Cabana the Big

by Ron Charach

  Anyway, what I want to say is, despite my ability to roll my eyes about this hulk after he’s left, I’m beginning to feel he has some kind of power over me. That steely gaze, the way that he twitches just an end of his thick waxed mustache (could it be a stick-on?) the tiniest bit when he gets annoyed—so slightly you have to watch closely to even notice it. The guy could teach a course in hypnotic suggestion! And the way he moves! I mean, okay, who am I to talk—my own ludicrous hip-wiggle-cum-sashay disqualifies me from poking fun at anything—but Jesus! You would not believe it; he moves like a two-hundred-pound tiger, with such a sudden spring to him, such a panther-like—I’d almost call it grace but that’s usually applied to sacred things—that in a second he’s pounced, and looking on can give you a heart attack in nothing-flat. To wind up at the other end of it…

  Reading over these last lines I see I still have a bit of a sense of humor; thank goodness I have you to write to, Sharon…

  One other thing—though I could go on about some pretty gory incidents that have been going on around here lately, I don’t want to add to your burdens any more than my frazzled mind forces me to.

  There is one recent discovery I’ve made that shows me that people are capable of being aroused even under a constant state of siege. Now I understand how the starving millions in the third world could still get mileage out of a dried-out clit. (Excuse my grossness; it’s the local culture...) I actually am beginning to feel the old interest returning a bit down below, even if it feels more like a danger- than a pleasure-zone.

  His name is henry morgan—excuse me, to us grown-ups, Henry Morgan, and he does seem like a genuine human male. He is exquisitely aged, though it’s true that the lack of contrast around here dulls one’s powers of discernment. Fact is, the only Young Ones around here that aren’t complete mutants (a story in itself) ride with the (yuk!) big ones.

  I’ve had a feeling that mister morgan might be different from the others for quite a while. But I never could be sure, if only because I have to provide enough lip-and-eye service to cabana whenever the eight are around—and avoid eye contact with anyone else. As it is, the “men” are happy I spend any time with them at all in cabana’s presence. Also, since henry morgan (is that not the world’s coolest name—it sounds so, so swashbuckling) is the strong, silent type, I have no real material in my file on him, so to speak. Yet just today, I checked him out, gave him a bit of a looksy, just fleeting enough that cabana would only kill one of us if he’d caught me. The way that I got around the small-c’s surveillance was to lean almost up to his ear as I gave mister morgan the eye. I think henry noticed, though I suspect he won’t dare actually try to communicate with me so long as the main cyborg is within a mile of either of us.

  Besides, whenever cabana is around I’m so bloody terrified for myself and for whoever else is talking to me or even looking at me that I’m relieved, no, thrilled when nothing happens. Really, it’s turned me into quite the conservative, even at twenty. Not quite like uncle, though, who vows to go back to being a Republican as soon as we’re linked back up with civilization. Maybe I’m just as afraid of change as a far-right Republican. I’m not really sure what gave me the sheer nerve to do what I did today—though a while back, on a day when I had really had it, I told the small-c something—something uncle harold had said—that I just knew might spark a confrontation. I just had to see something change around here, and I trusted that someone with as much high tech at his disposal as uncle would be able to manage the consequences.

  Wait! I know what gave me the courage to make contact with morgan. He did! henry morgan stood up to cabana at one of the gambling tables today—that’s right, and he’s the first to do anything like that since we all ended up in this psychodrama. Strange, I almost forgot the whole thing—probably because I couldn’t believe my own eyes. Which brings me ’round to another worry—the extent to which I’m turned on by morgan just because of his size or strength or some equally shallow dimension. I mean, with the likes of cabana and that scum-bucket ned hanging around, you hardly want to make strength alone your cry-terion for the ideal male—or you just might find yourself impaled on your own yardstick. I do wish that mister morgan would reveal himself to me somehow, give me something more substantial to go on...

  Anyway, best that I leave off on this frustrating subject of love. There aren’t many other candidates out here. Except for morgan, there isn’t a man within miles I’d find more interesting than a warm shower, a quick finger-game and a cup of jasmine tea with a book to keep the old mind alive—unfortunately uncle’s collection is a bit overly padded with tales of the Wild West—but have you read Lonesome Dove or All the Pretty Horses?

