volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

volume one 

ROY 

ROGERS 

IN THE 

TWENTY- 

FIRST 

CENTURY 

D U D L E Y C L A R K

What critics are saying... 

“Return with us to the days when good guys wore white hats 

and all you had to do was wish upon a star and things would 

come true. Step back into the black-and-white, alternate universe 

of movie westerns for this truly tour de force novel. Pin back your 

ears and hunker down to the ground, take a slug of to-kill-yah 

and lissen up. I got me a story to tell... 

If you like westerns; if you like Seattle; if you like old-time 

cowboy music; if you like to laugh out loud, this should pretty much 

settle your hash.” 

—The New Orleans Courier-Gazette 

“Bravo! A sweet, politically incorrect tale about sex and drugs, without all the 

sex. Roy Weston is likely to go down as an archetype of the perplexed, nonbrooding, 

white male drifter who is happy just to get by, while leaving other people 

be. In the second volume, Roy emerges as a re-visioned hero, tapping into the power 

of myth in a prosaic world and, as did so many early pioneers, re-inventing himself 

as an All-American movie cowboy, a type of cowboy more true to the West than 

real cowboys ever were.” 

—Sidis World Review 

What a follow-up to Neither Here Nor There! A slower 

pace than I’m accustomed to—multi-tasking, post-modern 

man-child that I am—and a necessary one. Slow down, take 

your time, revel in the details. Especially take note of the 

pigeons. I’ve had the delight of previewing the second volume— 

quite a different speed there! Get to know what makes Roy 

Weston tick, then hang around for the second act in volume two. 

—Alameda Weekly Review 

“...we seldom review books not directly related to farming, but 

when this one was given to me by my fifteen year-old daughter, I 

knew I had to read it. I plowed over three hundred acres before 

I finished it, read it all in one day. If you drive a tractor, this is a 

great book for you. It’s sweet, funny and filled with references to 

old movie westerns, Sons of the Pioneers and broccoli. Not 

much about farming, though. 

—Plowing Magazine

What readers are saying... 

“Definitely an acquired taste. But once developed, it’s hard 

not to be hungry for more.” 

—Donna Velbleck 

“...enough. That’s what I said, but she wouldn’t listen. Oh, no, 

she said...so I did. Now I’ll read the second volume, maybe even 

something else...he wrote.” 

—Stanislaus Paik 

“These days, in order to find something worth reading, and at 

that something worth reading that can make you laugh, not to 

mention...and a cold shower. Nevertheless, when I happened 

upon Roy Rogers in the Twenty-first Century, I was perplexed...to 

do with it since it fell into no known category I’m familiar with 

or cognizant of. Much deeper than it appears on the surface, 

this book is...and will certainly...the lunatic fringe. Reminds 

me a lot of.... And that’s saying something. 

—André Gustie 

“Not being a reader, of course I refused to read this book. 

Nevertheless, finding myself prostrate with fatigue one salubrious 

eve, I picked it up only to put it down as the sun came up and with 

a tear in my eye. First and only book I ever read sitting down all the 

way through, front to back, beginning to end. Rough going in the 

middle, but it evoked Seattle as I knew it, especially the music stores. 

—Wallace “Wally” Oberschmidt 

“Nervous by nature? Love to laugh? Fed up with the twentieth 

century? Fan of dark humor and potato-shooting dwarfs, not 

to mention helium pie and cab drivers with direct links to 

God? Finally, a book for you!” 

—Thomasina Pruitt

Also by this Author: 

Woodman & Wonderboy 

Apocalyptic Crawfish! 

Monkeydo 

Karmic Warriors 

Neither Here Nor There 

My Terrible, Horrible, Wonderful Life 

ABOUT TIME PUBLISHING 

New York London Tombstone Bombay 

2008 

Licensed under Creative Commons A-N-SA 

www.abouttimepublishing.com 

www.dudleysworld.com

THE DEDICATION 

For her forbearance and faith, 

this one is for 

JENNA

THE INTRODUCTION 

My Book, the Reader; 

The Reader, my Book.

THE OPENING QUOTATION 

I’ve labored long and hard for bread, 

For honor and for riches, 

But on my corns too long you’ve tred 

You fine-haired sons of bitches. 

—Black Bart the Po8, 1877 

(Note left after robbing the Arena Stagecoach, en route 

to Duncan’s Mill on the Russian River, California.)

THE PROLOGUE 

Leonard Franklin Slye (Roy Rogers) was born into poverty on 

Nov 5, 1911, 2,179 miles and about 40 years from the nearest real 

cowboy. But that didn’t stop him from picking up a guitar, and 

becoming one. 

Roy Weston was born into poverty on April 19, 1970, somewhere 

on the road in the heartland of America, an unknown distance in 

miles and about 80 years from the nearest real cowboy. 

But that didn’t stop him from putting down his squeegee, and 

becoming one.

THE RED FOR RENT 

sign stops him dead in his tracks. 

Roy sizes up the building. The windows are filthy. Some 

of the panes have popped out and been replaced with chunks 

of thick brown cardboard, cupped and spotted with dried 

raindrops. The sidewalk is littered with various bits and pieces 

of the productive world. Large trucks thunder past, shifting 

gears under their heavy loads of merchandise, for this is Seattle’s 

warehouse district, and their thunderous passage vacuums along 

vortices of grit and dirt, further serving to darken the already 

filthy windows. 

He considers the tumbledown building with weed-filled 

gutters, and smiles. 

To Roy, it looks like home. 

ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 1

2 ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY

The Old Cowboy 

didn’t know the names of all the colors, but this fact never deprived him 

of their beauty. Sunsets, with their layers of reds and golds mixed by the 

Master’s hand, always compelled his attention. 

He rested his own, callused hand on his saddle’s pommel and eased up in 

the stirrups a bit. Nightfall. End of another, long day. Briefly, he searched 

the ground for a place to rest. He shifted weight onto his left foot and in 

an instant his right boot alighted upon the ground. He stood beside his 

strawberry roan, patted her withers, and stroked the long jugular in her neck. 

He considered the barren country of junipers and sage. 

To the Old Cowboy, it looked like home. 

ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY


ROY’S KNUCKLES TAP 

gently upon the door. The door that could do with a coat of 

paint. The door that was new maybe two hundred years ago. 

The door that opens to reveal a squat, red-faced lady. 

The squat, red-faced lady squints up at him, then up and 

down him, then beyond him, down both ways along the empty 

hall past him, then back up at him again. She challenges him 

with a lengthy glare. 

“You got tchotchkes?” 

To Roy, she appears thus: a frowsy, jowly turnipy face 

mostly obscured by coke-bottle thick, eyeball-bloating lenses in 

rhinestone encrusted frames, the kind of lenses that darken when 

you wear them outside. Her thinning hair is white and frizzy, 

her nose pulpy and purple. The stained, lemony wrap that 

envelops her blocky stoutness ends just below her knees, exposing 

parchment like, vein-burst legs. On her feet she wears soiled 

mules of imitation fleece. 

Mistrust clings to her like cheap perfume. 

And there are long, long forgotten hairs on her chinny chin 

chin. 

While to her, this is how Roy appears: tall, paunchy, mostly 

bald, with a Bozo-the-Clown fringe of wavy, brown hair salted 

gray. He, too, like herself—and like Bozo—has a bulbous 

nose. Dilapidated headphones hang around his neck, their 

skinny tail attached to an old Sony tape player held together 

with duct tape and hitched to his belt. His clothes are dirty and 

deeply wrinkled. His face is Gumby smooth, neglectful and 

uninformed. Several days’ stubble fuzz his cheeks; otherwise, he 


is clean-shaven. He appears to have all his teeth. A green bit of 

webbing digging into his left shoulder indicates the presence of a 

heavy duffle. 

Roy works his mouth as if to speak. 

His right hand dives into his right jeans pocket and pulls out 

a wad of cash, crumpled and randomly ordered. Keeping the 

presence of the old lady’s gun in the periphery of his vision, with 

his own trembling hands he counts out ten twenties. The old 

woman, whose gun hand continues to swoop and loop about 

under the weight of her nickel-plated weapon, watches like a 

hawk. 

When Roy is finished counting, her puffy palm appears again. 

Gently, Roy piles his cash there as if onto an unsprung trap. 

Sensing the amount of his cash as much by weight as by 

count, her fingers snap closed onto the crinkly currency and her 

gun returns to its lodging behind the door. 

Her hairy chin stabs the hall. 

“Room twenty-tree. Door’s unlocked, key’s innit.” Her 

rheumy eyes expand behind their thick lenses. “An’ don’t you 

knock on dhis door again ’til rent’s due, you know what’s good fer 

you.” 

Soiled, imitation fleece mules transport her back inside her 

peeling crevice. She slams the door so hard the wall in which it 

is set—comprised of old-growth Douglas fir two-by-fours covered 

by lath, a thick coat of plaster, and a thin layer of gold-and-red 

flocked wallpaper, ca. 1890s—shudders as if constructed from 

cardboard. A fallout of dead bug husks and lead-based paint 

particles rain down from somewhere on high to land on Roy’s 

head and shoulders. 

He stands still for a while, relieved he isn’t dead—always 

be grateful for the little things—stands and listens to the 

building’s gurgles and creaks, to tenants’ muffled voices, to 

televisions’ assured words; stands and inhales the ancient smells 

of nightshade and pomegranate, of old Crown Royal and Old 

Grand Dad, of fried onions and boiled potatoes, of seared garlic, 

crusty laundry and mildewed mattresses. 

Once assured the door will not open again—not until the 


duties of her office demand, or the needs of her body require— 

Roy’s chin sinks to his chest and his eyes track down the wall 

to the floor and come to rest on the threadbare material that 

perhaps once was a ritzy carpet, back when this was a tony part 

of town, in the heyday of the Great Gold Rush, in the time of 

stern-wheel riverboats, mud-covered streets, coquettish girls 

in crinolines, daguerreotypes and derringers and the clinging, 

earthy smell of horseshit in the air. 

Roy takes a deep breath and sighs. His hands clamp the 

headphones back over his ears, back where they belong, back 

where they will spend most of their lifetime here on earth before 

obsolescence and ultraviolet radiation have their way. 

The thumb of his right hand, exposed through a fingerless 

woolen glove, presses PLAY on his Sony tape player. 

His bald head bobs as if on the end of a spring as he clumps 

his scarred work boots down the hall, not to stop before he 

reaches his new home. 

Number 23. 



The Old Cowboy could rest now. 

His horse shook her head, freed from the burdens of travel. After she had 

been watered and fed some oats, and a familiar hand had caressed her neck 

and curried her body, a tobacco-y breath had whispered in her ear and told 

her he loved her. 

She was as happy as a horse could be. 

The Old Cowboy stretched out beneath a canopy of stars, beside a 

mesquite fire, his boots still on, his long legs crossed, his head rested against 

his saddle. The length of his body was wrapped in a Navaho blanket, his 

Henry rifle by his side, a banged-up tin cup of coffee filling his hand. 

Nearby, bacon snapped in a skillet. 

Sometimes he wondered how many more miles of trail were left ahead, 

and what plans the good Lord might still have in mind for him. But at the 

end of a hard day he was usually too tired to grumble, and such thoughts 

soon scurried off like jackrabbits in the scrub. It was enough to take care of 

your horse and tend to your business when life’s trails seemed steep and the 

pass high; enough to set one boot before the other and carry on. 

Sometimes the greatest blessing the Lord could give was just that—the 

grit to carry on. 



ROY DROPS HIS DUFFLE, 

and causes his face to smile. 

The filthy window he looks through, up at which he had 

previously peered, back before he had been a tenant, is now 

beaded with rain. 

Just made it. 

This fact causes his face to smile because he’s glad he doesn’t 

have to sleep in the rain out in a park on a bench, or hiding in 

bushes beneath an overpass’s parallelogram. He bends his knees 

and sinks onto the dinged, dilapidated brass bed’s mattress. 

squeak 

And he stares hard at his new room. 

He wishes he knew names of all the colors so he would know 

what to call the piss-yellow peeling wallpaper, besides ugly. 

The floor is wood, with paint spots and water stains, 

depressions and divots and nailheads sticking out. Asleep 

beneath the window, a silver radiator coils. Heat leaks from it 

like electricity from a potato. There is writing on the wall, spraypainted, 

none of it enlightening. The sagging ceiling looks like a 

badly-stained sheet holding a bowling ball, or a boil in need of a 

lance. 

There is still light outside, but it’s Northwestern light, icy city 

light, pale blue, tawdry light. Roy read once a long time ago, for 

he does occasionally read while keeping warm in the library, that 

Eskimos have a hundred names for snow. 

Northwesterners should have as many for their flat, gray skies. 

There is even a bathroom down the hall. 

If only he had a kitchen. 


(If Roy had his druthers, had his shot at the world; if he was 

not held back by inherited limitations thrust upon him by drunk, 

savage parents; if he just had the balls—then he would flourish, 

perhaps, wrapped in stainless steel, his hands filled with skillet 

handles and spatulas, knives chopping in the background—order 

up!—waitresses watching him produce soufflés and omelets, 

soups and salads, outré French dishes, sassy Latino numbers, 

scallions sputtering in butter, paper-thin crepes, his face 

glistening with the sheen of cooking oils, virgin olive, coldpressed, 

his hair reeking of slivered, sizzling garlic, his fingers 

redolent of cilantro and cumin, his elbows flying, his chef’s hat 

bopping on his balding dome, expensive headphones cupping his 

ears.) 

The Sony tape player stops. 

click 

The bedframe on which the stained mattress rests is cast iron, 

the kind Yuppie Scum paint white and put in their kids’ rooms. 

squeak 

Roy leans back and digs into his money pocket where he keeps 

his horsechoker. 

squeak squeak 

The horsechoker emerges, recently reduced by the loss of ten 

brothers, still a decent wad of sawbucks and double sawbucks. 

His other pocket is repository for singles and fives. In his 

duffle is a giant Zip-Loc bag filled with quarters, dimes and 

nickels. Pennies he places heads-up on the sidewalk for others to 

find. 

Also in his duffle, besides two more pair of jeans, are his 

prized Carhartts (thick bib overalls with traditional watch pocket, 

two-quarter top pockets, a tool pocket, a coin pocket, double 

knees, metal rivets, convenient hammer loop, and a folding 

ruler pocket); some cheap-to-free tees from various local bands; 

another giant Zip-Loc bag filled with creaky music tapes; a blue, 

spiral notebook; a blue Bic pen; three plaid long-sleeve shirts; six 

pairs of thick, wool socks; a decent sweater; a few faded BVDs 

and, of course, the tools of his trade—a window mop with two 

mop heads, a roll of replacement rubber squeegee blades, and 

three brass Ettore squeegees (twelve-inch, six-inch and four-inch). 


For, Roy is a window washer. 

He counts out his funds. He’s pleased to find how much 

remains. He has enough so he doesn’t have to work this winter 

if he doesn’t want to. And he doesn’t want to. It was a long, hot 

summer spent working alongside his brother, Rick the Asshole, 

but he made a ton of dough. Sometimes Roy wonders how much 

birdshit they squeegee away in a season. How many layers of grit 

and grime they abolish. But it always comes back, always, the 

grit the grime and the birdshit. 

He thinks what to do with his poke. 

Sitting on the edge of his stained, mildewed mattress, 

clutching his wad of cash, he looks hard at his new home. 

His new home. 

Haven from the cold and wet that is winter in Seattle. 

And as he looks hard at his new home, he is visited by this 

crazy notion: why not, with all the loot he has, why not just leave 

Seattle, escape the Northwest and head south like birds do? 

Birds, whose brains are no bigger than his little toe, know better 

than to hang out where it’s wet and cold and windy. So why 

doesn’t he? Isn’t he supposed to be some kind of superior species, 

graced with a neo-cortex and opposable thumbs, not to mention 

written language? What does he have to be so proud of if he 

doesn’t have enough sense to migrate? After all, he owns his own 

squeegees and mop. He can work anywhere. Anywhere there 

are windows, he can work. Just think, when birds migrate, they 

must shit all over the place. He bets they shit even more in the 

south during winter, what with tens of millions of them flocking 

there. How much more bird shit would there be? Would it be 

thousands of tons, or millions of tons? Certainly, the bulk of it 

would land on the ground—or on windshields—but just think 

how much would land on windows! It would be a bonanza, of 

sorts. He would make a small fortune. And with all the money 

he made, scraping away grit and grime and birdshit, he could 

start a philanthropic fund for the widows of window washers. 

People have no idea how dangerous window washing really is. 

It’s right up there with convenience store clerks and cabbies. 

But Roy’s never been anywhere before. 


Ever since they were little boys, he and Rick the Asshole have 

lived in Seattle. Their parents claimed they moved here to open 

a bar. But, like everything else they tried, that plan, if it ever 

actually existed, fell through. Everything always fell through for 

Roy’s parents. Except making babies. They were good at that. 

Roy has been assured that he has many brothers and sisters 

scattered across America, but he only knows Rick the Asshole, 

who is younger by eight years. Still, knowing his parents, he feels 

sure there must be others. Perhaps dozens. It’s hard to know for 

sure, since he hasn’t seen his parents in such a long time. Years 

and years. They up and left one bright April morn. Left him 

and his little brother to fend for themselves. Before they left they 

said all sorts of nice things, like—: We love you! Be back soon, 

sweeties! We’ll send money, honnies! See you later, ’gators! 

Good luck, schmucks! 

Roy and Rick had been thirteen and five, respectively. 

Roy, as the older brother, should have taken the lead and 

been the boss—but Rick had taken after his pa, and was a freak. 

He was smoking at six and fucking at eight. He was banging 

his head and tattooed by nine. At ten he was pretty much fullgrown. 

And, since he knew more about how the world worked 

than Roy, it just seemed natural he should take charge of their 

affairs. And it was probably a good thing, too. If it had been left 

up to Roy, God knows where they would be now. 

Probably milk truck drivers. 

No—Rick was a hustler, wasn’t about to sit still for anybody’s 

shit, especially his brother’s. He wasn’t going to toe lines, pay 

dues, suck up to The Man. To Rick, Roy was a dweasel—a 

dweeb. Passive motherfuckinpansy. 

So, it was a good thing Rick took charge. 

But it was Roy who got them into window washing. 

Roy, who stumbled through life looking at his feet, also 

occasionally looked up. 

Oftentimes, while sitting cross-legged on street corners waiting 

for someone to drop coins into his Starbucks cup, he would stare 

up at little dots hanging off sides of tall buildings, little dots that 

were, in actuality, window washers. And he would think, as he 


watched them hanging there, what a wonderful, unobstructed 

view of the city they must have. He also thought that hanging off 

sides of buildings must make a lot of money. And he wondered 

how could someone like him get a job doing something like that? 

Turned out, it was pretty easy. 

Strangely, not everyone wanted to be a window washer. Nor 

even admired them. 

Being a window washer was how Roy discovered he was 

terrified of heights. 

squeak 

Roy has reached a decision. He stands. 

He lifts the stained mattress. Dropping to his right knee, he 

sticks the wad of cash between box springs and mattress, sticks 

his arm far in the back, far as he can reach, all the way up to his 

shoulder. Then he releases the cash, removes his arm, drops the 

mattress, and pats it back in place. 

He sits down again. 

squeak 

No one would ever think to look for it there. 



RAIN PELTS 

the windowpanes. 

Tears from heaven. Acid rain. 

Roy sleeps, headphones warming his ears, chinstubble on the 

prowl. He snores with his mouth sagged open, his balding dome 

facing the window filled with watery light. 

Bad Feng Shui. 

The vertical bars of the dinged, dilapidated iron bed’s 

headboard casts shadows along the length of his body. 

Off in the distance, there comes a muffled cry. Off in the 

farther distance, someone screams. 

Outside these curled-up walls, a siren keens as cops chase 

down infamy, plugged into a radioworld that never rests—houses 

flash past, filled with sleepers filled with faith that their doors 

will hold, that their windows will deflect, that their locks will 

stop; sleepers born with the belief that shit happens to other 

people, never to them; sleepers for whom a siren’s scream is 

music, is medicine, is momma’s loving hand— 

Roy does not count himself among such people. 

For Roy, cops are a pain in the ass. They are unharnessed 

harassment machines. Purveyors of paranoia, they are criminals 

themselves, only smart (or lucky) enough to have figured it out 

and gone to cop school, where every form of depravity known 

to man is taught, and new ones dreamed up—a perversity 

pedagogy for the morally impaired. Finishing school for freaks. 

Roy doesn’t like cops. 

The feeling is usually mutual. 

Perhaps if he spiffed up, styled his hair, cleaned his nails. 

As it stands, he fits their profile perfectly. Their profile, 


that is, for—well, you name it. For a rapist. For a dognapper. 

Certainly, for a stoner. Definitely, for a head case. Potentially, 

for a reader of comic books. 

Likely, for a pornographer or a pederast. 

Maybe even for a church burner. 

But Roy is none of these. 

Roy would die of embarrassment if he had to walk into a 

porn shop. Sure, he likes dogs, but not that way. And so what 

if he’s a head case (name someone who isn’t)? At least he’s a 

harmless one. Roy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Unlike his brother, Rick 

the Asshole, who enjoys hurting people, Roy has never stolen 

anything in his life. Nor has he smoked pot or tasted alcohol. 

He doesn’t know for sure if there’s a God or not—his guess is 

not—but he wouldn’t burn down a church over it. 

He does, however, read comic books. 

So, Roy is not what he appears. Except asleep, which at this 

moment he most certainly is, snoring loudly, mouth sagged open, 

dawn’s light filling the greasy sky, vertical bars of the dinged, 

dilapidated iron bed’s headboard casting shadows along the 

length of his body. 

Bad Feng Shui. 




The Old Cowboy rose before the sun, 

when the air was still and cool, the chill of dew fresh on his face. He would 

sit quietly in this, his favorite part of the day, what the Indians called coyote 

dawn, and watch the eastern sky pale, still spangled with stars. 

Soon as the sun crested the horizon, the heat would begin. The Old 

Cowboy lighted a readymade, his face briefly exposed in the match’s flame. 

His skin was deeply lined, dark as whang leather; his eyes were perpetual 

squints and his hat-ridden forehead as white as a fine lady’s neck. 

He wouldn’t make a fire this morning, as there was no easy wood or 

sagebrush at hand; just jerky and water for him, a handful or two of oats for 

his horse. 

He brushed off his woolen trousers, slid on his scarred boots, and stood. 

He’d know an old cowboy in hell with his hide burned off, just from the way 

he walked. 

He settled his dusty, black Stetson banded with silver conchos onto his 

head. His kind were men who could sit a saddle twenty-four hours straight. 

Tough men, hard as mesquite, men with hands coarse and strong that could 

nurse a calf back to life, or choke the life out of a rustler. 

He talked in low, gentle tones to his roan as he slipped her saddle blanket 

on. She frisked a bit, nodded she was ready for the day to begin, stamped 

the ground with impatience. He dropped the heavy saddle onto her back and 

cinched it tight. 

The sun was up. He would eat in the saddle. The bit went in, halter 

over her twiddling ears. Then he swung his long leg up and settled onto the 

saddle. 

Back on the trail again, back where life was simplest and he was 

happiest. He reckoned if the good Lord had wanted him to stand still, he 

would have made him a tree. 



BLUE, BLUE SKY. 

White, white clouds. 

Far below, where parallel lines converge, people move, tiny 

dots drained of color and detail. They have lives that are very 

real to them, but very abstract to Roy from his perch high on 

the side of this black, glass building, its reflective skin designed 

to keep the people inside safe, warm and productive—men in 

business suits, women in business skirts, cubicles fluttering with 

colorful Post-Its, computer screens reflected in glasses—long, red 

fingernails tapping—clocks crawling through the mire of time, 

telephones’ pleading bleeps. It is a competitive world, an abstract 

world, especially for Roy from his high perch on the side of this 

black, glass building. 

Roy removes his headphones. One of the foam covers comes 

away, sucked off by the wind. He is bundled up in his Carhartts 

and two woolen shirts. A black, woolen Seahawks watchcap 

heats his hairless dome. His hands are insufficiently warmed by 

fingerless, woolen gloves 

Behind him a body rockets past, in league with devil gravity, 

swallowed by the yawning canyon of converging lines. 

Off in the distance of the blue, blue sky, an airliner balances 

in mid-air, performing the twin miracles of lift and drag. 

At the other end of the railed platform on which Roy stands 

is Rick the Asshole, also bundled in Carhartts, also wearing 

woolen fingerless gloves and watchcap, only his is gray with the 

Mariner’s logo stitched on. 

In every way he is the opposite of Roy—short and gaunt, 

angular, ferret-faced, with cold, black eyes. He leers at Roy. His 

hands grip the guardrail. 

Stark white ferries scratch the turquoise green of Puget Sound. 


Gulls, white as the ferries, wheel and rail overhead in the blue, 

blue sky. 

Roy stands on the sidewalk looking up at the tiny platform 

hanging against the black, glass building; stands in a group 

of people clutching Starbucks coffee cups and cellphones and 

leather satchels and Bon Marché shopping bags, people who 

have paused from their busy lives to stare up at the tiny platform, 

shielding and straining their eyes, paused to share the vicarious 

thrill of watching terror unfold, a tragedy thankfully not their 

own, paused briefly to gawk before moving on towards the finish 

lines of their lives. 

Roy watches the body plummet towards the sidewalk, 

swallowed by converging lines. 

Long, red fingernails tap. 

White, white clouds. 

Blue, blue skies. 

Rick grins and shifts his weight from side-to-side. The 

platform on which they stand starts to sway. It swings out from 

the building, then in against its black, reflecting glass. bang He 

shifts again. The platform swings again. bang Out. In. bang 

Again. bang 

Roy’s eyes swell with fright. His fingers curl tightly around 

the cold pipe that keeps him from being swallowed by converging 

lines. He tries to speak, but words, as usual, fail him. 

Rick laughs. 

bang 

The platform swings farther and farther out from the 

building— 

bang 

White gulls wheel and rail, while white ferries scratch the 

turquoise green of Puget Sound. 

Another airliner floats in the blue, blue sky. 

Roy crumbles to his knees. 

Through the expanded metal grating they stand upon—the 

platform’s floor—he can see the swinging scene, the hungry 

converging lines, abstract people like rolling BBs, and he starts to 


cry. His ears fill with Rick’s cackle, his brain fills with the image 

of falling, falling like the dude in Vertigo, the fake scenery behind 

him spinning, his arms and legs flung out, a surprised look on his 

bland face. But that dude knew damn well the Director would 

yell cut and he could go home. After all, he was the star, and 

couldn’t die. After all, it was only a movie. 

But this. This is for real. 

Long, red fingernails tap. 

Roy climbs to his feet. His eyes are wiped dry by the wind. 

He roars as he lunges forward. His long legs drive him to where 

his Brother the Asshole stands, a look of surprise on his ferret 

face. Roy’s hands close around his neck. Rick might be meaner, 

but Roy is stronger. They wrestle. Rick shouts stop! please stop! 

The platform careens wildly—bang bang—swings side-to-side 

stop! please stop! The ropes from which it depends judder as if 

plucked. 

bleepbleep 

A smooth, pearly, redtipped hand snaps up the receiver. Her 

long, red, lustrous hair smells of lost Amazonian flowers. Her 

eyes are filled with a blue God no longer makes. Her lips, 

painted ruby red, are swollen with sensitive nerves, each one 

linked directly to the pleasure center of her brain. Her mouth 

is filled with porcelain teeth, her shoulders square and strong, 

behind which, if she but turned, she would see the agon of 

brothers, Cain and Able of the Window Washing World, one 

with a death grip on the other. 

An enraged Roy lifts his brother bodily off the platform. 

Blue, blue sky. 

Rick’s dirty New Balances leave the expanded metal surface. 

Roy lifts higher and higher. Rick’s hands clutch the air, frantic to 

find some purchase, something to grab onto, but there is nothing 

except the cold metal rail, and his fingers only brush this as Roy 

lifts higher and higher—then hurtles him into space. 

bleep 

The phone again. Pesky thing. With the tiniest, irritated 

frown, the redhead lifts the receiver and brings it to her alabaster 

ear. 


Roy watches Rick plummet towards the sidewalk, swallowed 

by converging lines. 

The crowd disburses, runs for safety from the mess a fallen 

human makes. 

As Roy watches his brother plummet, the fake background 

spinning behind him, he wishes Rick had been a nicer person, 

that they could have been buddies— 

A cellphone rings. 

Roy and his wishes. 

Rick’s arms and legs are flung out. 

Blue, blue sky. White, white clouds. 

Someone taps Roy’s shoulder, hands him a cellphone. 

The redhead turns to peer out the window at Roy who stands 

alone on the rocking platform, who stands alone staring down at 

the converging lines. 

“He’s dead now,” she whispers into the phone, her voice like a 

warm corner in which to nap. “You can get up.” 

Roy opens his eyes and the sky stops spinning, and a 

pinwheeling Rick with flung-out arms and legs stops falling, and 

he stares instead into the ceiling that looks like a badly-stained 

sheet holding a bowling ball, or like a boil in need of a lance. 


A WATERY BLUE, BLEARY 

blue, bleary eye blinks through a vertical crack. 

The 3 on the eye-owner’s door has only one nail left to hold it 

in place, and swings back and forth with the slightest movement. 

It is swinging now. 

The eye’s owner (Roy) opens his door wider. 

Two watery blue, bleary eyes blink through a bigger vertical 

crack. 

It is that quiet time before dawn when the Straights are still 

asleep. 

The hall stands empty. 

Roy doubts seriously if there are any Straights in this building. 

Down at the end of the empty hall is a white door set in a 

fluted, alabaster frame above which is a back-lit, marbled-glass 

transom window. 

The marbled-glass transom window yawns open, held in place 

by a solitary, painted chain. 

Upon the white door are these letters in scratched, patinized 

brass: B THRO M. 

Apparently, at some point in the building’s history, two vowels 

had managed to escape. 

Roy wets his lips. 

Because, if this building doesn’t house any Straights, there’s no 

telling how many of its inmates might still be awake. 

People who do not inhabit the straight world do not as a rule 

share straight habits. In Roy’s nether, in-between world, it does 

not hold true that early to bed and early to rise makes a man 

healthy, wealthy and wise; nor is it considered an enduring virtue 

to ingest a piece of fruit every day. 

Magically transformed into elastic, the hall seems to stretch 

out before Roy as if a scene from a 1960s Jerry Lewis movie. 

Roy has this, among his many problems: he is very private 


about the details of his toilette. He extends the courtesy of his 

lack of curiosity in this matter to everyone he knows, and hopes 

for the same from them. But not everyone he knows shares his 

delicate sensibility. Take his brother, Rick the Asshole. He’ll 

whip his out anywhere, in a public place even, if he feels the urge 

to do so, which is far too often as far as Roy is concerned. How 

many times has Roy stood at a urinal guarding his precious 

secret while Rick would back off several paces and trace letters, 

even whole paragraphs, with his yellow stream? And he would 

pass gas, too, would Rick, whenever and wherever he damned 

well pleased, especially on crowded elevators, and not sneak one 

out either, but force it out just to make it louder. 

Outside of Rick, Roy doesn’t know many people. There’s 

Mel, Rick’s roommate, and a few of Mel’s friends. But they’re all 

gay, so they don’t really count, because Roy isn’t gay. At least, he 

doesn’t think he is. Mel is sometimes nice, sometimes mean. He 

and all his gay friends are always making potty humor at Roy’s 

expense. 

Roy pulls his door open some more. 

Their jokes make him uncomfortable, make him feel maybe 

there’s something wrong with him because he doesn’t find what 

they laugh at to be all that funny. 

How can something said to hurt another person be funny? 

Like an addlepated turtle, he pokes his sleep-tousled head 

beyond the door frame, and cranks his face first to the left, then 

to the right, taking in the panorama of the vacuous hall. 

Life can be so filled with obstacles. 

Take this hall, for example. It appears to be empty, as the 

building appears to be asleep, so this would appear to be a very 

good time to make a run for it. But the Jerry Lewis stretching 

effect has landed the B THRO M door somewhere out in the 

Pacific Ocean, or in the Utah desert. 

Roy has never been good with directions. 

He opens his door all the way. 

He steps past the threshold and stands in the hall. 

One day, he intends to buy a compass. 

He stands listening, prepared to streak back inside at the 


approach of footsteps, or the slam of a distant door, having left 

his own door open wide for that very purpose. 

He would wear it on a string tied around his neck. 

He desperately wants the bathroom to himself, and the 

experience he enjoys within its four walls to be all his own. 

Emboldened by the ostensible emptiness surrounding him, he 

draws his door to—but not shut, in case he needs to make that 

fast getaway—and stealthfully walks the thousand miles to the 

B THRO M. 

And of course, this being a funny place—the world that is, 

brimming with paradox and ambiguity despite our very best 

efforts to subdue them—just as Roy’s hand is closing its grasp 

onto the faceted glass doorknob, the faceted glass doorknob 

turns under its own power and the thick, white door opens with 

a whoosh that sucks many hall molecules inside the B THRO M 

with it. So violently and quickly does the door open that there 

is a drop in barometric pressure throughout the entire building, 

albeit a small one only noticed by cats. 

Roy’s face carroms back and forth between his life-long 

learned emotions of shock and surprise. He works his mouth as 

if chewing on a thick, juicy slab of air while his brain shoots off 

missives and messages to the nerves and muscles required to spin 

him around and run him back into his room. 

Caught off-guard, un-balanced between the here-and-now of 

Formerly-About-To-Open-The-Door and Currently-About-To- 

Run-Like-Hell, Roy finds he has a decision to make. And, as 

with most Roy Decisions, it will take him a little while before he 

knows what to do. 

Given the time of night—or day—and the circumstances of 

their abrupt meeting, the man who stands wet before Roy— 

wrapped in a thick, terry towel spotted with little Cowboys on 

horses chasing little Indians on horses, a similar towel wrapped 

around his head—has, if anything, even less desire than Roy to 

extend their unexpected encounter with casual conversation. 

Unlike Roy, who stands gawping, the toweled man reacts 

thus—: avoiding eye contact, he slams the door closed and 

scurries along the no-longer-empty hallway towards his room. 


He re-enters his room and slams its door as closed as closed 

can be. 

bang 

Leaving gawping Roy with a narrow range of options. 

The way he sees it he can: (a) forge ahead with his initial 

plan and temporarily inhabit the B THRO M, thereby eliminating 

whatever waste materials the machine that is his body has 

manufactured, or (b) beat a hasty retreat back to his own room to 

lock the slab of painted wood that is his own door, and suffer the 

exotic pain of consequential retention of aforementioned waste 

materials that will be his own pain, unique and without reference 

to others. 

In his confusion as to which of these two options ought best 

be applied to his life at this exact moment, it occurs to him that 

there might be a third. 

And this would be: (c) follow the man in the Cowboys and 

Indians towels and investigate further. 

That this last option is the one he elects is remarkable, given 

his history of challenged decision-making. 

He walks slowly along the hall in the towels’ wake to stand 

beneath a bug-filled globe suspended from three dusty chains. 

His sweating dome is weakly illuminated by the globe’s single, 

low-wattage bulb. 

He stares at the scratched, patinized brass numbers on the 

door and notes that they all have their little nails. 

And the door’s number is this: 28. 

And is this not as it should be, in accordance with the rules of 

numbering? For does not 27 precede it, and does not 29 follow? 

And is not 28 a perfect number, an integer for which the sum of 

its proper divisors is equal to the number itself? 

Roy’s number—23—is not a perfect number. It is a prime 

number, a number with only two divisors, 1 and itself. 

But these mathematical facts elude Roy who has, in fact, no 

mathematical facts at his disposal. 

What grabs Roy and gives him a shake isn’t the two fullynailed 

brass numbers, but what’s attached to the door beneath 

them. 

Directly beneath the numbers, secured with two screws, are 


two letters. They appear to have been sliced from a sheet of steel 

with an acetylene torch, so the edges are ragged and rough, and 

this is what they look like: 

Roy appears thoughtful. Perhaps this is a clue to the name of 

the towels’ owner. 

RR 

Maybe his name is Roy, too. 

But it could be Roger. Or Robert. But, most people named 

Robert are called Bob, so it would be BR if his name was Robert, 

or Bob. Roy tries to think of some more names that begin with 

R, but not many come to mind. There’s Rob, but that’s a form 

of Robert, too, and that’s the same as Bob. It could be Randy. 

That would be short for Randall, and nobody wants to be called 

that. Or it could be Rudy. But that’s the name of a reindeer. 

Perhaps, along with who he is and why he’s here, it’s a mystery 

he will never solve. 

The sound of a door slamming elsewhere in the building’s 

warrens brings back Roy’s wandering mind. That and the 

insistence of his bowels. A wave of fear courses through 

him. Somewhere in the building someone else is awake, or is 

awakening, and will soon be thinking toilet thoughts, as once 

again is he. 

Regrettably, he must leave his vigil of a door with nailed-on 

numbers and screwed-on letters. Reluctantly, he must turn his 

back on this bedeviling mystery to betake himself with renewed 

urgency towards his original goal. 

It is a terrifying thought to Roy that, upon having completed 


his business and exiting the small chamber, he might, as had 

the B THRO M’s former occupant, find himself face-to-face with 

another unnamed tenant of the second floor, whereupon, his 

features revealed and noted and in all likelihood remembered 

as they passed one another—the one going in, the other coming 

out—(and considering he would have left something of himself 

behind in that tiny room, something very private and very, very 

personal); then, as a consequence of all this, he (Roy) would never 

be able to look that unnamed tenant of the second floor in the 

eyes again. 

With the fresh, piney scent of a Glade Air Freshener luring 

him on, Roy hurries along the hall. 


ROY LOVES HIS MUSIC. 

It is the sustainer of his soul. 

Not that he would ever put it that way. 

One of the great things about living in Seattle is just this: the 

music. How much of it there is. The variety. Not that Roy’s 

into variety. Not that he frequents Clubs to listen to live music. 

That costs money. And then there’s the drunks and the cigarette 

smoke. And the people. Seattle people. 

The Birkis-and-socks crowd. 

Mostly, when Roy listens to music—which comprises most 

of his day between waking up and going to bed, and oftentimes 

extends into his sleep—what Roy listens to is eighties Punk. 

Among his favorites are: the Sex Pistols, the Smiths, the Pixies, 

Dinosaur, Jr., and Camper van Beethoven. But he also loves 

the Pogues and the Ramones and the Clash. He isn’t into early 

seventies shit, like Glam—except for the glamtrash Canuck 

group, Forgotten Rebels, who are what Glam should have been, 

as far as he’s concerned—and maybe a bit of Roxie, and still a 

little Bowie now and then, and he loves Suzie Quatro and really, 

really early Alice and, every now and then, for nostalgia’s sake, 

some Mott the Hoople. He also digs some of the more obscure 

Brit groups, like the Adicts and the Blitz, the Adverts and the 

Exploited, Chron Gen (easily as good as the Buzzcocks), Infa 

Riot, and the great and fab 999 led by Nick Cash; also, the Toy 

Dolls, Stiff Little Fingers and Generation X. He even likes some 

French skunk like Camera Silens and early Oi!, Komintern Sect, 

La Souris Delinguee and the Trotskids. 

What Roy hates is what his Brother the Asshole listens to. 

Rick likes greasy, slicked-back pukeabilly crap like Dick Dale, 

or the Reverend Horton Heat. Not to mention he still listens to 


Guns N’ Roses! And when he’s really, really drunk he’ll sit all 

glassy-eyed, after puking onto somebody’s shoes, and cry while 

he listens to Tom Waits croak, or that whining sell-out pussy, Van 

Morrison. 

Yes, Roy loves his music. It’s one of the few things—besides 

cooking—he feels he knows something about, and would be 

competent discussing with others, were such an occasion ever to 

arise. 

But that would require social skills. 

Until such a time arrives, and he has a social circle outside of 

Rick and Mel, Roy is happy to cultivate his musical tastes alone. 

Roy doesn’t know much about anything really, and he would 

be the first to admit it. But one of the books he read a long time 

ago, its cover ripped off and returned to the publisher, so he 

found it in the recycle bin behind Beauty and the Beast Books 

in the U District, was about something called Zen, and it talked 

about flowing like water and the path of least resistance, and he 

realized as he read it that he was a charter member of that club. 

Because, for Roy, this world of rushing and grabbing, this 

world of nose jobs and coffee jitters, this world of producing 

things—this world that seems to be all about making money— 

this isn’t the real world, the world he inhabits. This isn’t the 

world he awakens to every morning, isn’t the world he falls asleep 

from every night. This world, the book explained, is the world 

of illusion. Oh, it’s real in its own way—it hurts when you smash 

your thumb with a hammer—it just isn’t really real. What’s really 

real are little things, like the buzz a ladybug makes when she flies 

away home, or the number of times you can use a razor blade. 

