A Lonely Way To Die - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  "Boys, you had better watch yourselves, because Flo is for her," said Virgil.

  Whether Jessie won or lost the mayor's race did not mean a damn thing to me. It was interesting, nothing more, but Flo had sounded so strong about it that I decided to prod her some just for the hell of it.

  "Why Flo, I didn't know you were for women's lib," I said.

  Flo shifted her position slightly on the barstool and said, "I'm not. I just happen to think she'll do a lot better job than Jim Henry."

  "Sounds like a libber to me. Virgil, I think you've got a problem on your hands," I said.

  "How's that?" he asked.

  "If you don't keep a close eye on Flo, the next thing you know she'll be out there burning her bra under the traffic light."

  "That's no problem. With as little as Flo has up top, nobody would even look," said Virgil.

  Flo smiled with her mouth, but not with her eyes.

  "I may be a little small on top, but at least I'm not waddling around like someone behind the bar who has a beer belly so big he looks pregnant," she said.

  Virgil kept quiet.

  "It's pantyhose that I don't like," said F.T. "If they're going to burn anything, I wish they'd burn them. They're the ugliest goddam things I've ever seen. That seam down the middle makes a woman look like she has had some kind of an operation."

  "Virgil, do you know how to tell if a woman is wearing pantyhose?" I asked.

  "No, how?"

  "When she farts, her ankles swell."

  That was the last straw as far as Flo was concerned.

  "I've heard that joke at least a dozen times, and I still hate it," she said. "That's an ugly joke. There's something really dirty about it. Every time I hear it I get mad. When she farts, her ankles swell—that's a piss-poor excuse for humor, and you men are fine ones to talk. I've never known a man yet who owned a pair of underwear without a big brown stain in the seat just because he was too lazy to wipe his ass after he took a shit."

  And on that note, she stormed out to the kitchen, leaving the three of us looking at each other.

  When Flo got wound up, she really had a way with words.

  Chapter 4

  Flo was still in the kitchen, and the three of us were still looking at each other, when the old green pickup pulled up outside. A muscular man of medium height got out and entered the bar. He had light brown curly hair, and was wearing a T-shirt which barely covered a beer belly that looked like a ripe watermelon. It was Truman.

  I got off my barstool, and we hugged each other. I thought I felt three or four ribs crack from all that affection.

  While Truman and I were talking to each other, F .T. said, "Virgil, where can a man drain his

  dragon around here?"

  "Go right through that door at the back, and you'll see the door marked "Men."

  A few minutes later he returned.

  "I thought I'd seen it all, but I was wrong," he said. "Today is the first time I've ever seen a machine selling french ticklers in an outhouse."

  "It does add a little class to the place, doesn't it?" asked Virgil proudly.

  "Don't you have any indoor plumbing?" asked F.T.

  "Just the Ladies room," he said.

  "What about the men? What do they do in the winter?" asked F.T.

  "They move faster, I guess," said Virgil.

  "Goddam, that's primitive," said F.T.

  "Yeah, but you have to admit one thing—" said Virgil.

  "What's that?" asked F.T.

  "You don't have to worry about it getting stopped up," said Virgil.

  Things had cooled down enough for Flo to resume her seat at the bar.

  "How are you doing today, Flo?" asked Truman.

  "I was doing just fine until this bunch started to pick on me," she said.

  "That wasn't very nice of them," said Truman.

  I started to say something, but decided to leave well enough alone.

  "Truman, you're going to vote for Jessie, aren't you?" asked Flo.

  "Well, I don't know yet. Virgil, do you think she stands a chance?" asked Truman.

  I could see Flo's interest in this election was beginning to irritate Virgil. Most of his customers were men who came to drink beer and get away from their wives. He did not like Flo bringing politics into the bar. Politics is a funny thing, but it is no laughing matter where alcohol is concerned. It can be a deadly mixture.

