by Dan Dowhal
Perhaps the greatest contributor to Shane’s upbeat mood sits in a vase in the middle of the table. Tammy has relented and taken Shane’s offering of wildflowers after all. On several occasions during the meal, she has looked at the makeshift bouquet and then back to him, and their eyes have met and lingered. She has even taken to smiling at him, although in all honesty, Shane still has no clue what she is thinking or what his next move should be.
After the house is locked for the night, he takes a stroll around the property. His head is buzzing a little tonight, and he tries deep, restorative breaths of cold desert air. A set of headlights bounces up the driveway, and Shane is pleased to see they belong to Doc Sanchez’s van.
“What’s up, Doc?” he greets Sanchez as he climbs out of the cab.
“Buenas noches, mi amigo. Glad to find you here still. I take it you’ve found reason to stay for a while?”
Shane shrugs. “It’s as good a place as any right now.”
Sanchez laughs. “You bet. Outlaws have hidden out in New Mexico for centuries.”
Shane blanches. “Are you saying they’ve charged me?”
“No, no, at least not yet. I was just making a joke. You’re not officially a wanted man —” Sanchez gestures toward the ranch house. “Although presumably you aspire to being one there, am I right?”
Shane shakes his head. “I have no freaking idea. Yolanda seems to think I have a chance, though. She says I need to be nicer to Tammy. You know, woo her and stuff. She says that’s what women want.”
Sanchez’s ears perk up. “Yolanda said that? Hmm. Interesting. Who would have pegged her for a romantic at heart?”
“As a matter of fact, I put in a good word for you today.”
The doctor cocks an eyebrow. “Really? How so?”
“Well, she was going on about how there are no good men around, and I told her I think you’re a good guy. Oh yeah, and that you’re sweet on her. Shit, I hope that’s okay.” Shane looks at the six-gun hanging from Sanchez’s hip. “Please don’t shoot me for meddling.”
“That would be a quick way to drum up some business. Of course, it all depends on how Yolanda took it.”
“Hard to say. I mean, she called you a bunch of names, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything with her. Oh, I don’t know, Doc. You’re talking to the wrong guy. When it comes to women, I’m clueless.”
“We all are, amigo. But as a physician I can tell you that women are a condition to be taken seriously. You don’t just take two aspirin and call them in the morning. They require around-the-clock intensive care. Ha! Now who sounds like a romantic? My business here is with you, but perhaps I’ll stick around.”
“Business? What kind of business?”
“Don Aléjandro and I were wondering if you’ve considered his offer.”
“Seriously? After what happened the other night? You expect me to go work for some shady drug lord?”
“Careful what you say, Shane, or I will pull my gun. Remember, Don Aléjandro is a close friend, and in all other respects he is a perfect gentleman. I told you, he’s giving up the drug business and the hockey team is a hundred percent legitimate.” He pounds himself on the chest. “Remember that I’m in charge. We’re both making you this offer.”
Shane realizes he’s on the verge of offending Sanchez. “Sorry, Doc. I guess I’m still rattled by that gong show with his whacko kid. You gotta admit that was pretty hairy.” He places his arm around the doctor’s shoulders. “It’s not like I got a lot of job prospects right now, is it? Still, I’d like to stick around the ranch for a bit. You understand, right? There’s no hurry, is there? I mean, it’s the off-season, right? It’ll keep for a week or so, won’t it?”
“I suppose, although there’s no off-season for management, as you’ll find out. We’ve already started recruiting for next fall, and there are players to be evaluated. Still, I do personally understand the allure of Rancho Crótalo. I’ll tell Don Aléjandro you’re leaning toward taking our offer. Meanwhile, I have a thought. Are you any kind of a crooner, Shane?”
“Say what?”
“I mean, how’s your singing voice?”
“I dunno. Average, I guess. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I say we take Yolanda’s advice and go serenade the señoras beneath their window. It is a time-honoured Mexicali tradition. I have a guitar in my van. Had I not been a physician, perhaps in another life I would have been a yolandachi. Come on, let’s pour our hearts out to the ladies, tell them how we feel.”
