The Western Lonesome Society

by Robert Garner McBrearty

  Jim’s asleep with his friend on sleeping bags on the living room floor. He wakes in the night to find the Major lying beside him, sprawled over him, heavy leg draped over him, pinning him. The Major touches him, strokes and fondles his penis.

  Jim freezes. The Major’s been like a best old friend to him, an uncle, a second father. Fighter pilot. Rugged. Handsome. Sometimes he gives the boys a beer. That’s better for you than Coke, he says.

  Maybe it’s the memory of doing nothing, of saying nothing, of lying there and letting the Major stroke his penis in a cool, detached sort of way, as if stroking the penis of your son’s best friend is a perfectly normal, perfectly natural thing to do. Maybe it’s the memory of that and the subsequent times before he learned to avoid the Major, see him coming and think, whoops, let’s get away from Mr. Hand, Mr. Hand in the Night Man, Mr. Hand in the Kitchen Man, Mr. Hand Whenever You Can Man, so long Mr. Hand, before he learned to escape, to fade away, he let the hand touch him through the course of a long year when a kid ought to be just hitting his stride, coming into the world cool and solid and full of juice and pride instead of having Mr. Hand Man take the pride and the cool and confidence out of him all with the stroke of a hand.

  It’s that memory that makes him rise up once again from the canvas and say, “Let’s go. Let’s box.”

  “Come on now,” Pete says. “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m going to call it,” Ron says.

  But he flurries back in before Ron can end it.

  He’s got the gas back, the juice, the stuff.

  “Well okay, then,” Pete says, backpedaling. They go around the ring in good time.

  “Well, okay,” Ron says. “Looking good. Looking good for a couple of old guys.”

  And that’s boxing, boys. That’s the real and the true boxing.

  And now Jim flashes back on a night in the suburbs. Our seventeen-year-old hero, Jim, is at a party. He’s a surfer. Not that he has ever surfed. But if your hair is long, flips up in the back, curls over your ears, but it’s not long enough to qualify you as a hippie, you’re a surfer. It’s a party of surfers. A kegger. Some kid’s parents out for the night. The party has spilled out of the backyard and into the front yard. A couple of pickup trucks full of cowboys pull up to the curb of the house. Not that they’re real cowboys. But they’ve got the boots and the hats anyway. They pile out of the trucks, and the surfers, chickenshits that they are, scream and holler and run inside—all except for Jim. He thinks of what Len would do. He makes a lone stand. He stands on the front lawn, holding his spot of lawn. His turf. A while ago, he had puked almost right on this spot. He has claimed this land, not through his blood, but through his puke.

  They surround him. Fifteen or so. No problem. He’s seen the movie Billy Jack. “I’ll fight one of you,” he offers.

  “Nah,” one of the cowboys says. “It will be a lot easier if we all just jump you.”

  Well, not such a great spot on the lawn anyway. If you get right down to it, not much of a lawn. Hell, this ain’t the Alamo.

  He breaks through their skirmish line—a halfback on the run of his life. Around the house, into the darkness, pursued, smacks into a swing set, wipes out a wooden kid’s fort, and that’s football, folks, that’s the real and the true football. Trapped now by a chain link fence, starts scrambling over it. They drag him down. A royal beating. Flurry of fists. Down on the ground and boots thud into his ribs. No real pain yet. But serious stuff. He lets out an enormous fake cry of agony, really belts it out, makes a death rattle sound in his throat.

  “We killed him!” one cries. They run off in panic.

  He rises to a knee, bloody, shirt torn, stumbling into the future. Showed them! Now that’s fighting, boys, that’s fighting.

  “Hey,” Pete protests. “Easy,” he mumbles through his mouthguard. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Easy,” Ron says, “Easy. I got liability issues.”

  Driving home from the boxing ring, many years too late, he says to the Major, “It wasn’t that you touched me. It was that you betrayed me. You were my friend. You were like a second father to me.”

  The Major shrugs. “I touched a lot of boys. What makes you so special?”