  "I can't really say," said Virgil. "It's too early to tell. She is a bright woman, and I think she would probably do a good job, but a lot of men won't vote for her because she is a woman. Hell, I know a lot of men who won't even watch the news on television if there's a female newscaster."

  "Are you going to vote for her?" asked Truman.

  "I haven't really decided yet," said Virgil.

  Virgil was always the diplomat that a good saloonkeeper should be.

  "Virgil, you're so smooth you should be in politics yourself. Give us another round, and then we've got to be going," I said.

  "What's the hurry?" asked Truman.

  "We need to get some things from Lou Young, and we'd like to get camp set up before dark," I said.

  "Camp? Hell, I thought you'd be staying at my place," said Truman.

  It was a nice offer, but F.T. and I had already decided to stay at the goat shed.

  Chapter 5

  I was tired and more than a little bit drunk by the time we got back to Lou's. Drinking beer all day can do that to you, especially when someone else is picking up the tab.

  Lou Young did not look much better than I felt. Unfortunately, in his case, it was from work, not play. Thursday was stock day, and the aisles were crowded with open and unopened cardboard boxes. We threaded our way through the maze, got our provisions, and got the hell out before Lou Young could draft us into helping him.

  It was a tight tit for the three of us in the cab of Truman's pickup, but we managed. We drove west for a mile or so until we turned left at a gravel road and crossed the railroad tracks. The jolting my kidneys took from Truman's worn-out shocks as we crossed the tracks was no laughing matter.

  At the foot of a long hill was a rusty Coca Cola sign that read, "Jimmy Lee Boswell Memorial Park." The memorial part meant Jimmy Lee was dead. I could never understand why the park had been named after him. The only worthwhile thing he had ever done was to die, and even that had just been luck. He had been killed by an irate husband who had caught him with his pants down. The pants had done him in. You cannot cover much ground when your feet are tangled up. But interesting as his death was, it was certainly no reason to name a park after him. Maybe I could see naming the fourth of July sack races after him, but not the whole damn park.

  The road wound by the swings, the sandboxes, and the Little League baseball field until it paralleled the river and continued as a narrow dirt road. Just past the garbage dump the road was blocked by a broken-down gate with a "No Trespassing" sign. I opened the gate, and we continued until we came to a clearing where a spring flowed into the Elk River.

  Lou Young had given the goat shed its name because of a herd of wild goats which lived in the woods nearby. Supposedly these goats were so high-strung that if you found one grazing and yelled loudly, the goat would fall over in a dead faint, and all you had to do was pick it up and carry it to the roasting pit. Personally, I think that business about the goats was a bunch of crap, but it was a good story, and the name stuck.

  The goat shed was nothing more than a rusty tin roof set atop poles driven in the ground of the clearing. It had no sides or floor. A couple of mattresses and some old car seats were the only furniture under the shed. While I unpacked, F.T. and Truman moved a picnic table under one end of the shed to give us a place to eat in case of rain. An old fifty-five-gallon drum served as a garbage can. It I was half full of empty beer cans.

  Truman put the Old Blue and the other items needing refrigeration into the stream and surrounded them with rocks to keep them from being carried away by the current.

>   After F.T. and I had gathered some firewood and had unrolled our sleeping bags, the three of us sat down at the picnic table for a cold beer.

  "What have you got on tap for the rest of the day?" asked Truman.

  I was beginning to feel like nine kinds of hell from the traveling, the arriving, and the drinking, so I said, "I don't know about F.T., but I'm going to get a bath and go to sleep."

  F.T. agreed that was a good idea, so Truman finished his beer and left. After he had gone, F.T. and I dug out our Dial soap and waded into the spring. The water was ice-cold, but it felt good. I washed away dirt from half the continent, dried myself, and stretched out on my mattress. Within seconds I was asleep.

  It was after sunset when we woke. We dressed in clean utilities, and F.T. built the fire while I

  brought water from the spring. We hurried to get dinner cooked before nightfall.