“Won’t we look kind of stupid?”
“I assure you, that’s half the point. Women want us to make fools of ourselves over them.”
“I don’t know if I should even bother. It’s kind of embarrassing, but … hell, I guess technically you’re my doctor now. The thing is, even if Tammy gets in the mood, I’m not sure I can deliver the goods, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah,” the doctor says with a nod and a sympathetic smile. “Believe me, I understand. It’s not that common yet for a man in his thirties, but not unheard of, especially given your profession.”
“What do you mean? What’s hockey got to do with it?”
“Not the hockey, per se. More like your specialty within the game. When I worked in Las Vegas, I moonlighted as a ringside doctor at boxing matches. I’ve seen this before. The human brain wasn’t meant to take the repeated shocks those pitiable fighters sometimes suffered — mostly poor Latino and black kids hoping to make it to the big time while the fat cats just sat back and raked in the dough. And I’ve been reading up on the subject in my new capacity as team physician for Los Lobos … although I hope my advice will be more preventative by counselling the players to less violence.”
“Fighting’s part of the game … always has been,” Shane rejoins.
“And the Romans used to send gladiators out to die for the amusement of the crowd. That doesn’t make it civilized. Tell me, how many concussions have you suffered in your career, Shane? Don’t answer. You probably don’t know yourself, especially since the word concussion has become a touchy one in professional sports and the leagues are trying hard to conceal the extent of it. Tell me this, then. Do you suffer from any of the following?” Sanchez holds up his hand and starts ticking items off on his fingers. “Sensitivity to light and sound? Short-term memory loss? Loss of appetite? Do you feel the need to sleep long and late? And, to the immediate point, loss of sex drive is one of the common symptoms, as well.”
Shane’s brow sags as he processes this. The doctor pats him reassuringly on the arm. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Now that you’re retired, hopefully you’ll recover, although the long-term data on the subject is still sketchy. But, as your doctor, I advise you not to go crashing your motorcycle again, and to avoid any other traumatic blows to the head.”
Sanchez reaches into his pocket and produces a foil packet containing four blue pills. “Meanwhile, we live in an age of miracles. Here. Fortunately I never travel without these.”
“What’s this? Viagra?”
“Si. One of my more popular items. And since we are being candid, even I find need of a boost in the pants these days. They’ll take care of your short-term problems, although I should warn you, they’re not cheap. Damn those thieving drug companies. But you need to know that there are other, more serious symptoms that come of repeated head trauma. Maybe you’re already familiar with some of them.”
“Like what?”
“Ever found yourself on the brink of tears for no apparent reason? Have you ever suffered from depression, amigo? Maybe contemplated suicide?”
“If I’ve been blue lately, I’ve had plenty of reasons to be.”
“Before your recent misfortunes, I mean. Look, you don’t have to answer me now. I just want you to know that there’s a medical reason for the things you’ve been feeling. Start there. Maybe that will help you through the bad moments. But if you do want to talk about it, well, I’m around.”
Shane flips the foil packet
in his fingers a few times. “Thanks, Doc. What do I owe you for the boner pills?”
“Tonight the going rate is one song. I was serious. Let me fetch mi guitaro, and we’ll show those women that there’s a soft, romantic side to machismo.”
Sanchez practically runs into his van and emerges with an ornately inlaid acoustic guitar. He tunes it, then turns to Shane. “Know any good ballads?”
“Not really. I’m more of a rock ’n’ roll kind of guy, although I don’t know the lyrics to many songs.”
“Hmm. How about Elvis Presley? Everyone loves the King, right?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, let’s try ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’ Know that one?” The doctor sings a few bars.
“‘Heartbreak Hotel’ would be more up my alley, but, sure, I know it. Don’t really remember all the words, though.”
With Sanchez coaching him through the lyrics, they rehearse the song. Shane soon gets the hang of it, gaining confidence and volume with each run-through. Suddenly a window opens at the side of the ranch house, and Tammy’s voice shouts out, “What in tarnation is going on out there?”
