles up one of the alleys. It would stop periodically. A man would get out and dump a bag of feed into the troughs, then run a pitchfork over the top of it as the heads of cattle poked through the pipes and lolled their long slimy white tongues over the green pellets. The man dumped the empty bag and pitchfork in the back of the pickup, then jumped behind the wheel. He’d go down the alley a few yards, then repeat the same process. I stood there for the longest time just watching. I had an impulse to wave, but I didn’t. I saw the truck getting closer and closer but I somehow knew the driver didn’t see me. I was sure it was my father. Who else would it be? I turned and walked away—all the seventeen miles back to the house. When I got back Felicity was gone.
Tiny Man Again
Two young girls with purple hair, silver nose rings, and no tops come strolling by. They are very proud of their recently oiled, firm breasts and permanently erect pink nipples pierced by golden safety pins. The gangsters all sit up in unison and pay close attention. They call the girls over and show them the miniatures. One of the gangsters, noticing the safety pins, asks them if it doesn’t hurt. Both girls ignore him. The shorter girl kneels down in front of the line of dead miniatures and picks one of them up. She holds it in the palm of her hand. It’s my father. Another one of the gangsters says, “Careful,” but the girl starts unwrapping the Saran Wrap from around his head. The same gangster makes a move as though he’s going to grab my father’s corpse away from her but then he stops himself when he sees how gently she’s doing this. All the other gangsters, with their fedoras on, sit in rapt attention. As the short girl peels away the plastic, the puncture mark from the dart stands out in a bright red dot on his forehead. She touches the mark very softly with the tip of her tongue, then re-wraps the head and places the tiny corpse back in line with the others. The girl then stands and brushes sand from her knees. The two girls hold hands and walk away. All the gangsters stand in unison and applaud as though at an opera but the girls keep walking. They don’t look back. Far in the distance you can just see the black waiter cresting the ridge of the clubhouse, returning in his electric golf cart. All the drinks are jiggling, but you can’t hear them at that distance. This is all I can remember. The imagery is beginning to fade.
A Grimace Is Not a Scream
Why or how he was shrunken inside those various dreams and apparitions is beyond me. Whether it was before or after his death on this earth was another question I had. Before his death, this is going back to ’68 or ’69, I’d say he’d already shrunk some around the shoulders and neck but this is also in accordance with the natural aging process. I mean that’s what they always say about the aged, don’t they? “He was once much taller, until that horse fell on him”—or—“He was once much fatter, until that woman who couldn’t cook showed up”—or—“He was once much wider, until the river breached its banks.” No matter. People will talk. It could be also that I’m dreaming him like that—tiny—because it’s a way of distancing myself—but that’s a bit Freudian, don’t you think? As though there were some kind of outside intelligence driving all this—the subconscious or some such bullshit like that. Something I find hard to believe in. Why would I want to be distanced anyway? There’s nothing I’m still afraid of. At least not from him, my father. Maybe it’s his pain—his suffering. But why be afraid of his suffering? That’s what I’d like to know. What’s in it? For me, I mean. Hard to say what it was for him. Suffering, I mean. When you watch someone grimace or wince, what do you think they’re feeling? It’s certainly not a thing of pleasure that pops into your mind or happiness either. Neither of those. I mean, I suppose a grimace or a wince can mean anything up to a point, but do you necessarily have the wherewithal to really feel what the grimacer or wincer feels? Be that as it may. To be afraid of the sufferer’s suffering is what I’m trying to discover. Is it even possible? Afraid of what? That the suffering might come over to your side? As though it’s there already and watching the sufferer suffer only breaks open what’s already lying dormant but rarely released. Or is it the impossibility of ever knowing? One thing’s for certain: a grimace is not a scream and a wince is not a cry of anguish. But a miniaturization only causes you to look closer.
Felicity vanished. My dad walked the highway at night. Said he couldn’t sleep but I know it was more about looking for her, hoping she’d show up. He hardly ever talked about it. In fact, he hardly ever talked period, just picked the scars at the back of his neck and stared at the fire. Every once in a while, he’d hear a change in the dogs and leap up from his chair and go rushing outside. The screen door slammed behind him as he stared out into the night and the dogs gathered around his knees, knocking their tails against the side of the porch. Hens clucked and fluffed their feathers from the shed where the tractors were parked and a cat scampered across the beam of orange night light cast from the creosote pole. He asked me again about the last time I’d seen her and I told him it was the time I went out to find him at the feedlot. He couldn’t remember that time and I told him that was because I never actually talked to him, he looked so busy. “I’m never busy,” he said, then he turned to the fire again and gave the log a little kick. Sparks flew into the room and lit up the wicker chair where Felicity always sat, waiting. For a second I thought I saw her but I was only dreaming. Sometimes it was like that out there at night, completely alone. Not even a neighbor’s barn light. Just the two of us and the dogs.
I thought about Felicity—where she might have gone. Maybe she hadn’t gone at all but just got bored with waiting around. Boredom was a real event in those days. What’s going to happen? That’s the question. What’s going to happen.