Or ants crawling over the tip of your shoe. 

Or music. 

Roy loves his music. It is the sustainer of his soul. 

Not that he would ever put it that way. 


WAILING WALL 

is a downtown music store haunted and inhabited by freaks. 

With its tattered, peeling posters that seem to come alive when 

the wind off Puget Sound sweeps along the street, it’s not a place 

for Straights. They have their own music stores. They can go to 

malls, or drive to Capitol Hill where the fake freaks live. They 

can walk along Broadway while clutching Barnes and Noble bags 

close to their chests. They can grope their way from Starbucks 

to Starbucks while dreaming of peaceful shopping in places with 

cardboard standees of Eric Clapton and Sting—but they can 

not come here. They can not come to the Wailing Wall. The 

Wailing Wall is not for them. They do not belong. They are not 

welcomed. Not that their money wouldn’t be taken. It would, 

and their bodies deposited in one of the big, green dumpsters out 

in the cobblestoned alley. 

One more time—: the Wailing Wall is for freaks. 

Got it? 

Roy’s bald dome emerges from a Metro bus. He stands on 

the sidewalk fiddling with his dilapidated Sony, changing tapes. 

He always carries several in his pockets. He concentrates on this 

activity as though nothing else in the world matters. (Doesn’t he 

understand he is in the way? That people have to sidestep him 

as he stands on the sidewalk like a statue? That men in Harris 

Tweeds with shoulder-slung bags must alter their steps? That 

women in high heels must circumnavigate his island in their 

Stream? Doesn’t he care? Isn’t he in a hurry to get anywhere? 

Doesn’t he have a job? A boss? Someone to answer to?) 

Apparently not. 

To change tapes, Roy has to do this: he has to peel back the 

frayed duct tape that holds closed his Sony’s broken door. Then 


he can pop out the old tape and (a) flip it over, or (b) replace 

it entirely. If he chooses (a) the process is fairly simple and 

straightforward. However, sometimes before he can listen again 

he must rewind to the beginning. This can be frustrating and 

takes time and time is money, especially if his batteries are low, 

and they usually are. After all, batteries are expensive (why do 

they cost so much, anyway?), so every ounce of juice they have 

ought to be squeezed from them before they change career paths 

and become landfill. Perhaps it is a Northwest thing, but Roy 

always has a twinge of guilt whenever he releases the heavy 

little tubes, drops them into the trash. He’s not sure why, but he 

believes somehow their transformation into landfill is connected 

to the ever-expanding hole in our precious Ozone Layer. 

Or he could choose (b). 

As mentioned, (b) entails replacing the music tape entirely. 

Although this might seem fairly straightforward, it rarely is. 

And one of the reasons is that Roy always has difficulty deciding 

which tape to listen to next. And the reason he always has 

this difficulty is that he has heard every single one of his tapes 

innumerable times, so it’s hard for him to decide which one he 

wants to re-listen to again. And because of this fact—the fact 

of his having heard his tapes so many times before—they are 

seldom listened to all the way through and therefore require 

either rewinding or fast-forwarding once they are inserted into 

the Sony player. 

This is why there is so much complexity involved in what, on 

the surface—to the gruff, nettled passersby—should be a simple 

undertaking. 

In fact, it is his need for new music that has drawn him to the 

Wailing Wall this very day. This very chilly, drizzly, purplish 

November day. 

Roy, wearing gray, fingerless woolen gloves, succeeds in reinserting 

a tape and re-securing the Sony’s broken door. By 

holding the tape up to the concrete sky, and squinting through 

the little clear plastic window, he had been able to determine—to 

his delight—that it was not in need of rewinding. He presses 

PLAY and clips the Sony back where it belongs on his belt just 


to the right of his navel, and beneath the outcrop of his slightly 

bulging belly. 

He rolls an exposed thumb along the knurled edge of the 

volume control wheel, and really loud droogy shit enters into his 

head. 

Gone are the honks and the sirens and the jackhammers 

and the snippets of migrating cellphone conversations; gone is 

the Outside World in all its reputed glory, implicated past and 

forbidding future; gone is the daily business report; gone is NPR; 

gone is the Bon Marché; gone are the loathed, the loaded and the 

lame; gone is any reason to get up and go; gone is God and gone 

is war and gone are politics—gone, gone, gone. 

And gone is Roy’s unhappiness. 

Not that he is all that unhappy, not really. Roy is not a 

melancholic, not an alcoholic, not a dependant, needy man. 

He has never really believed he would know what love is, so he 

doesn’t miss it. He has never made a fortune, not even come 

close, never actually tried, so that’s something else he doesn’t 

miss. His parents abandoned him and his Brother the Asshole so 

long ago all he remembers about them is their boozy breaths, so 

he’s got that going for him. It was the metaphysical poet, John 

Donne, who once wrote (in Meditation XVII) that, No man is an 

island, entire of itself. 

But, then, he had never met Roy. 

Roy pushes open the door and enters the Wailing Wall. 

Because Roy’s headphones are filled with the brass crashings 

of Zildjian cymbals and hissing hi-hats, the seagull skirl of 

Stratocasters, the repetitive Les Paul baselines and earthen 

thrum of Ludwig drums, he doesn’t hear the little bells ting-a-ling 

above his head as he enters. 

ting-a-ling ting-a-ling 

He has, in fact, never heard these bells, is, in fact, unaware 

of their existence, since his head is always filled with really loud 

droogy shit. 

Not that the bells mind. They’re just doing their job. 

In many lands and in many times, the ringing of bells has 

been considered a sacred act, their tinkling taken as efficient 

means to drive away evil spirits and demons. 


That the tiny bells working so hard above Roy’s insouciant 

head have proved themselves ineffectual here at the Wailing Wall 

should by no means be taken as proof that their power is a myth. 

Instead, it might be asserted that the evil residing herein at the 

Wailing Wall is so intense that their feeble plaint is overwhelmed 

and muted, not merely unheard. 


For, it is a well known—if oft forgot—fact that music was 

invented by Satan to lure people’s minds away from God. Here, 

in the Twenty-first Century, so many people have traveled down 

this path that, for some lost souls—such as Roy’s—music has 

become a substitute and replacement for God. 

That great, gentle Rocker, Little Richard, once confessed: “I 

was directed and commanded by another power. The power of 

DARKNESS. The power of the DEVIL.” 

May it please the court that the music played at the Wailing 

Wall be entered as evidence of his assertion. 

The man behind the counter does not notice Roy. He is 

distracted, screaming into the telephone. 

“Yeah? Yeah? Well, eat me, you fuckin’ bitch!” 

The man behind the counter has long, black, wavy locks that 

rain down and end in peroxided tips. Like Roy, he also wears 

fingerless gloves. Only his are black leather adorned with spikes. 

“If I don’t get my shit back TO-night, I’m gonna smoke you 

and that that dyke, you fucked-up piece’ve shit!” 

His arms are tattooed and spindly, as though little used, 

except for holding telephones, shelving records and tapes, 

dressing, feeding and manipulating himself, but not much more. 

“Yeah, well stick it up your gawdamned ass, whore!” 

His apparel is all black, with the exception of bold, 

white letters on his tee-shirt that read: I FUCKED YOUR 

GIRLFRIEND. A long, silver chain dangles from his belt, its 

nether end attached to a brown wallet that protrudes from the 

right, rear pocket of his skin-tight jeans. 

His wrists are wrapped with silver-studded bracelets, and his 

face is adorned with a Frank Zappa mustache. 

As often as Roy has been inside the Wailing Wall—and he 

is a frequent browser, if not buyer—he has never noticed the 


man’s Frank Zappa mustache before. In order for him to have 

done this he would have had to look the man behind the counter 

directly in the face. But Roy’s eyes seldom wander far from the 

various slogans the man wears on his black tee-shirts. Here is 

a sampling of some of those slogans: WILL FUCK ON FIRST 

DATE LET’S PLAY HIDE-N-GO-FUCK-YOURSELF 

KEEP MUSIC EVIL I’D RATHER BE FUCKING 

YOUR WIFE DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING PEOPLE 

PERSON? FUCK MILK GOT WEED? 

He also has one that reads ROCK HARD, which Roy 

especially wishes he wouldn’t wear because it’s the name of one of 

Suzi Quatro’s best albums, released in ’81. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, bitch! I know what the fuck you and 

that shithole were doin’!” 

Roy can’t believe his luck. 

In a ragged, brown cardboard box labeled New Shit in black 

felt tip pen, sandwiched between Gino Vannelli’s Gist for the 

Gemini (1976), and Cheap Trick’s 1983 release of Next Position 

Please, he discovers—to his amazement—Come Alive For Suzi, a 

Suzi Quatro bootleg of a live concert she gave at Shibuya Public 

Hall in Tokyo, Japan, 1975. 

He draws his body close to the box, just in case someone 

else might see what he’s discovered and entertain the notion of 

grabbing it. Just in case the empty store is suddenly invaded by 

an army of Suzi Quatro freaks. The plastic case is missing and 

the tape is a dupe, no doubt of the original vinyl (USA released 

title was, variously, Bound To Please, or Naked Under Leather), and its 

name is crudely written in blue ink on both sides. 

He holds it up to the bare florescent tubes. It seems to be 

intact. 

Below the words New Shit on the brown cardboard box is this: 

50 Sents. 

Roy’s day is made. 

All he has to do is pay. 

“You pissass meathole! You slugsucking cunt!” 

(If Roy could hear the man scream that word, he would 

cringe. Not that he cares all that much about women, or their 


ights, or their liberation, or their body parts or whatever 

it was they’re always so angry about. In point of fact, Roy 

cares nothing for political movements. It’s just that he lives 

in a massively Politically Correct city and, even though he 

does not share directly in that culture’s mainstream bounty, 

certain prejudices have managed to percolate through and 

find comfortable lodging in his constitution. Among these is a 

disapproval of the aforementioned C-word, not to mention use of 

the dreaded word that begins with N.) 

Roy wishes he could steal. It would be so easy, is so tempting, 

just to slip the black-and-gold Memorex tape into his pocket. 

Who would see him? The skinny, long-haired man behind 

the counter has his back to him. The store, except for them, is 

empty. It always is during the day. At night you don’t want to be 

here. 

At least, Roy doesn’t. 

Roy only looks like a freak. 

The man behind the counter jabs one finger, stiffened, into 

the air. 

“I’ll stick my .45 up your ass and blow your fuckin’ brains out 

you don’t give me my shit back!” 

Thoughts of shoplifting haze. 

The back of the man’s tee-shirt reads: IN THE ASS. 

Roy approaches the counter. 

Speakers that hang from chains pound out a bone marrow 

massage while Roy’s headphones spew forth really loud droogy 

shit. 

Thus stands Roy, laved by raucous tympani, assailed by an 

incantatory din; stands thus Roy, watching the man behind the 

counter gesticulate and shout, vaguely aware of the foul language 

he must be using, blissfully unable to hear it. 

After a spell, the skinny man in black turns and notices Roy. 

He glares hatefully at the single tape Roy holds. Still shouting 

into the little holes of his telephone’s mouthpiece, he pounds the 

register, then slides the two coins across the counter and throws 

them at the cash register’s open drawer. One settles into the well 

reserved for pennies, the other bounces out to land somewhere on 

the floor in music-induced silence. 


“You make me come after your hairy ass and you’re dead! You 

hear me, bitch? I’ll fucking hang your skinned carcass in a meat 

locker you you—FUCK!” 

Roy grips his new treasure, anxious to get away from the 

man behind the counter, anxious to get away from the counter 

itself, anxious to get away from the black tee-shirt’s bright, white 

lettering, anxious to hear Suzi Quatro sing Your Mama Won’t Like 

Me, and Jail House Rock. 

Tiny bells tinkle unnoticed above Roy’s insouciant head. 


If only the demons could hear. 



There were times when the Old Cowboy 

grew lonesome for his own kind, wondered what his life would have been 

like had he married Mod, settled down the way she wanted. The way they 

planned. But the drive West had been too strong, the call to adventure too 

loud; it had roared in his ears like a Colorado avalanche. Since that time 

there had been other women; he even thought once of settling down and 

working in a hardware store, selling tack and barbed wire and bolts of calico. 

Mod could have tamed him. But she was gone now, and the Great Plains 

was a woman, too. 

In the end, a Cowboy was just a loner, a tough hombre, hard to please, 

harder to understand. Maybe one day he would stumble over another woman 

like Mod, one who was willing to let him be, who would love him for his 

wildness, instead of trying to put the bit between his teeth. 

He reached into a pocket of his duster and pulled out a dented Hohner. 

He slid it along his cracked, pursed lips. The roan’s ears twitched with the 

familiar sound, and her pace quickened. A man had to have more than miles 

ahead and a horse under him to call life good. He had to have music. Once, 

in his younger days, his harmonica had taken a bullet and saved his life. 

The way he sees it, music’s been saving his life ever since. 



GEORGETOWN WAS NOT 

always hemmed in by warehouses, factories, freeways, barge 

terminals, railroads and airports. Georgetown was not even 

always dry land. 

Georgetown was not even always Georgetown. 

Used to be, back in the early part of two centuries ago, 

the Duwamish River curled lazily through this part of the 

world. Away back then, the Qelqaquby—the Proud People—a 

communal tribe, called the place Tu-kwel-tid, By-the-River- 

Bank. They took salmon and steelhead from its pristine waters, 

gathered shellfish and raised potatoes. 

Then came the White Man. 

On the first occasion they were led by Luther Collins who, in 

1851, claimed 640 acres of this Edenic valley as his own. Others 

quickly followed—Samuel Maple, Henry Van Asselt. The 

Denny party arrived the spring of that year and settled in what is 

now Pioneer Square, three miles to the north. 

These brazen acts naturally met with some resistance from 

the tribe, but it was ineffectual, disorganized and dispirited. And 

it didn’t last long. By the 1850s, most of the Proud People— 

who had never thought to register claims, much less invent 

a legal system or colonialism—were sent packing to Federal 

Reservations in far away, distant lands. The few who remained 

behind led miserable lives, drinking firewater and working for 

pennies picking hops. 

For the soil was sweet, the climate divine, and hops throve in 

abundance. As a consequence of this, in 1883, John Clausen and 

Edward Sweeny built a brewery. Dubbed the Seattle Brewing 

and Malting Company, it was destined to expand to cover five 

acres and become the sixth largest brewery in the world. 


Thus, the origin of Rainier Beer. 

Germans and Belgians, arriving in droves, constituted the 

main population of the work force. 

Still, the community had no name. This oversight was finally 

rectified when, in 1890, a developer by the name of Julius Horton 

bought some of the original Collins homestead and named it 

after his son, George, who had just graduated medical school. 

Meanwhile, Seattle needed a railroad. How else was it to 

burgeon and grow? So, on the first day of May, 1874, three 

hundred residents started to build one. Called the Seattle & 

Walla Wall Railroad, its terminus was located in Georgetown. 

They envisioned crossing the Cascades with their line, and 

agreed to contribute one day’s labor a week until the project was 

completed. But they were trumped the following year when the 

Renton and Talbot Coal Mines built their own line between 

Seattle and Tacoma, thereby connecting Seattle to the Northern 

Pacific RR. 

Thus did Georgetown become a marshalling yard for 

railroaders. 

By the time electric streetcars reached Georgetown in 1893, 

brewing and railroading had become Georgetown’s métier. 

At the beginning of the last century, Georgetown had seven 

saloons, five grocery stores, and four churches—alcohol proving 

once again to be more important than food or God. 

Certain influential citizens of Seattle—that big, boiling-over 

melting pot to the north—greatly desired to annex Georgetown, 

and make it a de facto neighborhood, rather than merely one per 

se. But Georgetownians recognized that Seattle’s temperance 

ordinances would force them to close all their bars and, as a 

result, in 1904, they managed to thwart annexation to become 

an incorporated entity unto themselves. 

Eventually, a race track was built, and the number of saloons 

exceeded twenty-five and were operated twenty-four hours a day 

with rooms to rent by the hour or the day. 

Georgetown had evolved into a red light district. 

Seattle—even then politically correct—embarked upon 

a campaign to quash Georgetown’s sinful pride. The result 


ackfired and Georgetown became even more popular for 

revelers, gamblers, fornicators and drunks. 

Nothing good, however, lasts forever. Soon enough, the 

stalwart, straight-laced citizenry of Georgetown—wearied of 

vice, violence and public micturation—succeeded in annexing 

their little community to the glowering one to the north so that, 

in 1910, Georgetown—formerly the “Cesspool of Seattle”— 

became just another Seattle neighborhood. 

The beginning of the century before this was a time of great 

public works. With an arrogance attributable only to Man, rivers 

were being re-routed to benefit commerce, and mountains were 

being carved to resemble men. Even the lazy, twisty Duwamish 

was tamed in a way Xerxes would have found appealing— 

straightened and deepened and renamed a Canal. 

Parts of Georgetown that had once been riverine now found 

themselves half-a-mile or more from water. Appropriately 

enough, from the resulting foul-smelling mud flats, industry 

arose. For now the new, improved Duwamish Canal could 

accommodate ocean-going vessels and product-laden barges. 

Then came Boeing, then came WWII, then came housing 

projects, then came poverty. 

Industrial development and warehouses engulfed Georgetown. 

In ’48 the library closed. In ’52 the movie theater was shuttered. 

In ’62 the I-5 opened, ending any reason to pass along SR-99 

through Georgetown, effectively closing most businesses there. 

The Georgetown schoolhouse, opened in 1898, closed in 1970. 

By 1998 there were only 1,500 residents remaining in 

Georgetown, over a quarter of which lived below poverty level. 

The once famous Hat ‘n’ Boots gas station closed after the I-5 

opened, and years later became a cheap, weathered backdrop for 

indie motion pictures. 

Thus Georgetown in the Twenty-first Century—a down-atheels 

home for spray-paint artists, drug dealers, tattoo parlors, 

biker bars, and homeless strays like Roy. 

Located about 4 miles south of downtown Seattle, Georgetown is a 

real place and is easily accessible. From I-5 take either the Corson Ave/ 


Michigan St exit, or the Albro Pl/Swift Ave exit. From SR-99—E 

Marginal Way S—turn east on S. Michigan St. First and Fourth Avenues 

South pass through Georgetown. Perhaps the most architecturally interesting 

route is along Airport Way S. Don’t blink, or you’ll miss it! 


THE SONY TAPE PLAYER 

attached to Roy’s belt gives up the ghost and dies. 

Suzi’s voice slows and slows and slows— 

click 

The circumstances could not have been less tragic. Roy’s new 

residence is in sight, and he has already listened to both sides of 

the tape five times. 

It took forever for him to get home—today is a Game Day, a 

day for the Seahawks to play the very costly game of football— 

and his bus spent forty minutes traversing a stretch of SR-99 he 

could have walked in ten. 

Not that Roy minded, except when his batteries were low, or 

he needed to pee. 

Sometimes he wonders why they don’t put urinals on buses. 

(Roy has a colorful cardboard box in his duffle bag that used 

to contain Parodi cigars, but is now filled with juiceless batteries 

he can’t bring himself to throw away. He figures that that many 

batteries thrown away all at once would rip a hole the size of 

Australia in our planet’s fragile ozone layer. And when the 

authorities found out he was responsible for the Australia-sized 

ozone hole—and they do check on these things—he, Roy, would 

probably have to go to jail for a long, long time. Possibly forever.) 

Styrofoam boxes with remnants of rice glued inside, crushedout 

cigarette butts, packages of squeezed-dry mustards and 

ketchups—all wind-delivered—rest in the corners of his 

building’s entryway, an entryway that had, maybe a hundred 

years ago, been clean and inviting. 

Fishing for his keys, Roy bounds up the chipped granite steps 

to the scarred front door. 


Roy only has two keys. 

He inserts one, turns it, and shoves his way inside. 

It’s better inside—the floor, that is—kept swept by the angry 

lady who runs the place. It’s one of those old-fashioned tiled 

floors composed of little black-and-white hexes. Roy thumps 

up the broad, red-carpeted stairs to the second—his—floor, his 

booted feet creaking and sinking the treads with his weight. He 

pulls the tatterdemalion headphones away from his ears and 

allows them to them rest around his neck. 

They’ve had a long day. 

At the top of the stairs he stops to catch his breath. He used 

to walk everywhere, did Roy, but that was before he learned 

about bus transfers. If you know how, you can take a bus transfer 

all over Seattle and ride free all day. Now that he knows this, he 

doesn’t walk as much. He also eats too much greasy food and 

drinks double-tall Americanos with whipped cream for breakfast. 

Breakfast of Champions, his Brother the Asshole calls it. 

Slightly winded, he walks along the hall. 

At room 28 he stops. 

Roy stares at the door, the door’s number, and the door’s 

double Rs. 

He almost forgot, it had been such a busy day. Almost forgot 

about the mystery. The mystery of the letters. Forgot to think up 

names to fit them. 

The first person Roy thinks of now is Robert Redford. 

Just imagine if Robert—his friends probably call him Bob, 

or maybe even Bobby—Redford actually lived here. Maybe he 

moved in to escape his fans. Bob or Bobby must have tons of 


fans. Maybe, this being his later life, Bob or Bobby has become 

a hermit like Howard Hughes, grown his nails long and pointy, 

his hair no longer slicked-back Hollywood, but dirty and scraggy 

like Roy’s. 

Just imagine. 

This is what Roy does—just imagines—as he stares and stares 

at the door marked 28/RR. 

And as he stares and stares and just imagines, he hears 

something. It’s something unlike anything he’s ever heard before. 

It’s something akin to music he’s familiar with, yet not. It’s 

something almost otherworldly. It’s something totally weird and 

bizarre. 

It’s also something that calls to him, urges him to lean closer 

and listen. 

And this is exactly what Roy does. He leans closer and he 

listens. 

It’s definitely some kind of music. 

Leaning even closer, he listens even harder. 

As a consequence of all this leaning and listening, the music 

grows louder and becomes more distinct. 

He slides his feet nearer the yellow bar of light that lives at the 

bottom of the door marked 28/RR. 

Whoever is inside—whose initials must be RR—is playing the 

weirdest shit he’s ever heard. 

Roy turns his head to one side and further reduces the 

distance between the helix of his left ear and the white surface of 

the door. The hairs that spike the rim of his ear make contact 

with the surface of the door and, like an insect’s antennae, 

amplify vibrations emanating from the other side. These 

vibrations bombard his tympanic membrane, set at a gallop his 

hammer and stirrup and convert mechanical energy into neural 

impulses that rush to fill his brain. 

A brain that has not formerly been favored with such sweet 

sounds. 

A brain limited by a glut of electrified cries and amplified 

caterwauler. 

A brain content with its narrow bandwidth, yet young and 

supple enough to appreciate marvels. 


And, as the gods would have it, of all the brains in the world, 

Roy’s happens to be the one uniquely suited to appreciate the 

tunes that emanate from within 28/RR. 

Entranced, Roy sinks further into the sounds, and thus against 

the door. His ear presses upon its nicotined surface, its coolness 

pleasant against headphone-warmed ears. 

It is not yet five o’clock of a midweek afternoon. In the 

outside world, Straights are fussing with ties, saving files, slipping 

on Classic Docksides or Gor-Tex adventure boots and Penny 

Loafers, signing to cubicle buddies, calling home, squaring pages, 

craving interns (male and female alike)—while he, Roy Weston 

(for such is his surname), eavesdrops in a grimy, deeply-shadowed 

hall closed off from the consensual reality of commerce and 

commotion, listens intently to something totally weird and 

bizarre. 

The weirdest, most bizarre shit he’s ever heard. 

Then he hears something else—somewhere in the building, a 

door opens and shuts. 

He jumps back from 28/RR, his head twisting this way and 

that in an effort to ascertain if he is still alone in the hallway. 

And he is still alone in the hallway, except for the fact that 

footsteps approach. 

Someone is clumping up the stairs! 

Not that there’s anything wrong with Roy standing in the 

hallway. It is, after all, his hallway. It is, after all, his floor. But 

it could be construed as suspicious that he has his ear pasted 

against a door that is not, in fact, his own. One that, in fact, 

belongs to someone else entirely, someone with the initials RR 

who, if made aware that he—Roy—has been eavesdropping, 

might take offense and become belligerent and unwilling under 

any circumstances ever to reveal the name of the weird music he 

listens to. 

Roy figures all this out with blinding speed, the human brain 

being a wondrous, magical thing—even in someone like Roy— 

and in an instant concludes that he should run away. 

Very decisively and very quickly he pads along the hall to 

door number 23. 


A prime number, and one he’s happy to be affiliated with. 

A number diagonally across, and three doors down from 

28/RR. 

A perfect number. 

And a perfect mystery, as well. 



BLUE LIGHT FROM 

a cloud-eclipsed moon darkens the sockets of his eyes, deepens 

the folds of his face. 

Exhausted earphones curl around his neck. 

Roy has drawn his bedframe into contact with the building’s 

exterior wall, thereby bringing himself nearer the leaky radiator 

and the leaking sky. 

He presses his baldness against the metal bars of his bed. 

He is like a monk who for the briefest instant has looked 

upon the vertiginous beauty of God, only to have the experience 

obliterated by the sound of a flushing toilet. 

He knows better than to share his ecstatic vision with any of 

his fellow monks. Since they had not experienced it, they would 

scorn it and despise him for his presumption. 

Roy, without wanting it, without knowing it, certainly without 

expecting it, has been slightly altered. 

Unintentionally, he has penetrated the veil that insulates us 

from Eternal Verities; momentarily, he has crested the glass 

cloche that encloses us, restrains us, keeps us earthbound, 

anchors our feet to the clay; for an instant, he has brushed 

against an epiphany, sideglanced Perfection—now he lies alone 

in his room, in claustrophobic darkness, baffled and befuddled, 

reeling in the aftermath. 

He presses his baldness against the metal bars of his bed. 

There is no one to turn to for solace, there is no one who 

could understand. The rule is simple and clear: each of us must 

face his Dark Night alone. 

Except for possibly this: he could simply knock on 28/RR and 

ask. 


Ask the guy inside what the hell it is he listens to that has 

wrecked him—Roy—like this. 

But Roy is not constituted that way. That is not how the 

Great Happy One constructed him. 

The question then arises, how is he, Roy Weston, if it is 

necessary that he do so, and it appears as though it is, ever going 

to overcome his Old Ways, the comfortable past of his mostly 

untroubled life, to acquire the arcane musical information he so 

badly desires? How is he, a shy loner—just how is he ever going 

to bridge the chasm that yawns between 23 and 28/RR? 

What does a Prime Number have that a Perfect Number 

could want? 

Because this he knows for certain—once he knocks on that 

door (if he ever does), he will be faced with one of two things: 

acceptance or rejection. 

Roy’s whole life has been built upon this simple, powerful twovalue 

system. 

Acceptance or rejection. 

Mostly, it’s been rejection. 

His parents rejected him, his Brother the Asshole rejects him, 

society shuns him, his landlady can’t stand him, and on and on. 

It stands to reason then that the fellow with the Cowboys 

and Indians towels and beatific tunes who dwells within 28/RR 

will also reject him. And, why shouldn’t he? How else could it 

be? What does poor Roy Weston have to offer anyone? Indeed. 

What does he? What does poor Roy Weston? 

What does he have? 


GROGGY, GRAY, GROANING 

Roy rises from his bed. He squinches his eyes and scrunches his 

face. Now, if only he can stand. 

Roy Weston stands. 

Cowering pigeons coo on his windowsill. 

Roy wobbles to his door and snicks open its lock. 

With the sound of fatigued metal, he cranks on the doorknob 

until it runs out of crank. 

With his left shoulder slabbed up against flocked wallpaper, 

he opens the door enough for one of his watery blue orbs to roam 

the hallway. 

He tips his face forward so the leading edge of the door 

encounters and bisects the ridge of his brow. 

He needs the support of both wall and door to keep from 

falling over. 

The hallway stands empty. 

Unlike Roy. 

The bar of light that lives at the bottom of 28/RR is asleep. 

O, Lucky Bar! 

Roy has tossed and turned all night, headphones cuddling his 

neck. 

His neck as a result is nice and warm. 

His ears—perhaps the most highly developed portion of 

himself—can hear the pathetic cooing of shivering pigeons on his 

windowsill. 

Having once been a shivering pigeon himself, Roy 

understands. 

But his sleeplessness was worth it. For, Roy’s mind is made 

up. 


Roy has a plan. 

His hand tightens on the knob. 

By cricky, he is going to do it, too. His plan, that is. And, also 

by cricky, it is going to work. 

Or not. 

Cold though it may be—and it is; wet though it might 

be—and how could it be otherwise, for this is Seattle in winter; 

nevertheless, his mind is made up. 

He sets his face with steely resolve. 

Removing his now dented forehead from the leading edge of 

the painted, wooden slab, Roy closes the door. 

He releases the knob. 

The knob, glass-faceted and powered by an ancient spring, 

snaps back to its resting place with a sound akin a thunderclap. 

(How many times has it done this—a million? Now it is a 

million and one.) Roy winces at the sound. 

To his super-sensitive ears, it is terribly loud. It is, in fact, a 

noisy racket. He is fearful lest it awaken his neighbor in 28/RR. 

Or the whole building. 

Or the world. 

He wants to sneak out unannounced, quickly and quietly, a 

drifting shadow, avoiding chance encounters with other souls. 

He doesn’t want a repeat of the B THRO M fiasco. 

He shuffles over to his bed and sits. 

squeak 

For a while he stares out his sash window at the rising globe 

that, on the other side of the window’s glass, saturates morning 

clouds with a pearly opalescence. 

He assumes it’s the sun. 

An overpowering urge causes him to stand. 

squeak 

In one, quick stride he is at the latticework of dirty glass 

rectangles. He unlocks the catch and shoves up the sash. 

The pigeons—deeply engrossed in a discussion about the 

overuse of the subjunctive in post-modern literature—are startled 

by this event and display their aggravation by thrashing their 

wings wildly. As one, they display to the human interloper the 


feathered nether regions of their avian anatomy, then flap off into 

the greasy light of dawn. 

Roy wastes precious little energy pondering where they 

might be going. Roy, it may truly be said, has no interest in 

pigeons, or in birds of any feather. Nor in cats or dogs or gerbils 

or fish. Roy has never owned a pet in his life, has never had 

anyone or anything to take care of but himself—unless you 

count his Brother the Asshole—and, as a result, has a severely 

underdeveloped, almost opaque side to him when it comes to why 

anyone would want a pet. 

He unzips his jeans. 

He barely aims, what with the rain and all, nor does it occur 

to him there might be an innocent, ambling passerby below— 

partly because of the hour, partly because of the neighborhood. 

Mostly because he doesn’t care. 

Roy pees. 

His business done, he reassembles himself and squeaks the 

window closed. 

This turns out to be quite a noisy ordeal. The sash joints 

are moldering and the frame is out of square. Apparently, its 

very lack of squareness had held the window open throughout 

Roy’s process of elimination. Long gone are the pig iron 

counterbalances, or the sash cords that once secured them. The 

mullions are creeping away from the frame and, by his opening 

the window, unfamiliar stresses have been placed on the old, 

drooping panes, endangering their very existence. 

Chunks of petrified putty pop out of ancient beddings and 

drop onto the glistening sill. 

Roy holds the window together with both hands and guides it 

down its track to its familiar resting place. 

It had not been an easy process, but preferable to visiting the 

B THRO M and possibly running into the tenant of 28/RR again. 

With the window finally closed and the radiator chugging 

away ineffectually—trying to replace heat lost by the window’s 

opening, a task that could take another hundred years—Roy sets 

about his preparations for departure. 

Burying an arm under the mattress, his hand returns from its 

explorations clutching several twenty-dollar bills. 


He counts them—there are four in all—then folds them neatly 

and stuffs them into his right, front jeans pocket. 

He takes down from its nail the stained, yellow raincoat 

purchased for a song from Value Village, and slides it on. It 

is unlined, but its hood still has its drawstring and not all used 

hoods do. To make up for its lack of lining, Roy wears two 

woolen shirts over a tee-shirt. But, then, Roy wears two woolen 

shirts over a tee-shirt winter, spring and fall so even if the 

raincoat did have a lining, he would still have worn two woolen 

shirts over a tee-shirt. 

So the fact the raincoat is unlined is hardly worth mentioning. 

He awakens his curled-up, dozing headphones, expands their 

bandy legs so as to span his barren dome, then snaps their foamcovered 

drivers over his ears. 

The Sony tape player assumes its rightful place on his belt. 

He is like a superhero suiting up. 

But there the comparison ends. 

Roy’s enthusiasm for his music, although certainly not gone, 

has somewhat dimmed from its normal level of intensity. For the 

first time since he can remember, he thinks about not listening to 

anything at all but, instead, exposing his ears and thus himself to 

the Noises of the World. 

Alas, the Noises of the World are a poor substitute for the 

accustomed clangor of his tunes and, anyway, Old Ways are hard 

to break. 

He seizes upon his most recent acquisition—the Suzie 

Quattro bootleg—and introduces one of its rewound sides into 

the yawning player. He clicks the player closed, re-tapes its door 

securely shut, and plugs in his earphones’ dangling cord. 

He will wait until he has successfully maneuvered his way out 

of the ponderous, flyblown building before pressing PLAY. 

Then he gasps as he remembers his batteries are dead. 

This new twist in no way alters the previous decision to wear 

his headphones. He may not be able to fill them with really loud 

droogy shit, but they will serve to warm his ears. 


FOR ROY, 

moving into the Outside World can be something of a challenge. 

Although exiting the building had been easy, easier than he 

had expected, this offers small comfort for him 

Just because something turns out to be easier than expected 

doesn’t—to Roy’s mind—mean you should suddenly change your 

point of view and assume you’ve now turned a corner in your 

life and clouds will henceforth have silver linings and all future 

undertakings will be successful. On the contrary. The fact 

something turns out to be easier than expected simply means the 

next thing will be that much harder. 

This aspect of Roy’s character may or may not have anything 

to do with his parents, who used to call him a wart; a blister; an 

unrestrained ejaculation; a ruptured rubber; a baldheaded freak 

(Roy’s diffuse baldness, attributable to the maternal genome and 

a diet of white bread and Ivar’s clam strips, began in his teenage 

years); also, that he was a canker, a wanker, a boil, a retard, a 

blackhead, a freakazoid, a booger, a mutant, and a ninny. 

Strangely, he retains many loving memories of them. 

Consider the time they took him and his little bro, Assholein-Training, 

to Magnuson Park to see the Sound Garden and 

drop acid. Or the time they visited Woodland Park Zoo and fed 

the hippos Cheetos Cheese Puffs and Da asked one of the zoo 

persons if they accepted donations to the monkey house because 

he had two he was very eager to let go of cheap (say, twenty 

bucks?). 

Then there was that visit to the Aquarium and a week of 

talking to cops and sleeping at Juvey Hall before Mom and Da 

were found hitchhiking in Canada. 

No. They weren’t all bad times. 


Although, looking back at it—which is not Roy’s way— 

Christmas could be a little rough. 

Like most kids, Roy loved Christmas. The colored lights 

misted by fog; the metallic music emanating from outdoor 

speakers; the increased largesse of passersby, whose occasional 

donations of nickels, dimes and quarters would briefly flower into 

folding money; the window dressings filled with unattainable 

merchandise; the food wagons with free turkey and cranberry 

sandwiches (Roy loves cranberries)—these memories were forever 

burned into his mind. 

One Christmas, Mom sewed him and his little bro miniature 

Santa suits to wear as they stood in an icy drizzle holding 

hand-painted Salvation Army signs, Roy ringing the bell, Rick 

carrying the pail, and they managed to collect over four hundred 

dollars before they were arrested. 

Roy’s mind works like this—: he expends very little energy 

revisiting his angst-y past, sifting through his crummy years in 

search of clues as to the Why-ness or the How-ness of the Whoness 

that he is. Roy does not retreat into self-pity, or gaze into his 

twisty navel while nursing ancient woundsand picking psychic 

scabs. 

Roy doesn’t linger over the past while lounging in the future. 

Not a Hedonist, not an Epicurean, not a Platonist, not a 

Confucian, not Born Again, not a Sunni, not a Shi’ite, not a 

Shintoist, not a Buddhist, not a Sikh, not a Moonie, not a Jain, 

not a Baha’i, neither a Marxist nor a Neo-Marxist, not a Maoist, 

not a Leninist, not a Keynesian nor a Whirling Dervish, not 

a Webelo, not a Jeddi Knight, not a Jew, not a Wiccan, not a 

Druid, not a Unitarian, not a Utopian, neither a Pagan nor a 

Fabian, not a Druse, not a Scientologist, not a Zoroastrian, not a 

Catholic—not even an Atheist, Anarchist, or Republican. 

Roy is none of these. 

Roy—if he must be categorized and pigeonholed, limited and 

described—is, if anything, a Stoic. 

For, if he is pushed, does he not leave? If he is pulled, does he 

not follow? 

Is he not as dust upon a millstone? 


Roy may well be the perfected incarnation of Eudaimonia—the 

Philosophical Life aspired to by ancient Greek thinkers. 

Like Zeno of Citium (c. 334?-262? B.C.)—has he not 

abandoned all knowledge? Does he not tread the pathless path? 

Does he not abjure wealth and high station as goals in life? Has 

he not relinquished the critique and judgment of others? That is, 

besides his Brother the Asshole and Yuppie Scum? 

Could he not be likened to a leaf upon the palm of God? 

In some ways, Roy is a remarkable find, a true rara avis, 

perhaps an example of the next stage in the Development of 

Man. 

But even with all this going for him, moving into the Outside 

World can be something of a challenge. 



Crouched on an outcrop of granite, 

the rifle’s barrel balanced on his left knee, the Old Cowboy held the 

Pronghorn buck in his sights. He squinted along the barrel of his Henry, 

took a deep breath, then released it slowly as the buck passed behind a tree. 

He made out the grazing animal to be between two-fifty to three hundred 

yards. It was Tom Horn once boasted he plugged a man at three hundred 

yards, and that there wasn’t no one but him could do a deed like that in all 

Wyoming. 

He’d been wrong about that, and knew it well. 

But not all men are drunken braggarts, like Tom. 

The buck leisurely nosed the tall grass. Thinking of Tom brought a song 

to mind, and the Old Cowboy’s coppery lips moved as he whisper-sang the 

words— 

Life is like a mountain railroad 

With an engineer so brave; 

We must make this run successful 

From the cradle to the grave; 

Watch the curves, the fills the tunnels 

Never falter, never fail; 

Keep your hand upon the throttle 

And your eye upon the rail— 

He recalled how, back in ’03, Frank and Charlie Irwin had sung this as 

Tom was hanged by the horsehair rope he had braided while in jail. 

That had been a somber day, and for many a reason besides the passing 

of an old friend. 

The wild days were done, what with Tom gone. Ton Horn—the man 

who brought in Geronimo single-handed, and thus ended the Indian Wars. 

The sheep ranchers and homesteaders came along close behind and built their 

churches, outlawed spitting, strung barbed wire and telegraph lines all over 

the place— 

As you roll across the trestle 


Spanning Jordan’s swelling tide; 

You behold the union depot 

Into which your train will glide; 

There you’ll meet the superintendent 

God the Father, God the Son; 

With a hearty, joyous greeting 

Weary pilgrim, welcome home— 

The buck stepped clear of the tree. 

The eyes of a Pronghorn can detect motion three miles distant. The Old 

Cowboy took a shallow breath and remained dead still. 

In ’98 he had been a muleskinner for Teddy and his Terrors—the 

Roughriders some newspaper fellow named them—but he’d come down with 

malaria before they shipped him and his mosquito-riddled compadres off to 

Cuba. 

That was where he met Tom. They both missed the war and went back 

to busting broncs for $60 a month. 

They later joined Pinkerton’s and gunned down outlaws, which they 

themselves had surely been, without reproach or dangling from a rope for the 

doing of it, but it was a distasteful business, although Tom stayed on a while 

longer, after the Old Cowboy sauntered off. 

Their paths never crossed again until he’d heard about the trial and made 

the long ride to Cheyenne. 

Too long a ride, as it turned out. He arrived the day they dangled Tom. 

The buck was in the open now. Enough food for a month. He would 

skin it and jerk the meat this very day. 

Maybe it was three hundred yards, after all. 

It only took one shot. Direct to the heart. The rifle’s report was 

swallowed by the empty land, just like the Old Cowboy would one day be, 

just like the world he used to know already had been, just like the fate of 

everything born. 

The buck dropped, never knew what hit it. 

The Old Cowboy cranked the empty .45 casing out of the Henry’s 

chamber and caught it before it hit the ground. 


ROY’S PLAN IS SIMPLE, 

almost of necessity. 