“Quick,” Sanchez whispers. “Now’s our chance.”
The duo hurry around the building. The lights are on and the ranch’s women are each hanging out of a window.
The men nod at each other and launch into their performance. The doctor strolls as he plays and sings, sidling up to Yolanda’s window. Shane takes his cue and approaches Tammy, putting all the feeling he can muster into his performance. Tammy’s hair is down, and she is wearing a simple nightgown, which, backlit by the bedroom light, shows the silhouetted shape of her naked body beneath.
She looks so alluring that it stirs something in Shane’s chest, groin, and stomach simultaneously. He feels intoxicated. He strains to sing in tune and to add vibrato, wanting his song to be as poignant and soulful as the feelings exploding inside him. The look on Tammy starts somewhere between irritation and suspicion, but as the performance progresses, a smile takes over.
As the song finishes, Doc Sanchez stretches out the last note, strumming his guitar so furiously it seems the strings might break. Then he removes his giant stetson, leans closer to Yolanda, and earnestly whispers something that sounds like Spanish poetry. Shane has no poems of any language in his repertoire, but he steps forward so his face is only inches from Tammy’s.
“Aw, Tammy, I’m sorry for every stupid thing I’ve done. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, just say the word. All I want is a chance to show you how much I really care about you … and how special I think you are. God, you look amazing tonight. I wish I was in there with you.”
To his chagrin, Tammy turns to watch Sanchez and Yolanda. She seems more interested in spying on them than in Shane. “Lord have mercy,” she whispers, “is she actually giving that no-good skirt-chaser the time of day?”
“He’s not as bad as he makes himself out to be. It’s all an act, really. I think deep down he’s a lonely guy who knows a great thing when he sees one. Maybe Yolanda sees the good in him.”
Evidently this is not the case, for eventually Yolanda unleashes a torrent of words in rapid-fire Spanish that is decidedly not poetic and then slams the window shut. Sanchez laughs and blows her a kiss through the glass.
“Good riddance,” Tammy murmurs. She turns back to Shane. “You say you want to do something for me? Go to bed, right now.” And with that, she, too, closes her window, leaving Shane standing there deflated.
He turns to Sanchez. “I figured it wouldn’t work, but I guess it was worth a shot.”
“Surely you didn’t expect her to drag you through the window and start humping you on the spot? I actually think that went well.”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t sound like it to me. What was Yolanda going on about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“She said it would take more than sweet songs and flowery words to win her over. She said I was fat and crude and should be embarrassed to be living in a van. She told me that a doctor should be honourable, a leader in his community to be looked up to, and that that’s the greatest compliment he can give to his woman.”
“Phew! And yet you think it went well?”
“Of course. I can read between the lines. And what I see is a road map to Yolanda’s affections.” He pats his stomach. “She’s right, of course. I’ve allowed myself to get soft and lazy. I should certainly lose a few pounds, I know it. Maybe I’ll take up skating with Los Lobos at our new arena.” He looks at Shane. “How about you? Any luck with Tammy Girl?”
“Naw. She was too busy gawking at you two.”
“Well, I still think we made a favourable impression. It’s like they say in hockey — ‘keep putting the puck on the net, and good things are bound to happen.’”
“Sure, provided you’re not up against a hot goalie. Or a cold woman.”
“Ha! Good one. Well, I’ll leave you to your bed. Tomorrow’s another day. Buenas noches, Shane.” He walks off humming a tune and softly strumming his guitar.
Shane turns for one last look at Tammy’s bedroom window — just in time to see her light go out. He sighs, but decides she is right. Getting a good night’s sleep is probably the best thing to do. The fresh air and the crooning seem to have cleared most of the buzzing in his head and dulled any desire to get high. Or maybe it is the doctor’s knowledge of Shane’s ailments and the revelation that they are the side effects of years of concussions.
Shane always prided himself on his endurance. He never missed a game if he could help it, even lying to the team doctor about his symptoms sometimes to make sure he got to dress for the next match. His ex-wife, Veronica, often joked about his thick Ukrainian skull. Maybe it wasn’t thick enough.