  Well, tomorrow I’ll try to keep a straight face when bloody willy (can you believe these names?) walks in, orders a rye and tonic then plunks a few sugar cubes into it—and I’ll try to keep from vomiting when trapper dan, who’s as close to a walking toilet as a “human bean” can be, decides to use his—I’ll try to keep this letter cleaner—to stir his drink.

  And maybe I’ll try to force a smile the next time big ned—that Yosemite Sam on steroids—looks me up and down with his natural-born-killer eyes, as though he were sizing me up for a pine box or for bedroom plans that are no more wholesome—but oh God, things feel even worse than they usually do at closing time—

  An’ she looks up at big ned’s bushy eyebrows ’n prominent glabellas amblin’ her way.

  She lets her pen glide to a stop and sets it gently down. And tries, an’ jest tries mind you, to git up some kind o’ smile. But big ned is lookin’ meaner ’n crueler ’n more horrible than ever, his eyes red and his face all black with small balls of dirt hangin’ from his mustache, his eyes gone completely range-hollow as he shows her a bushel full of teeth an’ innard’ly growls.

  —ned, why ned, what ARE you doin’ here? Goddamn it, Arlene, you’ve GOT to just smile now, smile and get back into character—pour him a whiskey—HE DOESN’T WANT TO HURT YOU—look now, he’s grinning—a bizarre grin, but friendly? like a circus bear on K—just don’t blow it—just put down the letter really slowly near the beer tap and—

  —Yo’s is rattin’ a LOVE lettuh, CAH-la? Thet raght? Har har har!

  —Tee hee! Goddamn, that’s unconvincing—you’re blowing it —Wha, yesss, ned, Ah izzz! Don’t encourage him too much, for Chrissake —Ah jest been gettin’ down two or three letters to my—er, banker—if you wanna call THET writin’ LUV letters, tee hee hee—O love letters in- in- in-d-DEED

  No time to stammer...

  —MEBBE YO’ BEEN FEELIN’ kind o’ PRONE to doin’ some lovin’ lak, ain’t thet pussy-ble CAHHH-LAHHH har har har. (With each laugh the bluish upper lip slips up to reveal a beefy red tongue lickin’ each pointy canine—they’s pretty well all canines—then flippin’ back in so that the simpleton face gives way to a crueler version.) MEBBE YO’s interested in lovin’ IN GINIRAL...

  HE’S COMING. TOWARDS ME. O GOD!

  —Now, ned, r-r-really…

  —DON’ REALLY ME NUFFIN’!! he roars then softens an’ says quite mattuh-o’-fackly —Cause Ah’s been chasin’ aftuh ghost-girls on da range fo’ a long, long while (continues his advance) and as fo’ yo’ sweet little banker—if’n his name is GALLOWAY then Ah aims to MUDDAH him…

  His temple veins take to bulgin’ like ram’s horns.

  —ned, now we really, er, you really must… As he swipes for her she arches back against the mirrored wall—she’s soaked, her hands clenched to small fists with the whole fear thing only firin’ him up all the more.

  ­­—ned, what if CABANA comes in...

  —He freezes. Like pourin’ ice water on the head of a drunk. He jest freezes and looks at her real stupid-like—an orangutan strivin’ t’answer the skill-testin’ question—but he zeroes in his murder-glare as he considers his next move.

  Carla/Arlene (Arla Carlene) reaches her ha
nd back real-slow an’ tries to pour him half a chilled draft to settle him while he’s holdin’ back. She knocks the glass to the floor—reaches for a second one alright and tries to control her tremblin’ fingers under the tap. All the while watchin’ his druggy eyes contemplatin’ what ezackly to do with her breasts, whether or not to poke at ’em to see if they’re attached or mebbe try an’ turn ’em inside-out.