  Outdoor cooking is difficult at night. The only way to tell if something is done is by sight, and even with a flashlight it is tricky.

  The smell of the coffee perking and the steak broiling made me realize I was hungry enough to eat the seat covers off a bulldozer. The steaks came out rare, the coffee strong, and the corn and potatoes too hot to eat without cooling first. Neither of us said much during the meal. We were too busy eating.

  I poured myself an after-dinner cup of coffee and added sugar and powdered cream. Real cream would have been nice, but when you camp you have to expect to rough it.

  F.T. lit a large cigar and stuck it somewhere in the corner of his face. He smoked the kind large enough to be classified a deadly weapon in some states. I dug out my favorite pipe and filled it with Revelation.

  As we relaxed full of food and good cheer, F .T. said, "Snake, this is really the life. It's the simple things. that count. What more can a man want? Here we are sitting around the campfire. We just finished a good meal. We're drinking a good cup of coffee and having a smoke. Now I ask you, what more can a man want?"

  "There is one thing, but I don't think we'll be getting any of that tonight," I said.

  "Don't be too sure. If I'm not mistaken, I just saw some car lights through the trees. It's probably a whole carload of women who want to use my body to satisfy their own perverted desires, but I want you to know that I'm not easy. I'll defend my virtue to the end," said F.T.

  "That's what I've always liked about you. You're a man of character, but this time I don't think you'll have to worry. It's probably just Truman coming back to have a beer with us," I said.

  The car pulled into the clearing, and for a moment the headlights made the camp as bright as day. It was Flo. She was still wearing the short-skirted waitress uniform. She had probably come straight from work.

  F.T. was right. Things were looking up. As teenagers Flo and I had discovered the joys of the back seat together, and even though we had gone on to other people, we had occasionally gotten together to practice what we had learned. Yessir, F.T. was right. Things were looking up.

  FZT. poured a cup of coffee for Flo and sat down again. The fire had died down, but the coals were red-hot and glistening. Flo sat down far enough away to enjoy the warmth without singeing her eyebrows.

  We talked awhile about things that had happened to each of us over the last four years until gradually the conversation died like the fire. Each silence got longer and more awkward. I knew why Flo was here, but she was holding back because of F.T. F.T. knew why Flo was here, and he was hanging around just to be ornery. I tried to think of a clever ploy to get Flo and me away from the campsite, but nothing came to mind. Finally I took the bull by the horns and said, "Flo, I'm going to the stream and get a beer. Want to come along?"

  "What for? It's only about fifty yards," she said.

  "The walk will do you good," I said.

  I was always a subtle person.

  She dusted off the back of her skirt, and we strolled in the direction of the stream. I was filled with romance, if you can call it that. My heart was pounding. I held her hand while we walked. The spring made a rippling sound as the water ran over the rocks. The sky was clear and filled with stars, but the trees kept the landscape in shadows. I was glad I was holding her hand, because sunglasses make you nearly blind at night.

  Out of sight of the goat shed, I turned and kissed her. Her lips parted slightly, but her body was very stiff. I was just starting to slip my tongue between her lips when she pulled away, took my hand, and started walking again.

  I could see the situation required finesse. After all, four years is a long time, and F lo had too much pride to have it look like she was throwing herself at me. So we kept walking, and I waited for her to show a little interest.

  Neither of us spoke for a while, and this time the silence was even more awkward than when we were sitting around the campfire.

  Finally, being a man of action, I stopped her again and kissed her, and again she pushed me away.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "You know I'm married," she said. "You saw my ring this afternoon. I saw you looking at it."

  That was just like Flo, cluttering up a nice clean situation with a lot of unnecessary details.

  "What's that got to do with it?" I asked.

  "Snake, I'm married. I have a husband, and I didn't come here to be unfaithful to him."

  My temper got the best of me, and I said, "Well isn't that just peachy fucking keen. Just what the hell are you doing here? I didn't ask you here. You came down here of your own freeiwill. Nobody made you. So if you didn't come down here for that, then what the hell are you doing here?"