Interrogation #1
“So, you claim to have never known this ‘Felicity Parks.’ Is that right?”
“ ‘Parks’? No, sir.”
“So, why then would her mother tell us that you do—you did? You do.”
“Her mother?”
“That’s right.”
“She must be making something up?”
“You mean, concocting a story? Out of nowhere? Out of thin air?”
“I guess.”
“She says this girl of hers—this ‘Felicity Parks’—is fourteen years old.”
“Is she? I don’t know.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen. Just thirteen.”
“Just thirteen?”
“Yessir.”
“And you haven’t seen a girl like this wandering around your neighborhood?”
(The investigator shows him a photograph of “Felicity Parks” in a two-piece bathing suit, smiling directly at the camera.)
“No sir. Our neighborhood is very big, you know. Acres and acres. I mean—”
“Son, I’ve been the investigator for this county over twelve years. I was born and raised in Three Rocks. I guess I might know the neighborhood by now.”
“Yessir.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“No sir.”
Thirty Acres of Dust and Snakes
I was disking the bottom field near the highway getting it ready for cantaloupe. About thirty acres of dust and snakes. I had a blue bandanna across my nose and my eyes and hair were filled with dirt. Behind the hot metal seat I kept an Army-green canteen full of water. I’d stop the tractor at the end of a full row, drop the bandanna down around my neck, and fish for the canteen while looking straight out at the highway, not really expecting anything new. When I first saw a flash of the long pink coat between the eucalyptus and the asphalt, it
didn’t really register. A piece of color—a flash of cardboard from a vegetable trucking crate, maybe. I pulled the canteen out from behind the seat without looking. Kept my eyes on the blank spot between the trees. Unscrewed the long cap on its little flat chain. Took about six big gulps of warm water. The tractor’s engine kept popping in a rhythmic diesel monotony. I shut it off and the vast silence came swooping in. The slightest breeze moved long strings of silver eucalyptus leaves, dangling in dust, crackling faintly against each other. Then, I saw it again—stepping into the blank space as though by command, an apparition of the past—almost forgotten. The same woman—the same screaming woman from the boardinghouse. How old was I? “Cocksucking bastard!” That’s what she called him. I can hear it. I can still hear it. Was it her? Hitchhiking? Her hitchhiking on an open highway? Miles from nowhere? They never stop for anyone. This river of traffic in between north and south.
I saw her sitting beneath one of the giant gums. Resting. Holding her right foot in her hands. Cradling it gently as though it were a dead bird dropped by the relentless heat. She would wet the finger of her left hand with her tongue, then gently caress the yellow blisters. The high heels lay to one side, covered in dust and the leather chipped in spots as though they’d been scraped against a rough plaster wall.
“This wouldn’t of happened—wouldn’t of happened at all if it hadn’t of been for plain old disrespect. That’s it—disrespect. Imagine a mother, any mother out here on the open highway, nursing her blistering foot—in the dirt! In the dust! When I should be having cocktails—gin and tonic—wined and dined at the Hickory Room. Not out here wallowing around like some kind of nasty roadkill. Like a squashed possum on the hot black asphalt. Disrespect! That’s it—pure and simple. Some daughters ought to be stillborn. That’s my opinion.”
Interrogation #2
“Let me ask you something—what’s your father do for a living?”
“Right now he works at the feedlots.”
“Sorting?”
“Feeding mostly. Pellets—you know.”
“How’s he feel about you running around with an older woman?”
(The investigator laughs lasciviously.)
“I’ve never seen her before.”
(The investigator recovers from his “joke.”)
“Her mother’s telling us that you have.”
“She must be mistaken.”
“You mean lying? Making up a story again? Why’d she seem so certain about it, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“She seemed very specific about where you and your father live. The color of your house. What your father drives. Time he goes to work. Things like that.”
“Is she spying on us?”
“Spying? Her daughter’s missing. She’s looking for her daughter.”
“Yessir.”
“I told her to try and get a picture of Felicity at your father’s place. A photograph.”
“At our house?”
“That’s right. I told her if she could do that then we’d have conclusive evidence. You know what that is?”
“Yessir.”
“That means she can prove that her daughter was at your house. Hanging around. In black and white. ‘Conclusive evidence.’ ”
“Yessir.”
“If we can prove that then we know you must be the liar.”
“Me? Why would I lie? I don’t even know her.”
“But you’ve seen her before?”
“No sir. I never have.”
“How ’bout your father? Does he know anything about her?”
“No sir.”
“Well, you can tell your father that we might be asking him to come in for a few questions as well.”
“All right. I’ll tell him.”
“You can go now.”
“How far back is it to my house? Do you know? How many miles?”
“You don’t mind walking, do you? A young punk like you.”
“No sir.”