  The Major fades away, and old Ernie drives around with Jim in his car. It is suddenly winter. That’s the way it is with Ernie sometimes. They drive through the snowy streets. He’s wearing a fishing hat. He’s handsome, a moustache, but no famous white beard, the pre-Papa days. That famous wide jaw. What a jaw, that jaw could take a punch.

  “So did you know you’d be great?” Jim asks. “Did you always know? When did you know?”

  “Oh, I guess I always knew,” he says. Jim hears a rumble in his voice. It’s a good voice, a good and a true voice.

  “When I was a kid,” Ernie says, “I felt . . . ”

  “Destined?”

  “That’s a big word,” he says, “Destined. It’s a good word, but it picks you up and drops you just as far. Destined. That’s a big word.”

  “So you always knew?”

  “A lot of guys know.”

  “But it doesn’t work out for most of them.”

  “Things go wrong. You catch a bullet. A leftie drops you. A bull hooks you.”

  “What was it with you and Fitz anyway?”

  “Ah.” He sounds sad now. “I loved Scottie. He always misunderstood me. That’s a big word, misunderstood. But it’s a good enough and a true enough word. He thought I wanted him to be tougher, more manly. That’s a big word, manly, not in the number of letters, which are few, five in total, but in meaning. He caught himself performing for me, and he hated himself for it. All I wanted was for him to be himself. To be the real Scottie. The real and the true Scottie.”

  “That thing with the penis?”

  “That never happened. Not like that. He wanted to be tough for me. He wanted to box.”

  “To box you?”

  “He didn’t show me his penis. He showed me his fist. He wanted to know if his fist was too small.”

  “Was it?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve seen lightweights do okay with small fists. What are you, one-sixty?”

  “About.”

  “You could drop to one-forty-seven. You’d do better in a lower division.”

  “You think so?”

  He reaches across Jim’s chest. Unbuckles his seat belt, opens his door and shoves him out of the moving car. He drops into a snowbank. Ernie slides behind the wheel and takes off driving Jim’s car, fishing hat low over his brow.

  Later he joins Jim at a sidewalk café in Paris. The car’s lost, Jim supposes.

  Ernie drinks a Pernod. “This brings you up,” he says. “But it drops you just as far. What are you drinking?”

  “Coffee.”

  “That stuff will kill you. Won’t you have one with me, Scottie?”

  “I gave it all up.”

  “Just one, little dick?”

  Ernie gets blasted, incoherent. Slugs a waiter. One of his wives drags him off and Jim’s back here in a supermarket, looking at a cover of a magazine that holds out, in this tormented world, the possibility of acquiring a knockout butt. The kind of hard, high-riding butt that one can be proud of.

  And now he remembers Ernie’s last words before he slipped into incoherence. “I was always misunderstood,” he said. “The war stuff, the hunting, the fishing, the boxing, the bullfighting. All the tough guy stuff. All I really wanted was one thing. To make beauty. To make beauty out of the ordinary little things.”

  For Your Eyes Only

  I have decided to write more of ordinary things. I won’t write about kidnappings and murders for a while. I have decided to write about small things. I have decided to share my journal of our RV trip a couple of summers ago. It was an ordinary trip. If it had not been ordinary, I would not tell you about it. This is
a man who lives in a most ordinary way! So ordinary that he is astonishing!

  June 29

  Mileage in rented RV stands at 1,041. We set forth at 12:40 p.m. Good luck and godspeed.

  Topped off in Fort Garland. $28.00. From time to time there is a disturbing rattle in the RV.

  We arrived at Great Sand Dunes. Had a good time walking and running through dunes, which stretch on for miles and miles. Reminded us of the movie Lawrence of Arabia. It is very tiring to run up a sand dune. Boys tried to slide on cardboard boxes, but met with limited success. Would slide about for a foot and then pitch off into the sand. We gave this up after a little while.

  In the evening, I was bit on the arm by a rattlesnake. I opened the wound with a knife, sucked up the venom, spat it out. Ellen poured a little rubbing alcohol on the wound. The boys brought some ice from the cooler. It swelled up a little and I took a couple of ibuprofen.