He will bake a lasagna. 

He will bake a lasagna, and leave it at door 28/RR. He will 

place it, covered in aluminum foil, by the light that lives at the 

bottom of that door, ready to pop into a microwave for heating, 

except first you have to remove the foil. And he will also write 

a note that he will leave on top of the foil-wrapped lasagna, and 

that note will include his room number and his name and say 

something nice about the guy’s music. 

To Roy’s mind, this appears as perfect a plan as ever he has 

hatched. Not that he has hatched that many plans in his life. 

Roy’s natural predisposition is more comfortable with chance 

than intentionality, or designed evolution; far be it from him to 

impose his will upon the World. 

There seems to be enough of that going on without his two 

cents thrown in. 

Nor has he troubled himself to consider that his plan 

might backfire and be wrongly interpreted—i.e., as crafty 

manipulation. Otherwise, he might reconsider. But Roy lives an 

isolated life with himself as sole arbiter for his thoughts and deeds 

and, according to his way of understanding things, how could 

his gift be construed as anything other than a neighborly gesture, 

and thus benign? So what if he happens to mention in his note 

something about the guy’s music? He’s not complaining. He’s 

complimenting. And people like to be complimented. 

No. Roy is convinced this is the best course of action for him 

to pursue. 

His mind is made up. 


And this is how much his mind is made up—: in order for 

him to accomplish his bold, simple plan, he will have to undergo 

hazing and humiliation at the hands of his Brother the Asshole. 

Not to mention his brother’s gay housemate, Mel. 

That is how much his mind is made up. 

You might ask yourself why Roy must drag himself through 

this mire of self-degradation, just to bake a lasagna? 

The answer is simple—: because his brother Rick lives with 

Mel, and Mel owns the house they share, and Mel’s house has a 

kitchen. 

And Mel, from time-to-time, permits Roy the use of his 

kitchen. 

Rick and Mel are what the ancient Stoics would call difficult 

people. 

Difficult people are people who behave badly because they 

lack a knowledge of good and evil. 

For the moderns—more accurately, post-moderns—these 

people are commonly referred to as Assholes. 

To the Stoic, even difficult people possess a rationality which 

is identical to that of the sage—it’s just that their rationality has 

not been tutored. 

The ancients would have adjudged these people—despite their 

propensity towards acts of violence and self-degradation—to be 

related to us directly through the divine mind of God. 

In post-modern, scientific terms, people become difficult 

either as a result of flawed genetic material, or societal forces 

beyond their power to avoid. Rationality in such people ceases 

to develop, and they become morally blunted. Whelmed and 

overwhelmed by violent imagery in the media and designer drugs 

on the streets, they regress to a more basic, brutal type—: 

Assholes. 

As perceived through the connectedness we all share with 

God, the sage would have no grounds either for anger or hatred 

toward Assholes, no matter how stupid or brazen their behavior. 

Roy, not being a sage, would like to throw all the difficult 

people he knows—not to mention the ones he hasn’t met—off the 

Smith Tower in Seattle and watch them explode on the sidewalk 

far below like flame tokay grapes. 


Especially Rick the Asshole, and sometimes Mel the 

Homosexual. 

Thus, it is with a heavy heart that Roy trudges forth on 

the journey to Mel’s house, a nineteen-thirties faded yellow 

clapboard Craftsman nestled on the backside of Capitol Hill in 

an upscale community of turn-of-the-century, turreted, leadedglass-and-colonnaded 

homes, one block off 15th Ave. 

Mel’s is one of the houses held in least regard by a trim 

and subdued neighborhood. One of the last houses left in that 

part of the world not to have undergone lovingly-executed 

and astronomically-expensive renovation, it is a house in sad 

disrepair, in need of just about everything, especially paint and a 

chimney, but—and this is small consolation to his neighbors—set 

far enough back from the sidewalk, and separated by a tawdry 

lawn spotted with lackluster, weedy roses behind a faded white 

picket fence, so as to be almost unnoticeable to the casual 

passerby. 

To his neighbors, however, it remains a constant eyesore, one 

that all and sundry hope eventually will be mismanaged into 

repossession and fall into more tasteful and ambitious hands. 

Hands warmed in deep, lint-free pockets. 

Capitol Hill is a haven for the gay and straight well-to-do. 

Spotted with classical and neo-classical facades, it is a favorite 

venue for Californian film makers who don’t want to drive all the 

way to Canada. Driveways are congested with late model Saabs 

and Escalades. Boston ferns abound, as does the incessant highpitched 

whine of lawn blowers as yards infrequently touched by 

their owners are massaged and sculpted into loveliness by men 

who speak foreign tongues and drive rusted pickup trucks. 

One block over—on sprightly 15th Ave—there exists a 

hodgepodge of trendy businesses, such as: Stuff It! (an erotic 

bakery); Glam Grrls (retro 70s clothing); Reading Out Loud (a 

gay & lesbian bookstore); three Starbucks; Eat Right Now (an 

organic grocery); Frayed Edges (S & M leather repair); Nose Workes 

(aromatherapy shoppe); two fiercely competing Yoga studios 

(Anusara versus Iyengar); Hard Balls (Pilates); Chew-N-Spew 

(a Pizzeria-Laundromat); two internet cafes, Safety Last and 


Metasations; Chinese, Thai, Salvadorian, Cajun, Ethiopian, 

Vietnamese and Tex-Mex restaurants; two pubs, Moe’s Malts 

(a Scotch bar), and Shaken & Slurred (a Martini bar); thirteen 

massage therapists; a potpourri of psychological counselors; Bun 

Heads (Ballet supplies), Snippits (a hair salon), Apocalypse Tao (an 

upscale tattoo/piercing parlor), and a Safeway. 

This last happens to be Roy’s goal. 

Buses in Seattle mostly suck. North and South are the worst. 

East and West are OK, if you know the city pretty well, but 

just try getting from, say, south Seattle, where Roy lives to, say, 

Capitol Hill, where his brother lives—it can take hours. This 

doesn’t bother Roy so much today, since it affords him time 

to doze. It is not a restful sleep, as he is awakened frequently 

by the unfamiliar sounds of travel. So used is he to the white 

noise of his tunes that the clattertrap of the bus—conversations 

of the riders, snapping of newspaper pages, ding of the pulled 

bellcord—all serve to disturb his slumber. 

How he longs for his tunes! 

Until that time arrives, he rests his weary head against the 

window’s cool, rain-beaded surface. A head that sways with 

the motion of the bus. The bus that is one of the big articulated 

models, with an accordion bellows middle. The bus that whines 

along like the trolleys of old, powered by overhead cables. 

As the driver calls out stops, a portion of Roy’s brain listens to 

his chronicle of their pilgrimage, but another portion of his brain 

thinks about other things. 

Briefly, these are some of the other things Roy thinks about: 

1) —the music, of course. This is, after all, what started 

the ball rolling. Odd, how he’s so willing—eager, even—to 

destabilize his world because of some muffled music heard 

through a door. Music he barely remembers now, and couldn’t 

hum if he had to. He might not even recognize it when he hears 

it again. And, what if he doesn’t hear it again? What if the guy 

doesn’t like lasagna? What if the guy turns out to be a bigger 

asshole than Rick? Until now, Roy has been driven along by 

a passionate infatuation, a manic zeal. It hadn’t occurred to 

question the reasons of his undertaking. It just seemed to make 


sense. And that doesn’t happen a lot for Roy. Maybe music 

shouldn’t be so important to him, but it is. Besides, he’s come 

this far. No sense turning back now. He simply has to trust his 

gut. 

And his gut tells him to bake a lasagna. 

But then Roy’s gut would. 

2) —the recipe, of course. There are all kinds of lasagnas. 

Some people don’t know this. Roy has read tons of cookbooks in 

the Seattle Public Library, and he thinks he knows all the kinds 

of lasagnas there are. For instance, there’s lasagna made with 

zucchini and walnuts; lasagna made with sausage and potatoes; 

lasagna made with seafood; lasagna made with spinach and 

ham—and that’s just four! There are dozens more. But the one 

Roy plans to make for 28/RR is his favorite, four-star classic 

lasagna. And to make it, he will need the following ingredients: 

pork sausage (12 ounces, or so); fennel (one teaspoon); onion (one, 

large, minced); garlic (2 cloves, minced); a can (14 1/2 ounces) of 

diced tomatoes (drained); an 8 ounce can of tomato paste; Italian 

seasoning (one tablespoon); ricotta cheese (15 ounce container); 

Parmesan cheese (1/4 cup, grated); mozzarella cheese (6 ounces, 

grated); black pepper; a beaten egg and, of course, lasagna 

noodles (6). 

The fennel and pepper and garlic are already at Mel’s, as is 

his Pyrex baking dish (Roy is allowed to store some of his spices 

and cooking utensils in the kitchen, as long as they don’t take up 

too much room, but he has to hide everything because if Rick the 

Asshole finds it, he’ll throw it all away); the rest he’ll have to buy. 

3) —Rick, naturally. Just knowing he’s going to see his 

brother and they won’t be engaged in window washing or floor 

mopping or cabinet cleaning or carpet vacuuming or dead 

body mopping or doing whatever dirty job it is they do together, 

makes Roy’s stomach hurt. Even though Roy is older, bigger, 

and physically more powerful, he is dwarfed in the presence of 

his sadistic little brother. He becomes tongue-tied, befuddled, 

incapable of defending himself. Sometimes a week will pass 

before Roy can conjure an apt rebuttal to the shit his brother 

says, like that he’s a fat pussy who gargles with toilet water. Of 


course, by the time he thinks of something to say it’s way too late 

to say it. He could, if he thought it was worth the trouble, always 

write it down and keep it in his pocket for another time. There 

will always be another time. But Roy’s heart is not a vengeful 

one, nor is he a hateful man (except, perhaps, when it comes to 

Yuppie Scum), nor does he always have to win, or come out on 

top, or jockey for the limelight. 

Roy’s Way is to fade, to forget, to forge ahead. 

But that is not Rick’s Way. 

For Rick, every slight, real or imagined (and most are) is 

magnified into a monstrous deed deserving of lengthy, loud, 

hate-filled diatribes and outlandish schemes to kill or maim— 

bloodchilling schemes worthy of Charles Manson or Freddy 

Kruger. Rick carries a switch blade he likes to snap open and 

stick in Roy’s face when he’s pissed off. And he’s pissed off a lot. 

He knows knives scare the shit out of Roy, that’s why he went 

to the trouble of getting one—to scare the shit out of Roy. Roy 

couldn’t recall ever seeing his brother threaten anyone else with 

it. But, even though it scares the shit out of him, Roy doesn’t 

think Rick would ever actually use it, not really, not unless he’s 

pushed too far. The question, then, of course, becomes this: 

how far can Rick be pushed? Not that Roy has any intention of 

finding out. It’s just an unpleasant question that crops up from 

time to time. 

(Rick has a tattoo on his left forearm of a tarantula with fangs 

like a saber-toothed tiger. On his back is a tattoo of Elvis hung 

on a cross. He also has one of a snake that coils up his right leg, 

its head snooping around inside his BVDs. On his right bicep is 

a picture of a mermaid spreading her legs for an octopus with a 

giant—) 

“Roy!” 

Roy’s eyes snap open. 

“Roy!” 

He shakes his head and tries to remember where he is. He 

is on a bus; he is on his way to Mel’s; he has to get off, now; this 

is his stop; he must pull the cord, and be quick about it and, of 

course, stand up. 


He pulls the cord and stands up. 

Roy made sure when he got on the bus that he was sitting by 

himself. He has a way of making the unoccupied seat beside him 

extremely undesirable. 

Unless it’s rush hour, Roy always sits alone. 

Lurching to his feet, he grabs the back of the seat in front of 

him for support. 

(Sometimes, when he has to stand the whole way, because the 

bus is crowded, he imagines that the swaying motion is what a 

boat would feel like to stand on, the water moving beneath him 

instead of asphalt, but he can only speculate about this, never 

having been on a boat before, not even on one of the many local 

ferries.) 

The driver had not called out his name, but the name of the 

street he had requested. 

East Roy. 

Roy likes that there is a street with his name on it in the big 

city of Seattle. 

He knows for a fact there is no street anywhere in all of Seattle 

named Rick. 

Roy caroms along the length of the bus until he stands behind 

the driver. He glances briefly down at him, hoping he doesn’t 

notice. The driver is sparely-built, skinny, older, losing his hair, 

and—as if to underscore his gnarled, red nose—wears a prissy, 

pencil-thin mustache. 

Roy decides he looks as gay as a three-dollar bill. Not that he 

cares. Not that Roy is prejudiced. He’s just afraid of gay people, 

is all. Afraid one of them might suddenly fall in love with him, or 

whatever it is they do, and grab him and start kissing him—stuff 

like that. He’s seen that sort of thing happen before. Gay guys 

hugging and kissing in broad daylight. And it repelled him but 

also made him wonder—although he will never admit to it if you 

asked—what it would be like to kiss a man, with the beard and 

all, and mustaches and nose hair and hairy necks and ears and 

underarms— 

“Watch your step.” 

The old, gay-as-a-three-dollar-bill bus driver has spoken. 


He springs open the doors. 

If Roy’s current wish were suddenly to come true, he would 

have his tunes cranked up and wouldn’t have heard what the 

driver said. Instead, he would sense everything like a blind man, 

or a gastropod, and he wouldn’t have this feeling he has right 

now, that he needs to say something back to this old, gay-as-athree-dollar-bill 

bus driver’s kind words regarding his step. 

Roy nods, careful not to make eye contact, and steps down 

and out and in no time is blessed by the benediction of rain. 

The doors hiss closed. The bus grunts and roars, looking like 

an armored worm, and pulls back into traffic. 

The Safeway is only a block away. 

Roy makes a beeline for its giant red S, and the best prices in 

Seattle. 

Not that he shops at all that many places and compares them 

and knows where the best deals are. In actual fact, Roy pretty 

much restricts his grazing to Safeway and the Red Apple over 

on MLK. It’s true that he’s tried some of the Yuppie grocery 

stores, like Larry’s and Whole Foods and the PCC. But they 

made him feel uncomfortable, like he needed to spend more 

money in order to belong. He would stand in line with his little, 

plastic basket containing a few stalks of celery and a can of flat 

anchovies, and maybe one or two other items, while the woman 

ahead of him wrote a check for eight hundred and sixty-five 

dollars and eleven cents for two bags of food. And most of it 

wasn’t food, anyway, but bottles of French mustard, German 

water, organic wine—shit like that. Not real food. Just fancy 

packaging. And they would invariably have a kid in a sling. And 

the kid in the sling would invariably have an attitude and would 

invariably be wearing clothes that cost more than all of Roy’s 

clothes put together with his squeegees thrown in. (Why does a 

kid who doesn’t even walk need Italian shoes? Or a hand-knitted, 

lambswool sweater?) And the people who shopped in these places 

all looked like they lived in fashion magazines and wouldn’t give 

Roy the time of day if he fell down on the painted concrete floor 

and had a seizure and his brain fell out of his head. 

The Safeway is better because that’s where regular people 

shop, people who don’t wear Gucci iPod cases and Armani 


underwear. It’s a regular place for regular people who eat 

regular food. Roy has never understood what the deal is about 

organic food. Organic food is all rocky and puny compared to 

the shit Safeway offers that’s always bigger and more colorful, 

and cheaper too. He figures it’s a Yuppie conspiracy to make 

everybody feel bad because they can’t afford to buy tomatoes that 

have yellow tape wrapped around them like at a police crime 

scene, only instead of Crime Scene it says Certified Organic. 

Roy figures it’s their way of feeling superior. 

Seattle is so freaking Politically Correct. 

Roy figures the Yuppies want Seattle all to themselves. They 

want a city where men can kiss men and women can kiss women 

in broad daylight, and restaurants can cost seven hundred dollars 

to eat in and, if you want to wear fur, they shoot you. 

It feels safe in the Safeway. 

Probably why they call it that. 

You still run into the occasional slumming Yuppie, of 

course—how couldn’t you? They’re like cancer cells. You kill 

one in Larry’s, and two pop up at the PCC. 

Mostly, the Safeway is a YFZ—Yuppie Free Zone. 

And bright, too. It’s easy to see things in the Safeway. 

No earth tones. No mood lighting. And the music is cool. 

Especially at the Red Apple on MLK. It’s so cool, in fact, that 

sometimes Roy turns off his Sony and listens. 

That reminds him that he has to buy batteries. 

As he thinks this, Roy arrives at a large, red banner that 

proclaims 

PRODUCE 

He is standing before bins overflowing with the colorful 

bounty of foreign lands—: carrots and cilantro, potatoes (red and 

golden Yukon), celery and beets, snap beans, jalapeños, and on 

and on. What he is looking for is zucchini, but what he finds is 

broccoli. 

As Roy stares at the broccoli, his heart starts to pound and he 

has trouble catching his breath. 


Roy hates broccoli. 

Not hate like a little kid hates. 

Hate like a grown man hates. 

Hate like the way some people hate clowns. 

As if frozen, Roy stands staring at the broccoli’s deep green 

stalks and tiny BB-shot florets. A crease deepens upon his brow. 

He is remembering why he hates broccoli. 

It was a pretty spring day when they pulled up before the red brick house 

in Renton, Roy and his asshole brother and some new dude from Louisiana, 

whose name he can’t remember. They were all working for this guy who 

only had initials for a name—J.J. was all they ever knew he was called. 

J.J.’s House Cleaning. And that’s what they did all day—clean houses 

from top to bottom, except the chimney because that would mean buying more 

equipment. Spray bottles and rags were cheap. 

They pulled up and piled out with their spray bottles and rags and 

knocked at the peeling door and waited. 

Renton is just south of Seattle and is where Boeing builds airplanes. If 

you don’t work for Boeing, or don’t think that airplanes are pretty cool, then 

there would be no reason for you to visit Renton. J.J. and company wouldn’t 

have visited Renton if they weren’t being paid. 

You have to pay people to visit Renton. 

They knocked a lot before the lady finally answered. 

She wore deep red lipstick that was smeared over her lips like it had been 

applied in the dark by someone who was blind. Her hair was in curlers, 

but she had stuck a plastic showercap with yellow flowers over them, as if 

that was going to make a difference. She wore heavy, gold clip-on earrings, 

and similar gold rings on all her sausagy fingers. Roy remembers she wore 

glasses, too, the kind that look like little TV screens, and that she had on 

some kind of brightly-colored patterned robe, and that she was clutching a 

newspaper turned to the crossword puzzle, and that she had a pencil in the 

same hand that clutched the newspaper. 

She stood in the doorway all defiant and yammered something about her 

children doing this to her and how she didn’t need any help, while fumes 

escaped from inside her house, fumes that made their eyes water. Even his 

tough little bro’s eyes leaked tears. The guy from Louisiana looked like he 

was going to toss his cookies. 

It was ammonia. Ammonia fumes coming up through the floor from the 


asement. Ammonia fumes from years and years of cat piss from dozens and 

dozens of cats. Animal Control would later report they hauled thirty-seven 

cats from the basement, along with the skeletons of at least a hundred more. 

Their job—: a light spring cleaning, gift from appreciative kids who 

were trying to build a case to have their mother carted off to the Funny Farm 

so they could take her house. 

Every room was packed shoulder high with cardboard boxes filled 

with unopened packages of men’s shirts and pants from Sears and Monkey 

Wards. The bedrooms were so solidly packed they had to remove the doors to 

get inside. And all the while they worked, their eyes leaking and their heads 

hurting—long term exposure to ammonia can lead to pulmonary edema, 

chronic eye, nose and throat irritation, brain damage and even death—the 

old bat with the smeared lips ranted, TV droning in the background, ranted 

on and on about invasion of privacy, and how she was gonna call the cops 

because they was stealing her stuff and she didn’t have no children, anyway. 

But the worst was yet to come. 

J.J. tapped Roy and the Louisiana dude to clean the kitchen. 

Maybe Roy had lived on the streets; maybe Roy had lived in run-down, 

drug-infested dives; maybe Roy had slept with cockroaches on piss-soaked 

beds—but nothing he had ever seen, no place he had ever lived, came close to 

being as bad as her kitchen. 

The table in the center of the room was piled high with crusty plates and 

sticky cups and gooey, lidded pots and a jungle of food-caked silverware. 

crunch crunch 

So the woman was a little messy; with all the ammonia she was 

breathing, that was probably to be expected. 

crunch 

When they looked down to see what they were stepping on, they 

discovered a floor covered with crunchy cat shit. Old, dried crunchy cat shit. 

It looked like a gravel quarry, it was so thick. crunch Or like the surface 

of the moon. Or a dry riverbed. crunch In some places it was over six 

inches deep. 

crunch crunch 

J.J. handed them a square-nosed shovel and gave them some paper masks 

to wear. 

If there had been nothing else, it would have been an awful day. But 

there was something else, something that made it a horrible day. 

There was broccoli. 


Pots and pots of the stuff. Apparently, the old lady was nuts about 

broccoli. Not about eating it, mind you. She was nuts about cooking it. 

Cooking it and cooking it and leaving it to rot. Pots and pots of rotting 

broccoli. Broccoli covered with thick fungal colonies. 

Roy lost it then and there. First time in his life he ever refused to do a 

job. Hell—hadn’t he cleaned up the gelatinous remains of a decaying corpse? 

Hadn’t he used bare hands to scoop shit out of toilets? It wasn’t like he was 

a wuss, wasn’t like he was afraid of dirty work. But—the smell. It made 

his head spin, his stomach heave. There was nothing he could do to stop it. 

He had to go out back, white as a sheet, and sit down while the Louisiana 

dude emptied all the broccoli pots into big, black plastic bags. 

As if frozen, Roy stands staring at the broccoli’s deep green 

stalks and tiny BB-shot florets. A crease deepens upon his brow. 

He is remembering why he hates broccoli. 

A well-dressed Caucasian couple (he in a leather duster and 

brown slouch hat, she in a retro plastic, paisley-print raincoat 

with matching cloche chapeau) arrive behind Roy’s immobile, 

remembering back, and are balked. They, too, would like to look 

at the broccoli. Not because they have hateful memories they 

want to relive, but because they would like to take some home to 

eat. They would like the opportunity—this being a free country 

and all—to peruse the thick, succulent stalks to their hearts’ 

satisfaction before selecting one or two for their very own. But 

they are balked by the big, balding man with headphones on his 

ears. The big, balding man with headphones on his ears who 

could stand a bath. And a change of clothes. The big, balding 

man with headphones on his ears and body odor who stands 

before them transfixed by a bin of broccoli. 

“We’ll come back,” whispers the Caucasian female, who has 

spent her entire life avoiding conflict and confrontation, and who 

has allied herself with the man in the brown duster because he 

reminds her of her father. 

“Asshole doesn’t even know we’re here,” grumbles the 

Caucasian male, expressing a lick of bravura, the kind he learned 

as a boy when he watched his drunken father shove his mother 

around. A brown, duster-covered arm squeezes a frail, plasticcoated 

shoulder. 


Her big eyes shimmer. 

“Sh. He might hear you.” 

With a baleful glare, the dustered gent accedes to his 

inamorata’s desire (and gratefully, too; for, a child of alcoholics, 

he also hates conflicts and confrontations). They squeak their 

palsied cart to other parts of the brilliantly-lighted store with 

the hope and expectation that, soon, in a little while, when they 

return to the broccoli bin, the big, balding, smelly man with 

headphones on his ears will be gone. 

The zucchini, Roy, the zucchini. 

The Lasagna whispers his name. 

He looks at the contents of his basket. He has everything he 

needs, except the zucchini. 

The zucchini, Roy, the zucchini. 

With a mighty effort, he selects two of the green, slender 

squash, despite their proximity to broccoli. 

Down at the end of the aisle, the young couple hover. They 

appear to be perusing the ingredients of Spaetzle but are, in fact, 

perusing Roy. 

As soon as Roy selects his two zucchini and carts them away, 

they squeak their borrowed Safeway wagon along the aisle, 

flashy shoes clicking on terrazzo, Spaetzle mix carelessly shelved 

among boxes of Jell-O. 

At the checkout stand Roy is next after an old, overweight 

woman with a wattle, her blued hair tucked inside a furry pillbox 

hat. The old, overweight woman with a wattle and blued hair is 

writing a check. Roy watches her fingers that hold the pen that 

writes the check. It has been a long time since she applied a fresh 

coat of red polish to her nails. 

The checkout girl—her tag says Robyn/Supervisor—yaps a 

mile a minute to Old Blue Hair. Meanwhile, the bagger—an 

even older woman with missing teeth and massive wrinkles— 

watches and waits, groceries bagged and settled in the cart. 

Watches and waits for the check to get written and ripped from 

its book so she can chirrup an offer to Old Blue Hair to help her 

waddle out to her car. 

Robyn’s darting aqua eyes encounter Roy’s existence and 


iefly present him with her Automatic Smile. Her eyes then 

return to the check writing infinity that looms before her and lose 

focus as her mind wanders to a nostalgia for nectarines and how 

nice it’ll be when it stops raining and how much booze did Old 

Blue Hair have to drink to get a nose like that? 

Old Blue Hair ultimately triumphs over her check. With 

fingers that look like root vegetables she rips it from the book and 

shoves it across to Robyn/Supervisor who, returning from her 

interior musings, taps a key on the register. When the drawer 

clicks open, she slides the check under the twenties then bounces 

it closed with her polyestered hip. 

Now Old Blue Hair has to put her checkbook away. 

This is a difficult and complicated business, one that makes 

Roy’s changing music tapes seem trivial by comparison. Robyn’s 

bored, aqua eyes slide once again to Roy, then over him, then 

beyond him and onto the rest of the endless line of customers, 

ultimately to return to the slow-motion checkbook disappearing 

act. 

Robyn/Supervisor is desperate to get through her shift so 

she can go home, burn one, and pleasure herself with her new, 

eighty-seven dollar vibrator. 

“OK.” Old Blue Hair says this conclusively, her wallet now 

buried in the vastness of her enormous orange bag. “We’ll see 

you next week, hon.” 

The wizened bagger tugs on her forelock and pushes the 

creaking cart after old wattle woman who may still to this day be 

looking for her 1989 white Cadillac DeVille with 29,347 honestto-God 

original miles on its odometer. 

Roy never unloads his basket. Since he refuses to use the little 

plastic dividers the store provides—as if your food’s got cooties— 

he never unloads his basket. 

Robyn, the taste of maryjane already on her tongue, a buzz 

already between her legs, unloads his basket for him. 

“Did you find everything you need today?” 

There are so many ways to answer this question, Roy doesn’t 

know where to begin. 

How he wishes his tunes were in his ears. 


“S-Sure.” 

“Will that be all for you today?” 

It doesn’t take long for her to tote up his few items. It’s no 

wonder she’s a Supervisor. 

“All what?” 

The man behind Roy, who wears expensive rectangular 

glasses on his chiseled features, tries hard not to be peeved by 

Roy’s inertia. He snaps up a copy of the National Enquirer and 

pretends interest in the Second Coming of Christ as Bill Clinton’s 

Illegitimate Child. 

Roy is having trouble getting his money out of his pocket 

while wearing woolen, fingerless gloves. The thick wool keeps 

hanging up on the stitched rim of his jeans pocket. Robyn’s aqua 

eyes glaze. The dude behind Roy picks up Grisham’s latest and 

reads the back cover’s delirious blurbs. 

(For the most part, life as a Safeway Supervisor is not the 

endless round of parties and promiscuous sex Robyn had thought 

it would be, back when she started working for the company 

straight out of Medford High. Her secret desire is to have sex like 

Geena Davis did with Brad Pitt in Thelma & Louise and then light 

out for the badlands toting a .45 and drinking tequila out of little 

airplane bottles, then pushing old ladies crammed into shopping 

carts off a cliff into the deepest gorge of the Grand Canyon.) 

Finally fishing out his dough, Roy hands it all to her, all four 

twenties, even though the digital readout only calls for $18.87. 

Robyn does her best to smile as she hands him back the three 

unnecessary twenties, carefully avoiding his hand. 

(Is it just her, or does Roy smell? Spending the bulk of her life 

in a place where the light is bright and the air is filtered and the 

food is wrapped in plastic, it’s unusual to smell anything at all, 

much less a customer standing three feet away. Nevertheless, the 

fact is—Roy smells.) 

His bills returned, she touches a key with a slender finger 

and the register drawer springs open once again. She removes a 

single, a dime, and three pennies. Next, she tears off the receipt. 

And that’s when it happens. That’s when all those years spent 

becoming a Supervisor fail her. Her neck flushes, and she stifles 

a gasp. 


She forgot to ask him for his Safeway card! 

He could report her to the GM for this. Her years of making 

change and stocking shelves and being coy and flirting and 

learning all the price codes would have been in vain. Years 

throw away. This smelly, bald man holds her career in the palm 

of his woolen, fingerless glove. 

She has no choice but to proceed, and pray he doesn’t notice. 

By the looks of him, he probably doesn’t even have a Safeway 

Card. 

Then she was supposed to sign him up for one! 

Christ—how she wants to go home. 

“Y-Your change, sir. Have a nice day, now.” 

He probably doesn’t even have I.D. 

She grits her teeth as she says sir and smiles and holds her 

breath and grits her teeth some more. 

Roy takes the plastic Safeway bag from the wizened bagger 

lady and shuffles away. He doesn’t even bother raising his eyes 

to Robyn, much less acknowledging her wish for a nice day, now. 

Robyn/Supervisor sighs. She glances at the big electric clock 

hung over the automatic doors through which Roy passes. 

A little bit less than two hours to go. 

She wonders if she should get some extra batteries for her 

dildo. 

Roy steps into the rain. 

Mel’s house is three blocks away. As Roy’s feet direct him 

there, his stomach fills with butterflies, scorpions and dung 

beetles. His heart races as if considering a bin of broccoli. The 

closer his feet bring him to his destination, the more panicky he 

becomes, the more he thinks the best thing in the world might 

be for him to go back to his room, put his bold plan on hold, and 

forget the whole thing. 

So rattled is Roy that he forgets to install the new batteries for 

his Sony. 

And does he ever need his tunes. 

But the truth is he’s tired of them, too. In a flash he recalls 

what brought him here today—the allure of new tunes. 

No. He can’t back out now. 


He’s already bought the groceries. 

He arrives at the intersection of Mel’s street. In the middle of 

the intersection is this Seattle sight—a traffic island. A traffic 

island is a small, round, concrete-curbed hump of earth filled 

with plants. This particular traffic island has a banana tree in its 

center crowded around with camellias. 

Roy steps off the curb just as two vehicles approach. One is 

a beat-up, hand-painted black Toyota pickup driven by a ravenhaired 

girl, her exposed arms covered with tattoos. The other 

is an almost new, sage green Lexus SUV, its driver obscured 

behind smoked glass. 

Roy, his mind clotted with mounting dread, fails to notice 

either of these two vehicles. He steps off the curb with the 

confidence of a professional pedestrian. And he walks like one, 

too—slowly—with the gait of a sloth. 

The black Toyota pickup noses into the intersection first, its 

left turn indicator flashing like a caffeinated firefly. But the 

street it wishes to turn into, narrow in its original design, made 

more so by the presence of parked cars along both its curbs, is 

occupied by the sage green lump of smoked-glass Lexus, its own 

lovingly sculpted right turn indicator blinking insistently. 

The correct procedure would be for the black Toyota pickup 

to move into the intersection and circle the island to the right, 

allowing the SUV to make its right hand turn onto the narrow 

street currently occupied by the black Toyota pickup. The black 

Toyota pickup could then, in turn, proceed along the street of its 

choosing—the one currently occupied by the sage green lump of 

smoked-glass Lexus. But this is Seattle, and in Seattle such an 

act of consideration would be construed as cowardice. Therefore, 

the black Toyota pickup’s tattooed, raven-tressed driver scowls 

and holds her ground, while the taciturn, obscured driver of the 

Lexus follows suit. 

Again, all this takes place without Roy’s knowledge or interest, 

so that he is startled when angry horns bleat behind him as he 

pushes his way through the faded white picket gate attached to 

the faded white picket fence surrounding Mel’s faded yellow, 

tumbledown house. 


The big, bracketing houses on either side of Mel’s—along with 

the many trees and shrubs—serve as sound buffers so that, with 

each step Roy takes towards Mel’s front porch, set far back from 

the street, the volume of the bleating horns subsides. 

By the time he stands on the porch, faced with the problem of 

Mel’s front door, he can barely hear them at all. 

The problem of Mel’s front door is this: Roy has to knock. Or, 

if the door is unlocked—which it often is because Mel is a homo 

and believes in the tooth fairy—then he can simply enter. That 

way he won’t have to knock. So, the first thing he has to do is try 

the doorknob. In order for him to try the doorknob, he must first 

try the screen door to see if it is unlatched. 

Roy tries the screen door and discovers that it is, indeed, 

unlatched. 

So far, so good. 

He takes a deep breath—far off, muted horns bleating 

madly—and cranks the door knob. 

To his great relief and satisfaction, Mel’s front door is 

unlocked. Roy opens it wide enough to intrude his head. 

Laughter from deep within the house affronts his sensitive 

ears. This is discouraging news. The only time Rick laughs is 

when he’s drunk, and when he’s drunk is when he is usually his 

meanest. 

Briefly, Roy thinks again about bagging the whole enterprise. 

Instead, he clears his throat and calls out— 

“Hello? Hello? Rick? Mel? Can I come in?” 

His voice—traveling through lath-and-plaster walls, two-anda-half 

inch thick solid wood doors, drapes, antique furnishings 

and Boston ferns—doesn’t stand a chance of being heard in the 

back of the house where the kitchen is, where the laughers are 

located. 

He could knock like a linebacker and they probably still 

wouldn’t hear. 

And the doorbell got tired of being pushed around years ago. 

So Roy steps inside. 

“Hello? Mel? Rick?” 

The screen door snaps closed behind him. He pushes the 

heavy front door back into its white frame and latches it. 


The living room is swell. Real neat and cozy. Although 

the furniture is old and was bought used, it’s in good condition. 

There is a red couch from the fifties, and a leather chair from the 

sixties—the kind with a wooden stickshift that lets you recline 

and rest your feet. Off to one side is a massive, oak roll-top desk 

that must weigh a ton and be at least a hundred years old. Roy 

imagines it came from a bank in the Wild West days. There’s 

even an Oriental rug on the floor, worn in places but still pretty 

nice. The windows are all covered with floor-to-ceiling drapes, 

and gold-framed oil paintings he’s never bothered looking at 

hang on flocked wallpapered walls. Plants—mostly Boston 

ferns—are all over the place. Some hang from chains while 

others sit quietly on fancy, ornamental stands. The largest ones, 

like somber guards, slouch upward from heavy planters on the 

floor. 

Roy thinks Rick’s pretty lucky to live in such a swank place. 

He has his own bedroom, plenty of heat—and a kitchen. Which 

is funny, because Rick hates to cook—calls it bitch’s work—and 

endlessly needles Roy because he enjoys it so much. 

Roy thinks Rick doesn’t know how good he has it. 

Not that Rick hasn’t lived on the streets in cardboard boxes 

in the dead of winter, or in shelters or shit like that. It’s just that 

he always takes what he has for granted, like life owes him or 

something. 

These thoughts hold Roy’s hand as he makes passage across 

the intricate, ancient rug to the far side of the cavernous room, 

where he stops before the hallway door. 

The laughter grows louder. 

This makes sense, because he’s closer now. 

He can even make out some words between bouts of laughter. 

He tips his balding dome forward and rests it against the door. 

“Rick? Mel?” 

Using his forehead, he eases open the door. 

At the end of a long, dark hall cluttered with oddments of 

furniture and hung with more gold-framed (and unviewed by 

Roy) paintings, looms the kitchen. 

Its door seems to float eerily in space. Light emanates from 

around it like in a creepy movie. 


He threads his way to the door and stops. He can now clearly 

make out everything Rick and Mel are saying, and from this 

information determines they are both pretty drunk. 

This is very discouraging. 

Now what? 

Does he turn tail and sneak out before they discover he’s 

there? Does he knock gently and hope they’ll invite him in? Or 

does he shove his way inside brazenly like it’s no big deal? 

He eases the door open an inch. In the widened crack he can 

discern that Mel is doing something at the counter just beyond 

his view, while Rick the Asshole leans back in a chair, his whitesocked 

feet crossed on the kitchen table. His head is ratcheted 

back and an amber bottle is tipped to his lips, its frothy contents 

entering his mouth to steal his brains away. 

Even at the sight of this, Roy does not turn tail and run. 

Instead, he steels himself, then boldly half-way opens the door 

and sticks his head inside the kitchen. 

The Formica-topped kitchen table is littered with Chinese 

takeout boxes and empty beer bottles. 

Rick goggles at Roy. 

This gives Roy the momentary upper hand, and he steps all 

the way inside. 

Mel, pouring a martini from a frosted metal shaker into a 

frosted fancy glass, is the first to react. 

“OhmyGod—it’s Brad Pitt!” 

Roy shuffles inside the kitchen, avoiding eye contact with 

either of the two men. 

If he had a forelock he would tug it. 

In reality, Mel doesn’t mind if Roy drops by occasionally. It’s 

his brother who gives him the hard time. Like now, for instance, 

when he says: 

“The fuck? You just waltz in here when you want?” 

Mel sips from his brimful, stemmed martini glass wherein a 

deep green, toothpick-skewered olive lolls. 

“Good timing, Brad.” Mel displays awesome white teeth. 

“Now we can have a ménage à twat. I’ll be the twat.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Mel.” 

Roy smiles, raises his grocery bag so all can see. 


Mel pouts. 

“Hey, you’re not Brad Pitt. You’re the Galloping Gourmet.” 

“I called out.” 

At this Mel and Rick observe a moment of silence. 

“It’s raining outside.” 

Mel chuckles. 

“Mild-mannered Roy Weston squeegees windows by day, but 

by night dons leotards to become—Weather Man!” 

Roy’s uncertain smile deepens as if he’s one of them, as if he’s 

cool, as if he gets it—very funny stuff. 

Two blue and two hazel eyes follow him as he trudges across 

the vast kitchen to the white-tiled counter, his scarred-up work 

boots leaving muddy patches on the clean linoleum floor. 

The kitchen is an old fashioned, mid-nineteenth century 

farmhouse affair with tall ceilings, picture rail, and a big central 

light suspended from a chain. The walls are dark green, the 

refrigerator avocado. The gas stove is the best thing in the 

kitchen, as far as Roy’s concerned. He prefers gas to electric. 

Here in the Northwest, it seems everybody but Yuppies has 

electric. 

Mel has all the neat appliances you could ever want—a big 

microwave oven that can hold a turkey, a toaster with bagel-sized 

slots, a powerful blender and a chrome Cuisinart he won’t let 

Roy touch. 

Ever. 

Mel, a mid-Twentieth century, middle-aged white gay man, 

is by nature very laid back, even when not drinking martinis. 

Unlike Rick, when Mel drinks he laughs a lot and becomes 

friendlier. His thin, steel-gray hair is worn cropped close to the 

skull so that his scalp shines through, and he wears a diamond 

stud in his left ear. Shorter than Roy, but taller than Rick, he’s 

gone soft in the middle, with deep crow’s feet at the corners of his 

eyes, probably from laughing so much because he’s gay. 

Rick views Roy as if he’s a rodent. 

“The fuck he make last time, tasted like dog puke?” 

Roy settles his plastic Safeway bag onto the immaculate 

countertop. He hates the sound plastic bags make. Usually he 

can’t hear their chemical rustle because of his tunes. 


Mel chews on his olive. 

“’eef Strawganov.” 

He sets down his martini glass, empty now except for a naked 

toothpick stuck to its sloping sides, and swallows. 

“And it was delish.” 

He crosses to Roy who stands counting out his bag’s contents 

at the drainboard, and puts his arms around him in a bear hug 

from behind. 

“My big, strong Holly Golightly.” 

Roy freezes as Mel briefly twiddles his nipples. He closes his 

eyes and hopes for it to end soon. 

Be cool, Roy. 

Roy is afraid of what might happen if he turned and shoved 

Mel away. 

For one thing, he would probably lose his kitchen privileges. 

He might even be banned from the house forever. Or, he might 

hurt Roy. His brother would, that’s for sure. After all, his 

brother and Mel are housemates. They’d probably gang up on 

him. 

Roy would be outnumbered. 

Mel presses his lips close to Roy’s right ear and whispers, 

“I’ll be upstairs—waiting.” 

Then he makes that cat purring sound like Bob Hope used to 

make while his right hand slides down Roy’s shirtfront, over his 

belly’s bulge, and into the woods of his crotch. 

He gives Roy’s cock a squeeze. 

Roy’s eyes are screwed tightly together. If it could be said he 

stands any stiller, then even stiller does he stand. 