  An’ suddenly ned’s thick sausage-fingers fumble fer the ripcords on his fly and the string gets longer ’n longer as it unwinds out the flyholes—ned snortin’ ’n spittin’ foam ’n bein’ crazy in giniral while Carla is still up against the wall like a plumbline, tryin’ to grab fer a bottle fer protection. An’ ned’s unwrapped a regular frenchbread o’ himself, hairy with a great dorsal vein pulsin’ up ’n down like a browny-red viper pointin’ full-menace at her face as he bleats out CAHHH-LUUH!! He takes to pullin’ it up and down, up and down, with Carla pressed against the pine—her eyes a couple of O’s now, an’ ned just throws’ his hairy ass in and out and continues his fireman routine with his throbpole now a cherry red, but he ain’t approachin’ further—jest starin’ at the V of Carla’s plunging neckline an’ a pullin’ at hisself in a frenzy. Soon he’s sprayin’ spume from his baboonal, thick wet gobs fricasseein’ down his pants, jettin’ out on the bar like mucilage and foam, ’til his wad is spent with Carla still tryin’ not to pass out, blotches of ned’s spunk on her outfit steamin’ away—then in a second the bar doors swing open and in strides henry morgan.

  —ned, this ain’ no time t’be standin’ there wid yore pants ’round yore ankles, wavin’ Old Glory at a lady—’cuz cab is only a couple blocks away an’ cummin’ fast. He’s been askin’ all day about how long and how wide you is, an’ dollars t’donuts he ain’t enquirin’ ’bout your wagafoo neither—so tuck yo’self back in and head fer yore cave.

  ned’s red as a lobster, but he don’t want t’be dead as one—nor do he fancy the degree o’ his present ex-posure, what with cab fast approachin’, cab who could monogram his cock with bullets from a hundred yards away. He slides his pants up over his ape-ass an’ fumbles out the back way, lookin’ over his shoulder with a goodbye ’n waren’t-thet-somethin’-special-’tween-us kind o’ grin at Mizzy Cahhh-luh, his holsters rockin’ two cradled gats like they too might go limp with satisfaction.

  In shock and sleazophobia all she can do is sob on the counter—arm up over her eyes in fear, embarrassment ’n rage. She spots her letter—soaked through now—an’ she crumples it and swipes it onto the floor behind the counter.

  henry morgan approaches her, careful-like ’n says —Ah’m maghty sorry for one o’ my fellow eight actin’ so un-ginnelmanly Miz Cahluh. Ah reckon you could use a day off and a nice long shower.

  Though desperate to wash herself off, she drums her fingers on the counter ’n says —How could you!

  —Miss, as Ah said, Ah AM sorry... But what the rest of the eight may or mayn’t do is...

  —Stop it! Cut the bullshit accent! An’ she reaches into her lace bra and pulls out a small piece of paper. Quickly she unfolds it and hands it over—some kind of a list torn from a ledger book:

  SURVIVORS ANNUITIES (h. galloway chief executor)

  Halverson, Dr. William$50,000 per annum & lodging

  Morganstern, Dr. Henry$50,000 per annum & lodging

  (henceforth known as henry morgan)

  Meyers, Arlenebusiness privileges, (saloon, lodging),

  (henceforth known as Carla)

  Seeton, Rosebusiness privileges

  (henceforth known as ma rosemary)

  Parkinson, Mr. (for trap removal)

  first rights to recycled metal and

  $800 per month

  And there’s more and more names that in the quick flash of a minute are impossible to read. In fact, there were about fifty other names in with those that’d been scratched out.

  But henry just gives her his big eyes, looks at her puffy red ones an’ says —Ma’am, Ah’m afraid Ah nevuh was too good at readin’.

  —You sonofabitch! And I thought you might be different! Not too good at reading, doctor morganstern, you slimy old Jew.

  She almost scores a rise with that one though henry cools down mighty quick.

  —Phony, she presses. —Lookin’ after your own hide to the bitter end... Interesting, how the last thing to disappear is the old ethnic identity. Or sensitivity about it.

  henry winces, unconsciously touchin’ his nose.

  Which only makes Carla smile. And then for a second both look sad—morgan reddenin’.