  We stayed the night at San Luis State Park (site 13). Site 13 was beautiful, on the outside of the loop. Nice place. There was a basketball court with a very short basket. We enjoyed dunking the ball on the short basket. We are a short family. We’d never been able to dunk before. Boys and I had a good time playing. Ellen made spectacular dinner in RV kitchen—spicy chicken with rice. We watched the first half of an old movie with Henry Fonda, Drums Along the Mohawk. Just outside the RV, a mountain lion was trying to devour a deer. The boys peppered it with BBs, and the lion ran away. The deer came up to the door and we petted it and bandaged its leg and gave it some Cheerios.

  June 30

  Spent night at Mesa Verde. First backing up in RV we took out a mesquite tree and a cooking grill. Saw big wild turkey. Had fun playing football with boys. Ellen made great dinner of hamburger, rice, and salad. Finished Drums Along the Mohawk. Long poetic scene of Henry Fonda being chased by three fast Indians with tomahawks.

  July 1

  Crossing Painted Desert, rusted red earth. Series of mesas, phallic shaped buttes, gullies and washes; see smoke on north rim of Grand Canyon.

  2,106 miles. Needles, Arizona. $58.00 gas.

  Spent night at Grand Canyon National Park. A trailer village. Not much privacy, but a good spot near canyon rim. We walked along the rim. We were all impressed by the grandeur.

  Boys bickered a lot all afternoon, but finally settled down. I spoke to them about their bickering and they informed me that they do not bicker as much as some of their friends. For instance, Alex keeps a loaded BB gun next to his bed and shoots at his brother Ben if he comes into the room.

  July 2

  Today a hot drive across Mojave Desert. Boys in good spirits, though listless. Lounge on RV couches as I drive. Reminds me of long ago family trip. Wave of nostalgia sweeps over me. I look at the two boys, the brothers. I pray they will always stay well, stay friends, stay close.

  $38.00 2,282 miles. A little past Barstow.

  Megave. $48.00. 2,338 miles.

  Somewhere $31.00 2,479 miles.

  Spent a lovely night at San Felipe State Park. A little south of San Jose. Beautiful lake and hills. Built campfire and cooked marshmallows. Saw some fireworks from small town in distance. Suggested singing old Beatles songs. In the town where I was born, lived a man who sailed to sea . . . We notice a bear watching from nearby. He seems like a well-meaning bear with a good attitude.

  July 3

  Spent nice day in San Francisco at Fisherman’s Wharf. Rode cable cars and walked up and down steep streets. Boys went to Ripley’s Believe it or Not museum. Talked afterwards about a man who could pull strings through his nose.

  Some rough driving through Golden Gate Park and up Highway 101. We gave up on the hairpin turns on Highway 101, turned back and drove for hours until late at night we found a motel on Highway 5. Had a big room, and boys went swimming in pool in morning. A heavy man fainted and fell in and went to the bottom and the boys dragged him out and successfully administered CPR from having seen it on a TV show. In the fall we were invited back to town for an award ceremony where we met the Mayor, a jolly fellow.

  July 4-10

  We go up to Oregon and hang out at the cabin in the little country town with Grandma and Grandpa. We show off our RV. The boys’ cousins next door sneak in and pee in our RV toilet. We play badminton in the evenings.

  I like the way the boys set up their area in the loft and the way they look lying in their beds which are arranged side by side. They ride bikes to the store each day to rent a movie. It makes me happy when they’re upstairs at night in the loft watching a movie after the rest of us have turned in. I like sneaking up the stairs and watching them for a little while. They usually notice me and say, “Hi, Dad” and I think they’re happy that I stay and watch them for a couple of minutes, but I also think they’re happy when I don’t stay too long.

  We went to a quilt show on the Fourth of July weekend. Ellen bought a pretty quilt, though not the golfer’s quilt. Still, I look forward to pulling the quilt over me in the coming winter.

  We stay in the cabin, but sometimes I sneak back into the RV to take a piss.

  July 11

  Heading home. George begins to sing old Beatles songs. His high voice is a delight. Must record before it changes. (I fail to do this and his voice changes and I must try to recall that delightful high singing voice.)