Mel—not really a bad sort, just gay and aslosh with 

martinis—laughs and laughs before releasing Roy’s penis. 

(Roy can breathe again. Roy’s blood can flow again.) 

Mel pauses at the kitchen door. 

“Now, don’t forget about Thanksgiving, Roy. I expect to see 

you here.” 

Then he pushes through the door and is gone. 

Roy unscrews his eyes. 

As if nothing happened, he continues to sort through the bag’s 

contents. 


Meanwhile, far across the kitchen, almost on the other side of 

the world, Rick glares. It is a glare born from hatred, sired by 

meanness, and nourished on beer. 

One of the Chinese takeout containers sits close to the 

table’s edge. Rick slides a white-socked foot until it touches the 

container. The container that contains the remainder of sweet 

and sour chicken. 

It requires 33 joints, 107 ligaments, 19 muscles and an untold 

number of tendons to move the human foot. Rick uses all of 

these and more to push the Chinese takeout container off the 

table’s edge. 

plop 

“Uh-oh. Widdle brother made a big mess.” 

Without turning, Roy says, 

“I’ll clean it up.” 

Rick drops the front two legs of his chair onto the white floor 

with a bang. 

bang 

He uncurls his body and stands. 

If one can be said to speak with a sneer, then this is what he 

sneers: 

“Fuckin’ A you will.” 

He walks to where big brother rinses a zucchini. 

“Who the fuck you think y’ar, waltzin’ in like that? An’ don’t 

hand me any of that bein’ brothers crap and that makes us family 

shit. Do I see your name on the lease? Do I? No, your name’s 

not on the lease. And you wanna know why, McFly? It’s not 

on the lease because you don’t fucking live here. And since you don’t 

fucking live here, you don’t fucking walk in on people—unnerstand?” 

Rick circles his brother like a bee sizing up a flower. 

Roy doesn’t take the bait; instead, he unwraps the pork. 

Rick bares stained, skyline teeth. 

“Hear you got a new crib somewhere, bro. Bet you saved up 

all your dough this summer, dint you? Just bet. Don’t drink, 

don’t smoke. Fuckin’ virgin. Reg’lar saint. So—where you 

keep your cash, saint Roy? Not in a bank. Not you. Bet your 

mattress is stuffed with hundred dollar bills.” 


Roy winces. 

“Why don’t you tell me where you live, big brother? Invite me 

over? You know—family and all that bullshit.” 

“I will.” Roy sets the pork onto paper towels. 

Rick snorts. 

“Bet your sweet ass you will. Guaranfuckingteed.” 

Roy can almost feel his brother’s body heat subside as he drifts 

away, headed for the kitchen door. 

At the door, Rick pauses and glances at the lurid red splatter 

of sweet and sour chicken on the linoleum floor. The upturned 

container in the middle of the mess makes it look like someone 

microwaved a snail. 

“You better not forget to clean up your mess, Roy.” 

He shoves through the swinging door. 

Roy’s shoulders relax. 

He exhales. 

It hadn’t been so bad, after all. 




The Old Cowboy rode down the bluff, 

towards the dead animal. He approached cautiously, downwind, away from 

its sharp hooves. He stared down for a long moment before sliding his Henry 

into its scabbard. Then he stretched his legs, making his stirrups groan, and 

looked around at the vast stillness surrounding him. Here, hours can pass 

in a moment, years drift in and out of focus in the beat of a heart. Here, 

history thunders and moans in the wind. 

He eased down from his saddle and pulled a skinner’s knife from his 

warbags. 

Kneeled beside the Pronghorn, he spoke in low tones, 

“Sleep well, old fellow. It’s the way of the world.” 

Then he pushed the tip of his knife into the animal’s throat. 

Blood surged forth onto the ground. 

When the flow slowed, the Old Cowboy turned the animal onto its back 

and gutted it from ribs to pelvis, being careful not to cut into any internal 

organs. He spread the cut apart and scooped intestines, liver and stomach 

onto the ground. When this was done he stood, grabbed the animal’s hind 

legs in his bloodied hands, and dragged its carcass to a nearby tree. 

Retrieving his rope from the saddle, he bound the animal’s rear legs with 

it, tossing the other end over a limb. He guessed the buck’s weight at just 

over a hundred pounds. As he tied off the free end of the rope to his saddle’s 

pommel, he found himself wondering what it had been doing out here all 

alone, away from the herd. What had caused it to separate from its own 

kind? Maybe it was a loner, a drifter like himself. And, like himself, he 

wondered if this is what he would come to one day, only hung from a limb by 

his neck. 

He patted his roan’s croup and she started, shook her head, ready for 

labor, desirous of knowing more about what was expected. The Old Cowboy 

murmured gently into the shell of her ear while moving her forward a few 

feet, pulling the buck into the air. 


He set about gathering firewood and built a pyre near the buck as it 

rocked gently to-and-fro. He used one of the newfangled red phosphorus 

matches to ignite the tinder, sending up a thin, gray fuse into the sky. Next, 

he piled on deadwood and watched with satisfaction as the flames cracked 

and popped and danced in the bright day. He wiped off the sticky blood, 

rubbing his hands along the buck’s still-warm flanks, before returning to his 

roan. Flipping up a stirrup, he uncinched the saddle and slid it off her back. 

She flared her nostrils and bobbed her head once or twice. Then the Old 

Cowboy carried saddle and blanket to a spot in the tree’s scanty shade. 

He lit a cigarette and stared at the horizon. Sometimes, weeks passed 

without saying a word. His life was quiet, quiet as his mind. The basic 

steps of life—eating and drinking, then eating again—occupied a large 

portion of his day, while his night was spent in sleep. Seasons passed—city 

people called them years—but a cowboy notices the passage differently. He 

saw the small things, like the bushiness of a fox squirrel’s tail, or the speed 

with which a cricket played its song. The winter would come again, harsh 

and indifferent to human need or suffering, and then the spring and then 

the fall, just as sure as war and hunger. These things seemed warranted by 

God. Like death. Not time for much else. Except a drink or a smoke. 

The cigarette burned down to his fingers and he tossed it into the fire. 

Thinking of a drink made him wish he had one. Or two. He stared into 

the fire as it ate its way through the wood. After a while, when it became a 

hot, incandescent heap of charcoal, he would construct a latticework of sticks 

about two feet above the embers. On that he would lay strips of meat to jerk. 

Much of the carcass would be sacrificed to the carrion birds already lazing in 

wide circles, holding council overhead. 

Such was the way of the world. 

The Old Cowboy closed his eyes against the blazing sky and tipped his 

black hat far forward so its leather sweatband rested on the bridge of his 

nose. He would sleep for a while, half awake, always on guard, body tensed 

and ready to spring; sleep a dreamless sleep as if still in the saddle, still on 

the trail. 


“TWO SHORT SKINNY 

mochas—shock one!” 

Suzie Quattro’s smoky stylings—assisted by electrons shed by 

a brace of new double-A alkalines—purls inside Roy’s ears and 

causes him to smile. 

He tries to comprehend the complex hieroglyphics that 

chock the Starbuck’s menu. There are words up there he can’t 

pronounce. Words like Yergacheffe and Sidamo and Sulawesi. 

He supposes they want him to ask what they mean, maybe even 

how to say them, but if that’s their plan then they’re going to be 

mighty disappointed. 

The plastic Safeway bag is heavy in his hand, weighted as it is 

now with the burden of a foil-wrapped lasagna. 

Dozens of people mill about the store, nose the pricey 

wares on fancy glass shelves; those who mill too close to Roy 

unavoidably listen to Suzie and how she wails. 

Then there are all the kinds of drinks he’s never tried before, 

like: Caffé Freddo; Caffé Lungo; Caffé Macchiato; Caffé Ristretto; Latte 

Puné; Mochaccino; Caffé Con Panna—where do they get all these 

names? Why can’t they just sell coffee? 

All that Roy knows about coffee can be summed up thus: it 

comes from coffee trees in South America, and is harvested by 

a mustached dude named Juan who has a pet donkey and wears 

a blanket over his shoulder like Clint Eastwood did in The Good, 

The Bad and The Ugly. 

The only coffee drink Roy knows how to ask for is a doubletall 

Americano. 

“A Medici tall, kill the lemon—no whip!” 

And the reason he knows how to ask for this particular drink, 

a double-tall Americano, is because that’s the drink J.J. always 


ordered. On Roy’s first day working for him, J.J. stopped the 

crew by a Starbucks to order his daily double-tall Americano, 

and asked Roy what he wanted. Roy had never even been inside 

a Starbucks before. Oh, he had panhandled in front of one once; 

he remembers how the people coming out were more generous 

than the people going in. But the management had shooed him 

away, threatened to call the cops if he ever showed up again, and 

that episode had pretty much colored his opinion about the place. 

Add to this the fact that it is a great big corporation out to 

crush competition and cater to Yuppies, and you’d think it’d be 

the last place on earth Roy would want to visit, much less spend 

his hard-earned cash. 

But J.J. loved Starbucks. If J.J. had had more money, Roy bets 

he would have become a Yuppie in a hot New York minute. But 

he was just a window washer, a cleaning guy like the rest of his 

motley crew, except that he owned a blue, 1992 Aerostar and had 

a business license. 

So, when J.J. asked Roy what he wanted—and it was apparent 

he was willing to pay—and Roy was confronted with a menu 

that made his head swim, he took the easy way out and said, 

“Same.” 

That’s why to this day the only coffee drink Roy has ever 

ordered is a double-tall Americano. 

Suzie takes a bow and Roy’s head is filled with cheers, 

whistles and applause. 

“One shot in the dark—soy latté tall—a short quad on a 

leash!” 

A man standing next to Roy, who also peruses the menu, also 

wears headphones on his head. He is younger, taller and leaner, 

with professionally sculpted black, wavy hair. He is redolent of 

a subtle aftershave. A self-winding Rolex Oyster Submariner 

(list price $3,575) tells him the time night or day, and never needs 

a battery. His Sennheiser headphones retailed for $360 on the 

internet, but he was able to score them for $268 on eBay, not 

including $15 shipping. That brought it to $283, which was still 

a good deal. Their expensive, supple cord disappears inside his 

Polo Ralph Lauren Military Flight Jacket ($944), and is plugged 

into an iPod U2 Special Edition, $344. 


These two men—from such polarized socio-economic 

worlds—have been brought together today by happenstance and 

addiction. 

A happenstance occasioned by a world built upon chaos and 

disorder, and an addiction to C 8 H 10 N 4 O 2 . 

Otherwise known as caffeine. 

“Two Nicos and a tall breve—no whip!” 

Suzie sings of love unrequited. 

Roy thinks he knows how she feels. 

Not that he’s ever been in love. But he digs what the fallout 

of such a loss might be. Without having been there, he shares 

Suzie’s heart-wrung words. He disappears inside her voice, 

into the catalytic cataclysm that is her music, drifts out of his 

body and into the undulating, adulating crowd, slips out of the 

Starbucks for a bottomless moment, an unreckonable eternity— 

long enough for the man with the professionally sculpted hair 

and flying ace aspirations to break ahead of him in line. 

A young blonde in a green apron, hair pulled back and 

twisted tight, smiles at him with a dazzling array of Frigidairewhite 

teeth and two intensely blue, jitterbugging eyes. 

“WhatcanIgetforyoutoday?” 

The sculpted young man is smitten by jealousy; he longs to 

join her in her amplified realm. 

His eyes frantically scan the menu. 

“I’ll-I’ll have a doppio cappuccino double-double wet with an 

addshot.” 

Did he forget to say something? 

Yes, he did. But the Magic Word is not forthcoming. 

Roy looks on with loathing at the Yuppie Scum who has 

broken in front of him and not used the Magic Word. It is at 

times like these he wishes he were a black-belt Karate guy. Then 

he would tap the Yuppie Scum on his factory-distressed leather 

shoulder and, when he turned with his sour did you actually touch 

me? look, Roy would take him out with a single blow and he 

would drop like a sock puppet and the milling, caffeinated scrum 

would stop milling and price-checking and nosing wares and 

would stare instead in shock at how this fallen Yuppie Scum had 


met his comeuppance, and they would gasp, cheer, and the room 

fill with applause. 

“Sir?” 

Roy can’t hear a thing, his head is so filled with applause. 

Suzie takes another bow. 

(What a night that must have been, ’way back in ’75, at the 

Shibuya Public Hall in Tokyo, Japan!) 

“SIR?” 

She with dancing teeth and galloping eyes and slipstream hair 

is windmilling a hand. 

People are starting to stare. 

But they had been taking peeks at Roy ever since he walked 

in carrying his Safeway bag weighted with a foil-wrapped 

something, maybe a bomb, and staring and staring at the menu 

like a space zombie. 

The applause dies away and Suzie says her thanks and Roy 

notices the girl’s windmilling hand with its gold Promise Ring 

and charm bracelet. 

“SIR?” 

(It is not easy for her to call him “sir,” but she is paid by the 

hour to do her master’s bidding, and her master would bid her 

know that Roy’s money spends just as well as the guy’s with the 

cool leather jacket, and that either way he—the master—would 

be laughing all the way to the bank.) 

“WhatcanIgetforyoutodaysir?” 

Roy shrugs. He is uneasy in this place, but his dopaminedeprived 

frontal lobe screams out for its daily ration of 

C 8 H 10 N 4 O 2 . 

He reaches up and with one free, fingerless-gloved hand 

expands the bands of his cheap headphones so he can hear 

himself speak, so he can modulate his voice, so he can say— 

“Double-tall Americano. Please.” 

Unlike the Yuppie Scum before him, Roy had not forgotten to 

utter the Magic Word. 

The girl’s frozen mask of forced cordiality asks, 

“Want that Misto?” 

Roy is gripped by panic—he has no clue what she’s talking 

about. 


This has never happened before. Roy’s brow beads with 

sweat. He can think of no meaningful reply. 

This young blonde girl who would pass him on the street 

without a second glance, much less a first—even if he were lying 

groaning with an arrow in his chest, or a skateboard up his ass— 

has complicated everything with her nonsensical question. 

She frowns briefly as she watches her goofy-looking customer 

processes her simple question. 

“Misto?” 

She hates to repeat herself. 

Her eyes shift focus so that the image of a panicked Roy blurs 

and the growing knot of darkly-muttering, scowling, glowering, 

de-caffeinated customers clustered behind comes into focus, and 

she wonders will she get to take her break today, because State 

Law requires she gets one, and she really, really needs it. 

What she could do with a cigarette. 

Make that a cigarette and some chocolate. 

She just stared her period and her gut feels like it’s carrying a 

melon the size of Brunswick, Ohio (pop. 35, 200). 

What she’s used to is people who know what they want. She 

enjoys talking to those people, people who can name their 

poison, people who are at ease with their uncontrollable urges, 

people who are at peace with their need to be cranked. 

Her job is not to educate newbies. 

People who don’t have a clue about coffee should buy one of 

the fun-to-read (she read one once), fact-filled books for sale on 

the glass shelves that hold so many other cute, fun items, like 

Travel Cups with actual paintings by Chopin and van Golf. If 

Maggie would only one day ever actually come back from her 

fucking break when she was supposed to, but no she’s always 

getting stoned to bring down the buzz, as if anyone would want 

to do that—God, this guy smells. 

In the meantime, Roy has decided to nod. 

It is a decision reached reluctantly, because he doesn’t know 

what he’s agreeing to. But it’s a far sight better than the other 

option, which would be to ask her what that word he’s already 

forgotten means. 

Relieved beyond description, the young blonde scoots away to 


attle cups and spoons, jazzed to have someplace to channel her 

pep. 

Roy looks around. His Sony has clicked off. Suzie has been 

cheered offstage, and he doesn’t feel like flipping her over. He’s 

heard the tape now far too many times. 

Too much of a good thing. 

Unlike the mass of the human population, muted earth tones 

distress Roy. It makes him think of all the cardboard boxes he’s 

lived in. How could people want to be surrounded by brown? 

They probably have a bunch of different names for it, but Roy 

calls it brown. 

His gaze glazes over at the abundance of what his landlady 

would call tchotchkes. 

This is what the New World Order is all about—crap. Crap 

piled on crap. Landfills filled with crap. People dumping last 

year’s crap into the ocean to make room for this year’s crap that 

will soon follow last year’s crap into the ocean to make room for 

next year’s crap. 

And how can people who are so politically correct wear so 

much leather? Roy loses count of all the toasty, trendy leather 

jackets and coats. Vaguely, he wonders how many kinds of 

leather there must be in the world. He tries to visualize burly 

men stripping the bloody flesh off freshly-killed carcasses so that 

Yuppies can be warm and trendy. 

Then he notices them. 

There are two of them, and they sit at a table staring at him. 

Yes, at him. 

One has fine, straight black hair in a pageboy cut. The part 

that divides her hair’s left from its right looks to have been made 

with a laser. Her chocolate eyebrows are thick enough to provide 

toeholds, if one wanted to climb her forehead. 

And climb it men would, if she but asked. 

Her skin is a shade of Mediterranean olive, not Seattle 

tanning booth brown, like a stain from a swim in Lake Union. 

And she is looking at him. 

And smiling. 

And so is her friend! 

Her friend who has a rack that would stop an Amtrack express 


also has a head of frothy, brown curls. Parrot-friendly gold hoops 

dangle from alabaster ears. A lightly-freckled lass, she wisely 

eschews the sun’s damaging rays; her skin is a milky carnation, 

and her lips a new shade of red. 

And her smile—like that of her friend’s—is aimed at Roy. 

Roy smiles back. 

The young blonde girl returns with Roy’s double-tall 

Americano (Misto) and sets it on the plastic counter that looks 

like tan granite. 

“Sir?” 

Her eyes lose focus on Roy as they take in the growing line. 

The bleary-eyed crowd behind the bald doofus has 

reproduced, like, ten times. 

Any minute they could mutate into a decafinated mob. 

“Hello?” 

She forces another pert smile, reminding herself that the 

cameras are watching. 

The two pretty girls start to giggle. The one with the curls 

dips the tip of her nose into her friend’s fine, black hair, and 

speaks. The recipient of her words snickers—yes, snickers—then 

shakes her head as if and turns her attention to other humorous 

distractions elsewhere in the room. 

The curly one gives Roy a wrinkly-nosed rejection and 

withdraws her toothy approval. 

For a moment, Roy had forgotten they were Yuppie scum; 

for a moment, Roy had become convinced they, too, had 

surrendered their powers of critical judgement; for a moment, 

Roy had been certain they shared his pheromone fantasy; for a 

moment—for the briefest and stupidest of moments—Roy had 

been blindsided by love. 

“That’llbetwoseventyfive. Doyouwantanythingelse?” 

Involuntarily devoured by lust. 

“Thereareotherpeoplewaiting.” 

Slave to hearts’ alchemy. 

“Small cake in a cup—three double-talls, two without, one with room!” 

Roy shifts his eyes away from the Yuppie couple, their long, 

lean, yoga-stretched backs to him now, their blinding tooth 

enamel illuminating other parts of the brown room. 


Roy wonders what they were laughing at. 

“Twoseventyfive?” 

He manages to return his attention to the young, blonde girl 

with the cold, round eyes. 

Carefully, for it contains his lasagna, he sets the plastic 

Safeway bag onto the man-made tan countertop. She watches 

him do this with muted rage. Relieved of his foil-wrapped 

burden, Roy next removes the thick, woolen glove from his right 

hand. This he also places on the tan countertop, still filled with 

the warmth and shape of his personal hand and, of course, his 

personal odor. The girl’s nose crinkles. She fights the urge 

to wrinkle her brow. As if out in the world for the first time, 

blissfully unaware there are others who require her ministrations, 

Roy grubs in his pocket, deeper and deeper; perhaps so deeply 

that, when his hand reappears, it will be clutching Yuan notes 

issued by the People’s Republic of China. 

It seems to take Roy the lifetime of a gastrotrich. 

Gastrotrichs are a phylum of microscopic animal found in 

fresh water. They are bilaterally symmetric, and have a complete 

gut. Their locomotion is primarily powered by hydrostatics, and 

they reproduce entirely by parthenogenesis. They are also the 

shortest-lived animals known, their entire life-span lasting only 

three days. 

Which is exactly how long it seems to take Roy to find his 

money—three days, or the lifetime of a gastrotrich. 

The money he finally wrings from his pocket is not Chinese at 

all, but a familiar green adorned with a famous male dominator 

(Andrew Jackson, author of the Indian Removal Act of 1830). 

He peels the twenty from its sordid fellows and it flutters onto 

the tan countertop. 

The change has been made in her blonde, ponytailed mind 

for the last two-and-a-half days. The dirty bill is in her hand 

almost before it alights. After the transaction is complete, she 

will wash her hands vigorously, but for now all she can think of is 

a-ten-a-five-two-ones-and-a-quarter. A-ten-a-five-two-ones-anda-quarter. 

Atenafivetwoonesandaquarter. 

No, she does not place the change directly into Roy’s 


outstretched hand. She has had enough contact with this person. 

She slaps it onto the man-made tan countertop and stares 

pointedly over his shoulder. 

“Next!” 

Someone mutters Thank God while Roy scrapes up his change. 

A man wearing an umber (brown, to Roy) corduroy jacket 

with leather elbow patches and a mauve turtleneck sweater 

squeezes beside Roy and gasps—“A triple tall, short and dry, and 

a venti Zebra without!” 

The blonde girl is gone in a flash, first to wash her hands 

vigorously, then to satisfy the needs of this new, cleaner, betterdressed 

member of the coffee cognoscenti. 

But mostly to get away from Roy. 



MIST PREVAILS 

in Seattle throughout the winter, but occasionally it actually 

rains. 

The day’s mist has turned into exactly that—: a torrential 

rain. 

Roy flips up his raincoat’s hood before he steps off the bus. 

There is a different driver sitting behind the wheel from earlier in 

the day, and this fact gladdens his heart considerably. 

(Roy has learned that there is an expiration date to chance 

encounters. The way he figures it, if more than two days go 

by after a nod or a few words are exchanged, the opportunity 

for that event to be made into a Big Deal slips forever beyond 

recovery.) 

Before stepping off the bus, he ties a knot in the plastic 

Safeway bag to keep out the rain that peppers the bus’ shell and 

creates a deafening roar. 

Raindrops shatter and deepen puddles. Seattle’s grit, grime 

and birdshit sluices off buildings, windows and rooftops to 

disappear in a gushing torrent down the city’s drains, plunging 

through a network of ancient clay pipes to Puget Sound. 

Thunder is so seldom heard in the Great Northwest that the 

passengers are startled, perhaps filled with dread of End Times, 

as it rolls like bowling balls through the cloudy alleys overhead. 

Roy steps off the bus and into a fast-flowing freshet filled with 

candy wrappers, cigarette butts and other cast-off bits and pieces 

of the productive world. 

The beat-up boots he wears he bought new at Chubby & 

Tubby’s several summers back because they were advertised to be 

weatherproof. 

Roy had supposed that to mean waterproof. 


As stated earlier, Roy possesses but two keys. His life is that 

simple. One key opens the door of the building he inhabits, the 

other key opens the door of the apartment he rents. 

His apartment: almost warm and mostly dry. 

From the bus stop he races through the downpour towards 

his building. In places along the sidewalk, pigeons band together 

in dark, feathery huddles. Their discussions range from Ibises 

to Ibsen. They turn as one at the slapslap of Roy’s approaching 

beat-up weatherproof boots and scurry out of his path, quickly 

reassembling after his passage to coo and prattle about human 

rudeness, an ongoing topic of avian discontent. 

Roy sprints up the steps to the covered stoop of his building. 

Although the simplicity of his life may be symbolized by a 

reduced number of keys, this in no way dismisses the fact that 

those two keys may just as readily be lost or stolen as a larger set 

decorated with an imported car’s fob. 

Roy pats his pants and raincoat pockets in search of his two 

keys. 

Rain pounds the evacuated, windswept streets of Georgetown. 

Even the coffee shop across from his building is closed. A ghastly 

dread floods his system. Just beyond this thick, wooden door lies 

warmth of a sort and a mattress stuffed with cash. He can’t have 

lost his keys—he can’t! He doesn’t want to sleep outside in the 

cold, outside in the rain, outside with brooding pigeons. 

He is relieved beyond words to discover that the beaded chain 

that serves to link his two keys together has come undone and 

that the keys have settled apart from one another in different 

regions of his pocket. 

His hands shake—as much from cold as from fear—as he 

jams the end of his outside door key into the lock’s metal sleeve 

and snicks the deadbolt open. With a deeply-felt gratitude, he 

pushes into the freshly-swept, dry vestibule. 

He is glad to be out of the wind, out of the rain, and away 

from pigeons. 

He shakes out his raincoat, sending a spray of water onto the 

faded, flocked walls. The tile floor is now freshly-marred with 

mud from his beat-up boots. 

Oblivious, he thumps up the broad, carpeted stair. 


thumpthumpthump 

Not far from the head of the stair is 28/RR. When he comes 

in sight of this, his heavy thudding becomes a dainty tiptoe. 

Quietly, he steps onto the second floor. 

He glides past 28/RR and hurries along to 23. 

His second key is out. Into the slotted cylinder it goes, 

muscling pins up and out of its way. With a twist the cylinder 

revolves—and he’s safe inside. 

He heads for the bed where he sets his burden, then removes 

his draining raincoat. This he replaces on its nail. 

If not clean, Roy is at least neat. 

His raincoat replaced on its nail, a puddle on the floor 

beneath just getting started, he next moves to his duffle. He digs 

through this until he encounters the blue, spiral-ring paper pad 

and, with a bit more digging, uncovers a plastic Bic pen filled 

with blue ink. 

With these items in tow, he moves to the bed. 

squeak 

Now he must compose his thoughts. What ought he to write? 

Cooking the lasagna had been the easy part. Outside, wind 

lashes a freezing rain. Inside, Roy’s steam radiator maintains 

just enough headway to steer against the current. Roy chews on 

his Bic. 

He wishes he had a pencil. 

Roy is always wishing for something. 

He begins: 

To Whom It May Concern: 

Your music the other night was awesome! I dug 

it very much!! Here is some food for you. I am in 

room 23. I am the one ran into you the other 

night. I would like to hear more of your awesome tunes. 

If that is cool with you that is. My name is 

Maybe he shouldn’t tell him his name. 

What If he gets pissed off, and comes after him? Then he 

shouldn’t tell him his room number, either. What he should do is 

he should eat the lasagna, and forget the whole thing, that’s what 


he should do. But now he’s gone to all this trouble—the bus trip, 

the gay bus driver, Mel pinching his nipples and grabbing his— 

No. He can’t stop now. 

He crumples the note and tosses it to the floor. 

On a fresh piece of paper, he writes: 

To room 28, how are you? I hope you are as 

fine as I am. Here is a little something to eat I 

cooked to welcome you to the building. Hope 

your time here is good. Also, you can play 

your’re music louder if you want, since it is very cool 

sounding…I wonder what its called? 

Fondly, anonomus. 

That doesn’t look right, anonomus. He doesn’t want 28/RR to 

think he’s dumb. Also, since the guy was in the building before 

him, how could Roy be welcoming him? For all he knows, the 

guy’s lived there twenty years and that’s what the RR on his 

door stands for: Revered Renter. 

He balls up this page as well and adds it to the one already on 

the floor. Roy is making a mess. 

He starts over: 

Hello, room 28. I am in room 23. I liked 

your music I heard the other night. It made me 

happy. I want to make you happy to. Here is 

something I made to say thanks for the nice music. 

It is nothing really. Hope you like it a lot as I liked 

your music lots too. 

That’s it. Simple and direct. He reads it over again. And 

then once more. Maybe he should sleep on it. Water cascades 

down his windowpanes. He is feeling leaden-eyed. If he sleeps 

on it, maybe rats will tear into the plastic Safeway bag and gut 

his lasagna. He wishes he knew how to spell lasagna. He would 

have liked to use that word in his note, telling the tenant of 28/ 

RR what it was he was eating. But, most people know a lasagna 


when they see one, so that should be OK. He yawns. It has been 

a long, tiring day. He recalls how he barely slept last night. No 

wonder he’s bushed. He yawns again. The windows rattle with 

the roar of crashing bowling pins. His eyes droop. 

If it’s going to happen, it better happen now. 

He pushes his palms against his knees and cranks himself 

erect. With the note in one hand and the Safeway bag in the 

other, he steps towards his door. 

He cracks it open and investigates the hall. 

The hallway stands empty. The light above the B THRO M 

sleeps. 

He opens his door wider and steps into the hall. 

With his heart in his throat, he settles the rustling plastic 

bag beside the bar of light that lives at the bottom of door 28/ 

RR. Next, the note. He has no way to attach it, so he folds it 

in half and sticks it inside the rabbit ear loops of the knotted bag 

handles. 

Should he knock? 

“Special lasagna delivery, get it while it’s hot!” 

Yes, he should. 

Instead, he hurries back to his room and eases the door closed 

and shoots the deadbolt home. 

Vanquished by the day’s activities, he drops onto the mattress 

and closes his eyes. 

squeak 

Tonight he will sleep. Sleep like a rock. This has been a big 

day. A great day. He has turned a corner in his adult life. He 

has hatched a plan unlike any he has ever hatched before, and 

he’s followed it through. 

He feels vaguely proud and strangely excited. 

He is, in fact, as excited as he had been when, as a little boy 

on Christmas Eve all those Christmas Eves ago, he had gone to 

bed in his cardboard box believing Santa would think he had 

been a good boy and finally bring him something. 



ROY’S EYES POP OPEN. 

He had been dreaming of a time when the OK Hotel had 

been cool, back before they served booze, and this band was 

playing there, only it wasn’t a band that ever really played 

there, but the one that was in his dream, the one that he was 

in—himself on lead guitar, J.J. on drums, Rick on bass and Mel 

naked except for a pink boa he fibrillated between his hairy legs 

while belting out Suzie Quattro songs. 

The audience was a bunch of punked-out dwarfs with potato 

guns they kept shooting, aiming for their eyes. 

Roy blinks his freshly popped-opened eyes. 

Eyes crusted with sleep. 

He had not stirred once all night long. 

He squeezes his thighs together. 

He needs to pee. 

He sits up in his deeply-fissured clothes. 

His room is frigid, his body stiff. 

And he really needs to pee. 

He drops the two heavy weights that are his big, booted feet 

onto the floor. 

thunk followed by thunk 

He wonders what time it is. Not that it matters. Not that he 

really cares. Does a wrist of his sport a digital watch? Roy is no 

Yuppie Scum, always hurrying somewhere, eyes bulging, tearing 

out his hair. 

Roy has no hair to tear. 

Still, sometimes he wonders what time it is. 

The puddle that formed beneath his dripping raincoat had 


evaporated during the night, embraced by its brethren and 

sistern in the Great Hydrologic Cycle. 

He crosses to the scarred door that restrains the screeching, 

turbulent world and unlocks its deadbolt. 

He cracks the door ajar. 

That portion of the hall he is presented with appears to be 

chock-full of nothingness. 

He opens the door a bit wider so he can see all the way down 

to the B THRO M. 

It, like the hallway, overflows with vacuity. Emptiness. A 

total lack of all things human. 

Relieved he will have the little room entirely to himself, he 

steps into the hall. 

It is precisely at this juncture that his right toe encounters a 

small, plastic object. 

Said object, suddenly abristle with kinetic energy transferred 

there by the tap from Roy’s right toe, clatters noisily across the 

tatty carpet until it encounters the opposing wall and—as all 

irresistible forces met by immovable objects should—abruptly 

stops. 

The result of this abrupt stop is that the object under 

discussion disassembles, its parts no longer making up a whole, 

and scatter in several directions at once. 

The kinetic energy provided by Roy’s right toe soon enough 

sputters out, and the plastic objects come to a rest upon the 

hallway floor. 

The hallway that continues its slow unraveling. 

Roy frowns as he focuses on what appears to be an audio tape 

and its exploded case. 

So intent had he been on the fullness of his bladder, he had 

clean forgot about the lasagna trap he set the night before. In a 

flash of rewound memory, Roy recalls carrying home the foilwrapped 

treat in a plastic Safeway bag, then writing the note, 

then placing the bag and note against the bar of light at the 

bottom of 28/RR. His eyes scoot there now, leaving behind for a 

moment the plastic fragments. 

The bag is no longer there. 


The man inside 28/RR took the bait! 

And now, apparently, the result of Roy’s clever plan lies in 

several pieces upon the hallway floor. 

Could it be The Music? 

His urinary urgency not altogether forgotten, Roy creaks 

down on his knees and crawls about, scooping up the scattered 

parts. 

He is delighted to find they still fit together. 

Roy holds the tape—his tape!—reverentially before his face, 

and fairly close to his eyes. He squints at it in the dim light. It is 

not labeled, but he’s pretty sure he knows what it is. 

It’s The Music. 

Suddenly remembering he is kneeling in the middle of the 

hallway floor, and that his bladder is about to burst, Roy springs 

to his feet. 

The lightbulb in the B THRO M still drowses. 

While there might never be a better time to slip inside the 

B THRO M and do his business, Roy’s longing to take a listen to 

what he holds in his hands trumps his leaning to take a leak. 

He decides that a compromise of sorts might be possible. 

Roy’s fingers fumble with the tape as he inserts it into its case, 

as he betakes himself to his original destination. 

In the distance, thunder rumbles. Even thick, ancient walls 

such as these can’t completely keep out the World. 

Roy creaks open the B THRO M door, slips inside, snicks the 

lightswitch on, then settles his—yes, his!—tape onto the cast 

iron corner sink and turns to face the oval of water resting in 

the commode. The toilet is as old as the building. A wooden 

waterbox affixed to the wall above it has a pull-chain for the 

flusher. 

The commode itself is a white ceramic flower with a chromed 

stem in back, its petals opened to reveal its liquidy heart. Rust 

streaks down to the water’s brown, crusty rim. 

It is rumored as many as 17 million men in America suffer 

from paruresis—the fear of peeing in public. By public is meant 

bathroom urinals in public facilities. Or outdoors with a Boy 

Scout Troop. Or off the ledge of a tall building. Or from a 

speeding automobile. 


Sometimes it is referred to as bashful bladder. 

17 million American men constitute about 7% of the 

population. 

It is Roy’s fraternity with this 7% that leaves him, bladder 

about to burst, staring into the commode’s discolored oval, 

waiting for something to happen. 

During this longueur, his ears turn crimson and his forehead 

shines. 

Sounds, minute and mouse-like, are amplified by his crimsonrimmed 

ears into a walloping racket. Within his fanciful 

imagination, someone stands right outside the B THRO M door, 

impatiently awaiting a turn. 

Soon however, in keeping with Nature and Bernoulli’s 

Principle, Roy’s bladder finally pushes fluid through his 

urethra—first a dribble, then a drip, then a jolly stream. 

His stream displaces the toilet water’s equilibrium position 

and creates sustained, violent oscillations of a complex 

mathematical nature. Roy, no less complex, pays the event scant 

attention. He is more focused on the self-gratification associated 

with the release of insistent internal pressures. 

Waste elimination being the second most gratifying of all 

human bodily functions. 

What he knows about the first most gratifying of all human 

bodily functions could fit nicely inside a thimble with plenty 

room left over for a tree. A very large tree. 

Roy zips up then turns to the sink to wash his hands. 

Lavese Las Manos Con Jabon Y Agua. 

Roy has no desire to become Typhoid Roy. 

Resting on the cast iron corner sink is a pruned lump of 

soap, its deep cracks black with dirt, its color slaty gray. From 

the deck of the sink sprout two taps, one hot one cold. Life can 

be that simple. The left, nominally hot, tap is in fact unable to 

achieve any degree of warmth greater than the ambient room 

temperature. The cold tap is only slightly more useful. At 

the bent tip of each spout, where water departs from its long, 

convoluted journey, lumpy, turquoise stalactites clot. 

Roy uses the pruned bar of soap to lather his hands in 


accordance with the Lavese Las Manos signs posted throughout 

Seattle restrooms. He wonders if it matters that the lather is also 

as brown as the water that trickles past the turquoise clots. 

There being no paper towels in the paper towel dispenser, he 

dries his hands on his pants, then picks up his tape. 

Yes, his! 

He would like to study it in the friendly overhead light, but 

is afraid if he dawdles he may hear footsteps followed by an 

imperious knock, which would sound like the pounding of a 

sledge hammer to his sensitive ears. 

Roy yanks on the pull chain—an action he puts off to the very 

end—and the commode flushes. It is like firing off a cannon in 

a church. It is a noise so raucous as to shake the building to its 

roots. It is a blare to bedevil the dead. It is a hubbub to ruffle 

pigeon feathers, yea, even unto the sidewalk. 

Quickly now, having made such a noise, he unhooks the door 

and creaks it open. To his great relief, the hallway still stands 

empty, looking pretty much as it had the last time he saw it, 

perhaps a tad older, perhaps a touch more threadbare. 

He snicks the lightbulb back into a state of comfortable repose, 

then races along the hallway to his room. 

Easing the door closed behind him, he clunks its deadbolt 

home. 

It is lighter outside. The sun must be rising, or something. 

The clouds are infused with a pallid shimmer. 

Roy sits on his bed. 

squeak 

With a triumphal flourish, he drops the tape from its case 

into his hand. He is pleased to see what he holds is a 120 minute 

cassette. 

Again, he holds it up to the bare bulb, and squints through the 

cassette’s tiny window. 

60 minutes is an hour plus another 60 minutes equals two hours 

of tunes. 

Of course, there is a chance the tape might not contain two 

full hours of tunes. There may be only a half hour, and the rest 

blank. Or, it could be entirely blank and have been left at his 

door as a cruel joke. 


There’s only one way to find out. 

He unhooks the Sony tape player from its honored place 

beneath his gut and peels back the duct tape so he can open its 

little door. He studies the tape again and wishes again—Roy 

and his wishes—that whoever had left it had labeled it as well. 

He inserts the tape into his Sony player. 

He closes the hatch and smoothes down the tape’s frayed 

edges, then covers his ears with his headphones. 

All that’s left is to press PLAY. 

He closes his eyes. 

It occurs to him that he forgot to wash his face. 

But who wants to wash his face in brown water? 

What if this isn’t what he’s hoping it is? Then he will feel like 

he did as a kid on all those Christmas mornings when Santa 

didn’t bring him anything because he hadn’t been good enough. 

Boy, is he ever glad his kid years are over. 

He presses PLAY. 

click 

Nothing happens for a little while, as the ferromagnetic tape 

winds its way through the machine—much the way ferrous 

water winds its way through the building—threads through the 

capstan and pinch rollers, then across the electromagnetic heads 

at approximately 1.875 inches per second. 

And this is what Roy hears: static. 

White noise. 

Then comes a bump. 

Then comes The Music. 


The Old Cowboy looked down 

on the town from a high ridge, his roan knee-deep in sunburned grama grass. 

From his warbags he withdrew his battered Busch binoculars—what 

was left to remind him of the war in Cuba he never fought—and through 

them studied the treeless town, its weatherbeaten, clapboard buildings, the 

streets besat by wagons, buckboards and gigs, the womenfolk in swishing 

skirts passing along the boardwalks, checked-cloth covered baskets dangling 

from bent arms, flowered bonnets bowtied beneath their chins. 

At the far end of town a white church spiral scratched the sky’s blue belly. 

Telegraph poles studded the length of Main street, 

Along the backside of town ran the railroad track, its iron ribbons 

stretching off to the horizon, beckoning the adventuresome. 

It had taken over a year to get here, what with one thing or another. 

Unlike the other cowhands, he left the herd the day after they hit Abeline. 

He wasn’t interested in staying around for the rip-roaring and the hoe-dig 

with the Calico Queens and the painted Cats, or dowsing himself with fifty 

cent whisky that left a man blind, broke and unbalanced. 

I’ve finished the drive and drawn my money, 

Goin’ into town to see my honey— 

Instead, he had drifted on, had lit out and headed south. 

He was used to this sort of travel, rocking along in his saddle 

unaccompanied by other men’s voices, sleeping on the ground—a Tuscon 

bed—always headed for the next horizon with only the dust-muffled beat of 

horse hooves for company. Most of his life had been lived that way, trailing 

herds across the West. A veteran of the Shawnee and Chisholm Trails, 

he’d ridden from Texas to Missouri, and on into Kansas. The Goodnight- 

Loving Trail had taken him through New Mexico. The Bozeman Trail had 


ended him up in Wyoming and Montana. He had ridden from Bandera 

to Sedalia, from Ogallala to Deadwood, from Fort Laramie to Dodge more 

times than he could reckon. 

And all along the way, at every flea-bitten waterhole, in every cantina, 

saloon and honky-tonk, in every livery stable and bunk house, he had asked 

the same question—had anyone ever seen a man looked like him only with a 

broken nose, scar under his left eye, and muttonchop whiskers? 