Burning Boats
I’m getting up in the dark lately, what is it—5:00 a.m.? Staring at the rafters. I’ve exiled myself without wanting to. I travel downstairs, holding on—down the circular staircase, to the kitchen. Everything’s dark. Someone’s been in here. I think it was me. Tangerine peels. Old tea. Open the back door to the stone porch. Outside, the yellow bulb struggles to glow through dead bugs. The raccoon has tipped the garbage can full of dog kibble over. Must’ve been that—the noise—the clatter. The single brick holding down the cover, cast across the porch. The lid, flung aside. Last night, I took a shot at this raccoon with my .410, point blank. Must’ve missed him entirely because here he is—back again. I can smell him but I’m probably hallucinating. A worse shot than that blonde. What was her name?
I’d like to call some girl, any girl—wake her up—but I know that won’t do any good. What could she say? What would she do? She’s in a different town, a different country, dreaming of other things.
I think I hear someone call my name. A woman’s voice. Right outside the front door, loud and clear. What time is it, anyway? I go straight to the door and swing it wide open, almost daring the invisible person to show herself. Nobody’s there. Pitch black. I call out to whoever it was. No answer. The horses move along the fence line. I can hear their hooves through fallen oak leaves. They smell me. I slam the door. Nothing moves. The fire is out in the fireplace. Not even smoke. Not even embers. I can’t start a fire at this hour. Someone must have been in there on hands and knees. Blowing. Lighting crumpled newspaper.
I go back to bed. Read about Viking burials at sea. Burning boats with dragon heads. Virgins scorched alive. Raccoon knocks the lid off the garbage again. I run down the circular stairs in my thick blue socks and load the .410. Time I open the back door, the raccoon’s gone. A jet booms far off, in the dark sky. In the past. No sign of morning yet.
Interrogation #3
“Can you give us any good reason why she might have wanted to do away with herself? A girl so young as that?”
“No. Where was she found?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
“Yessir.”
“You have no idea.”
“No.”
“Abusive father? Mother? Alcohol? Drugs?”
“I have no idea.”
“We understand that she was having an affair with a much older man.”
“Really?”
“And also with this older man’s son.”
“An affair?”
“That’s right.”
“With the son too?”
“Yes.”
“The two of them?”
“Yes.”
“And where was she found?”
“Swinging from a bluegum eucalyptus off Highway 5. Southbound.”
“Swinging?”
“Hanging from a small black pocketbook.”
“Pocketbook?”
“Well—the strap.”
“Must’ve been a long strap.”
“It was.”
“Must’ve been strong. The strap.”
“It was.”
“I mean if—”
“Could we continue with the questions, please?”
“Yes—I just wanted to ask when you found her.”
“That’s not pertinent.”
“No.”
“Your father—does your father still live out there?”
“Out where?”
“Off Highway 5. Near the lemon groves.”
“As far as I know.”
“You haven’t seen him for a while?”
“No.”
(Long pause, in which the investigator clears his throat, has a glass of water, rustles papers, adjusts reading glasses, cleans them with a Kleenex, stares out the window at acres and acres of parched land: dead almond trees all lined up in perfect rows. Another long pause, in which the person being questioned suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to take a huge dump.)
“Excuse me, but is
it possible for me to use the bathroom?”
“Of course—turn right outside the glass doors, then a sharp left. Just follow the signs to the bottom of the hallway. It’ll be on your left.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Not at all. Here’s the key.”
(The investigator holds out a giant Ping-Pong paddle with a letter M in black electrician’s tape stuck to it. A skeleton key hangs from the handle. A policeman in an everyday policeman’s uniform takes a step forward.)
“Officer Barnes will help you with the handcuffs.”
(Down the long hallway with murky murals of conquistadors, Indians, and gold miners. Officer Barnes keeps right on his heels but never speaks and never touches him until they reach the men’s room door. He has the creeping sense that Barnes is about to jump on his back like a gigantic vampire bat and suck all the blood out of his neck, but he doesn’t. When they finally reach the men’s room door and stop, Barnes unlocks the handcuffs and, surprisingly, allows him to enter by himself. He discovers the quickest way out—through an aluminum vent high above the yellowed latrine.)
Eye to Eye
They came looking for him at his father’s place and the father told them he hadn’t seen him. Ran off and joined the circus or some such nonsense. Told them the two of them had never seen eye to eye about anything anyhow. When they asked him about Felicity, he didn’t know any “Felicity.” When they showed him Kodak snapshots of Felicity sitting on his lap in a rocking chair, dangling her tan legs and her Western boots with tiny pistols carved into them, he told them the pictures must’ve been “touched up.” Told them that he’d known other guys who’d had that done down in Mexico just to show their friends they weren’t a faggot and that they really did have a good-looking girl tucked away somewhere who really did love them. The cops all laughed and, secretly, admired and liked him even though they knew he was lying. They officially arrested him when they discovered a blue lace bra that opened in convenient horizontal slits around the nipple area. They searched everywhere until they finally found it tucked under a sheepskin rug beside his bed. My dad told them it must’ve been put there by someone who wanted to frame him. When they asked him who that might be he told them it was probably me, his own son, who wanted to get back at him for one thing or another. When they asked him if his son held some kind of a grudge, he said he had no idea, except he always felt that I had it in for him.