  At a road rest area, he gets his hands in sap somehow; the sap gets onto his shirt. He protests, “I hate being sticky!” I remark to Ellen that I had not known before that he hated being sticky. She reminded me that he washes his hands at restaurants when they get sticky. Then he announces, “Now my nose is bleeding!” It has been a rough stop.

  July 12

  Stopped in Boise for gas. $50.00.

  July 13

  $48.00 gas. 3,875 mileage.

  640 mile drive yesterday. Spent last night in weedy camp. Happy to move on.

  July 13

  $48.00 gas in Rock Springs.

  July 14

  Home again, home again.

  July 16

  Go in for physical. Doctor recommends that the next time I am bit by a rattlesnake, I promptly seek medical attention.

  The Long Way Home

  When Jim opens his office door and turns on the light, he is startled to see Dr. Dalton already sitting there. He has been lurking in the darkness, waiting for him.

  He holds up a flashcard with letters on it. Jim looks at it without reacting. He checks himself for signs of agitation. He looks in triumphant serenity at Dalton. “It doesn’t work on me anymore,” he says. “You see, I have read something of yours and had no reaction.”

  Dalton gives him a toothy grin. “I was hoping you’d say that. That was the control card! Now try this!” He holds up a second card and Jim staggers back. He is filled with rage. Dr. Dalton has already disappeared, cackling down the hallway.

  Jim’s going to see President Jammer. He’s going to tell him off. He’s sick of this place. He’s sick of the mediocrity they have all slipped into, slip into more deeply with each passing day. He wants something, something he can’t name.

  Resolve and rage sends him forth and crossing the quadrangle, he smells the acrid whiff of gas and as he gets closer to Jammer’s building, the white gas comes leaking out of the bushes and he knows he will not be stopped, and even when he falls, he knows when he rises he will stagger on to Jammer’s office and give him the fisherman’s toss out the window.

  But for now Jim floats through the sky and is carried back to the frontier, carried back to see Tom on his horse above the hill over Alice’s house. It is night, and as he watches the house, he detects motion, and realizes there is a hit going down on the cabin—seven Comanches sneaking in and now whooping and beating on the doors and windows. He doesn’t think White Crane is along. White Crane has stopped raiding the settlements. Besides, White Crane would lead a classier attack. He doubts that White Crane knows
Alice is inside or he would have found a more clever way of capturing her.

  He draws his gun and charges in on W. Ricky, but the Comanches have already beaten down the door and they throw Alice up on a horse. Tom drops three of them as they ride off.

  That leaves four and he rides after them, reloading his gun as he rides. Dropping more of them, coming closer, W. Ricky panting and slathering and slobbering and Tom firing and it comes to him as he charges through the night that he has become the Hound of Death.

  He shoots down the last Indian, and he pulls Alice from her horse and embraces her.

  They are married in a quiet wedding in the settlements, and move into their own cabin not far from Edmund and Rebecca’s cabin.

  But Will . . . Though Tom spends time with him, it is not the same. Will is the loneliest boy on earth. One night he slips out, mounts his horse and rides back to White Crane’s village.

  White Crane is ecstatic. They have many feasts. But White Crane begins to brood. Tom and Alice are traitors. What of Will? Will he turn back one day, desert White Crane again? Is he really a Comanche?

  He gives Will a test. They must ride back to the settlements and kill Tom and Alice.

  With sorrow and anguish, Will rides along. At night they are above Tom and Alice’s cabin. White Crane tells Will to hold the horses. On foot White Crane goes stealthily down with five braves.

  Will draws his gun. When White Crane and the other braves have disappeared into the darkness, he pulls the trigger and fires three shots into the air, signaling the alarm to the cabin below.

  White Crane comes running back with the braves. He pants, breathless, as the other braves move in around Will with their knives drawn. He had needed to know this. He draws his own knife, and as the other braves close in on Will, White Crane moves in front of Will, blocking them, holding them off.

  The braves seethe, but they wait for White Crane to make his move. White Crane holds his shoulders. The boy trembles, waiting for the knife. White Crane makes a strange, strangled sound in his throat.