ROY STANDS BEFORE 

28/RR, right hand poised to knock, his Sony tape player turned 

off. 

It’s been a wonderful day. 

A day unlike any other. 

It’s not every day he gets eighty-sixed from two stores. 

He is filled with courage and aflame with confidence. 

He is no longer Window Washer Roy, or Brother of Rick the 

Asshole Roy. 

He may not be exactly sure of who or what he has become, 

but he knows that he’s a changed man, an altered version of the 

Before Roy. 

The fact he’s about to knock on 28/RR proves it. 

But what’s brought him to such an uncharacteristic place? 

What’s prompted such feelings of bravado? 

It all began after he pressed PLAY. 

click 

Nothing happens for a little while, as the ferromagnetic tape 

winds its way through the machine—much the way ferrous 

water winds its way through the building—threads through the 

capstan and pinch rollers, then across the electromagnetic heads 

at approximately 1.875 inches per second. 

And this is what Roy hears: static. 

White noise. 

Then comes a bump. 

And then, after the bump, when his expectations are at fever 

pitch, when he is holding his breath, unsure what to expect, there 

comes a mournful whistling. 

A tenor voice sings. 


Shades of night are falling 

As the wind begins to sigh 

And the world’ s silhouetted against the sky— 

A guitar is strummed, and the haunting whistling resumes. 

Roy’s face is fixed with fierce concentration. Never in his 

entire life, in his whole miserable existence, has he ever heard 

anything so beautiful, so compelling. 

So satisfying. 

Then, after another pause, he finally hears it—the same 

sound he heard the night he stood out in the hall, helix of his ear 

touching the door of 28/RR—the sweet sounds of mens’ voices 

singing in harmony: 

Bluuuuue shadows on the Trail 

Blue moon shinin’ through the trees. 

And a plaintiff wail from the distance 

Comes a driftin’ on the evenin’ breeze— 

For the first time, Roy experiences something music has never 

given him before. 

Chills. 

The dilapidated building he sits within on a stained and 

smelly mattress begins to lose its substance and anchor in reality; 

haunting childhood memories fog; Rick’s sick words lose their 

sting; from somewhere a warm wind laves his face, smoothes his 

rumpled brow and tugs the corners of his mouth into a smile. 

Move along, Blue Shadows, move along 

Soon the dawn will come and you’ll be on your way 

But until the darkness sheds its veil 

There’ll be Blue Shadows on the Trail— 

Outside, the rain has lost its punch. With an almost audible 

sigh it wanders off to bully and bruise other neighborhoods. 

A long-muffled sun stiffens its resolve and glares down upon 

Seattle with unconvincing determination. 


Doughy clouds thicken with light. Moist pigeons dance jigs on 

the sidewalk. 

But Roy sees none of this. His eyes are closed and his ears 

strain for the slightest nuance and subtlety in a song that invades 

his soul like a new form of hunger—: 

Move along, Blue Shadows, move along 

Soon the dawn will come and you’ll be on your way 

But until the darkness sheds its veil 

There’ll be Blue Shadows on the Trail— 

Shadows on the Trail. 

The sweetest sound he has ever heard fades away, replaced by 

mournful whistling. 

The swaying hammock of Roy’s smile slips into an O of 

wonder. 

As many times as he has been known to listen to a tape, he 

knows for a certainty that this one will be listened to many times 

more. 

And this strikes him as funny, since the music he is listening 

to is unlike anything he could ever have imagined listening to, 

much less enjoying. 

Enjoying? 

That’s not the right word. 

He enjoys double-tall Americanos. 

He enjoys using bus transfers to see how long he can ride. 

No. This experience goes far beyond mere enjoyment. 

This music awakens. It conjures new feelings. It stimulates like 

the sun, purges like the rain. It dismisses doubt. It ascends his 

spine like an eagle climbing the sky. It thaws. It administers an 

antidote. It cuddles like a mother-warmed blanket. It reaches 

out a hand to a long-forgotten friend. 

It doesn’t confront. 

There is no challenge. 

Nor is there need to study in order to understand. 

It simply is. 

What would have happened had he not hatched his simple 


plan? Had he not followed it through? Had he not braved the 

confrontation with Mel and Rick? 

This is what: nothing. 

His life would not have changed. 

This morning would have been like any other, tomorrow not 

much different from today. 

Roy has made a decision that rocked his world. 

And this is why he stands before 28/RR, right hand poised to 

knock. 

It has been a wonderful day. 



He’s filled with courage and aflame with confidence. 


Asshole Roy. 

And it’s not because the rain stopped—briefly—or because 

the sun came out—also briefly—or that a blue he wished he 

knew the name of was unveiled. 

Or because of what that skinny, black man—Workneh—said. 

He may not be exactly sure of who or what he has become, 

but he knows that he’s a changed man, an altered version of the 

Before Roy. 


And here’s how it happened… 

FLABBY, FISSURED 

Roy Weston stands at the top of his building’s steps. 

His earphones are clapped to his ears, ready for tunes. 

His empty bladder lurks in his abdomen, ready for double-tall 

Americanos. 

His adenosine receptors, pituitary gland, brain and liver are 

ready! ready! ready! for C 8 H 10 N 4 O 2. 

The sun has muscled aside a stubborn sky, fractured its slate 

grayness and filled in the cracks with cerulean. 

But Roy barely notices this; does not, in fact, know the 

meaning of the word cerulean. 

He is in a different space, is Roy, as he descends the rainwashed 

steps, a strip of magnetized tape unspooling on his belt. 

As I was out walking one morning for pleasure 

I spied a cowpuncher riding along 

His hat was throwed back and his spurs were a-jingling 

And as he approached he was singing this song— 

Trucks roar past as Roy walks down the sidewalk, a beam 

of bright sunlight gracing his head. He moves along quickly 

and kicks at some pigeons, then steps off the sidewalk before the 

light’s red. 

Whoopee-ti-yo, git along little doggies 

It’s your misfortune and none of my own 

Whoopee-ti-yi-yo, git along little doggies 

You know that Wyoming will be your new home— 

Roy enters the Café across from his building, its windows 

fresh-washed by the night’s thunderin’ rain. He steps to the 


counter and smiles at the waitress as she tries real hard to 

remember his name. 

Early in the springtime we round up the doggies 

Mark ’em and brand ’em and bob off their tails 

Round up the horses, load up the chuck wagon 

Then throw the little dogies out on the long trail— 

Roy thanks her and leaves her a tip worth rememberin’, he 

walks out the door and back into light. The pigeons all scurry 

when they see him comin’, there’s something about him that just 

don’t seem right. 




You know that Wyoming will be your new home— 

Roy walks along smilin’, his hand grips his coffee, his knees 

feel like new and his brain is a-swirl. He passes by people and 

tips them his greetin’, he actually smiles at a beautiful girl. 

Night comes on and we’ll hold ’em on the bedground 

The same little doggies that rolled on so slow 

We roll up the herd and cut out the stray ones 

Then roll the little doggies like never before— 

Roy sashays on downtown with no cares a-showin’, he smiles 

as he listens and sways as he moves. The people who pass him 

all look gray and broken, none of them like him and no one 

approves. 

Some boys go up the long trail for pleasure 

But that’s where they get it most awfully wrong 

For you’ll never know the trouble they give us 

As we go drivin’ them doggies along— 

The sign that hangs there bright in the morning, it calls out to 


him and it uses his name. He places his hand on the cold shining 

metal, then pushes inside to a world gone insane. 




You know that Wyoming will be your new home 

You know that Wyoming will be your new ho-o-o-ome— 

click 

The brass bells ting-a-ling ting-a-ling unheard above Roy’s 

insouciant head. 


He stands inside the Wailing Wall and for the first time ever 

feels out of place. 

Today the man behind the counter—the one with the long, 

black curly hair dipped in peroxide—wears a black tee-shirt that 

has this printed in large, white letters: ROCK HARD. 

This is the tee-shirt Roy wishes the guy would not wear 

because it’s the name of one of Suzie Quattro’s best albums, 

released in 1981. 

The guy behind the counter isn’t pissed off today. He seems 

to be at peace with himself, grooving on the headbanging tunes 

that throb from ceiling-hung speakers, vibrate concrete walls, 

thump up into Roy’s feet, knees and thighs, and shakes his liver 

and adrenals as they work to make him happy. 

Roy is not here today to buy. Roy is not here today to look. 

Roy is here today to talk to the guy behind the counter. 

That’s right. Talk. 

To the guy behind the counter. 

The guy behind the counter busies himself, flipping through 

a cardboard box of LPs. The same guy who, last time Roy 

saw him, was screaming into the tiny holes of his telephone’s 

mouthpiece, using words he, Roy, was glad he hadn’t heard. 

This is the same guy Roy wants to talk to now. 

Roy figures he has a rapport with him because he has spent so 

much time, if so little money, here. Hasn’t he burrowed deeply 

into the Wailing Wall’s collection, almost to the point where he 


knows the entire inventory? That had required hours and hours 

taken away from his life. Hours he could have spent pursuing 

other things, like Carrom or juggling, or Jai Lai. Instead, he 

chose to burrow into the inventory of the Wailing Wall. 

That should count for something. 

The small music store is empty, except for them. This is not 

unusual during the day when the freaks are still in bed groaning 

from the various drugs they have run through their systems for so 

many years. 

Roy nears the apocalyptic counter covered with crude, 

graphic sexual acts. 

The guy flips through the cardboard box of LPs. Every 

now and then he selects one, scans its cover, then sets it aside on 

another part of the counter where several other canted stacks 

rise. 

Roy is concerned about two things. For one, he is not certain 

how to get the guy’s attention since the guy is not looking his way, 

and since the music is turned up so loud. It is turned up so loud 

that Roy doubts the guy would hear him if he let loose a shotgun 

blast. 

His second concern stems directly from his first. Assuming he 

does manage to get the guy’s attention, how will be hear a word 

he says? 

Roy hates to shout, loathes raising his voice. His brother Rick 

always shouts and yells and farts out loud. Roy would not like to 

be mistaken for his brother. He figures that people who (and who 

wouldn’t?) find his brother objectionable must also judge Roy just 

as objectionable, simply by association. 

Maybe that’s why Santa never left anything for Christmas. 

There is a word, among many, that Roy doesn’t know: 

propinquity. 

Propinquity is one of the main factors that lead to 

interpersonal attraction as described by British philosopher, 

Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832). The Propinquity Effect is the 

tendency for people to form relationships of many kinds based 

on the frequency with which they encounter each other. For 

example, tenants in an apartment building who share the same 


stair are more likely to become friends that those living on 

different floors. 

Another word Roy doesn’t know that also relates to his 

current situation, is proxemics. 

Proxemics is a term introduced into the world back in 1963 

when Edward Hall was investigating people’s use of personal 

space. 

Being a scientist, and therefore fond of categorizing, Dr. 

Hall broke down the concept of personal space into four basic 

types. The first type he called intimate distance, for embracing or 

whispering (6 to 8 inches). The second type he named personal 

distance, for conversations among good friends (1.5 to 4 feet). The 

third type he referred to as social distance, for conversations among 

acquaintances (4 to 12 feet). And, finally, he distinguished a type 

of personal space he called public distance, that referred to public 

speaking (12 feet and over). 

If Roy knew any of this he would also know his choice of 

proxemic space with the guy behind the counter (based on the 

music’s volume) is limited to intimate distance. 

Despite his dislike of propinquity with his brother or of 

sharing proxemic space with strangers, Roy is feeling pretty 

good right now. It’s the music that’s responsible for this feeling 

of euphoria, the music on the tape he wants to know more about. 

His curiosity about the music is what has brought him to the 

Wailing Wall today. He needs to know the name of the group 

who created such wondrous, harmonious songs. 

He figures the guy behind the counter surely must know. 

After all, he’s probably an expert on all things musical, what 

with working in a music store, and all. Roy imagines he must 

have worked in lots of other music stores in his life before he 

limited himself to the crushing brainbeating tunes he specializes 

in now. 

Roy continues his approach to the counter. The guy behind 

the counter continues to flip and stack. The rising stacks of LPs 

continue to canter. 

Strangely, Roy is not nervous. He does not dread the 

forthcoming interaction one little bit. And the reason for this 


is simple: he is excited that he is about to satisfy his burning 

curiosity. When he knows the name of the guys singing on the 

tape, then he can go looking for some more of their music. There 

must be plenty more out there somewhere. 

But first he has to know their name. 

Roy achieves the first part of his goal—he reaches the counter. 

The second part of his goal, talking to the guy behind the 

counter, seems a bit more elusive. 

Roy clears his throat. 

He removes his headphones, since he is not listening to the 

tape anymore, and clears his throat again, this time louder. 

The guy behind the counter pulls out an album from the 

cardboard box and scans it before turning it over and studying its 

sleeve. 

Roy coughs. 

The guy continues scanning. 

Roy coughs again, this time louder. 

The guy scans again, this time harder. 

Does the scanning guy know Roy is standing there, coughing 

and clearing his throat, but just doesn’t care, is ignoring him on 

purpose? 

Isn’t there supposed to be a little bell or something on the 

counter to ring for service? 

Roy doesn’t know how unwanted bells are in this Devil’s Din 

music store. 

“Hey!” 

This monosyllable is unleashed by Roy. 

The guy, choosing to keep the album he has selected and so 

arduously scanned, drops it on top of one of the two cantering 

towers of LPs. 

“Excuse me?” 

Roy has doubled his chances by doubling his syllables. But, 

apparently they are not spoken loud enough. He tries again, this 

time louder. 

“EXCUSE ME!” 

So caught up is he in this phase of his undertaking—the 

part that requires getting the guy’s attention—that Roy is quite 

unprepared for what to do when he succeeds, which he now does. 


The guy turns and glares. 

And, for the first time, Roy notices his face. 

He looks a lot like the late Frank Zappa, who had a musical 

group called Mothers of Invention, and who was a cool dude 

who even conducted symphonies, but who never got regular, 

professional checkups of his male parts. 

Frank may be pushing up daisies, but his music and mustache 

live on. 

The Zappa lookalike continues to glare at Roy. 

Roy, who would look like a doofus even if Oprah gave him a 

makeover. 

Glaring Guy’s lips move. 

Roy can’t hear a word. 

Glaring Guy’s lips move again. 

He watches hatefully as Roy’s lips move. 

Glaring Guy assumes he must have asked some dumb-ass 

question. 

The worst part of his job is dealing with the fucks who come 

in and ask dumb-ass questions. If it was him, he would keep the 

door locked and barred and welded shut, but the owner would 

freak and who the fuck else would hire him to sit around all day 

listening to music while augmenting his personal LP collection 

without paying a dime? 

Doofus is moving his lips again. 

Glaring Guy is not the least bit curious about what the doofus 

is saying. In fact, he wishes he would evaporate. But word might 

get back to the owner, so he reaches under the counter where sits 

a big, black 126 pound AT3000 seven-channel amp with 2,100 

watts of power—enough to stop charging gorillas in their tracks 

and demolecularize kangaroos—and drops out the volume. 

There is the story of a man who grew up next to Niagara 

Falls. Never once in his life did he notice the roar of those 

billions of tons of falling water. Then, one day, he moved away. 

And went insane. 

Roy has heard this story, but never understood until now. 

Now he can imagine the cold sweats that man must have 

endured as he went insane without his friendly childhood roar. 


The quiet in the Wailing Wall is deafening. 

Roy has been coming here for years and never imagined there 

was a time when the music was actually turned off. 

He is caught off-guard by Glaring Guy’s decision to drop out 

the volume, and is shouting when he does so: 

“—COULD YOU PLEASE HELP—me?” 

Glaring Guy hardens his glare. 

No, as a matter of fact, he does not want to help Roy. 

Nor would he want to help Suzie Quattro, if she came in the 

store. 

And he would probably tell Frank Zappa—were he not 

already a shade in Hades’ realm—to fuck off and die. 

That’s how hard he hardens his glare at Roy. 

Roy can only smile back, since he is not good at glaring. 

That’s Rick the Asshole’s job. 

It appears, with the altered circumstances, that social distance (4 

to 12 feet) ought to do the trick. 

“—help me with. This. Could you, please?” 

He has done better, but Glaring Guy’s glare is distracting. 

Roy removes his headphones and presents them to Glaring 

Guy, who reacts to them as if they are dripping HIV virus. 

“What’s your fuckin’ problem, asshole?” 

Roy’s smile muscles are woefully out of shape. He really 

ought to use them more often. They collapse into an exhausted 

heap. 

“Could. Could you...listen? I don’t know who this is.” 

The Glaring Guy doesn’t move. 

Roy suddenly recalls another one of Glaring Guy’s black 

tee-shirts that asks, in big, white letters: DO I LOOK LIKE A 

FUCKING PEOPLE PERSON? 

“I look like a fuckin teacher to you?” 

The way Glaring Guy says “teacher” makes it seem like about 

the worst thing a person could be. 

“No, no. I just. You. You must know a lot about music and 

all, and I just thought—” 

Roy falters. In fact, trails off. 

Glaring Guy tweaks with his glare while remembering 

1 0 ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY

something that vaguely haunts him from time-to-time, something 

depressing and foreboding like death or cancer, and that thing 

is that this is not his store nor his personal business, but that he 

is in fact an employee and receives in fact a compensation for 

being such in the weekly issuance of a handwritten check—a 

check that, handwritten or not and always on time, in his opinion 

undervalues his lifelong, monomanical obsession with LPs. With 

the realization of his status settling as if a shroud upon his head, 

as if ashes in his hair, reluctantly he stands. 

His long, skinny, black-clad legs deliver him to Roy, who 

offers his HIV-dripping headphones. 

Glaring Guy ignores them. 

“Gimme the fuckin’ tape.” 

Roy springs into action and snaps the Sony tape player off his 

belt, quickly unpeeling the raggedy duct tape. 

Disgust, Revulsion and Loathing elbow each other for top 

billing on Glaring Guy’s face. 

In order for Roy to open his player, he has dropped his 

headphones onto the countertop cluttered with graphic sexual 

acts. Glaring Guy has concerns about those headphones— 

devices long intimate with Roy’s head—and wonders if, in the 

back room somewhere, there’s some kind of disinfectant he could 

use after the stupid doofus leaves. 

Roy presents him with the tape. 

His face is pink from the exertion and his bald dome gleams. 

Glaring Guy takes the tape, pinching it between his right 

hand’s forefinger and thumb like it was dog-doo, and stares at it 

as if he’s never seen a cassette tape before in his life. 

Indeed, magnetic tape storage may be a technology Glaring 

Guy despises. Roy knows there are people like that. 

Glaring Guy carries his specimen of dog doo to where the 

amp rests under the counter. Sitting beside it is a Phase Linear 

7000 cassette deck tape player—38 pounds of brushed stainless 

steel. 

He presses on the front cover and it springs open to reveal 

knobs and buttons. He inserts the dog-doo into one of the 

machine’s docks and presses a button. 

Red and green LED lights wink on. 

ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 1 1

He clicks around a few knobs on a black box, then turns his 

attention to the 2,100 watt amp. 

He slowly rolls the volume up. 

The big EV speakers that hang from the ceiling on thick 

chains are so accustomed to being used as funnels for tunes that 

roar that they don’t know what to do with the upbeat, sweet 

sounds that now tease and flutter their cones: 

He always sings 

raggedy music to the cattle 

As he swings 

back and forward in the saddle 

On a horse 

that is syncopated, gaited, 

And there’s such a funny meter to the roar of his repeater 

How they run 

when they hear the fellow’s gun 

Because the Western folk all know 

He’s a high-falutin’, rootin’ tootin’ 

Son-of-a-gun from Arizona 

Ragtime Cowboy Joe! 

Still bent over, adjusting the volume control knob—long, 

thick, black, curly, peroxide-tipped hair raining down—Glaring 

Guy freezes. 

Out in Arizona 

where the bad men are 

The only thing to guide you is an Evening star 

the roughest, 

Toughest 

man by far 

Is Ragtime Cowboy— 

Glaring Guy unfreezes. He slaps at the Phase Linear 7000 

controls until the machine’s red and green LED lights wink out. 

“Fuck!” 

Glaring Guy appears to be trembling. Roy suspects he is 

trembling with rage, although this suspicion confuses him since 


the song had sounded so much nicer on the big speakers than in 

his tiny 8 ohm headphones. 

“Asshole!” 

Glaring Guy wrenches the tape out of the 38 pounds of 

brushed stainless steel and hurls it at Roy. No longer glaring, his 

his face is contorted with rage. 

“You—You godamned FREAK!” 

The hurled tape hits Roy in the chest. Roy’s hands spring to 

his defense, grabbing the tape before it falls and possibly breaks 

on the concrete floor. 

“Get the fuck out’ve here!” 

Roy backs away. 

Glaring Guy is speaking loud enough now for public distance (12 

feet and over). 

“Take that hairy-assed Lawrence Welk shit outta here 

and don’t you EVER come back—you hear me you you sick 

motherfuckinsonofabitch!” 

Roy clutches his tape to his chest and backs away from the 

counter quickly, headphones dragging on the floor. 

“And get your fuckin’ headphones off my clean floor!” 

Roy’s back encounters the front door’s panic bar. 

Glaring Guy, with whom Roy had once felt some sense of 

rapport, has taken his glare to new heights. 

Roy reels in his headphones as he backs through the door. 


Since no braincrushing music is being played inside the 

Wailing Wall, and since he is not listening to really, really loud 

droogy shit on his headphones, Roy hears the little brass bells for 

the very first time. 

ting-a-ling 

He had never even known they were there, having passed 

insouciant beneath them for years. 

ting-a-ling ting-a-ling-a-ling 

Even the guy with the catastrophic glare notices them, also 

perhaps for the very first time. 

The front door shuts, assisted by its hydraulic closer, and Roy 

backs out into the cold day. 

ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling 


Smoke starts to pour out from under the counter where rests 

the very heavy, very black, very expensive AT3000. 

The darkened space beneath the counter is illuminated by 

flickering, tangerine flames. 

Roy reaffixes his headphones while watching Glaring Guy 

leap about, thin arms flailing, his tangled mane whipping, no 

doubt shrieking hateful words. 

Thankfully, Roy can’t hear them. 

Flames curl long, hungry fingers from under the countertop. 

Roy turns and walks away. 

He has just been eighty-sixed from his favorite music store. 

His life is undergoing drastic and unexpected revision. 

He clips the Sony tape player back where it belongs—it feels 

odd when it’s not there—and presses PLAY. 

—Joe. 

He got his name from singin’ to 

the cows and sheep 

Every night they say he sings the herd to sleep 

in a bass voice rich and deep 

Croonin’ soft and looooow— 

He always sings 

raggedy music to the cattle 

As he swings 

back and forward in the saddle 

On a horse 

that is syncopated, gaited, 

And there’s such a funny meter to the roar of his repeater 

How they run 

when they hear the fellow’s gun 

Because the Western folk all know 

He’s a high-falutin’, rootin’ tootin’ 

Son-of-a-gun from Arizona 

Ragtime Cowboy Joe! 

So engaged in the music does he become that Roy fails to 


notice what everyone else on the sidewalk stops to gawk at—a 

crimson fire engine grunting up the hill, driver leaning on its 

horn, dome lights spinning, chuffing particles of grit and clouds 

of diesel fumes. 

He joins a group of pedestrians waiting at the corner. As 

if sunflowers in fast forward, their bobbing heads follow the 

flashing lights. 

The electric sign across from them utilizes a complicated 

algorithm programmed into it long ago by Mr. Jack D. Mueller 

of Fargo, North Dakota, and determines it is safe for humans to 

cross. 

The sign changes from red to white. 

Roy’s earphoned baldness floats high above the crossing 

crowd. 

Mid-way through the intersection he stops to twiddle with his 

player. Those who shuffle along behind—their minds slipped 

into the city dweller’s theta state—glower at this big, apparently 

retarded man who blocks their passage and requires their sudden 

reengagement with the world. Fuming, they hurry around him 

like water around a snare. 

Roy, oblivious, cranks up his tunes. 

Wildcat Kelly 

Looking mighty pale 

Was standing by the sheriff’s side 

And when the sheriff said, 

“I’m sending you to jail,” 

Wildcat raised his head and cried— 

Oh give me land, lots of land under starry skies above 

Don’t fence me in 

Let me ride through the 

Wide 

Open country that I love 

Don’t fence me in 

Let me be by myself in the evening breeze 

Listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees 

Send me off forever 


But I ask you please 

Don’t fence me in— 

He is helpless to prevent the escape of a satisfied sigh, to keep 

from denting his face with a smile. 

As the world around him bustles—asleep at the wheel, 

pursuing its Yuppie Scum dreams—he, Roy Weston, long-time 

resident of Seattle, standing at the intersection of Seventh and 

Pine on a November afternoon, a day it isn’t raining, finds 

himself transported to another realm and in a flash realizes he 

is not one of them—the sheep, the cattle, the herd—those who 

shuffle obediently off to slaughter. 

No. Roy is a different sort of man. 

Roy is—well. Roy is a cowboy. 

Just turn me loose 

Let me straddle my old saddle underneath the western skies 

On my cayuse 

Let me wander over yonder ’til I see the mountains rise 

I 

Want to ride to the ridge where the 

West commences 

Gaze at the moon until I lose my senses 

I can’t look at hobbles and I can’t stand fences 

Don’t fence me in! 

click 

His feet have delivered him to a logical destination. 

He stands before a swank edifice. 

Craning back his head, his watery blues fill with giant, red 

letters: 

BARNES & NOBLE 

His smile muscles take a breather. 

Loungers by nature, they appreciate the rest. 

Suddenly, the street stands empty—it’s just Roy and the 

renovated building. 

Shadows lengthen. 

A chill wind kicks up. 


A tumbleweed tumbles weedily. 

Off in the distance, a vulture squawks. 

Roy, the lone sheriff, stands tall against a holed-up gang of 

bloodthirsty, motherless murderers. 

If he goes inside the Yuppie Scum bookstore, he may never 

come out again. 

But he has no choice. 

The guy at the Wailing Wall has eighty-sixed him. Where 

else is he to turn? If anyone will know who’s singing on his tape, 

it will definitely be the politically correct Straights who work 

here, at Barnes & Noble. 

He takes a deep breath. 

Roy has never been inside a Barnes & Nobel before, nor 

has he ever hoped to set foot inside that vast citadel of crass 

consumerism, that devourer of neighborhood bookstores, that 

supermarket of mediocrity. 

Although he did panhandle in front of one once. As with 

Starbucks, the undertaking had not met with success. He 

had been firmly requested to leave, to desist, to disappear, to 

vamoose—his existence had not been desired. That had been 

OK by Roy. Unlike with Starbucks, the customers at Barnes 

& Noble had been just as chinchy coming out—clutching their 

plastic bags of trendy reads—as they had been going in. 

Books were a different kind of addiction from coffee, Roy 

figured, and attracted a different, cheaper, kind of crowd. 

Now, here he stands. Faced with the possibility of actually 

going inside a Barnes & Nobel. 

Into the behemoth bookstore, then. Into the Valley of the 

Shadow of One World Government, then. Into the Land of 

UPC codes and ISBNs, then. Into the mart of microchips, then. 

Into the campus of camera monitoring, then. Into the realm of 

robots disguised as human beings, then. 

The gauntlet lies, tossed before him. 

Roy stares hard at his foe, wishing he could glare. 


He removes his headphones. They curl like content kittens 

around his neck. 

Another tumbleweed tumbles. 


Another vulture vultches. 

He takes a deep, cleansing breath, squares his shoulders, 

and puts his right foot forward, resulting in the following set 

of consequences: (a) his right foot trips a clean cut, leather-clad 

gent who has a telephone headset hanging from one ear and is 

engaged in a frank, sexually-explicit discussion with someone 

many miles away; (b) while retreating from this mishap, Roy’s 

backside is introduced to the front tire of a bike ridden by one 

of the many Bike Messengers who careen along Seattle’s busy 

sidewalks and, as a result, is (c) propelled headlong into the 

door—his original destination—albeit, with far too much force 

and just (d) at the precise moment when an extremely overweight 

woman in brilliant green tights beneath a rust-colored poncho is 

exiting, arms piled with books. 

These sorts of things do not happen when Roy is listening to 

his tunes. 

He collides with the garish woman. For a long moment, 

Roy— temporarily blinded by the acrid off-gassing of her 

perfume—gropes empty space, in search of a handhold. One 

of these groping hands unintentionally lands upon the woman’s 

expansive bosom, while the other comes to rest upon her 

extensive bottom. 

The garish woman shrieks. 

Her books—in accordance with Nature’s Laws—thud to the 

earth and scatter. 

From inside the building, Straights appear—both male 

and female versions—nametags blurred by the speed at which 

they travel, faces graven with the Corporate-inculcated fear of 

litigation. 

Several pairs of helping hands appear from several places at 

once. While some scrape books off the ground (the ten-second 

rule applies to new merchandise, as well as to food), others scrape 

Roy’s hands off the woman. 

Since it is she who has just spent tons of money in the store, 

and since it is she who has been so inappropriately groped, then 

it is she who is the central focus of their concern. 

The name-tagged employees size up Roy in a blink—they are 


taught to do this at the secret Barnes & Nobel school somewhere 

deep beneath the Mohave desert—as a wretched, pitiable excuse 

of a Consumer, and is given short shrift. 

Meanwhile, Roy is rubbing his stinging eyes, eyes that are 

now red-rimmed and tearing. What is that she’s wearing, Mace? 

Roy has heard about women who are cop freaks, that they will 

go to any length to have sexual intercourse with them. 

But Mace? 

Roy is not really thinking these thoughts so much as these 

thoughts are intruding themselves into Roy’s mind. Indeed, he 

has much more important thoughts he ought to be thinking. For 

instance, he ought to be thinking about what is he going to say to 

the old, bearded, name-tagged guy who now stares at him, hands 

on hips, looking menacing. 

The old, bearded, name-tagged guy clears his throat. 

“So—what’s going on here?” 

He looks like he reads a lot. 

“Nothing. Nothing.” 

These words proceed from the mouth of Roy who, as if a little 

boy, knuckles his red-rimmed eyes. 

The old, bearded, name-tagged guy redoubles his menace. 

“Are you stoned, sir? Are you on—crack?” 

“Wh-what?” 

The garish fat lady has stopped shrieking and is currently, 

besides emitting outraged gasps, otherwise occupied, there being 

a lot of work involved in the proper arrangement of her apparel. 

“That man!” She manages to sputter between outraged gasps. 

“He—groped me!” 

A look of revulsion appears on the faces of the name-tagged 

employees who, concluded with the business of reassembling the 

garish lady’s recently-purchased property, now cordon off Roy 

from the building. 

The garish lady lowers her voice into a fuming growl. 

“I demand to see the manager!” 

The old, bearded, name-tagged guy pats the air between 

himself and the garish one. He assumes a consolatory tone. 

“I’m the First Floor Day Manager, ma’am. My name’s Bob. 

Let me assure you that we here at Barnes & Noble work very 


hard to keep this sort of thing—” his eyes flick to Roy, then back 

to the garish lady “—from happening. Unfortunately, there are 

chinks in our armor. John? Workneh? Would you please escort 

this person elsewhere—and make sure he stays away.” 

“Yes, Bob,” chorus John and Workneh. 

As they set about to fulfill Bob’s request he—Bob, the First 

Floor Day Manager—drops a middle-aged hand onto John’s 

shoulder, and leans close to him. 

“Be careful. I’m pretty sure he’s on Angel Dust.” 

Bob knows a thing or two about drugs. Before he was First 

Floor Day Manager at Barnes & Noble, he wanted to be a cop. 

He tried so many times to make it into cop school that they 

finally asked him to stop. Please stop trying, Bob. Please don’t 

come back. Please leave us alone. They no longer considered 

him a viable candidate. Turned out he had set a record in Cop 

School history for the most times anyone had failed the entrance 

exam. 

For many months afterward, Bob was depressed and turned 

to drink for solace. 

And because he liked it. 

But, in the end, his rejection by the Seattle Police Department 

turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Sometimes he thinks 

maybe Workneh is right when he prattles on about God having 

a plan. After all, if he—Bob—had got into cop school, he would 

never have found his niche at Barnes & Noble. Bob is happy at 

Barnes & Noble. He has more power and respect here than he 

would ever have had as a cop. 

“Yes, sir!” John says this with a decisive nod, then shoots a 

hard look at Roy. 

John—a rangy Caucasian and former Mormon from 

Wisconsin who has come to the Emerald City to study Law and 

pursue his newly-chosen sexual identity—and Workneh, whose 

Arabic name means You are good—a frail-looking, but very clean 

young black man from Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, who has come to 

Seattle to experience rain—each grab a handful of one of Roy’s 

arms and drag him away from the front doors. 

To Workneh’s delight, the sun has departed, clouds have 

returned, and a light mist is beginning to fall. 

(He writes his family often, sends them half his earnings, and 


promises that one day they, too, shall experience this glorious 

land of rain.) 

“Look, dude—” John acts butch for Bob’s sake, who stands 

behind the glass door, watching. “—we don’t want your kind 

around here, OK? Go to the library, you wanna look at books.” 

“Yes, please,” enjoins Workneh, with a ferocious smile. “Trust 

in the Sons, my friend. That is how you will find them.” 

Roy blinks into Workneh’s small face. 

“Th’ what?” 

“The Son of God.” He burns his smile into Roy’s reddened 

eyes. “Trust in Him. That is how you will find your way.” 

They release Roy’s arms. 

John wipes his hands on his tan Dockers. 

Workneh extends one of his hands to Roy who, flustered and 

confused, accepts. 

Workneh shakes Roy’s hand vigorously. 

“It has been a pleasure meeting with you today, sir!” 

John rolls his eyes. 

“Come on, Workneh.” 

Workneh continues to pump Roy’s hand. 

“We must now return to our prominent positions as purveyors 

of books and CDs and other wonderful amusements.” 

He releases Roy’s hand. Reluctantly, with a wistful smile 

towards the purple clouds, he follows John inside. 

Inside, where Bob is in charge. Bob, who escorts the fat lady 

towards the coffee counter where he will treat her to a fabulous, 

free Grande Frappuccino, a mere 247 calories per serving. 

That ought to make her sing. 

Roy watches as John and Workneh and Bob and the fat lady 

and the name-tagged employees are gobbled up by the Corporate 

monster. 

As for them, the Angel Dust Incident has been resolved. 

As for Roy, he has been eighty-sixed twice in the same day. 

That’s a record. Even for Rick the Asshole. 

The crowd, who had assembled for a free show, groan their 

disappointment that no-one had been killed or, at the very least, 

arrested. 

What is Seattle coming to? 


On the sidewalk, the long shadows are gone, but the chill 

wind remains. 

Except for a few foraging pigeons, their thought-filled noggins 

bobbling, Roy stands alone. 

A tumbleweed tumbles weedily. 

A vulture kvetches. 

It stands to reason there are other music stores he could 

try. But they are mostly all remote and upscale and, to tell the 

truth, after this most recent experience, Roy is disheartened and 

drained of enthusiasm. 

Enormous wings flap as the vulture ventures off elsewhere. 

There is, of course, one person who could solve the mystery 

like that. 

The guy in 28/RR. 

In fact, he could solve quite a few mysteries. 

Like the one about his cool Cowboys and Indians towels and, 

like the one about what the double Rs means on his door. 

Not to mention the one about if he liked the lasagna or not. 

A pigeon, lost in thought, waddles across Roy’s left shoe. 

The only reason he hadn’t gone there to start with was fear. 

But, if this day has taught him nothing else, it has taught him he 

has nothing left to fear. 

Except Rick the Asshole. 

After the way he’s been yelled at and thrown around, what 

could the guy in 28/RR do? 

Roy awakens his napping headphones and returns their foam 

cushions to his cold ears. 

Then he turns and starts to walk whence he came, all the way 

to Georgetown, kicking at pigeons along his very own Trail of 

Tears. 

Pecos Bill was quite a cowboy down in Texas 

He’s the Western Superman to say the least 

He was the roughest, toughest critter 

Never known to be a quitter 

’Cause he never had no fear of man nor beast— 

So yippee-i-ay-i-ya, yippee-i-o 

He’s the toughest critter west of the Alamo! 


Roy’s decision to go home may seem a good one. He’s 

aware however things may not go well. He’s afraid he may be 

tonguetied, say some things that may seem cockeyed, ’cause the 

course of his short life has not been swell. 


Roy’s mind is made up where he’s gonna go! 

Once he roped a raging cyclone out of nowhere 

Then he straddled it and settled down with ease 

And while that cyclone bucked and flitted 

Pecos rolled a smoke and lit it 

And he tamed that ornery wind down to a breeze— 


For the toughest critter west of the Alamo! 

(yodeling) 

Roy has never in his life heard people yodel. In fact, he 

doesn’t even know that’s what it’s called. But he finds the sound 

endearing, and the rhythms all adhering, he’s completely caught 

off-guard and is enthralled. 


Roy’s new music is divine and won’t let go! 

Now once a band of rustlers stole a herd of cattle 

But they didn’t know the herd they stole was Bill’s 

And when he caught them crooked villains 

Pecos knocked out all their fillin’s 

That’s the reason why there’s gold in them thar hills! 



Now the people who pass Roy must think he’s crazy, for the 

smile upon his face is that intense. If they could hear the songs 

he’s hearin’, maybe then they’d lose their fearin’, and Roy’s 

happiness would start to make some sense. 


Roy’s is happy and he’s proud to let it show! 

When a tribe of painted Indians did a wardance 


Pecos started shootin’ up their little game 

He gave them redskins such a shakeup 

That they jumped out of their makeup 

That’s the way the Painted Desert got its name! 



Roy sees his building and he makes a beeline. He’s got a plan 

he knows he has to carry through. Inside he hopes awaits the 

answer, it’ll be a great enhancer, and can put his mind to rest 

without ado. 


Roy the window washer’s finally gonna know! 


“CLICK” 

Roy Stands before 28/RR, right hand poised to knock. His Sony 

tape player has just clicked off. 

It has been a wonderful day. 



He’s filled with courage and aflame with confidence. 


Asshole Roy. 

He’s not exactly sure who or what kind of Roy he is, but one 

thing’s certain—he’s a changed man, an altered version of the 

Before Roy. 

The fact that he’s about to knock on 28/RR’s door proves it. 

But what’s brought him to such an uncharacteristic place? 

What’s prompted such feelings of bravado? 

Was it just the music? 

Roy takes a deep breath and— 

His right hand’s uncovered knuckles come into contact 

with the door but, unlike as with a knock, make no sound. 

Instead, they rest, as after a long day’s journey, or a complicated 

conversation, or a young couple’s energetic tryst. 

—What was he thinking, busting in here like this, just because 

of some silly music he overheard? What is up with him being so 

heedless of consequences, of racing headlong into the fray? 

Any fray? 

Roy thinks— 

—This needs to be better thought out. 

—This needs to have a plan. 

His fire, having eaten through its fuel, flickers instead 

of flames. His confidence, so bloated moments ago, is as if 

punctured by a nail. 


His tongue, squiggling inside his mouth, ties into a knot. 

He removes his knuckles from the door’s cool surface. 

A concrete cloud casts a mighty shadow. 

Then the worst thing in the world that could possibly happen 

happens—the door to the B THRO M opens. 

So ferociously focused on 28/RR had he been that he had not 

thought to see if the little room was occupied. 

Taken by surprise, his eyes bulge and his head jerks away from 

28/RR—that slab of wood that stalls his pilgrim’s progress—to 

stare slack-jawed at the man who has opened the little door at the 

end of the hall, who has exited from said room, having switched 

off its sad, solitary light, and who now drips water onto the 

crusty, red runner they both share. 

Of course, it is none other than the occupant of 28/RR. 

Of course. 

His head is wrapped in the same cool towel, or one like it, as 

is his body below the armpits—those same, cool towels that had 

so piqued Roy’s curiosity, covered as they are with little Cowboys 

on horses chasing little Indians on horses. 

The occupant of 28/RR is every bit as surprised by the sight 

of Roy standing before his door as Roy is surprised by the sight of 

the occupant of 28/RR posed before the door of the B THRO M. 

To Roy, as to the occupant of 28/RR—both positioned in 

the same hall, both gawking at the distant other, one damp from 

outdoor downpour, the other moist from indoor ablutions, the 

walls deadening sound from the so-called real world—it seems as 

if a lifetime passes, several in fact. Whole generations come and 

go. Old species long familiar become extinct. Stars rotate faster 

and faster, their pinlights creating blurry trails. The building 

tumbles down around them, a new interstate passes through, 

automobiles flash past, their colors smudged with speed. Trees 

drop nuts that thrive, shoot up into trees that drop nuts that 

thrive and shoot up into trees. Days pass faster and faster, the 

sun bouncing up and down like an incandescent pumpkin on a 

spring. 