  —Look, she says gently, even darin’ to reach for the arm of his buckskin jacket. —Pardon this stinking slime, she says, wiping it off with a towel and feeling sick. —I don’t know how long we have to ourselves but I need some answers…

  He takes her smooth hand off, places it gently back down on the bar, reaches for another couple towels. —Wipe yourself off. And remember: around here, curiosity kills.

  —Come on, henry morgan—I’ll still call you by your cool-dude name—don’t you think I’ve put a few things together that I can’t just sit on and ignore? It’s dawned on me, for example, that I’m just about the only person in this town my age who’s half-ways normal, that my “uncle” is someone with incredible power and, while I’m on the subject of him—why is my name down on this list as Meyers? I mean, that’s a different last name from my mother’s—which is down here as Seeton, when really, she dumped the names of all her partners and went back to her unmarried name of…

  He deflects her: —Do you know the kind of trouble this note that you ripped off from gallo—from your “uncle” could get you into?

  But Carla has recovered from the big ned show. She re-buttons her blouse and does what comes natural: fixes to pour them both a drink.

  —Why, don’t be so mo-rose, henry, dey ain’t no danguh to dis note. Aftuh all, none o’ you eight c’n even rea-ud. Or is it unca harold yo’ is worried about?

  —Maybe it’s your “unca harold” you ought to worry about—his little goon-show’s gettin’ more precarious each day. Things are shapin’ up worse ’n in Westworld. I mean, this big ned caper—I do admire you, Ar—er, Carla, for being able to compose yourself so quickly after that. You are one well-put-together young woman.

  She looks at him in astonishment.

  He finds his eyes rovin’ and in embarrassment he pulls them back to his drink.

  —Usually your magic works well enough to keep these goons in check. The fact that this brillo-bearded buffalo hauled out his firehose like that can hardly be seen as a sign things are gettin’ safer...

  Carla swallows with some difficulty. Plenty o’ truth there. The awareness of it makes her lean towards the big, middle-aged man-of-the- world in buckskin.

  —Please! A few answers! Just a few! Her young eyes sparkle through their own redness, even as a tear squeezes through, eyes so different from the lustreless eyes of his wife Claire languishin’ at home. He feels like comfortin’ her, almost hears himself sayin’, Ask, I’ll answer anythin’, but instead he gives her arm a gentle squeeze and says —Got t’go now ma’am, it’s medicine time.

  —Damn it. That was one of my questions. Doctor Morganstern, what is this medicine that uncle gives out like vitamins? It’s got to have something to do with why everyone is so apathetic, so subservient—

  —Hmmm, you’s good with words, Miz Cah-luh. He finds himself reachin’ over to plant a kiss just to the side of her eye, right in front of one of her little scrimshaw sailboat earrings pokin’ out from within her dampened hair. —When it comes to unca harold’s all-available designer “medicine,” Nobody Does It Better. Scrinches his nose. —You go git that shower…

  She calls after him: —I can persuade you, henry, to tell me more. ’Specially if you keep returning time after time to tha
t burned-out, middle-aged wife of yours. I can offer a bit more inducement than she can.

  To which he answers over his shoulder: —Don’t you dare diss my wife—she’s a Survivor. I’m surprised your nosi—er your curiosity hasn’t led you to try a bit of your uncle’s intravenous brew. Now there’s inducement worth dyin’ for...

  —Wait! Two questions... just two.

  —Cain’t answer neither...

  —First. How did we end up in this spaghetti Western? I know there was a disaster. It must have been something nuclear…

  —Yep, unclear war, I calls it. Second?

  —Your wife—is her maiden name Meyers too? You know, I’ve always felt, psychologically, that ma rosemary is my mother—but there’s more than a passing resemblance to—

  Well, one got my Botox treatments and t’other turned up her nose at ’em —and now looks like a gran’ma. ’Stead he says —You’ve been readin’ too many of uncle galloway’s detective books. He swings open the saloon doors, not knowing whether to curse her gumption or admire it—half-regrettin’ that intelligence runs in families. An’ that when it comes to survivin’, intelligence jest might be a fatal mutation.