  "Snake, don't be like that," she said.

  She was trying to quiet me down, but I was not interested in being quieted down.

  " ‘Don't be like that] bullshit! If I had a nickel for every time we fucked, I would have flown home instead of hitchhiked," I said.

  "Be reasonable. That's all in the past," she said.

  I almost laughed. It was like the old joke: Be reasonable, do it my way. But I did not want to be reasonable.

  "If it's all in the past, why did you come here tonight?" I said.

  "I came here because we're friends, and I wanted to spend some time with you," she said.

  Most of the time old lovers do not make good friends; they make good memories.

  "Friends? Friends? I've got more friends than I need. I've got friends I haven't even used yet. Right now I need more than friendship, but if friendship is all you're looking for, go fuck ourself. I'm not interested in just being your goddam friend," I said.

  Flo started to cry, and I felt a little bit ashamed.

  Tears can do that to you.

  "You've really changed. When you left you weren't like this. You cared about people. You cared about me. You don't know how it hurts me to see you like this," she said.

  After that little speech, I was not ashamed anymore. Flo was handing me a load of crap, and I knew it. The only things changed about me were my age and weight. She was the one who had done all the changing, it seemed. All I wanted to do was to pick up where we had left off, but it did not look like that was going to be possible. So I thought I would smooth things over a little and forget about it. The whole. thing was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth.

  I put my arms around her and said, "Flo, I'm sorry. I guess I have changed. Being away as long as I have does that to you, but I don't want it to ruin us. You go on home to your husband, and we'll just be friends."

  "Snake, I knew you'd understand," she said and kissed me. This time her lips were open and relaxed so I slipped my tongue in, just for old time's sake.

  She put her arms around my neck and returned the favor with her tongue. This was an interesting development, so I ventured a little further and ran my hands up and down her body a few times. She broke the kiss and moaned for me to stop, but she still had her arm around my neck, and the back of her free hand was rubbing against the outside of my pants. It seemed like a clear case of her saying no, no, with her lips, and the rest
of her saying yes, yes. I'll admit I did not understand this strange turn of events, but like the man said, "I don't builds them, I just drives them." So I pressed on, and before long, I had my hand in her anties. Flo seemed to be enjoying this, but that was all she was doing so I took my arm from around her waist and began to undo my trousers, cursing the United States Marines all the while for having utilities with a button fly instead of a zipper. I finally freed my erection from the uncomfortable confines of my trousers, and Flo timidly began to lend a hand, but it was as if her hand belonged to someone else. I felt like I was making love to an ostrich. By ignoring whatever was happening below her neck, it was like she was burying her head in the sand. She was safe and blameless. I was the bad guy. It was a game which I did not like, but I had no choice. It was the only game in town.

  We stood there in the moonlight and shadows hugging, kissing, and doing other things to each other until a shudder ran through Flo's body, and she pushed me away.

  "Leave me alone," she said in a shaky voice. I could not tell whether it shook from sex or panic.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "I'm not going to let you make me be unfaithful to my husband so just leave me alone. I don't want you to touch me. You don't care about anyone but yourself. We've been together all day, and you didn't even ask me who I married," she said.

  Things had been going well, and suddenly the bottom had fallen out. I felt embarrassed, standing there naked with an unused erection waving around in the breeze, but I was too surprised to be angry. I had been right all along. She was more trouble than she was worth. I buttoned my fly and headed back to camp.

  After Flo had gone, F.T. said, "How did you do?"

  "Not so good. I was close, real close, but somehow I lost it," I said.

  "You know what they say—" said F.T.

  "No, what?" I said.

  "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," he said.

  A man with as many sayings as F.T. should work for a goddam greeting card company.

  Chapter 6

  The morning sun woke me, but I was not ready to get up so I faked sleep. The sun's warmth on my face felt good, and the sunlight penetrated my closed eyelids enough to give the darkness a tinge of red.