It is a situation from which no one can emerge the victor. 


Does Roy lower his hand and slink away, face the color of 

putty, back to his room whence he came, where he will pack his 

duffle to leave the building forever? 

Does the occupant of 28/RR duck back into the B THRO M to 

stand in its dark embrace, waiting for Roy’s Royness to evaporate? 

Perhaps Eternity is like this—a stretched rubber band forever 

about to snap. 

In any case, it is a situation from which no one can emerge the 

victor. 



The strawberry roan nodded 

and snorted her agreement when the Old Cowboy nudged them down the hill 

towards the town. It had been a long time since they shared existence with 

other horses, other men. 

The weight of her rider felt good and right and solid and made her 

happy. The air in her nose was dry and warm. The tall, wind-waved 

gamma grass smelled ripe and tickled her knees as she wedged her way down 

the gentle slope. Dipping her head, she buried her long face in it, nipped at 

it, bit it off, chewed on it as she moved sedately along. 

Experience had taught that her rider was someone she could trust, 

someone with a sure hand and a kindly voice. She knew his voice in a 

crowd, could follow his scent in the dark. When riding night guard on a 

herd, she could be trusted to circle the bedded animals while he dozed on her 

back. At the first sign of trouble, she knew he would be awake to tell her 

what to do. 

They achieved level ground and she picked her way across ruts from when 

last it rained, maybe a winter ago, maybe two. This was a brown land, a 

muted land of limited palette. This was a land where water attracted men 

like gold. A land of grasses, of crumbling red rock, of drowsy diamondbacks 

and Prairie Dog towns. 

Other sounds began to reach her ears as they drew closer to the buildings. 

Sounds of wagon wheels creaking, dogs yapping, men in groups discussing 

things of human scope and interest. Her rider tapped her sides with the dull 

rowels of his spurs. She didn’t need to be spurred; she was excited. She 

could already see in her mind a big, long, deep trough of water. And fresh 

hay and oats, followed by a grooming and a long period of rest. 

The flesh on her croup quivered and she tossed her head side-to-side. 

Her rider’s hand stroked her neck. They rode together into town, man and 

horse incomplete without the other, strangers in a sad and dangerous land. 



THE OCCUPANT OF 2 /RR, 

bless him, makes like God and changes everything. 

And here’s the reason for his divine intervention—he is getting 

cold. 

Remember—it’s November, it’s Seattle, it’s raining; therefore, 

it’s cold. 

And, anyway, standing in the hall wrapped in towels is getting 

old. 

As is the occupant of 28/RR. 

As is everything. 

His eyes narrow. 

His long, white, wet white hair is combed back, exposing his 

face for Roy to study. 

The occupant of 28/RR has a face that is craggy and lined 

with age. His exposed upper body—below the suntanned O 

that encircles the base of his neck, and excepting the same 

demarcations on his arms midway down their slack biceps where 

short sleeve shirts end—is as white as a the thighs of a redheaded 

whore. 

The hairs of his mustache bristle and vibrate like little 

caterpillar legs. 

He is not an overly hairy man, nor a particularity tall one, 

nor apparently anything like strong. Nevertheless, although his 

body may be doughy, and his muscles may lack tone, there is 

something about him that suggests slumbering toughness and 

steely resolve. 

His eyes narrow and the wrinkles resting at their corners rill 

like deep, water-dug ruts in shinbone-hard ground. 

The lengthening silence between them threatens to engulf and 

last forever. 


Roy’s face muscles try hard to smile. Sore from their earlier 

workout, they manage to struggle with his command briefly 

before collapsing into a heap. 

Meanwhile, in the mind of occupant 28/RR, things shape 

up like this—: the sun snaps into the sky, and the hallway’s walls 

darken and disappear. The ruby red, crusty carpet moulders and 

turns to sand. A brisk wind kicks up a dust devil that dances 

along the deserted street lined with weathered, clapboard stores. 

Stonelike faces watch through rippling windows as their scene 

unfolds. The final scene. Last reel. The part of the story when 

Glenn Ford makes good on a boast in the Fastest Gun Alive, or 

when Jimmy Stewart faces down crazed Lee Marvin in The 

Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, or when Alan Ladd shoots the evil 

Wilson in Shane. 

A quite, blue sky. Puffs of white clouds. A horse whisks its 

tail. A blanket of quiet descends. 

Blue, blue sky. White, white clouds. 

His right hand twitches. His fingers curl and straighten. 

Slowly, his arm drops to his side while his other hand continues 

to support the towel. 

His right arm’s hand, at the end of its tether, stops. Spreading 

out its fingers, it slaps at its owner’s hip, feeling for his gun. He 

really needs his gun. What he gets instead is thick, terry towel 

clouded with little Cowboys and Indians. 

It is the Cowboy’s worse nightmare—caught with his boots off 

and his gun hanging on the wall. 

For the most part, the more he stares at the varmint standing 

in front of him, blocking the path to his door, the more he looks 

to be harmless. He doesn’t appear to be armed, either, except for 

some sort of black box on his belt. 

A cloud from nowhere occludes the sun. 

In fact, the dude looks kinda familiar. 

Stony faces recede as the hall’s real walls reappear. 

He seems to be trying to smile, the dude does. 

The crusty carpet in all its faded, ruby glory returns. 

The occupant of 28/RR unscrews his eyes. 

His exposed flesh is pimpled from the chilled air. 

He takes a deep breath, straightens his spine and squares 


his shoulders. It seems like a couple hundred miles lie between 

them, instead of a couple dozen feet. 

The occupant of 28/RR speaks in a low, gravelly growl. 

“If you’re sellin’, I ain’t buyin’. If you’re a Bible-thumper, 

I’ll as like shoot you as not. I paid rent for th’ year, don’t owe 

nobody nothin’. Now how’s about you step away from my door 

while you still can, pardner?” 

Roy’s face fills with commotion. 

“I—uh. Uh. I—” 

He starts to shuffle backwards, in the general direction of his 

room. 

The beauty thing about not owning a bunch of crap—you can 

pack your bag and be in transit in roughly twenty seconds. 

And next time, if indeed there is a next time—and Life so far 

has taught Roy that there usually is, until of course your supply 

of next times runs out—next time, if indeed there is a next time, 

he promises not to talk with strangers, always to keep to himself, 

and never, ever hatch plans, no matter how cool they may seem. 

Beads of sweat glisten on his baldness. 

Outside, it’s still November. Inside, who knows? 

“I—uh. I was. I was just—uh.” 

After all, he still has Suzi Quattro. After all, he still has his 

health and all his old tunes. 

Maybe he doesn’t need to start listening to new shit, after all. 

It never occurs to Roy that he isn’t doing anything wrong, or 

that he’s the bigger and stronger of the pair, or that the old guy 

is barely dressed and can only use one arm without dropping 

his towel. Clearly, he fails to grasp his advantages. He has 

been conditioned by years spent with an abusive brother to view 

himself as a helpless, hapless, harebrained twit. 

“I—uh. I was just. This—” 

A thought elbows its way onto Roy’s small, under-lit stage: 

maybe if I give the old guy his tape back, he’ll leave me alone. 

Roy directs his hands to meet at his waist. 

The wet, grizzled, towel-wrapped oldster sees them heading 

south and draws in a sharp breath—is he going for his gun? 

Does he have a hideaway in that little, black box? 

And him with boots off and gun hanging on the wall. 


His eyes slide briefly, anxiously, longingly, towards his door. 

28/RR 

Can he make it? Can he get to the door, get it open, slip 

inside and slam it shut before baldy draws? 

Godamnit! Why did it have to end like this? After all these 

years of being crafty, watching his back, changing his name how 

many times, living in sleazy pits like this—why did it have to end 

like this? 

He should go down like a man, at least—guns a-blazin’—not 

like some pansy in a bath towel. 

WWJFD? 

(What Would John Ford Do?) 

Roy unclips the Sony tape player from his belt. 

Now that the old man can see plainly what it is, his body 

relaxes. He had begun to imagine bullets ripping through his 

abdomen, exiting through his back, and burying their soft noses 

into the B THRO M door. 

Roy fumbles clumsily with the little box, anxious fingers 

getting in each other’s way. He manages to open its taped lid, 

and the cassette in question—the questionable cassette—falls to 

the floor. 

The old man stares at the tape where the floor interrupts its 

fall. 

His tape. 

The one he had left for—now he gets it. Now he knows why 

the bald dude seems familiar. That time—when he was coming 

out of the bathroom. His face—its Gumby softness, its bulging 

eyes—it all comes flooding back. 

He’s not going to have to die tonight, after all. 

His testicles return to their normal elevation. 

In the meantime, Roy pops his knees, retrieves the tape, and 

holds it at arm’s length. 

“I—I like it. Your music. A lot. But—here. You can have it 

back, OK? And that’s it, like. It’s done. Here.” 

The old man takes a step. 

“Did, huh?” 

He takes another. 


Best not to annoy the bald dude. Might be a psycho or 

something. 

Step. Stepstep. 

He reaches out a gnarly hand. 

Roy nods energetically. 

“Yeah, I. It’s the best. Really.” 

While Roy is only too happy to release the tape, to allow the 

old guy’s sandpapery fingers to take it, he is, at the same time, 

flooded with regret. From nowhere a thought pops into his head, 

and he is surprised to hear himself ask: 

“If-If I buy a blank will you make me a copy?” 

The old man snatches the tape out of Roy’s hand. 

Absently, his hand searches for a pocket. 

He shakes his head, the old guy does. 

“No.” 

His hand comes to the conclusion that there is no pocket to 

be had. Dutifully, it slips the cassette between its owner’s white, 

doughy flesh, and the Cowboys and Indians towel. 

Then the old guy rips one. 

Roy believes when old guys rip one it’s because they’ve lost 

control of their anal sphincter. When you get old that’s what 

happens. You lose control of your anal sphincter. They can’t 

help it when stuff leaks out. 

That’s why they’re called old farts. 

Roy tries not to wrinkle his nose. 

Best not to annoy the old dude. Might be a psycho or 

something. 

Old Guy’s damp white hair begins to strand away from his 

scalp and string down around his face. 

Step. Almost there. 

Step. Stepstep. 

At long last, his gun hand rests on his door’s faceted, glass 

knob. 

He knows this if he knows nothing else—he could and should 

end it here and now. Crank on the faceted, glass knob and open 

up and slip inside and deadbolt the hell out of the door. And be 

more careful in the future. 

But this is not what Old Guy does. 


What Old Guy does instead is he pats the tape in its resting 

place between his white, doughy flesh and his Cowboys and 

Indians towel and says: 

“This here’s some valuable shit.” 

Roy reckons this must be true, seeing as how he’s never heard 

anything like it before, and he’s heard lots and lots of tunes, or at 

least thinks he has, so all he can do is nod in agreement. 

Sensing as how Old Guy is, like, starting to be almost friendly, 

he decides to take the bull by the horns. 

“If I can’t have a copy, why’d you give it to me?” 

Old Guy’s face darkens. 

“Give? I didn’t give. I let you borrow. Because of—th’ food.” 

Roy brightens. 

“You liked the lasagna?” 

Cooks love to know what people think about their creations. 

“That what it was?” 

Roy’s smile falters. 

“Uh. Yeah.” 

Old Guy nods, cranks open his door. 

“It was OK. I like broccoli.” 

Roy’s smile vanishes completely. 

“Zucchini.” 

Old Guy’s naked, white shoulder rests against his door. 

“Whatever.” 

He seems to be lingering. 

WWJFD? 

If Old Guy was John Ford he would, besides being dead, go 

inside his room and slam the door and lock it and get roaring 

drunk for the next three or four weeks. 

But this bald dude doesn’t seem so bad, really. And he likes 

his music—strangely, not everyone does. And that really was a 

damned fine whatever-it-was he cooked. 

Maybe a tad salty. 

In the silence that colonizes the space between them, Roy 

strains to say something. The birth pangs of this thought, 

whatever it is, appear to be incredibly painful. Beneath the dim, 

straw-yellow light, he’s looking pretty green. 


He takes a breath, licks his lips and says, 

“I can cook you some, some—” he can’t believe he’s saying 

this “ —broccoli, you want.” 

Old Guy nods, appears thoughtful. 

“Yeah? I like green shit. Except mold.” 

Roy blanches at the use of the words mold and broccoli in the 

same conversation. Beads of sweat crowd his brow. 

Old Guy narrows his eyes again. 

“You OK, pardner?” 

Roy fills his lungs with the hall’s fetid air as he fights to shake 

off ghastly memories. 

“Yeah. Fine.” 

Old Guy nods. 

“OK.” 

He opens his door. 

Roy wants to stop him. He doesn’t want to lose the tape. 

But—how? 

He stammers out, 

“M-My name’s Roy.” 

Old Guy is halfway inside his room. Roy can see his mind 

is set on entering all the way. Maybe he didn’t hear. He speaks 

louder. 

“I said, my name’s Roy.” 

Old Guy turns and gives him a funny look. 

“What?” 

Roy’s beetling brow beads ever more. 

“My name. It’s Roy.” 

He mops a pant leg with his right palm and sticks it out to 

shake. 

Old Guy stares at Roy, ignoring his hand. 

Roy withers under his stare. 

Seems to Roy that Old Guy can stare like nobody’s business. 

He’s even better at it than Rick the Asshole. 

Old Guy seems to be considering stuff, mulling over shit. 

After what to Roy seems like an eternity, Old Guy squints and 

says, 

“Roy, huh?” 


Roy smiles and nods back. 

“Roy what?” 

Roy replies, 

“Weston.” 

The old guy’s almost friendly face twists into a sneer. 

“Fuck you, asshole!” 

He ducks inside his room and slams the door shut behind him. 

Roy stares at his slammed shut door. On the other side, 

deadbolts are shooting home and chains rattling. 

Roy’s brain is all a-jumble—what just happened? 

All he said was his name. 

Stunned by this unexpected fork in the road, he is turning to 

slump away when, on the other side of the door, deadbolts reverse 

direction. 

He stares at the battered white door, his lips dry as if linehung 

on a summery day, while Old Guy undoes sixty or seventy 

locks. 

He speculates on a motive for Old Guy’s highly anticipated 

return, and all he can come up with is—he’s changed his mind! 

His summer-dried lips curl into an autumnal smile. 

The door snaps open, but remains chained—so it only opens 

about three inches—just wide enough to see Old Guy’s burl of a 

nose. 

“That really your name?” 

Roy nods. 

“What?” 


“Yes. Yes, sir, it is.” 

Long pause. 

“That was one’ve his names.” 

Roy nods again, but decides it’s the wrong direction for his 

head to go, so he shakes it from side-to-side. 

“No. I dint.” 

“Yep,” Old Guy’s nose continues. “Back in the day when him 

and Bob started th’ Sons.” 

Roy wants desperately to get this right. He feels like a 


fisherman trying to land a fish too heavy for his line. If he says 

the wrong thing, then Old Guy’s door will snap closed like a rich 

dude’s wallet, and all those eighty or ninety deadbolts will sing 

their prison song. 

He decides to play along. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

A nose bob. 

“Yep. You know.” 

Roy nods in time with the bobbing nose. 

“I. Do.” 

Long silence. 

Had it worked? 

Had Roy hoodwinked Old Guy into thinking he knows? 

Roy asks, 

“So. What’s yours?” 

The gnarled nose stops woolgathering and pivots to stare at 

Roy. 

“What d’you mean, what’s mine?” 

Roy’s eyebrows hike up his forehead. 

“I mean. Your name.” 

“Oh.” 

The nose thinks. 

sniff 

“That was back in ’31.” 

Roy scrambles to keep up. 

“What was?” 

sniff 

“Th’ Sons, of course.” 

Fresh confusion furrows Roy’s brow. 

Between the turmoil of his befuddlement, and the tendency of 

his nature, he stumbles. Against his better judgment, he blurts 

out— 

“What’re the Sons?” 

Old Guy’s nose—previously bobbing, sometimes 

woolgathering, always listening and thinking—jerks back inside 

its home. 


The door slams shut. 

bang 

Roy’s stands there, his mouth sagged open in disbelief, staring 

at the slammed shut door and listening to the clunks of two or 

three hundred deadbolts locking him out. 

Perhaps forever. 


ROY’S BRAIN 

has a remarkable memory. 

Unlike most people, he has to work at forgetting. Otherwise, 

his memories—which, for the most part, he is not fond of—would 

crawl out of their dark, dank crannies and wreak havoc on his 

life. 

Once, when Roy was driving to a cleaning job on the Eastside 

in J.J.’s blue 1992 Aerostar, the radio played Green Eyed Lady, by 

Sugarloaf. Instantly, he flashed on a cold morning one April 

when the frost looked like God had dusted sugar over everything 

and he was maybe four years old and still asleep and someone 

started stabbing a butcher knife into the cardboard box he was 

in. 

Whoever it was, was screaming profanities about Roy and 

his family and how they weren’t really human beings, and that 

the planet Earth needed to be cleansed of them—but that didn’t 

stop Roy from hearing what was playing on the radio in the guy’s 

car, its headlights blinding them as they scrambled from sleep to 

escape the freezing blade of his butcher knife. 

Green eyed lady, passion’s lady 

Dressed in love, she lives for life to be— 

What else makes Roy’s brain remarkable is just this—: most of 

his memories are linked to music. 

One of the reasons he likes Punk and Glam is because it holds 

no memories—most of the nightmare that was his childhood is 

associated with Rock ’n’ Roll. 

One of the reasons he hates Van Morrison—that is, besides 

his voice and how he looks and the stupid songs he sings—is 

this—: Rick was really into him during what turned out to be a 


particularly unpleasant period when he also declared Tequila his 

favorite drink. 

Tequila, as most people know, comes from Mexico. What 

maybe people don’t know that it’s distilled from the Blue Agave 

cactus from the Tequila district near Jalisco. It’s because of 

where it’s made that it’s called Tequila. Rick didn’t know this 

and didn’t care. What he thought was that Tequila came from 

peyote and had psychedelic worms. He said the worm in a bottle 

of Mezcal was magical and that if you squeezed the shit out of it 

what comes out is better than LSD. So he always ate the worm 

and he always called Tequila To-Kill-Ya. 

And he always got shitfaced and he always tried to damage 

Roy. 

But before he would do that, he would cry. 

Rick liked Mezcal because he was convinced it contained 

mescaline. 

Mescaline (3,4,5-Trimethoxyphenethylamine) is among the world’s 

oldest known psychedelics. It is the major active component 

of the small dumpling cactus, Peyote (Lophophora williamsii). 

Mescaline is the touchstone for all psychoactive substances. It is 

the central psychedelic prototype against which everything else is 

measured. 

In other words, it’s the best dope on Earth. 

But, of course, Rick had it wrong—there is no mescaline in 

Mezcal. In fact, Mezcal isn’t even Tequila. 

But Rick being wrong didn’t make life any better. 

Rick would go through three stages when he drank Tequila (or 

Mezcal): (a) Euphoria; (b) Melancholy; (c) Bellicosity. Somewhere 

between Melancholy and Bellicosity was when he liked to listen 

to Van Morrison. 

Here’s just one example of the many brutal memories Roy has 

of Van Morrison’s songs during Rick’s Blue Agave Period. 

Higher Than The World 

It happened on a cold, drizzly December night, out back of 


the Odd Duck Club, a short-lived music bar near the Oddfellows 

Hall on Capitol Hill. 

Rick had started drinking before noon that day and had gone 

through his three stages alone. After he had somewhat sobered, 

the insistent itch to sit in a darkened, smoky bar renewed its claim 

on him and so out he went again, this time dragging Roy along. 

He had threatened that if Roy didn’t accompany him he 

would cut out his, Roy’s, liver while he slept, and eat it. 

Roy believed him. 

When it comes to his brother, Roy believes three things—his 

first belief is that he, Roy, being older, is somehow responsible for 

whatever malefic acts Rick, being younger, commits. His second 

belief is that, as sure as it will rain in Seattle, Rick will flip out 

one day and that when that day comes—and this is Roy’s third 

belief—Rick will not consider fealty to his brother, nor loyalty to 

his drinking buddies, as sufficient reasons to spare their lives. 

Roy has always believed Rick would go out in a gory blaze. 

On that cold, drizzly December eve, within minutes of 

landing at the Old Crow—a plangent, peeling, shit-brown bar— 

Rick bought a pack of Camels and a shot of 1800 and began 

his three stages all over again. Apparently, because this was 

the second time he had gone through them that day, the spaces 

between the stages were shorter, and the stages themselves more 

intense. 

In a heartbeat, Rick was maudlin. He started hitting Roy up 

for more shots, which was the real reason for bringing him along. 

For a short while Roy became his pal. After all, hadn’t his big 

bro suffered the same indignities of Life, heard the same insults 

flung from assholes, experienced the same abuse from parents? 

Wasn’t Roy a sweet, gentle giant? A teddybear? A goldenhearted 

goofball who was good at saving his dough? 

Dough that he was always happy to share? 

Roy always carries quarters in his pocket because you can 

do so much more with them than with any of the smaller 

denominations of American money. For one thing, you can 

make phone calls. And for another, you can drop them into 


parking meters to thwart beefy, thick-calved Meter Maids. He 

also uses them to toss to panhandlers because he used to be once, 

and probably will be again. 

Roy considers it prudent to have good Panhandling Karma. 

He also uses them for Juke Boxes. 

On that particular night he began supplying Rick with the 

two tools that would later be instrumental in Roy’s admission to 

Harborview ER—shots of 1800, and a stack of quarters. 

The Old Crow had tons of Van Morrison on its Juke Box, and 

that night Rick listened to them all, but the one he kept playing 

over and over was the one about being Higher Than The World. 

Well, I’m higher than the world 

And I’m livin’ in my dreams 

I’ll make it better than it seems 

Today— 

Higher than the World 

But my head is in a swirl 

I gotta give a life a whirl 

Today— 

Roy kept trying to get Rick out of the Old Crow before 

something bad happened. It seemed like in no time at all Rick 

had slipped into the second phase. 

Melancholia. 

The clock was ticking. 

Rick was in tears. Everyone was his friend. His bud. No-one 

could do any wrong. Everything that was bad was bad because 

of The Man. Life was tragic—no, it was comic—no, it was 

metafuckingphysical—no, it was ironic—no, shitfuck whatever. 

And he began to weep for the world, for its dead children, for its 

hungry, its homeless, its Thalidomide babies, the fuckin’ price of 

gasoline, and what’s up with gawdamned pigeons shitting on us all 

the fuckin’ time? 

It was during this stage—Van Morrison growling in the 

background—that Roy, the older one, the responsible one, 

managed to pry his brother away from the bar and drag his ass 

outside. Between Rick’s wailing and screaming obscenities at the 


general public, they almost made it all the way home—in fact, 

they made as far as the alley out back of the Odd Duck Club where 

Rick slid into phase three. 

When the moon was full, Rick would often say he might turn 

into a werewolf and slash Roy to ribbons. He said this because, 

once, when he was on a really, really bad acid trip—the kind that 

evaporated your brain—Rick thought he was Lon Chaney. He 

had watched his hands in horror as they became covered with 

hair. He stared for hours in the bathroom mirror at his hairy face 

before it turned into Cherry Garcia ice cream and melted. 

That was what Roy always thought of when his brother entered 

phase three—that Rick would turn into a werewolf, not into 

Cherry Garcia ice cream—and that was exactly what happened 

that night out back of the Odd Duck Club, behind the Oddfellows 

Hall on Capitol Hill. 

He never saw it coming. His brother, who had just been puking 

into the gutter, and onto Roy’s shoes, straightened up and grabbed 

Roy by the lapels of his jacket and hurled him backwards into the 

alley. A very surprised Roy slammed into the big, green dumpster 

parked there, cracking his hairless head against the chain used to 

lock down its heavy lid. The skin on the back of his bald dome 

where he encountered the chain burst apart in an angry gash from 

which black blood gushed. 

Dazed, teetering on consciousness, Roy started to slide down 

to rest in a rumpled, blood-soaked pile, but was stopped when his 

brother grabbed two handfuls of him and jerked him back to his 

feet. The fact of Roy’s knees buckling apparently really pissed 

Rick off. To teach Roy a lesson, he socked him hard as he could 

in the gut. Roy, his body racked with pain, only vaguely engaged 

with the world, folded neatly in two and snapped forward with the 

force of Rick’s fist. As his face shot forward and down, in synch 

with his body, adrift in the timeless void that exists at the center 

of intense pain, Roy heard Van Morrison’s gritty growl singing 

about how his head was in a swirl, and that he was all wrapped up 

in dreams and that was when Rick’s right knee popped up from 

the darkness and encountered Roy’s face and drove the pain away, 

and caused a starless night to descend— 


Just a little bit higher 

Little bit higher— 

Every time Rick beat the shit out of Roy, the next day he 

acted as if nothing happened. And the reason for this was Rick 

didn’t remember. He carried in his brain absolutely no memory 

of what he did, or said, while drinking alcohol. He would never 

recall hurting Roy. He had no recollection of breaking a pool 

cue over anybody’s head. And he always woke up saying how the 

fuck did I get here on those occasions when he had been arrested 

and found himself in a holding cell filled with big, ugly, black 

motherfuckers. 

Unlike Roy, Rick’s brain does not have a remarkable memory. 

It was only by the best possible luck in the world that Roy 

found peace through Punk. 

One night he wandered into a bar where the music was so 

loud he couldn’t hear what the bartender was saying, and the 

bartender was yelling his ass off. That was OK with Roy, who 

didn’t want to drink anyway. Because of his brother, Roy never 

drank. They were brothers, after all, which meant they shared 

genes. Roy was afraid if he got shitfaced like Rick always did 

then he, too, might turn into a werewolf and start hurting people 

and not remembering it. And, because Roy was so much bigger 

than Rick, it was conceivable he might wind up accidentally 

killing somebody while he was Lon Chaney, and then he would 

have to go to prison where he would be physically humiliated 

and maybe even wind up on death row where they strap you 

to a gurney and put a mask over your face and give you two 

injections—one filled with syrup that will not let you scream, the 

other filled with nightshade that turns your blood into molten 

fire. 

No. Roy did not want to drink. 

Roy just wanted to listen. 

What was cool about listening to Punk was not what it 

sounded like, but what it did. 

And this is what it did—: it made Roy forget. 

It numbed him, knocked loose the grit and grime and birdshit 

that accumulates in the cracks and crevices of human brains, 


hosed it all away, washed it down his spine and out his ass, to 

leave him feeling refreshed and purified. 

He loved Punk instantly. 

He listened to it constantly. 

And he began to search for a new dwelling place, a place far 

away from his brother. And he learned to keep its location to 

himself. Roy knew if his brother ever found out where he lived 

he would come visiting and hit him and take his money. 

Rick drank his money and when he ran out he drank Roy’s. 

But—for the moment, at least—Roy’s money is safe. 

It’s safe because it’s in a building Rick doesn’t know exists, in 

the heart of Georgetown, where he never goes. It’s safe because 

it’s in the very mattress Roy is tossing on right now, wide awake, 

unable to sleep. 

And the reason Roy is unable to sleep is he has a song running 

through his head. 

The scientific term for this is amygdala. 

Over and over it runs. On and on. He tries to think of 

another tune, of something that might trick his brain into 

shutting up. But, unfortunately, in the world of Punk there’s 

no such thing as a memorable tune—which is one reason it’s so 

cool—and he knows if he resorts to Rock ’n’ Roll he’ll be assailed 

by monstrous memories that will keep him even more awake, 

then trail after him throughout the following day. 

Or days. 

Or weeks. 

So he lies in his little room, drizzle sheeting his windowpanes, 

tossing and turning, tormented by a song that keeps running 

through his head—: 

Pecos Bill was quite a cowboy down in Texas 

He’s the Western Superman to say the least 

He was the roughest, toughest critter 

Never known to be a quitter 

’Cause he had nothing to fear from man nor beast— 

Was that right? 




Over and over again it goes—yippee-i-ay-i-yaaaa 

And why did the old fart slam the door? And who—or 

what—was the Sons? 

yippee-i-oooo 

And would he ever get the tape back? And would he ever 

hear that angelic music again? 


That is, outside of his head? 

Once he roped a something something out of nowhere 

Then he dah-dahed it and set it down with ease 

And while that something something did it 

Pecos rolled a joint and lit it 

And he tamed that something wind down to his knees— 

Maybe he should bake another lasagna. 

Maybe with broccoli. 

So yippee-i-ay-i-ya, yippee-i-oooo 

But what good would that do since Old Guy slammed his door 

shut? He wasn’t ever going to talk to Roy again. No matter what 

Roy did, he wasn’t ever going to talk to him again. 

No. That’s wrong. 

Shit. No. 


Now once a band of rustlers stole some cattle 

But they didn’t know the herd they stole was Bill’s 

And when he caught those nasty villains 

He knocked out all their fillin’s 

That’s the way they got the name— 

That’s the way that it became— 

That’s why there’s still gold in them thar hills! 

That isn’t right, either. 

He needs that tape back if he’s ever going to get the words 

right. 


o-lay-dee-o-day-lay-de-o-day-lay-dee-o-day-hee! 

o-lay-dee-o-day-lay-dee-o-day-lay-dee-o-day-hee! 

Roy rubs his face as if to erase it, then angles back his head to 

stare outside. 

Now Roy he knew there had to be a showdown 

So he tightened up his gun belt and declared, 

“I need that tape in here by sundown, or I’m headed for a meltdown, 

And my fevered brain forever be impaired.” 


Roy’s gonna have a showdown don’t you know! 

He’s never been to Californee or to Texas 

In fact, he’s never even managed to leave home 

But if he doesn’t win the contest, then enough of North-by-Northwest 

He may have to spend his life where cattle roam. 

o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o- 

lay-dee-hee 

o-lay-dee-o-lay-day-hee 

o-lay-dee-o-lay-day-hee 

o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o- 

lay-dee-hee 

o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-day-hee! 

Now Roy rises up and gets out of his bedroll 

And he stumps about inside his tiny room 

He’s waitin’ for the sunrise, if he can see it through the gray skies 

Then he’ll wake the old guy up and get his tunes. 


Roy’s gonna have a showdown don’t you know! 



The Old Cowboy wrapped 

the reins onto the hitching post. 

“Be right back, girl. Then it’s your turn.” 

He stroked the length of her face before stepping up onto the boardwalk. 

In reply, she snorted and frisked. 

He removed his hat and slapped it against a leg, knocking off travel dust. 

He was a rough-hewn, handsome, clean-shaved man with a lined face that 

belied his age, and a steady gaze that hid his nature. In stark contrast to his 

swarthy skin, his forehead—where the brim of his hat settled—appeared 

bleached white. 

A lady strolled by, her eyes reading the ground, her scent like a cloud of 

crickets. 

The Old Cowboy tipped his hat and bowed. She pretended she didn’t 

see him. 

He resettled his hat onto silver streaked hair, and pushed past cafe doors 

into the saloon. 

It was mid-day. Most of the men were on the range or behind a plow. 

Only one or two decorated the bar, desultorily swatted flies and occasionally 

tasted drinks. At a large, round baize-topped table near the back sat several 

men, playing at a game of cards. Resting on their table, along with cards 

and piles of chips, were guns and empty bottles. 

He stepped up to the bar and rested a boot upon the brass rail that ran its 

length. 

Behind the bar hung a painting of a beautiful woman. No man in this 

wild country need be told her name. She was the most famous ingénue in 

the West, if not in the world. 

And undeniably the most handsome. 

The bartender, bald and round-faced, with a thick, waxed handlebar 

mustache, approached. 

The Old Cowboy creased his face into a faint smile. 


“Whiskey.” 

Unsurprised, the bartender nodded back and set before him a freshlypolished 

glass. From beneath the bar he retrieved a bottle. 

With a cock of his head, the Old Cowboy indicated the card game. 

“Been goin’ on long?” 

The bartender shrugged. 

“Couple days.” 

He finished pouring and started to cork the bottle. The Cowboy held 

up a hand. This stopped the bartender, who watched as his new customer 

downed the drink in one swallow. He then set the glass back where he found 

it and smiled. 

The bartender poured again. 

The Old Cowboy slapped down a gold eagle and lifted his refilled glass 

to the painting. 

“To Miss Lillie Langtry.” 

The bartender, caught off guard, quickly filled a glass of his own and 

joined in the salute. 

The dudes that lined the bar, alerted by the mention of the Jersey Lily’s 

name, follow suit. 

“Miss Lillie,” they chorused. 

“I’d like to drink to Miz Lillie too, mister.” 

The Old Cowboy peered into the bar mirror at the tall, paunchy man 

who stood behind him. He turned and gave him a thoughtful look. He was 

hatless, almost bald, with a furiously red nose and sloping shoulders. He 

was also dirty, wore a torn shirt, slack braces, and a pair of trousers that 

looked not to have seen water since last it rained. 

“Get outta here, Useless,” the bartender growled. “Leave the gent 

alone.” 

“Give ’im a drink,” the Old Cowboy ordered. “For Miss Lillie.” 

The bartender wasn’t happy about it, but money was money and Miss 

Lillie was Miss Lillie, so he poured. 

Useless sprung forward like a hungry pup. 

“Thanks, mister.” 

With a grubby hand he took the brimming glass and held it aloft. 

“To Miz Lillie,” he mumbled. “An’ to you, sir.” 

He snapped back his neck and the drink disappeared. 

He returned the empty glass to the bar with a palpable sadness, nor could 

he help but eye the pile of change the gold eagle had become. 


The other hands at the bar returned to their gossiping and fly-swatting. 

“Join me in another?” 

To Useless, the Old Cowboy’s voice was like a choir of angels. 

He licked his parched lips. 

“I might like that, yes sir, I might.” 

“Set ’em up.” 

With a deepening frown, the bartender complied. 

“You best be warned, sir.” The bartender advised the Old Cowboy, 

unable to hold his tongue. “Useless here can’t hold his likker an’ is like to 

cause a row once you’re gone.” 

The Old Cowboy nodded. 

“Consider me warned. Now—look at me real good.” The bartender, 

sensing trouble, stepped back a bit. “You ever see a man look like me only 

with a scar here, an’ mutton chops?” 

The bartender shook his head. He had stopped looking at his customers 

twenty years ago. 

“No. I have not, sir.” But now his curiosity was up. Casually, he 

daubed at the bar with a tobacco-y towel. “He wanted by someone?” 

The Old Cowboy nodded. 

“By me.” He pointed to the bottle with his chin. “Leave it.” 

The bartender obliged, took some more of the money, then waddled off to 

practice his profession elsewhere along the bar. 

Useless looked on hungrily as the Old Cowboy re-filled his glass. 

He picked it up with trembling fingers and eagerly slugged it down, then 

wiped his mouth on his the back of his dirty sleeve. 

He presented his benefactor with a sheepish grin. 

“They call me Useless ’round here, but my name’s really Eustace. I 

pitch hay an’ muck stalls over at th’ livery. I could take care o’ your horse, 

you like.” 

“I’d like.” 

Eustace nodded and waited, maybe expecting the Old Cowboy to tell him 

his name, maybe because nodding waiting were things he was good at. The 

Old Cowboy said nothing, but obliged him by again renewing his empty 

glass. 

“I see a man from time to time looks like you come in, a mean sort’ve 

tramp. You kin?” 

The Old Cowboy appeared not to have heard the question. 


“When was last you seen him?” 

Drinking on an empty stomach, Eustace’s mind began to fuzz. 

“Comes in time to time. Think a hand out at Double Bar D, maybe. 

Thanks again mightily.” 

He took another drink. 

“Where’s that?” 

A different voice answered, deeper and gruffer and nearer his ear. 

“Ten miles east’ve town, if it’s any of your concern.” 

The Old Cowboy smiled at the buried threat. 

He watched the man’s reflection in the mirror. 

He was no different looking from any of the other men in the bar—a gray 

Texican hat, patched blue shirt, soiled red kerchief, a six-shooter worn low 

and careless on his hip. 

“Obliged. Buy you a drink?” 

“Not if you’re drinkin’ with Useless.” 

He glowered at Eustace. 

The Old Cowboy shrugged. 

“Asked you to drink with me.” 

The Old Cowboy’s interest in the man faded. 

But the man remained standing where he was. 

“Man drinks with a skunk must be one.” 

The Old Cowboy’s eyes refocused on the man in the mirror. 

How he wore his rig told all. Maybe he was a bullyrag fired up with 

drink—but he was no shootist. 

The Old Cowboy poured two more. 

The man leaned forward. 

“My pappy taught me the way to a long life was to saddle your own 

horse an’ mind your own business.” 

“Wise words,” agreed the Old Cowboy. He swallowed his drink. “So 

who saddles your horse for you?” 

The long-eared men at the bar chuckled. 

“Stand out, mister.” 

The Old Cowboy didn’t wear his gun slung low like a cowhand. His 

was level with his flat belly. A hand shooter wasn’t his preferred armament, 

he liked his rifle better. Anyone can pull a gun and squeeze a trigger. To be 

fast just takes practice. But to be fast and kill a man...that takes something 

more. 

The Old Cowboy has had a lot of practice. 

And he has that something more. 

He finished his drink. 


“I dint come in here for no trouble.” 

The man behind him stepped back and grinned, revealing a gold tooth. 

“Too late. ’Cause that’s what you—” 

No-one saw what happened next. 

One second the Old Cowboy was holding an empty glass in his hand. 

The next, he had spun around and his drawn gun was in the man’s startled 

face. 

After he had spun around and drawn his gun—the glass hit the bar. 

The men in the room gasped. 

You hear yarns about shooters like this—men fast as lightening—but 

you never see it. Never. 

“Touch your gun and sleep forever.” 

The man, mouth wide, revealing more gold teeth, raised his arms in 

helplessness. 

The Old Cowboy motioned towards the man’s gun. 

“Use your left hand, slide it out, put it on the bar.” 

Relieved not to be dead, the man did as told. 

“Now—get out.” 

“Obliged,” the man muttered, ears red, as he hurried out of the saloon. 

The Old Cowboy uncocked his shooter, then spun its cylinder so the 

hammer rested again on an empty chamber. 

He holstered it and turned back to the bar. 

The saloon let out its collective breath. With whispered comments and 

veiled looks, the cardplayers resumed their game. 

The few hands who had been leaning against the bar found reasons to 

swat flies elsewhere. 

They had a tale to spin for some time to come. 

Eustace ran one of his dirty hands across the expanse of his hairless pate. 

“Lordy.” 

The Old Cowboy topped off their glasses. 

He corked and handed Eustace the bottle. 

“See you handle ’er gentle, hand, she don’t like strangers. Oh, an’ double 

up ’er oats. I’ll be at th’ hotel you’re done.” 



WHEN DAWN COMES 

to the quartzite sky, Roy is still awake. 

o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-o-lay-dee-hee! 

It seems momentous decisions come with the price tag of 

sleeplessness. 

Perhaps it is this very absence of rest—or the resolution of his 

will—that causes a determined Roy to open his door and stare 

hard at 28/RR. 

Not a sound can be heard in the building. 

He steps into the hall. 

The light above the B THRO M door is curled into a ball of 

sleep. 

Roy is jealous. 

Now would be the perfect time to wake up the slumbering 

bulb and relieve his bladder. 

Instead, he crosses the hall and stands directly before Old 

Guy’s door. 

This shouldn’t take a minute. 

Lack of sleep has made him brave. 

And foolhardy. 

But not stupid. That came years before. 

He raises his right fist and cocks it back, ready to let fly. 

Seconds trickle past like Seattle mist. 

Roy continues to stand, right fist cocked, ready to let fly. 

Even more seconds shed themselves of the Here and Now. 

His feet grow cold. His stare grows bold. 

His eyes wander down the door and land on his mismatched 

socks. His naked right big toe... 

He is startled from his reverie by a loud knocking. 


Someone is banging away with his fist. 

Somewhere in the building, someone is doing exactly what he 

would like to do. 

He sucks in a shocked breath and steps back quickly when 

door 28/RR snaps open, still on its chain. 

He hadn’t even heard the deadbolts. 

His right hand’s knuckles hurt. 

“You again—what the fuck you want?” 

Roy stares into a slice of Old Guy’s face, framed by the door 

and its casing. 

If the rest of his face is anything like these three inches, he 

must look pretty pissed. 

“I.” Roy wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Got a 

question.” 

Old Guy’s eyes narrow. 

“I need to know. Please. I mean—” 

This could take a while. 

“I want to know who—” 

bang 

The old guy’s door slams. 

Roy’s eyes bulge. Now he’s gone and done it! Now he’ll have 

to pack up his duffle and— 

A chain rattles. 