Shane strips off all his clothes and crawls into bed. To ease his frustration and to try to induce drowsiness, he tries masturbating, but finds he has trouble staying erect. That’s when he remembers that Doc Sanchez has supplied him with a remedy for the problem. It occurs to him that he should be saving the pills for sex with Tammy, then he chortles at the improbable thought.
I don’t think me and Tammy are going to be bumping uglies anytime soon, he tells himself. Besides, sounds like there’s plenty more pills where these came from. He retrieves the foil packet from his pants pocket, swallows a pill, and then lies back to wait for the drug to take effect.
To get in the mood, Shane conjures up the recent memory of Tammy hanging out the window in her nightgown. He still can’t put his finger on precisely what it is about her that attracts him so. In the past, he has dated models, dancers, and other women whose entire stock in trade was their physique and their looks. But over time, Shane began to feel they all came out of the same mould, like a series of interchangeable plastic dolls. Even the treacherous Brandi, despite distinguishing herself by her extraordinary greed and duplicity, is practically a clone of her predecessors. The compulsion to chase and bed these women was as much about bragging rights as about sex, let alone companionship. Compared to Tammy, the others all seem artificial — and he’s not referring to the breast implants and other cosmetic surgeries that many of them routinely underwent. Tammy is, well, solid, like the living ideal of real womanhood, not some shallow caricature afraid to gain weight or break a nail.
Shane hears the stable door creak open and footsteps come down the gravel path toward the toolroom. He assumes it is Maybelline wanting another drinking party, and the idea that she is brazen enough to visit Shane again after the previous night’s ruckus irritates him. Plus, not having anticipated her appearance, he is naked beneath the sheets. There is no time to scramble out of bed to get clothes on, so he feigns sleep.
The footsteps enter the room and stop. There is a pause before the visitor speaks.
“If you’re really sleeping, I’ll scream.” The voice is Tammy’s.
Shane opens his eyes and sits up. “I was just faking it,” he tells her.
“Oh, that’s just what a gal likes to hear.”
>
“I mean, I was afraid maybe Maybelline snuck out again.”
“Maybelline’s in the sack and she’s gonna stay there.” Tammy is wearing a worn old housecoat that hangs down to her calves and has cowboy boots on her feet.
She wavers, as if unsure of her next move. “Well, I ain’t drunk tonight, but I don’t go nowhere I’m not wanted. If you don’t want me here, just say so.”
“I want you more than anything in the world,” Shane replies. It is clearly the right answer, for Tammy smiles dreamily, unties her robe, and steps out of it. She is not wearing the same utilitarian nightie she had on earlier, but is now attired in a sheer, low-cut black-lace negligée. The cowboy boots make the sight even more arousing.
“Wow!” is all Shane can say.
She giggles like a schoolgirl. “Like it? Wore it once for my honeymoon and ain’t had it on since.” She walks over, lowers herself onto the mattress to lie beside Shane, and gives him a long, lingering kiss. “Of course, I don’t plan to have it on for long.”
Tammy pulls down the sheet so she can study Shane’s body. “Saints almighty, I ain’t never seen a feller built like you outside of the movies.” She begins kissing the middle of his chest before sliding sideways to suck on a nipple.
Any concern of Shane’s that the Viagra hasn’t had enough time to work evaporates as his penis leaps to attention, feeling like a rocket ready to launch into outer space.
Suddenly, Tammy stops and fixes him with a serious look. “Look, I gotta make one thing clear. I don’t normally do this. Hell, I don’t ever do this. It’s been a really, really long time since I been with anyone, but that ain’t the reason I’m here. And it ain’t just because you’re built like a brick shithouse. It’s ’cause of what you’re doing with the ranch, and with the kids, and, well, I’m sick and tired of not trusting any man and hating the whole damn lot of you. But if you ever lift a finger to hurt me or my gals, or ever lie to me I’ll … I’ll —”