Roy takes a big swig of air and develops a quizzical 

expression. But before he can take delivery of a new thought, 

much less generate one, the door snaps open, this time all the 

way. 

Staring into Roy’s face is the business end of a gun. 

Attached to the other end is Old Guy. 

Roy was right about the rest of his face. 

He looks pretty pissed. 

Old Guy takes a few steps back inside his apartment and 

waves his gun for Roy to follow. 

This is not really what Roy wants to do. 

But the old fart has a gun, and he looks mean enough to use it. 

In Roy’s world things happen that don’t happen in the 

Straight world. In his world, people get stabbed and dropped 


into Lake Washington. They get shot and tossed into dumpsters. 

Babies get born and left in bushes. Fires get started that burn 

up sleeping families. Guys with butcher knives attack homeless 

children in cardboard boxes. It is not inconceivable that Old 

Guy could blow off his face, drag him inside, chop up his body 

and—over a period of time—dispose of him bit-by-bit all over 

Seattle as little doggie treats. 

That’s only speculation, of course. Meanwhile, what Roy 

knows for a fact is this—: nobody in this building would lift a 

finger to help. 

They sure as hell wouldn’t call the cops. 

Not that the cops would come if they did; they’re only here for 

the Straights. 

Roy’s forehead glistens again. He really, really needs to pee. 

Really. 

He raises his arms in helpless surrender. 

“Please, mister, don’t—” 

He hears himself begging and hates what he hears, but life is 

precious—even his—don’t ask why. 

“I dint—I wouldn’t. I won’t. If you’ll. Please, just. Let me 

go, I swear—” 

“Get inside, an’ shut up,” Old Guy growls. “Keep your hands 

where I can see ’em.” 

It’s always been like this for Roy—he always does what he’s 

told. He doesn’t need a gun in his face to convince him. 

Roy steps inside the apartment and stands in the middle of the 

room. 

Scared as he is—and he is scared—he still manages to notice 

how much bigger Old Guy’s place is. He hears the door close. 

Off to his right is an archway that opens into an adjoining room. 

Old Guy has two rooms! Roy had no idea there were bigger 

apartments in the building. 

Behind him, Old Guy clicks some of the deadbolts home. 

Roy is his prisoner. 

Roy vows the next time he takes a shine to somebody’s 

tunes—if, indeed, there is a next time—which he doubts—he 

promises to keep the news to himself. 


Old Guy’s room is illuminated by two small table lamps 

from which cones of saffron light wash both ceiling and floor. 

Shadows gobble everything else, teases his eyes with what appear 

to be bookshelves and gilt-framed pictures on the walls. 

Roy backs up until his spine encounters the rounded top of a 

plush wingback chair. 

He barely notices this, what with his attention being focused 

almost exclusively on Old Guy’s gun. 

Old Guy wears a robe wrapped tight at his waist, held there 

by what appears to be a rope. It is a tan robe with black piping 

that looks to be covered with cactuses, cowboy boots, and wagon 

wheels. 

Nearby, hats blossom on a coat tree. 

Cowboy hats. 

Roy starts to babble. 

“I don’t really want a copy anymore. I really, really don’t. I 

didn’t think you’d kill me for askin’. I promise not to ask again. I 

even promise to move. I mean far away.” 

Old Guy’s scowl never wavers. 

He paddles the air with his gun. 

“Siddown.” 

He seems to be indicating the plush chair at Roy’s back. 

Roy scrambles to please Old Guy. Arms still at half-mast, he 

plops down onto the chair’s soft, plush cushion. 

Old Guy continues to stand, peering down at Roy trapped in 

the chair cushion’s plushiness. 

He cocks his gun. 

Roy really needs to pee. 

Old Guy growls. 

“Who are you? Who sent you? What’s yer real name? What 

d’you really want?” 

Roy is flustered. He tries to concentrate on the questions. 

“I’m not. No one. Honest. I just—see, I heard the music 

like, and—that’s all. Then I made the food and you left the tape 

and I thought it was mine but it didn’t say who was on it and I 

couldn’t find out so I came here to ask and that’s all—I swear. 

My name really is Roy. Roy Weston. It really, really is—no 

foolin’.” 


Old Guy backs up a bit—his gun never wavering from Roy’s 

face—then sits down in a chair directly across from his captive. 

Roy notices for the first time that he wears colorful cowboy 

boots. 

“So yer sayin’ nobody sent you?” 

Roy nods vigorously. He has forgotten how to blink. 

“An’ your name jess happens to be one’ve his?” 

Roy, uncertain who Old Guy means asks, 

“His who?” 

Old Guy snorts. 

“Roy’s, who else?” 

Finally, at long last, Roy remembers how to blink. 

“Roy’s?” 

Old Guy sneers. Besides staring, this is something he’s very 

good at. 

“Don’t play dumb with me.” 

But Roy isn’t playing. 

He’s never been so dumb in his whole, dumb life. 

Or so scared. 

Or needed to take a leak more. 

“I don’t know what you mean—I’m Roy.” 

“Roy Weston?” 

Roy nods. 

“You got kin?” 

Roy swallows. 

“A brother. Rick.” 

“Rick Weston?” 

“Yessir.” 

Old Guy considers this. 

“You ever heard of Dick Weston?” 

“Nosir.” 

“Next you’ll tell me you never heard’ve Trigger.” 

Roy blinks again. 

“Trigger?” 

“The Wonder Horse,” prompts Old Guy. 

Roy shakes his head. 

“No, I haven’t. Sir.” 


The gun seems to be getting heavy. Its owner lowers it a bit. 

His expression shifts a little away from Mean. 

There is awe in his voice when he asks, 

“You never heard of Trigger, th’ Wonder Horse?” 

“Nosir—zit a group?” 

Old Guy frowns. 

“A group’ve what?” 

Roy wants so badly to wipe his brow, take a piss, and live in 

Alaska. 

“Like on the tape.” 

“The tape?” 

The gun, previously drooping, refocuses onto Roy’s face. 

“You tellin’ me you ain’t never heard’ve th’ Sons?” 


“No, sir.” 

Old Guy looks amazed. 

“You ain’t never heard of th’ Sons of th’ Pioneers?” 

“I ain’t never heard of the sons of anything, sir.” 

The barrel of the gun, as if an accusatory finger, continues to 

point. 

Roy may be able to blink, but he is having trouble breathing. 

“Idon’tknowwhatwe’retalkingaboutanymore. Sir.” 

The accusatory finger waggles. 

“You promise no one sent you?” 

“I promise. No one sent me. Sir.” 

Old Guy munches on this tidbit. 

“The name Jack Working mean anything to you?” 

Roy hates to disappoint people, especially old guys with guns, 

especially when their guns are pointed at him. 

“No, sir. I swear. I never heard’ve ’im. Sir.” 

“How ’bout a guy named Gabe?” 

Guy named Gabe, horse named Trigger—Alaska is sure a 

pretty place this time of year. 

“Never heard, sorry sir.” 

His hands are starting to go to sleep. 

“Can I put my hands down, please?” 

To his immense relief, perhaps greater than anything he could 

ever achieve by merely peeing, Old Guy removes the gun barrel 

from his direction. 


Finally, besides blinking, Roy can breathe. 

Maybe, just maybe, Old Guy isn’t going to kill him. 

At least, not right away. 

A second wave of relief washes over him when he hears the 

gun uncock. 

Roy Weston lives! 

But he’s still a prisoner. He lowers his hands and brings them 

to rest on plush chair-arms. He’s still prisoner of a guy wearing a 

robe and cowboy boots, and holding a gun. 

Roy’s eyes, finding themselves thawed from staring into the 

gun’s barrel, roam towards one of the room’s table lamps built in 

the shape of a conestoga wagon, like they had in pioneer days. 

But Roy doesn’t realize this. 

Roy knows very little about American history, stuff like 

George Washington tossing his wooden teeth across the Potomac 

river and Paul Revere riding to warn about the French. 

What is it about the French? 

Stuff like that. 

He knows even less about Alaskan history. 

They probably would make him learn some, if he moved 

there. 

Old Guy leans back and rests the gun on his lap. He seems 

distracted, as if some weighty matter is troubling him. 

“What about Gene Autry?” 

Now that he’s going to live some more, Roy recalls his 

bladder. 


Old Guy frowns. 

“Hopalong Cassidy?” 


Old Guy’s deepens his frown. 

“Tom Mix?” 

No. 

“Broncho Billy?” 

No. 

“William S. Hart?” 

Sorry. 


“Harry Carey?” 

No. 

“Hoot Gibson?” 

Never. 

“Henry King?” 

Sorry, again. 

“John Ford?” 

Nope. 

Old Guy shakes his head. 

“You never hearda John Ford?” 

“Nosir.” 

Old Guy looks stunned. 

“All right, all right—here’s one for you. Ready?” 

Roy moistens his lips. 

He almost says shoot. 

“Roy Rogers an’ Dale Evans.” 

Somewhere deep inside Roy, these names have resonance, 

they ring a bell. He can’t recall where he’s heard them, or 

exactly who they are, but he’s thrilled he can finally say— 

“Yes.” 

Old Guy smiles. 

He actually smiles! 

“That’s the Roy I meant when I said you had his name!” 

Finally, something that makes sense. 

“But my name’s not Rogers.” 

Old Guy waves this aside. 

“There for a while, before he became famous, he went by th’ 

name Dick Weston. Then he became Roy Rogers. You got both 

’is names.” 

Roy nods as if enlightened. 

As if he cares. 

“How ’bout that.” 

Old Guy’s smile goes goofy. 

“But you never heard’ve Trigger?” 

Roy wants to be helpful. 

“Trigger th’ Wonder Horse?” 

After all, Old Guy still has a gun. 


Like a piece of origami, Old Guy’s face folds into a question 

mark. 

This analogy, however, fails to occur to Roy who doesn’t know 

the word origami. Maybe Roy doesn’t know a lot of things— 

maybe most things, he’s never really thought about it—but at 

least he knows he doesn’t know and it doesn’t bother him that 

he doesn’t, except every once in a while, like now when he really 

wishes he knew about Trigger the Wonder Horse. 


Reluctantly he shakes his head. 

“No. Sorry. Sir.” 

Old Guy’s origami question mark unfolds into a look of scorn. 

“I’m th’ one’s sorry, son.” He stares hard at Roy. “For you.” 

Roy can appreciate this. 

“Can I go now? Please? I really gotta pee.” 

Old Guy’s grip tightens on his gun. 

“I don’t care you gotta do number two. You sit put ’til I’m 

convinced.” 

Roy pleads, 

“Convinced of what, mister? I swear—I don’t know Trigger.” 

Old Guy snorts. His eyes narrow, something else he’s very 

good at besides sneering and staring. “Not about that. About 

whether or not someone sent you to kill me.” 

Roy’s eyes bulge as much from surprise as from his bursting 

bladder. 

“Kill you? Me? Mister, I wouldn’t—” 

“There, there, sonny. I’m thinkin’ maybe you’re right.” He 

inclines his gnarly head towards his bonus room. “You can go in 

there an’ pee.” 

Roy struggles to understand. 

“In-In your bedroom?” 

“Yeah.” His host nods. “In th’ pot.” 

Roy has a problem with this. 

It’s bad enough peeing in a room designated as a room for 

peeing, not to mention doing number two—which Roy never does 

in a public restroom—but to do it while standing in a bedroom 

with another guy right there where he could see and hear, and 

not only that but to do it into some kind of pot— 


Roy has a problem with this. 

“I, uh. I—” 

Old Guy seems very casual about the whole thing, as if this is 

something he does all the time. 

Which, probably, it is. 

“I.” 

Roy knows from experience that if he holds his pee long 

enough the burning sensation will subside and become a dull 

ache he can live with for a while. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s not 

life threatening—he hopes—and at any rate better than trying 

to pee in a pot while standing in some guy’s bedroom and him 

listening. 

“Hello?” 

Old Guy speaks. 

“You still here?” 

Roy, brought back to the so-called real world, nods in the 

affirmative. 

“Could’ve fooled me. You gonna pee, or not?” 

Roy shakes his head in the negative. 

“It went away.” 

Old Guy scowls. 

“Better not’ve gone away in my cushion.” 

Roy whips his fringe of hair around. 

“No, sir. It dint.” 

Old Guy relaxes his grip on the gun and leans back to study 

his prisoner. 

A weedy silence grows between them. 

Silence makes Roy nervous. Besides, he needs a distraction to 

keep his mind off his burning bladder. 

He blurts out: 

“So—who are they?” 

Old guy frowns. 

“Who’re who?” 

Young Guy thinks. 

“Who you said.” 

Old Guy shrugs. 

“Mean th’ Sons?” 


Young Guy nods. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Old Guy smiles. 

“Sons of the Pioneers.” 

Young Guy squeezes. 

“OK.” 

A smile spreads like a wet stain on Old Guy’s face. 

“The Sons… Roy, back when he was Leonard, started ’em 

out, along with Bob Nolan an’ Tim Spencer. That was in ’33. 

Called themselves th’ Pioneer Trio. When they added Hugh an’ 

Karl Farr they became th’ Sons.” 

Roy, his pain under control, is intrigued. 

“What is that they do, that that. Yo-de yo-de stuff?” 

Old Guy’s smile hardens. 

“You mean yodelin’? It’s called yodelin’. You—you never 

heard yodelin’ before?” 

Roy is filled with regret that he must disappoint Old Guy 

again. 

“No, sir—but I like it. I like it a lot.” 

“Well, that’s good. They were th’ first Western group to use 

trio yodelin’. There was nobody like ’em. Never will be again.” 

Roy is taking it all in. 

“The Sons of the Pioneers, huh?” 

Now he knows. 

The secret wasn’t so big, after all. 

Never mind he had to risk his life to find out. 

Whoops. Old Guy is saying something. 

“Sir?” 

“I said—” Old Guy says, sounding like a peeved teacher 

addressing a dull student “—what d’you know about your 

namesake?” 

“Namesake?” 

“Roy.” He slows down the pace. “Rogers. Roy Rogers. 

King’ve th’ Cowboys.” 

Roy shrugs. 

“Nothin.” 

Old Guy seems bewildered by the news. 

He crosses his legs, takes a deep breath, and begins. 


“For more’n thirty years he was th’ biggest sensation in th’ 

world. His movies were top grossers for twelve years straight. 

That’s a record no one’s ever broke. He was bigger’n Bing, 

bigger’n Sinatra. More pop’lar’n John Wayne. Clark Gable was 

his best bud. Any these names ring bells?” 

“Yes, sir. Bing Crosby, right? Frank Sinatra. John Wayne I 

know. Don’t know the other dude.” 

Old Guy snorts. 

“Don’t know Gable? How about Franklin Pangborn?” 

No. 

“Walter Brennan?” 

Uh-uh. 

“Rodchester?” 

Sorry. 

Old Guy chews his cud before striking upon a thought. 

“Roy’s th’ guy stuffed his horse.” 

A light goes on inside Roy’s brain. 

“Oooh.” 

“Trigger, th’ Wonder Horse.” 

Roy cracks a smile. 

“Trigger the Wonder Horse.” 

Cool. 

While they sit, wrapped again in weedy silence, Roy’s knees 

bounce. 

Old Guy’s eyes follow his bouncing knees, a puckish smile 

maturing upon his face. 

“How ’bout some milk?” 

Roy’s knees stop bouncing. 

Did Old Guy just offer him something to drink? 

“Uhm.” 

But how do you turn down a man with a gun? 

He stalls. 

“You gotta kitchen?” 

Old Guy corrects Roy. 

“Ette. Kitchen-ette.” 

Roy needs more fluid in him like Rick needs mean lessons. 

“Sure.” He hears himself say this as if from far away. 

Whatever you want, Old Guy. Just don’t kill me. “Sure.” 


Old Guy keeps on smiling. 

He stands and cinches his robe. 

Roy was right. 

It is a rope. 

A rope with a noose tied in it. 

The gun slips into a pocket. 

“Be right back.” 

As if Roy’s going somewhere. 

He watches his captor step into the adjoining room, where he 

switches on a light. 

The room the light reveals is mostly occupied by a bed. It 

is a neatly-made bed with a colorful hand-stitched patchwork 

counterpane. Bookshelves stand between two doors along the 

far wall. Old Guy opens one of the doors and switches on a 

light. He kneels before a small refrigerator. While he rummages 

inside, Roy’s eyes stray back to the bedroom. 

The bed rests on an animal-skin rug. On the wall above the 

iron pipe headboard is a gun rack. In the gun rack are a bow, a 

quiver of arrows, and a rifle like the kind cowboys used to have. 

Hanging on another wall is what looks like a giant wooden bong 

with feathers attached. The bookshelf is full of all kinds of shit. 

A bunch of long, feathered spears lean against one corner. 

Old Guy is coming back. 

He’s carrying two of the biggest glasses of milk Roy’s ever 

seen. 

They keep getting bigger, the closer he comes. 

The pearl handle of his gun sticks out of his robe pocket. 

“Here ya go, pardner.” 

He hands a vat of milk to Roy. 

Then he goes back and switches off the bedroom lights. 

Apparently, he likes his place dark. 

He also likes his chair. 

“Stand up. Switch chairs with me.” 

Roy does as he’s told. 

Sometimes, when Roy holds in his pee, he gets gas. 

He has that now. 

Focused on keeping two very personal things inside, he 


manages to sit in the chair previously occupied by Old Guy and 

does so without spilling a drop of milk, or releasing anything 

personal. 

Old Guy sits and emits a long, satisfied sigh. 

He missed his chair. 

“That’s more like it.” 

He peers at Roy—sweating, gaseous Roy—and asks, 

“Comfy?” 

Apparently, he has switched from captor to host. 

Roy—squeezing, retaining Roy—nods. 

“OK.” 

Old Guy smiles, raises his glass in salute, then takes a swig. 

Roy brings the rim of the vast tub of milk to his lips. 

He dips in the tip of his tongue. 

Good old American cow milk. 

His eyes wander across the vat’s vast, white surface to Old 

Guy who watches like a cobra, his mustache dripping milk. 

Roy takes a stab at a smile, then sips. 

Old Guy reaches beside his chair and brings forth a bottle of 

Kaluha. 

Roy’s eyes goggle. 

With a growing sense of unease, he watches Old Guy open the 

bottle and pour some of the pitch-black liquid into his own vast 

glass of white, turning its contents beige. 

He holds the fancy bottle out to Roy. 

Roy blows bubbles into his milk. 

He shakes his head No Thank You. 

Old Guy grins. 

“You an alky?” 

Roy removes the rim of the glass from the rim of his mouth 

long enough to shrug and say, 

“I dunno.” 

“Drink your milk, then. First put some’ve this shit init.” 

Old Guy, remember, still has a gun. 

“Trust me.” 

And, strangely, Roy does. 

Not only does he trust Old Guy, he even drinks some milk. 


The stuff Old Guy’s offering isn’t like tequila, or anything 

serious. It’s just what people put into coffee. In fact, he thinks it’s 

probably safe enough to give to kids. His Mom and Da used to 

give his little bro brandy to shut him up. Brandy is probably like 

this stuff. Not hard liquor, like vodka or scotch. 

His eyes drift to the flash of white that is the handle of the old 

guy’s gun. 

It seems unlikely that Old Guy will shoot Roy now, but these 

days life is awash with terrible twists and unexpected turns, 

jealous rages, snapped nerves, unexpected audits, and so on. 

Anything is possible, these days. 

He obliges Old Guy and allows him to color his milk beige. 

Roy reasons that the seemingly bottomless glass of milk will 

serve to dilute the poison he’s poured in. 

So it’s unlikely he’ll turn into a werewolf. 

When Old Guy seems satisfied with the color of Roy’s milk, 

he re-caps the bottle and sets it on the floor beside his stick-shift 

chair. 

Once again, he lifts his glass in salute. 

“Down th’ hatch.” 

Roy’s smile is a lie. Brave as he can be, he swallows. 

Old Guy smacks his lips. 

“Yum. I gotta long-assed sweet tooth. You?” 

Roy is unable to reply. He’s too busy experiencing something 

new. 

Maybe he has a long-assed sweet tooth, too—because this is 

some really good shit. 

Really, really good. 

Shit. 

The insistence of his bladder flags; his jack hammer knees 

take a breather; his free-floating fear unclenches its fist. 

Roy is starting to feel pretty good. 

The tricky part will be to keep his private stuff inside. 

Table lamps that emit a soft effulgence effulge even further, 

ever softer; darkness hugs them, cushions them, provides them 

with rest, renders the room into a warm, timeless refuge, a safe 

and snug retreat. 


Young Guy looks to Old Guy and realizes in a flash of sudden 

insight that he is neither his captor nor his host, but more akin 

a brother—a member of the same, flawed, hungry, prideful 

tribe; a part of the same pack of fucked-up, prowling miscreants 

comprised of artists and rapists, dictators and kings; a part of the 

same waves that suzzle the same beach that is the same island 

that is the same world that is— 

That is— 

Is— 

Roy’s head buzzes. 

He looks at his vast glass and is surprised to find it half-empty. 

Or half-full. 

As he stares into its caramel depths, he hears clink and is 

startled to see the uncapped bottle of the Kaluha’s tar-black neck 

tap against the basketball hoop of his glass. 

Young Guy holds his glass steady. Wouldn’t want to spill any. 

Old Guy pours. And pours. 

And pours. 

Milk is now the minority ingredient in Roy’s glass. 

Milk is now merely a memory. 

Old Guy is barely finished before Roy drinks it down. 

“Yum.” 

He giggles at the sound of his own voice. 

Old Guy agrees. 

“Yum.” 

Why is Old Guy out of focus? 

He seems gleeful, does Old Guy. His head nods, and he has a 

shit-eating grin a mile wide. 

He speaks. 

“You are a good boy, Roy.” 

Roy agrees with this. 

“I’m Roy.” 

Old Guy’s voice says, 

“Roy.” 

Roy wonders if there’s an echo. 

He thinks, instead of an echo there should be yodeling. 

He giggles. 


“Yodel yodel yeah hee ay.” 

Did he just say that? 

Sure did. And why not? 

Free country, ain’t it? 

Whoops. Old Guy is talking. 

Better than letting one rip. 

Seems like he’s been talking awhile, now. 

Roy smiles. 

Yodel yodel yeah hee ay 

“—movies?” 

Roy smiles some more. Roy is as good at smiling as his 

brother, Rick the Asshole, is at glaring. 


Old Guy looks like he’s expecting Roy to say something. 

So he does. 

“Huh?” 

Old Guy shakes his head. 

“Do you like cowboy movies?” 

Roy considers this for a long, long, long, long, long, long 

time—combers suzzle along the beach that is the island that 

is his mind where the wind is warm, the sun is bright and on 

that bright, shining beach sit the Sons of the Pioneers around a 

campfire, yodeling. 

He shrugs. 

“I dunno.” 

“Seen many?” 

Old Guy again. 

When is he going to be Quiet Guy? 


That ought to shut him up. 

But it doesn’t. 


“Stop calling me sir all th’ godamned time. Name’s Pete. 

Pistol Pete.” 

Roy giggles. 

Did Old Guy just say his name’s Pistol Pete? 

Old Guy seems like a better name. 


It suits him. 

Pistol Pete. Isn’t that a cartoon character? 

“I’m Roy.” 

—Roy Rogers, an’ this here’s my stuffed brother, Rick the 

Wonder Motherfucker. 


Old guy clears his throat. 

Sounds to Roy like it hasn’t been cleared in years. 

“See all them bookshelves?” 

Noooo, thinks Roy. I do not. I do not see all them 

bookshelves. 

“I got me over a thousand movies there.” The old Pistol Pete 

putters on. 

“Really?” 

And on. 

Yodelyodel 

Maybe the echoes are all in his head. 

“That’s right,” puddles on porus Old Peter, as if he has 

something important to say. “Mostly Westerns. I even have 

silents. I have a copy of Ford’s Iron Horse—” 

Has he? Really? Woah. 

Woadel woadel hay hee ay 

Seems Old Guy isn’t ready to be Quiet Guy yet. He goes on 

and on, saying something about Westerns are myths and Ford’s a 

car, then blahblahblah about Indians and rustlers and settlers— 

meanwhile, Roy’s glass is empty, and he wants more yummy, 

smack-lipping— 

“—but seventies audiences lost interest in that. So, violence 

became—” 

—he goes on, does Pleasing Pete, Blessed Pete, Sweet Pete, 

Gotta Pee Really Bad Pistol Pete, what a funny name, like a 

cartoon character—thud 

Roy’s glass rolls on the floor. 

“Hey. Roy? You still with me?” 

Roy nods, then quickly stops himself until the room catches 

up. 

“You OK, pardner?” 


Roy leans forward, elbows on knees. Knees that are 

thankfully still. 

“You don’t look so good.” 

Roy is not surprised to hear this. 

Old Guy stands. 

“Here, lemme hep you up.” 

Roy feels himself move. 

They seem to be headed somewhere. 

“You need a nap, son. We can continue this discussion later.” 

A door opens. Cool air laves Roy’s baldness. 

Next thing, he is standing in the hall. 

Behind him, all around him, everywhere in the world in fact, 

deadbolts shoot home. 

Chains rattle. 

The hall shifts in-and-out of focus. 

The hall he is standing in. 

The hall of the building. 

The building in which he lives. 

At the end of the shifting hall sways the B THRO M, its narcoleptic 

light still snoozing. 

Can he make it? 

He is standing in the hall. 

The hall of the building. 

The building in which he lives. 

The B THRO M sways. 


Can’t get that out of— 

The door sways. 

Can he make it? 



ROY MAKES it. 

Afterwards, he makes it into his room. 

Then, he makes it into his bed. 

And, finally, he makes it into his sleep. 

Yippee-i-ay-ti-ay 

He snores the snore of the Just, rests the rest of the Pure-of- 

Heart, dreams the dreams of the Buckaroo. 

Outside the window of his narrow cell, the sky turns blue, 

populates with fleecy clouds, white lumps that scud past faster 

and faster, alternately shouldering aside the sun—darkening 

his room then filling it with light—faster and faster as if film 

spooling through a projector that drains out color to black-andwhite 

like in the good old days, in the Before Roy Days, back 

when campfire shadows told tall tales and men rode white horses 

with ten gallon hats on their heads. 

Imagine white horses wearing ten gallon hats. 

Roy’s feet swing off the bed and fall to the floor. 

bang 

He prefers sleeping with his boots on. 

Intricately-tooled boots. Hand-painted. 

He prefers sleeping with his boots on because you never know 

when you might get jumped. 

He glances out the window at the black-and-white day, then 

bends down and ties on the pair of silver spurs he had removed 

before bedding down. 

He stands. 

ching 

He is a big man, is Roy. The Navajo call him Wide Shoulders. 

The Apache call him Giant Shadow. The Comanche call him 


Long Fellow. All but the Navajo fear him. He can shoot a bird’s 

eye out on the wing. He can ride three days without sleep, water 

or food. He can track an ant over barren rock. He’s the worst 

enemy, and the best friend, a man ever had. 

He’s Roy Weston. 

King of the Kowboyz. 

Roy steps to where hang his fringed cowhide coat and white 

Stetson. 

ching ching ching 

Clouds scud past faster and faster. 

He takes his wide-brimmed Texican off the nail that had been 

honored to support it throughout the night, and settles it onto 

thick, curly hair. 

Next comes his heavy leather cowhide coat, fringed and 

covered with fancy bead work. 

Pinned onto the coat is the badge of a Texas Ranger. 

On another honored nearby nail hang his gun and holster— 

tooled black leather, silver conchos and a pearl handle. 

As he hefts them, a smile creases his handsome face. 

Who would he shoot today? Or was that whom? 

Maybe he would be the one on the receiving end. 

The whom who gets shot. 

He wraps the heavy belt around his slender waist, buckles up 

and ties off the holster. 

His hand caresses the Colt. 

He slides it out and admires it. 

He squints along the hog wallow trough sight, his thumb on 

the big hammer. 

They say if you pick up a seashell and hold it to your ear you 

can hear the ocean’s roar. Roy doesn’t know about this, has 

never been to an ocean, has never heard one roar. What he does 

know is that when he spins the cylinder on his Colt he can hear 

ivories tickled in a Dodge City saloon. He can smell wet cattle 

herding along the Bozeman Trail. He can taste hot bacon and 

black coffee fresh off a campfire in the Montana mountains. He 

can feel history stretching back to the beginning of time. 

He holsters his gun. 

He knots his kerchief. 


He squares his shoulders. 

He opens his door. 

In the hallway outside his room a brawny cutting horse, black 

and white, already saddled, tears at a bale of hay. 

The saddle is dazzling, made from hand-tooled black leather 

with Indiana silver tapaderos and hip drops, silver breast collar, 

martingale and corona pad, and a silver-encrusted cantle and 

horn. 

The silver-inlaid butt of his Winchester 94 sticks out of an 

intricately-tooled scabbard. 

The horse sees Roy and shakes her head as if to say Howdy, 

boss. 

Roy pats her muscular neck. 

He picks up the dangling reins and leads her along the hall, 

down the stairs and into the muddy street. 

As they amble along the sidewalk, Roy tips his hat at female 

passersby, and his horse nods courteously to all. At the corner 

they stand and wait for the bus. 

When it arrives, Roy leads his horse aboard. He starts to 

drop coins into the meter but the old, skinny bus driver waves 

him away. 

“I know who you are. You don’t have to pay—like them.” He 

stabs a thumb toward the rear of the bus. The riders are mostly 

glowering, unshaven, dirty and mean-looking. “It’s an honor to 

have you ride my bus, Ranger Roy.” The old, skinny bus driver 

leans closer and whispers, “—and even more of one to have you 

ride my you-know-what.” 

Roy’s eyes widen. He drops the reins and in a flash grabs a 

fistful of the old, skinny bus driver’s company blouse and hauls 

him aloft until his head smacks the bus’ ceiling. 

“The only reason you ain’t dead right now is I ain’t et 

breakfast yet, an’ I ain’t never kilt nobody—man, woman, nor 

even people like you—on an empty stomach.” 

He lowers the quailing driver back into his seat. 

“You even look at me in that there mirror, an’ I’m liable to 

plug you.” 

Roy drops a handful of coins into the meter. 


The old, skinny bus driver sags into his seat, relieved to be 

alive. 

“Howdy, ma’am.” Roy says this to a matronly woman who 

swoons and bats her eyes. 

Roy is used to female adoration. 

He stands in the aisle swaying with the motion of the bus, one 

hand grasping a chrome pole for support, while his horse nods 

fondly at the buckaroos. 

When they reach their destination, Roy leans his fringed arm 

across a couple of black-clad, pink-haired girls engaged in deepthroat 

kissing, and pulls the signal cord. 

He and his horse disembark. 

They amble along some more—tipping and nodding—and in 

no time step onto Mel’s front porch. 

Like that they stand in the livingroom. 

Roy leads his mount over to one of the oil paintings. He 

studies it closely. 

Cowboys are ranged around a blazing campfire. The two 

men in the foreground cook dinner while the ones behind are 

most like pulling on a bottle, telling yarns. 

Roy frowns his disapproval of cowboys who drink. 

“Well, well, well! If it isn’t the Galloping Gourmet!” 

Mel is drinking a martini out of a soup tureen. 

An olive the size of a tennis ball floats inside. 

“And look. He brought his darling pet.” 

The horse shakes her head. 

“It’s so adorable.” 

Mel fingers the silver encrusted saddle. 

“And quelle butch.” 

Rick appears. His shirt is off, revealing his tattoos. He 

brandishes a knife and waves it about wildly. 

“Anybody in here I can kill?” 

Mel, waving Rick aside as if batting a mosquito, stares 

pointedly at Roy. 

“Your head cold, dearie?” 

Roy, realizing his hat is still on, quickly removes it. 

“Pardon me, ma’am.” 


Mel flutters and flutes. 

“He not only has solid silver cojones, but he’s polite to boot! 

And very pretty boots, too, I might add. You could learn from 

him, Little Ricky.” 

“Fuck you, bitch.” 

Mel giggles. 

“Five dollars and a health card.” 

Roy fiddles with his hat brim. 

“Excuse me?” 

Mel turns his attention from Rick the pesky mosquito to his 

tall, handsome guest. 

He displays a warm smile. 

“Yes, dear?” 

Roy appears uncomfortable. 

“Sorry, ma’am, but.” He takes a deep breath. “Well, truth is, 

I come for…him.” 

He nods in the direction of Rick the Asshole. 

Mel appears shocked. 

“You did? Whatever for? Not that it’s any of my business, 

marshal. Take him, please. I could use some me time.” 

Roy’s eyes crinkle with good humor as he corrects Mel. 

“Texas Ranger, ma’am.” 

Rick crouches and snarls. 

“Him? Take me? That’ll be the day! C’mon, bro. Let’s you 

and me settle our shit. C’mon, asshole! I’m gonna cut out your 

fuckin’ liver and—” 

Both Roy and his horse detest foul language. 

It is the signature of a lazy mind. 

Before he can drop his hat and reach for his gun, Roy’s horse 

has spun her backside to Rick and kicked. 

The force is enough to send the little fellow flying. He 

smacks into a wall and slides to the floor where he sits very still, 

temporarily at peace with his inner demons. 

A painting falls—one Roy has neglected to inspect—loosened 

from its nail by Rick’s impact, and is luckily saved from breaking 

when it lands on Rick’s head. 

“Well!” 


Mel sashays to where Rick is crumpled and rescues the 

painting. 

He holds it so Roy can see. 

“Don’t you just love Frederick Remington?” 

Roy steps over for a look. 

“Yes, ma’am. Shore is a purdy pitcher.” 

Mel glances down at Rick. 

“And so is that. You are my hero, Ranger Roy.” 

Roy’s horse whinnies and nods. 

“Yes, ma’am. I am, for most white people.” 

Mel finishes his drink, and takes a big bite of his olive. 

“Ank yew, Wanger Woy.” 

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” 

Roy stoops and lifts his brother’s limp body. With a grunt, he 

drops him face down across the silver-encrusted saddle. 

He picks up Rick’s head by his greasy hair and bends down to 

speak. 

“In case I forgot to tell ya, li’l bro—yore under arrest.” He 

releases his handful of hair and allows Rick’s unconscious head 

to fall, his nose smashing against a silver medallion of Cochise. 

Roy wipes his greasy hand on Rick’s pants. To no-one in 

particular, he says, “His days of rustlin’ and menacin’ these parts 

here ’bouts’re over. I ’spect ’fore long he’ll be dancin’ at the 

end’ve a rope.” 

He drops his white hat back onto his curly hair. 

He nods to Mel. 

“Ma’am.” 

Then he leads his horse and prisoner back to the bus stop. 

Mel fans herself to keep from fainting. 


The Old Cowboy dropped his scarred 

warbags onto the brass bed and sighed. 

He eyed the bed suspiciously. 

“Sure hope you ain’t ticky.” 

There was a rocking chair in the room. Beside it, a small washstand 

with a ceramic basin and water jug. Above this hung a mirror, its silver 

backing flaked away enough to see the wallpaper through its glass. Beneath 

the bed was a ceramic slop jar. Along its rim cherubs played harps. 

He unbuckled and coiled his gunbelt, then sat heavily in the creaky 

rocking chair. 

The gunbelt rested on his lap like a dozing rattlesnake. 

The word would get around. 

He slid off a boot and dropped it to the floor. 

A knife was strapped to his ankle. He removed this and set it on the 

washstand. 

Word always gets around when you’re fast. 

He removed his other boot and it joined its mate. 

As with hunting, sometimes the best way to find what you’re looking for 

is to sit and let it come to you. 

He removed his hat, started to toss it onto the bed, thought better of it, 

and dropped it to the floor beside him instead. 

Best not to tempt fate. 

He rocked, eyes closed, listening to the rhythmic creaking of the chair’s 

arthritic joints. 

After a while his eyes opened and lighted on his bags. He set his gunbelt 

on the floor beside his hat and stood. From inside one of the bags he pulled a 

book and took it with him back to the chair. 

He resumed rocking. 

The book was cracked and foxed and worn from years of fingering. On 

its black cover faded gold leaf announced Holy Bible. 


He opened to the first page and peered into the blue curlicues of an old 

woman’s handwriting. He ran a finger along the genealogy his mother 

had troubled herself to preserve. It always ended the same, with him and 

his brother and sister. His sister had long ago been torn from life by the 

Hostilities, that same war that took his mother and father and destroyed his 

boyhood and turned his brother into a killer. 

He riffled to the back of the book, where a small envelope lodged. His 

face assumed a gloomy expression as he opened it and poured out a lock of 

coppery hair. He held the strands to the light and studied their refracted 

color at length before returning them to their repository and replacing it inside 

the Bible. 

He leaned back and reflected. 

Sherman’s army, in its march to the sea, had traveled through the sunbrowned 

countryside of Georgia, devastating the land for miles in its passing. 

The Old Cowboy’s father, an impulsive Irishman, had volunteered to 

enlist with the Confederate army, an act that was to be his undoing, leaving 

behind a desperate and destitute widow with three children to feed. 

Upon the occasion of his enlistment, their father had left them with work 

stock that consisted of two yoke of oxen and three cows. 

Nearby where they lived was a wild canebreak in which the cattle fed, 

several hundred acres in extent, and about a half mile from their farm so that 

it was necessary to bell the cows to locate them easily. His mother had been 

alerted to the advance of Sherman’s troops and, since a soldier can hear a bell 

as well as anyone, she had her children remove them from the animals, save 

for one ox that was belled each evening. 

It was appointed to him to set off into that canebreak each day before 

dawn to find the bellwether and remove its bell, lest advancing troops hear it 

and deprive them of their livestock. 

He would spend the remainder of the day keeping watch over them as 

their shepherd. 

In the beginning, when mounted foraging parties passed their one room 

cabin, they were left unmolested, the poverty of their farm being all too 

apparent. 

Meanwhile, by day and by night, cotton gins and plantation houses were 

given to the flames. 

His vigil had been trying for one so young, barely ten years old, but the 

importance of his job was thoroughly impressed upon his mind by the fear 

in his mother’s eyes. Food was secretly brought to him and, under cover of 


darkness, his mother and brother would come and milk the cows. Only then 

would they all return home together. 

For his enjoyment, but mostly edification, his mother had pressed upon 

him her Bible. 

One afternoon, about the middle of the third week, he grew hungry 

and crept to the edge of the canebreak in the hope of spying his brother or 

sister bringing him his lunch. Instead, what he discovered were soldiers 

standing before their log cabin. He stood like a stone statue, his concealment 

being perfect. Mounted men surrounded the cabin, and he could make out 

his mother speaking to one of the blue-suited troopers, his sister standing 

partially obscured behind her. 

His older brother was nowhere to be seen. 

He could tell by his mother’s stance, and her desperate gesticulating, that 

she was agitated and afraid. He could not hear a word of their exchange 

until the trooper turned and stepped off their porch, signaling to his men to 

dismount. Even then, he could not distinguish the words that were spoken. 

Events after that occurred quickly. A trooper advanced upon the 

frightened women and in an instant withdrew his sidearm and shot them 

both dead. Meanwhile, another trooper was setting alight a pitch stick. 

Once this was sufficiently blazing, he threw it onto their roof where it 

speedily consumed the thatch. In hardly any time, their secure little home— 

all the world he had ever known—was gone. 

Gone too were his mother, his sister, and his brother. 

Terrified, he wanted to do something, but he was a child and they were 

men, and there were many of them, and he had no weapon about him but his 

wits. Then the lesson taught him by his mother, of being “faithful over a 

few things” flashed through his mind. He crept away from the horrific scene 

and returned to his duties with the cattle. 

They had taken everything else; he was damned if they would have their 

cattle. 

After the troopers left, and their cabin was rendered into ashes, he 

crept out of the canebreak to bury his mother and sister. About that time 

a company of folk happened along, neighbors headed for Texas with a 

single wagon tied to two mules. The men helped dig the graves, then stood 

mute and respectful as he cried and prayed. They then offered more than 

what later he would realize was a fair price for the herd, money which he 

gratefully accepted, as well their offer to accompany them on their journey 


westward to the land of Texas. With no family, and feeling beholden for 

their kindnesses, he accepted the offer and left behind forever the world of his 

boyhood. 

Years would drift by and he would think often of his brother, and of what 

became of him, and why he had not been present to defend his mother and 

sister. 

In time, wanted posters and mistaken identities would convince him his 

brother still lived, and thus would he begin to search for the sole relative in 

the world with whom he shared memories and blood. 

He supposed his mother would have liked it better if, besides simply 

carrying around her Good Book, he committed to live by its teachings. But 

over years of wandering and drifting, he had unintentionally become like 

what he imagined his brother to be—an untamed rogue with too fast a gun, 

and unrepenting when he used it. 

The main difference between him and his brother lay in the fact that he 

did not savor the act of killing, as it seemed his brother did. Nor did he go 

looking for trouble. His skills with six-shooter and rifle had been acquired 

by necessity, as acts of survival. The Great War taught him that a man 

could change loyalties as easily as removing a dirty shirt. Also, that staring 

a man down with cold, flat eyes wasn’t an acquirement of nature so much as 

it was an attitude, the consequence of discipline. 

Just like riding a horse or drawing an inside straight. 

He flipped to a dog-eared page in Exodus he discovered one day riding 

herd many years before, and ran his finger down to the passage he had 

committed to memory: 

Our cattle shall also go with us; 

There shall not an hoof be left behind; 

For thereof must we take to serve the 

Lord our God; and we know not with 

What we must serve the Lord, until we 

come thither. 

He reckoned there had been a species of Cowboy even back in those old, 

Biblical days. 

He smiled at this, then closed his eyes and was soon fast asleep. 


ROY WORRIES 

the loose change in his pocket before ordering a second cup of 

coffee. 

This act constitutes the first time Roy has ever had two 

double-tall Americanos on the same day. 

But, then, this also constitutes the first time he has ever had a 

hangover. 

As any bartender can tell you, there are a wide variety 

of hangovers available to the common man, and each and 

every sort of imbibable intoxicant known produces its own 

physiological reaction, or hangover. Although cures abound— 

from sipping sauerkraut juice to a nip of the hair of the dog to 

chasing chickens in freezing rain—none is guaranteed to work. 

Once the proverbial cat has been permitted out of its bag—as 

is now the case with Roy—there are, in the main, only two 

courses of action available: one is to return to the original nondrinking 

state as soon as possible, the other to press ahead full 

throttle, now the damage is done, with fortitude and unbridled 

curiosity as mainstays and guiding lights. 

Given that, until now, he has always chosen the path less 

traveled, it’s too soon to say down which of these roads Roy will 

travel. In fact, this looming decision is not at all what concerns 

him as he sips his second steaming cup. Nor is he concerned 

about where to acquire his next alcoholic fix, or what enticing 

new label he ought to try—instead, all he can think of (besides 

how to reduce the depth and breadth of his pulsating head) is 

where can he purchase an album by the Sons of the Pioneers? 

His current degraded state seems a fair trade-off for this 

succulent bit of information. 

As has been stated, Seattle abounds in music stores, so the fact 


he has been eighty-sixed from two is hardly cause for alarm. He 

knows there are at least sixteen more on Capitol Hill alone. And 

so, pockets stuffed with twenties, it is to this neighborhood—if 

so felicitous a term may be applied to such a place—that his feet 

now direct him. 

He alights from the bus onto Roy—his favorite eponymous 

street—to paddle against the human flotsam and jetsam of 

Broadway. 

L.A. has Rodeo Drive; New York has Times Square; London 

has Piccadilly—all are but hopeful aspirants to Broadway 

Ave, on Seattle’s Capitol Hill. Here you will find everything 

conceivable to make human karma bearable, hone one’s aura, 

clothe one’s inked flesh, and just plain feel good about being one’s 

tolerant self. 

All along the Ave, rugged, bearded, pierced musicians strum 

acoustic guitars and sing songs about scarcity and leaking hearts 

and the filaments of untethered dreams. 

Roy pays none of them a flicker of attention—his is a brain 

otherwise occupied. His is a brain into whose chewy nougat 

center, with each jarring step he takes, a pile driver pounds. 

His is a brain temporarily ill-disposed to concentrated effort, 

coherent ideation, or efficient, rational thinking. 

Not to mention bright colors, loud noises and sudden 

movements. 

Besides being hung over and drinking two double-tall 

Americanos, Roy is doing another thing that is almost without 

precedent—he is not wearing his headphones. 

As a result, his ears are cold. 

On the bus ride he had tried to listen to the Sons—Old Guy 

had returned his tape, his tape—but their angelic music only 

served to underscore the morbidity of his condition. 

He wonders if this is how Rick feels every day. 

If so, then his meanness makes perfect sense. 

Even Roy, sweet Roy, as he stumps along artfully selfconscious 

Broadway Ave, in the midst of hip-hop and unabashed 

consumer blare, along a sidewalk crowded by lesbians with 

attitudes—bobbing and weaving through ill-mannered people in 

all manner of habiliment, from kilts to Gothic black, from saris 


to leotards, from hair spiked to hair dreadlocked to candy pink to 

half-shaved away—even Roy, sweet Roy, has occasional thoughts 

of violence. 

It is easy for him to ignore people; after all, he’s been having it 

done to him his whole life. And, although he is generally kindly 

disposed to those who live in want, need and squalor—and 

especially in cardboard boxes—there is something suspect about 

the panhandlers who line Broadway Ave, something that makes 

it seem like a sideline, or avocation. 

Begging, in his humble opinion, is not trendy and ought not to 

be a hobby. 

Roy keeps his hands in his pockets—his change therein 

reserved for double-tall Americanos and Juke Boxes and the 

occasional parking meter—his brain charged with the singleminded 

task of getting his feet into the nearest music store. 

He pushes through the doors of CD Land Music, exchanging 

the hubbub of beggary for the ecology of merchandising. 

A young, male employee greets him with a cheery smile. 

“Help you find something today?” 

The door has barely closed and already they are upon him. 

Roy is startled by this intrusion. 

Through bagged, bleary eyes he stares. 

Time, as always, ticks away. Meanwhile, Roy’s brain switches 

tracks, having discharged its original commission (i.e., getting 

him into a music store) successfully. With hardly a moment to 

bask in self-congratulation, he stares at this new, unexpected 

hurdle. 

Through bagged, bleary eyes he stares. 

The young male employee he stares at so baggily and blearily 

has yet to cease smiling. 

He—it is unquestionably a he—has chosen to stretch his 

earlobes to accept silver dollar-sized plugs. His rolled-up sleeves 

expose forearms alive with imagery, ablaze with rich greens and 

vibrant reds. Metal rings seem to cinch his eyebrows together, 

and his hair is braided into a fuzzy rope. 

He continues to smile cheerily at Roy despite the fact Roy has 

so far failed to return the favor. 

People can be like this. 


Smiling Guy deals with them every day. 

If it were up to him, non-smilers like Roy would be ejected 

and eighty-sixed. 

To him, Roy appears to be potentially dangerous, a lout 

capable of pilferage and plunder, of dawdling and defiance. 

Yet, cheerily he smiles. 

“Looking for something special today?” 

As a matter of fact, Roy is looking for something very special 

today. Something very special indeed. 

But should he share this news with this pigmented, perforated 

stranger? 

“S-Sure.” He offers this admission uncertainly. “Ever hear of 

the—” 

Smiling Guy continues to smile. 

Every day he does this—sizes people up. He loves guessing 

what they listen to. 

Take this bald dude. 

He guesses his new customer is a headbanger. He appears 

to have had his brains removed by some process or other, and 

headbanging is a fairly commonplace technique these days. 

True, he may seem a bit long in the tooth for a mosh pit, but 

from the look of his eyes and his need for deodorant, he feels he 

can’t be too far wrong. 

Imagine his surprise when Roy completes his sentence. 

“—Sons of the Pioneers?” 

Smiling Guy, typically contemptuous, perennially smug, 

is taken off-guard. His smile fades a fraction and his studied 

demeanor cracks just enough to expose a glimmer of lost little 

boy. 

But adulthood takes its toll on innocence. Quickly enough, he 

restoreth his smile, and leads his new customer down the path of 

Consumerism. 

“Sure.” 

“Cool,” opines Roy. 

Smiling Guy—his composure completely restored, his 

smugness tiptoeing back—tells Roy, 

“This way.” 


And leads him to a far-off, seldom visited region of the store. 

The sign above this far-off region reads: 

COUNTRY WESTERN 

Roy’s brain sends his face a signal of confusion. 

“Here you go, man.” 

Smiling Guy flips through the CDs filed under S. 

Roy hates Country Western. 

It’s not even music, as far as he’s concerned. 

Why would they put the Sons here? 

“These are all we have.” 

The way Smiling Guy says this sounds to Roy like these not 

only are all they have, but all they will ever have, and that having 

them in the first place was just this huge mistake. 

“Peace.” 

Smiling Guy takes his solid-gold smile elsewhere. 

Roy’s soft belly presses against the CD cabinet. 

His hands fidget with anticipation. 

And then it hits him. 

A thought he had not thought to think before now. 

And the thought that bruises his exultant mood is this—: he 

doesn’t own a CD player. 

He couldn’t listen to these CDs if he wanted to. 

And he wants to. Very much. 

Very much, indeed. 

Roy’s brain, naturally lackluster, now hung over, fuzzes and 

fills with white noise. The blood in his face drains away, leaving 

him ashen and gray. 

It takes a while, standing alone in this far-off region of the 

store—feeling as if there is a bull’s eye painted on the back 

of his head—but, eventually, Roy’s brain figures out it has 

three options: it can (a) make its body walk out empty-handed, 

(b) stimulate its body’s vocal cords to inquire of the smiling 

pincushion if he has the Sons in tape format, or (c) cause its body 

to buy a CD player and join the crowd. 

There may even be a fourth or fifth option, but if so Roy’s 

brain has no idea what these are. 


Roy clutches his stack of CDs. 

There are at least fifteen other music stores on Capitol Hill, 

but he knows he will encounter the same thing, no matter where 

he goes. 

It has become a CD world. 

A grim Roy produces a glum shrug. 

He is saddened at the thought of having to let go of a 

technology that has, for so many years, stood him in good stead. 

After all, tapes are easy to slip into your pocket. Of course, on 

the other hand, tapes stretch and distort and snap in two and 

melt in the sun. Whereas CDs, although they too can melt, do 

not stretch, distort or snap in two. Manufacturers of CDs claim 

their product lasts forever, that they do not scratch or skip, like 

vinyl. In fact—unlike LPs or tapes—CDs never have to be 

flipped over. 

And they hold tons more music. 

The pluses add up. CDs makes sense. 

So, what falls on the minus side? 

When Roy thinks of portable CD players he thinks of trim, 

blonde girls in tight Lycra clutching tiny weights, hair held back 

by fluffy bands, their perfectly white running shoes tapping the 

tidy jogging path that encompasses Greenlake. 

But what, in all fairness, is the difference between blonde girls 

wearing CD players and him wearing a Sony tape player? 

The answer: technology. 

The technology of his tape player is emotionally charged. 

It represents the way things have always been done in his life. 

Losing it would be like turning his back on his personal history. 

It would be a form if capitulation to capitalism—as if told by a 

giant corporation what to do. It would undermine his effort to 

remain singular and individual, perhaps even affect his standing 

outside the herd. 

Pariahville is a tough town. 

Add to that, he would never find things like bootlegged 

versions of illegally-taped concerts on CD. 

(Or would he?) 

It’s not like they’re going to make him surrender his Sony, just 


ecause he buys a CD player. It’s not like they’re going to make 

him buy a matching cell phone and download ring tones by Van 

Morrison. He can have the best of both worlds. He can still be 

Roy Weston. Only a Roy Weston who can listen to what’s on a 

CD, as well as to what’s on a tape. 

Roy is reaching another Big Deal Decision in his life. And he 

is doing it with a hangover. 

He seems to be getting better at it. 

Making Big Deal Decisions, that is. 

He squares his shoulders and nods decisively. 

After all, he has tons of money and no one to spend it on but 

himself. He’s worked hard all his life. He deserves a treat. 

It’s time to find the pincushion guy. 

At the glass counter, where the cash register sits, Roy bends 

on popping knees and stares at the CD players arrayed on a 

shelf inside. They all look pretty much alike. He starts to feel 

panicky. Maybe he’d better get out of here—fast. Before it’s too 

late. Before— 

He looks around for someplace he can leave his stack of CDs. 

“You need some help down there?” 

Roy’s head snaps up and he finds himself looking into a pair 

of violet eyes. 

What happened to Smiling Guy? 

The violet eyes belong to a girl who doesn’t seem to have any 

piercings or tattoos. 

What she has instead are breasts. 

Two of them. 

And they seem capable of independent thought. 

They inhabit her loose, billowy white blouse like a pair of 

partying hamsters. 

Pinned to her loose, billowy white blouse is a black plastic 

nametag. It proclaims its mistress to be Debi. 

Roy manages to choke out this single word: 

“N-No.” 

As if to emphasize its root meaning, he shakes his head. 

Debi displays a dazzling smile. 

She had been lounging against the counter, peering down 


upon Roy’s gleaming baldness before he noticed her. Now 

that he has feasted his eyes on her, and uttered his single, solid 

monosyllable, she stands. 

Her unfettered breasts caper and frolic. 

“You sure? We’re having a big, big sale.” 

Roy tries to recall if he has ever seen violet eyes before. 

“OK.” 

Much less breasts that caper and frolic. 

Damn. That was a mistake. He shouldn’t have said OK. 

Roy is annoyed. Roy is resigned. He knows an unwanted 

conversation has begun. 

“A whopping thirty percent off!” Debi’s breasts thrash about, 

excited by this news. “Buy one, get one free!” 

Briefly, Roy wonders if she means her breasts. 

He looks from Debi’s stack to his own. He holds six CDs—oh, 

she meant buy one CD, get one CD free—so he’ll only have to 

pay for three. And he gets a CD player at a whopping thirty 

percent off. 

Debi bats her violet eyes. 

Debi knows exactly what Roy’s thinking. 

Debi dimples. 

But Debi doesn’t say another word. 

She knows the next one who speaks, loses. 

She also knows all about her violet eyes, sees them every 

morning in the mirror as she studiously avoids applying makeup. 

She’s aware of her perfect complexion and to-die-for nose, has 

but to close her eyes to bring to mind the fetching lines of her 

profile. She’s one of the Lucky Ones. She perfectly fits the 

currently-desirable body type for girls. Her limbs are long and 

slender, and her ass is practically a boy’s (every morning she 

struggles into skintight pants to show it off). 

And, almost as an afterthought—a sort of libidinal 

lagniappe—the Good Lord has seen fit to throw in a brace of 

perky breasts. 

She is what every man desires, but none may have. 

For, Debi is a lesbian. 

Roy stacks his CDs on the counter. The cellophane that 

wraps them is moist from his sweaty palms. 


It’s too late to turn tail now. He’s going to have to go through 

with it. 

He just can’t look at her violet eyes. 

Or gamboling breasts. 

Instead, his eyes rummage through the cabinet. 

“How much are they?” 

Debi holds her smile steady. This might be tricky. Usually, 

people at least pretend they can afford what they’re looking at. On 

the other hand, she likes to recall the story her daddy told her as 

they walked along the beach near Carmel, holding hands. He 

had been a salesman all his life. As a young man just starting 

out, living in Oklahoma, there had been two car dealerships 

in town, right across the street from one another. One day, an 

old coot walked into one of the dealerships and sat down. The 

way her daddy told the story was funny, but she was no good at 

telling things and making them funny. Still, she always smiles 

when she recalls the way her daddy described the man. He said 

he was “greasy and grimy and wore rubber boots.” And that he 

sat there and told the salesman who didn’t want to talk to him 

that he was there to buy a fleet of cars. The salesman laughed 

at the old coot, convinced it was a practical joke, then sent him 

packing. The greasy, grimy old guy in rubber boots was pissed. 

He walked across the street to the other dealership and bought 

fourteen brand new Coup de Villes. 

And paid cash. 

Debi always remembers this story when guys like Roy come 

in. 

And sometimes when she thinks of the story she also thinks 

how ironic it is that the girls who turn her on are greasy, grimy 

and totally into rubber. 

Debi gazes into the top of Roy’s head as if seeking her 

reflection. 

“Depends on the features.” 

Features? 

Roy just wants it to play CDs. 

“I mean—d’you want it to read MP3 compression? D’you 

want G-Protection? Or a remote? D’you want it to play CD- 


R as well as CD-RW? If you plan on jogging, I suggest G- 

Protection. It’ll keep it from skipping.” 

Roy wonders if he looks like a jogger to Debi. 

He shrugs. 

“I just want—” 

Debi’s tiny, white teeth nibble at her plush bottom lip. 

“I know, I know. It can be a little confusing.” She’s dialing 

into his vibe. “Why can’t it just be simple? I mean, who the fuck 

needs all the bells and whistles, right?” She unlocks and slides 

open the cabinet. “Here. This is the last one of these I have in 

the store. I think it’s exactly what you want.” She removes a 

blue CD player from the case and sets it on the glass top. “It’s 

a display model so I don’t have a box for it. I think I can talk 

Jack here—” tattooed, pierced, braided Smiling Guy sits within 

easy earshot reading a paperback book by someone named Og 

Mandino “—into letting me take off another ten—maybe, fifteen 

percent?” 

Smiling Jack nods. 

Debi’s in the groove. 

The store is stuck with a dozen of these shitty Chinese CD 

players nobody wants and they can’t return. 

Roy picks it up, turns it over once or twice. 

Debi watches him closely. 

“Here, let me show you.” 

In taking the CD player from Roy, their fingers brush. 

Roy quickly relinquishes the player, and just as quickly crosses 

his arms. 

He watches Debi pop in some batteries. She opens the blue 

shell and looks around behind the counter. 

“Now…what do we have?” 

Her eyes—as planned—fall upon Roy’s stack of CDs. 

She smiles and crinkles her nose 

“Let’s just use one of these.” She picks up the top one and 

pretends not to read the cover. 

God, the shit people listen to. 

Unlike Roy, and everyone else, she easily slits open the CD’s 

wrapper, and releases the shiny disk. 

Into the player it goes. 


Roy moistens his lips. 

The image of a double-tall Americano drifts through his 

mind. 

Debi snaps the player closed and presents him with 

headphones. 

Roy slowly unfolds his arms and just as slowly takes the 

headphones from her. 

They are not like the headphones he is used to. 

For one thing, they are not foam-covered. 

For another thing, they fit inside his ear. 

Roy does not wish to introduce anything into his ears. 

“You know—” Debi’s all over it “—I hate earbuds, too. Here. 

This is what I use.” 

She pulls open a drawer and extracts a pair of silver edition 

Bose headphones. 

“These fuckin’ kill. Try ’em.” 

She unplugs the earbuds and plugs in the killer Bose. 

“Go on.” 

She prompts him with a pearly smile. 

Roy studies the Bose headphones. 

Great. Another decision. 

And as he studies them his chest fills with dread. What is he 

getting himself into now? 

Slowly, uncertainly, he clamps them over his ears. 

He can’t hear a thing. 

Debi’s lips are moving. 

Roy notices this and shrugs. 

Debi presses PLAY. 

Roy grabs the counter to steady himself. 

It’s like— 

It’s like nothing— 

It’s like nothing he’s ever heard— 

How many times has he sneered at people who walked around 

wearing big, expensive headphones? 

Now he understands. 

Now he gets it. 

He scans the CD liner notes to see what he’s listening to. 

The Sons are singing The Cattle Call. 


Their voices are deep and rich and clear and and— 

Angelic. 

How has he managed to live so long without this? 

It is such a splendid, world-altering experience—he almost 

feels like crying. 

But, of course, he can’t. 

Debi is watching. 

Debi and her violet eyes. 

Debi and her antic chest-hamsters. 

She presses STOP. 

But Roy doesn’t want it to stop. 

Please don’t make the music stop. 

He doesn’t want to take off the Bose headphones, either. 

He wants to keep on listening to the Sons. 

Debi is talking again. 

Reluctantly, Roy uncovers his ears. 

“—in two colors. I think they’re the best ’phones money can 

buy, and they’re not that expensive, since they’re on sale.” 

Roy is not about to spend money on a new pair of 


But it is clearly his voice that asks, 

“How much?” 

Debi spins to Smiling Jack. 

“Jack, can I give this dude a deal if he buys a player and some 

CDs?” 

Jack looks up from his book and burns another smile into their 

retinas. 

“Sure, Deb—but only this time, OK?” 

Debi’s ponytail bounces. 

“Cool, Jack.” 

Roy is wondering if her name can be shortened any further 

when she returns with her sparkling smile and says, 

“Well?” 

Before Roy knows what he’s saying, he’s saying, 

“OK.” 

Debi beams. She always saves the best part of her smile for 

the Close. 


“You won’t regret it.” 

Roy presents her with a weak smile. 

Debi’s wrong. He already regrets it. 

Encouraged by his weak smile—by any reaction at all, 

really—she spurs him towards the finish line. 

“You’ll love ’em.” 

Yes, he probably will. 

She never even had to tell him how much they cost. 

“And that color looks smashing on you.” 

Roy feels utterly lost standing before Debi’s unrestrained 

breasts and violet eyes. 

She sets about totaling everything. 

Roy thinks Debi’s right about the color. He likes it, too. 

He returns them to his ears, picks up the player and presses 

PLAY. 

Again, the auditorium of his head is filled with rich, vibrant 

tunes—baselines he’s never imagined possible. Trebles that strike 

just right. His headache takes a powder and eases into a chaise 

longue. A deeply satisfied Roy looks around the store. The place 

is empty except for him, Debi, and Smilin’ Jack. 

And, of course, the Sons of the Pioneers. 

The Sons, who have breathed back life into Roy’s smile. 

As Debi totes and Jack reads, Roy smiles and the front door 

opens and a new dude enters. 

Roy notices the new dude and stops smiling. His eyes enlarge. 

Rick! 

How? 

Why? 

Fundamental, unanswered questions about our Universe. 

Their eyes lock. Roy’s jaw sags. 

Debi is talking again. 

Not only can’t he hear her, he can’t see her, either. 

He only has eyes for Rick. 

Rick stares hard at his big brother as he crosses the room 

towards him. 

Roy hastily presses PAUSE. 

Debi continues to talk. 


Does Debi ever shut up? 

Roy uncovers his ears. 

“—ash or credit?” 

Rick now stands beside Roy. 

He sneers up at his bro. 

The big teddybear. 

Guy with the golden heart. 

“Yeah, bro, what I was wonderin’. Cash or credit?” 

Debi is waiting. 

Jack is waiting. 

Rick is waiting, too. 

Rick has lately taken to slicking back his hair into an oldtimey 

ducktail. He wears it this way now. His ball-bearing eyes 

drill into Roy. 

Roy doesn’t want Rick to know how much money he has. 

Debi’s smile, although adorable, is not as seasoned as Smiling 

Jack’s. 

It starts to wither. 

“Everything OK here?” 

Jack’s back. 

He’s brought with him his book and his smile. 

“Fine, Jack,” snaps Debi. 

God, she hates men. 

She so doesn’t need Jack’s shit. 

The crap she has to put up with. 

Like, take her High School sweetheart who shot himself after 

she told him she was bi or gay or whatever. 

Men are such stupid, selfish assholes. 

Debi wants Roy to do something. It’s not like she has all day. 

Even though, technically, she has. 

“Well, Roy? She ain’t got all day.” 

Rick leers at Debi’s frisking jugs. 

“Sure I do,” says Debi, rekindling her smile. “It’s cool.” 

“How much he owe yah?” 

This from gum-popping little Ricky. 

It’s been so long, Debi’s quite forgot. 

Her eyes coast over to the cash register, then cruise back 

again. 


“With tax, it comes to $188.97.” 

“Woah,” responds Rick. “You must be loaded, Roy.” 

Roy’s headache returns. 

It’s more money than he wanted to spend, to say the least. 

Not that he doesn’t have it. 

He just doesn’t want Rick to know he does. 

His right, woolen, glove-covered hand makes a move towards 

his pocket. 

Three pairs of eyes follow. 

Roy’s fingertips make contact with his cash. 

He has brought exactly ten twenties with him, for no reason 

other than chance. 

Unless, of course, there is no such thing as chance. 

So, he can afford a new player, new CDs, and new 


Major upgrades to his life. 

But can he afford Rick knowing he can afford them? 

The headphones, having made it to the honored place around 

Roy’s neck, purr contentedly. 

They are happy with their new owner, and he is happy with 

them. 

Reluctantly, he extracts the greenbacks and drops them onto 

the counter. 

Crisis averted, Smiling Jack deepens his already considerable 

smile and exits the scene, returns with his book to his nearby 

chair. 

Score another one for Debi. 

“Cool.” 

She grabs the cash and exults—eleven more cheesy Chinese 

players to go. If she gets rid of them all, Jack has promised to 

wash and wax her car. 

Rick studies the dozing Bose headphones around Roy’s neck. 

“Big shit now.” 

Debi opens the register, which causes her breasts to frolic. 

Rick leers as she counts out Roy’s change. 

“You want a bag for those?” 

She indicates Roy’s new CDs with the tip of her finely chiseled 

nose. 


The ones Rick is going through. 

“Sure,” responds Roy, nervous about Rick pawing his tunes. 

“What the fuck’s this shit?” 

Debi, good as her word, furnishes Roy with a plastic bag 

emblazoned with the store’s logo. 

Strangely, the logo is not a smile. 

“Fuckit, man—this is crap.” 

Roy scoops up his CDs and drops them into the bag. 

“Thanks.” 

“No—thank you!” 

Debi bounces up and down a few times in her brilliant white 

running shoes, causing her breasts to romp and cavort. 

Rick’s beady eyes follow her sporting breasts with vulpine 

interest. He appears to be on the verge of saying something 

doubtlessly vile and disgusting when Roy rolls his bag closed and 

skedaddles. 

Rick, immediately erasing Debi’s jug jamboree from his 

thoughts—she is, after all, just another bitch—scurries after his 

bro, pushing through the door behind him. 

“Hey! Yo! Bro—what the fuck you up to?” 

Roy’s long-legged stride lengthens. 

Rick races to catch up. 

“Don’t fuckin’ run away from me, asshole! I’ll cut you a new 

one right here in Freakland!” 

As if he’s hit an invisible wall, Roy stops. Redfaced, wheezing 

from the mad dash, he turns to face his brother. 

“It’s just. A birthday gift’s all. For my. Neighbor.” 

Roy hates lying, but figures lying to Rick is OK because, with 

him, it’s an act of survival. 

“Birthday gift?” Rick furrows his little brow. “Since when’d 

you start having fuckin’ friends?” 

They stand in the middle of the sidewalk. Grumbling 

pedestrians detour around them. 

“Recently.” 

Rick narrows his beady eyes. 

The fact that Roy may have a friend makes Rick 

apprehensive, Another influence might weaken his control. 


“What’s this so-called friend’s name?” 

“Pete.” Roy announces his name with a tinge of pride. 

“Pete?” Rick snickers. “Prob’ly an old queen you suck for 

rent.” 

Roy looks away. 

Rick, like any good predator, can smell weakness. His ballbearing 

eyes glisten. 

“I always knew you were fuckin’ gay. You’re probably the 

bottom, aren’t you?” He nods towards the plastic bag. “Your 

boyfriend listen to that fuckin’ crap?” 

Roy frowns and shrugs. 

“It’s not crap.” 

He starts to walk away. 

He’s desperate to get away from Rick and back on the bus. 

Headache or no, he can’t wait to clamp on his new 

headphones and crank up the Sons. 

Rick paces him. 

“Think maybe I should come home with my bro and meet 

’im, make sure he’s OK.” 

Roy’s afraid he’s going to have to lie some more. 

“I’m not going home for a while.” 

Rick mocks him. 

“I’m not going home for a while. Shit. Just where is your home, 

gay boy? Where’s your new crib, huh? I could hook up with you 

later.” 

Roy shrugs. 

“You just want my money.” 

Did he just say that? 

Roy’s unexpected candor rattles Rick. He gives his brother a 

long, searching look. 

“You think?” 

This is a relatively weak entry for Rick. 

He tries again. 

“Fuckin’ A, asshole!” 

He grabs his brother’s arm and spins him around. 

People on the sidewalk divide like mitochondria. 

Rick’s got his Mean Look cranked to high. 


“I’m tapped. I need some green. I can get us a window 

washing gig but, no, you won’t work, you’re so fuckin’ loaded. 

Well, you’re keeping me from makin’ money, bro, and that’s like 

stealin’ from me—you fuckin’ owe me.” 

Roy stares at his brother’s slicked-back hair. 

“No, I don’t.” 

This kind of thing pisses Rick off. 

“Yes, you. You fuckin’ do, asshole! Don’t you dare say shit like 

that to me! Now—either I go to your house and take it from you, 

or you bring it to me at Mel’s. Which is it?” 

Roy puffs out his fuzzy cheeks. 

He tried. 

“How much you need?” 

Rick backs off some. Smugness creeps onto on his face. 

“That’s more like it. I want—half.” 

“Half?” 

Roy is aghast. If he gives his brother half, he won’t make it 

through the winter. 

Now that he’s spent $188.97. 

A wave of regret washes over him. 

If only he had stayed home, not baked a lasagna, not been 

born. 

Rick jabs him in the chest with a finger. 

“Half.” He continues to jab. “And if I find out you’re holding 

out on me—” 

With his free hand he removes his switchblade and snicks it 

open. 

Right there in the middle of Broadway Ave! 

Roy sucks in his breath. 

Is he about to die? 

Is this the end of Roy’s Adventures in Wonderland? 

He knows his brother could ice him and walk away like he 

just bought frozen yoghurt and people would step over his body 

until some cop kicked him to wake his ass up then piss and moan 

about getting blood on his spit-polished shoe. 

But—half ? 

The look on Roy’s face is priceless. Certainly to Rick worth 

the price of the knife. 


Rick closes the blade and chuckles. 

“The look on your fuckin’ face, Roy. Such a pansy. Bring the 

cash when you come to Mel’s Thanksgiving thingy—and bring 

your boyfriend, too.” 

Roy nods absently, his mind on his departing money. 

Rick squares his small shoulders. 

“If you don’t bring ’im, Roy, I swear I’ll beat your sorry ass to 

dog shit. You hear me?” 

Roy nods absently, his mind on his departing money. 

“Oh, yeah. Mel told me tell you bring something for dessert.” 



Her name was Mathilde Oliphante 

Dougherty, and he fell in love with her at first sight. 

She was the eldest daughter of the same clan who had stopped by the 

remnants of his family‘s cabin and helped bury his mother and sister. Old 

man Dougherty, Solomon—Sol—was a kind man with cavernous eyes 

overhung by enormous outcroppings of brows. If his daughters, and he 

had three, had taken their looks from him, they would have been known as 

prodigies of unattractiveness throughout the state of Georgia. Fortunately, 

however, the young ladies had received their mother’s good looks, as well as 

charms, while from their father had devolved a solid practicality and earthy 

sense of humor. 

After his tears had dried that day, as he walked alongside the family’s 

mule, she had sidled up to him and spoken. 

“Ma says tears are for washing th’ laundry of angels. Ain’t you got no 

other kin?” 

She was a head taller, being his elder by three years, and her thick russet 

hair was woven into braids. Her dress was of faded, blue calico and ended 

just above her bare feet, its tatty hem red from mud dust. 

Although he would grow to dominate her in height, would in fact spend 

his tenth year growing like a weed in summer, for now he had perforce to 

look up into her doe eyes, eyes that beheld him with a soothing calmness and 

served to still the cauldron of emotions that boiled inside. He found himself 

at ease with this stranger who was also a girl, and the anguish that held 

his heart soon enough loosened its grip. When she told him her name, she 

explained, 

“Everyone calls me Mod. Ma says it’s short for Modesty, which was my 

Aunt’s name on my father’s side, but really it’s my initials because my name 

is so long.” 

He told her his name, and she approved. 

He got to know his other sisters as well, Rachel Majesty and Evangeline 

Justice, but as with a baby chick, Mod had imprinted first and deepest. 


Thus their caravan, comprised of a buckboard drawn by his own former 

oxen—on which the Doughtery family’s few household possessions were 

loaded, as well as the mother, who rode along sharing her seat with the 

children as need arose—set forth for Texas, followed by cows, dogs and one 

magnificent, ornery hog named Maurice. 

It was an entire summer’s trip, full of incident, privation and hardship. 

The stock fared well, but several times they were compelled to halt the 

progress of their journey to find work in order to supply their larder. For 

most of the route, fish and game could be found in wild abundance. 

It was with an almost Biblical feeling of deliverance that they beheld the 

Sabine River, and for the first time viewed the Promised Land. 

Their joy was short-lived when they learned they had not among them the 

fare required by the riverman. 

“What—no money? My dear sir, it certainly can’t make much 

difference to a man which side of the river he’s on—if he has no money!” 

Rebuffed, the ragged train creaked another ten miles higher up, to a 

place along the river which, the ferryman assured them, was fordable. The 

crossing itself took up the larger part of the day, the river being deeper in its 

middle than told by the ferryman. But with shouting and free application of 

the gad, they hurried through safely, barely wetting the wagon box. One of 

the wheel oxen, a black steer called Brattle-Brain, could be ridden and was 

straddled by the ten year old orphan boy, his bare, sunburned feet laved by 

the cool water. 

When at last the cows were driven across—as well as dogs, bags and 

baggage—they had stood firmly upon the soil of Texas. 

In early autumn they reached the Colorado River, where they stopped 

and picked cotton for a few months, filling long bags with the fluffy white 

stuff, and making quite a bit of money. Near Christmas they reached their 

destination on the San Antonio River, where they took up some land and 

built a house. 

Here it was that he celebrated his eleventh birthday, in the month of 

December, in the year of 1866. The Hostilities had ended in April of 

the preceding year—the same month and year in which President Lincoln 

had been shot and killed—and the “restoration” of the South had begun in 

earnest. 

But all of this was beyond the scope of a young boy who awoke each 

morning to an endless vista filled with the promise of great careers and 

boundless adventures. 


Since this was principally cattle country, the boys of the family, as they 

grew old enough, found irresistible the fascination of horse and saddle, and 

began to ride and hire out as cow-hands, later canonized as “cowboys,” a 

word with the meaning of reckless at its root. Most cow-hands in those days 

were either Mexican vaquero or Negro buckaroos. Exposure to these two 

populations served him well, the one lending him a new language, the other 

reminding him of home. 

Old Sol, the paterfamilias who had taken in the lad as if his own, grew 

truculent on the matter of this, their youngest, riding off in the example of the 

elder boys. He insisted, and made strenuous efforts to that affect—a young 

man’s wails and pleadings aside—that his place was at the home, until he 

reached his sixteenth year. He thereafter secured a position in a village store 

some ten miles distant to serve as apprentice clerk. Sol could see no use for 

a man giving himself to saddle tramping all his days, with nothing to show 

at the end but weariness and a bad disposition. Besides these objections, he 

could, as with the entire family, see as clear as the Texas air wings of Cupid 

fluttering about the boy’s and his youngest daughter’s heads, and if such a 

union were to come to pass, then it would be more congenial for the lad to be 

well employed and favorably countenanced by society. 

Sol counseled the merchant to work the boy hard and if possible cure him 

of his fanciful notion to follow his brethren onto the range. 

The cure worked, but not in the manner Sol had in mind. 

The first two weeks in the merchant’s employ had seen him shelling corn 

in the back warehouse and shoveling horse dumplings along the storefronts on 

Main Street. 

After that, he was back home for breakfast, lunch and dinner, his 

mercantile career ended, and forthwith betook himself to the range as eager as 

a preacher’s son takes to vice. 

The vagabond temperament of the range easily acquired, he soon fell 

under the tutelage of one Priest Flood, an old-timer wise to horseflesh and 

cattle, and whose claim to have “closed the eyes of many a man, and opened 

the eyes of many a woman,” no-one who knew him doubted. 

Flood taught him how to sit slumped in the saddle and how to sleep in 

that position, and which end of the gun to hold. He became, as had Sol, 

another father for him—not a replacement, but an amendment—and from 

this happy union he would learn the arts of his new trade of tramping, as 

well as the lingo and the lariat. 

Flood would sing to the cattle cuss-filled songs that would have burned 


off Sol’s ears, and singed those of his dear mother, had she survived the war. 

I’m a bullwhacker far from home. 

If you don’t like me just leave me alone; 

Eat my grub when hungry, drink when dry. 

Whack, punch, swar, then lie down and die! 

The dust of the short-legged cattle as they thudded across a barren land 

studded with Saguaro cactuses; the grease-belly chuck twice a day; the stardusted 

skies at night; the campfire yarning and long days of droving—these 

proved a heady potation for one so young, and a compulsion was soon begun 

that would find no surcease until he had done as his adopted brothers, and 

driven a herd into the northern country. 


“GO ON, ROY—DRAW!” 

Roy finds it hard to concentrate. 

Earlier in the evening, Pete had asked if he liked ice cream. 

Roy vaguely recalls that he had answered yes, he did indeed 

like ice cream. 

Vanilla? 

That yes, vanilla would be fine. 

What happened after that? 

Pete’s waiting. 

How many times has he done this already? 

He’s not very good at it. 

“It takes practice, Roy. Lots and lots’ve practice.” 

Vanilla ice cream, the kind with little sprinkles of vanilla. 

Like black specks of ground-up pepper. 

God Bless Paul Newman. 

Pete had gone into his kitchenette and opened the door of his 

reefer and pulled out a gallon of the stuff. 

He had stood up and smiled. 

“Yum” 

“—draw!” 

Roy tries to concentrate, tries to accommodate. 

The gunbelt is way too tight. 

He wiggles the fingers of his shootin’ hand. 

Then he had dumped the whole gallon into a bowl. 

Pete looks peeved. 

That is, when Roy can keep him in focus. 

Then he had slipped the bowl into the microwave and 

punched a button. 

beep 

“One more time—draw!” 

After that, he had poured the warm, runny, sprinkly, Paul 


Newmany vanilla ice cream into two tall cups and added 

something but never said what. 

Whatever it was, it was yummy. 

Yum. 

“Draw!” 

Roy draws. 

The gun barrel clears its holster and points at the poster of 

John Wayne as Ethan Edwards in The Searchers. 

The barrel weaves about in space, tracing patterns in the air. 

The damned thing is heavy. 

Roy hates guns. 

“That there’s a Colt Peacemaker,” instructs Pete. “It’s th’ sixshooter 

that tamed the West.” 

Peacemaker. What a funny name for a gun. 

Roy wishes they had more sprinkly vanilla ice cream to melt. 

Yum. 

“Gimme that.” 

Pete takes the gun out of Roy’s paw. 

“Take off th’ belt.” 

Roy is only too glad to oblige. 

He uncinches the bullet-heavy belt and hands it over to the 

old, long-haired guy in a bathrobe. 

Pete’s gray hair, pulled back and braided into a ponytail, 

leaves his battered, lumpy face exposed to prolonged review. 

Roy likes Pete’s face. 

But he isn’t gay. 

He just likes Pete’s face, is all. 

It’s grizzled and crinkled and worn and wise. 

Like he’s a philosopher or a fisherman or something. 

Roy watches Pete wrap the belt around his shrunken waist. 

Next to the hulking Roy, Pete appears a tiny man, about 

the size of Rick, but there’s an air to him—the way he carries 

himself—that makes him seem bigger than Rick will ever be. 

Pete positions the belt high on his middle, reeves the end 

through its buckle and draws it tight. 

He waves Roy aside and stands before Ethan. 

“Say when.” 

Roy nods. 


He tries to focus on Pete’s gun hand. 

His shootin’ iron. 

Pete’s face relaxes. His breathing slows. His eyes narrow, and 

the furrows on his brow—like tire ruts in dried mud—smooth 

out a bit. 


Ice cream phlegm. 

“Draw.” 

Almost before the word leaves his lips, the gun’s out of its 

holster. 

Its unwavering barrel is leveled dead at Ethan’s searching face. 

“Whoa.” 

Pete straightens and tosses back his shoulders. He slides the 

Colt into its holster. 

“Wish I coulda met Glenn Ford. They say he was th’ fastest 

draw in Hollywood.” 

Pete walks over to his big, comfortable wingback and 

plops into it, cranking his cowboy-boot-slippered feet onto the 

matching hassock. 

Roy assumes his place in the only other chair in the room. 

“He a cowboy?” 

Pete shrugs. 

“In some’ve his pitchers. He was in over a hundret.” 

“OK.” 

Before Roy met Pete, that would have seemed like a lot of 

pitchers to be in. But Pete has told him that John Wayne made 

over a hundret and forty; that Walter Brennan made over two 

hundret; and that the great Harry Carey made almost three 

hundret. 

And then there was Mel Blanc, who was in over seven hundret 

pitchers! 

Pete knows a lot about movies. 

And he knows a lot about guns, too. 

In fact, Roy would guess Pete knows a lot about everything. 

His place is packed with books and videotapes. It seems 

like all he ever does is read, or watch old black and white 

movies. Roy never had the money to go to movies, and never 


put much stock in reading, that is other than cookbooks while 

warming himself in the downtown library. They don’t have 

much else to do there. Mostly, Roy never hung out with people 

who read. That Louisiana dude—the one who cleaned up the 

broccoli—was an exception. He said he was a writer. Roy never 

understood why anyone would want to do something like that. 

But, then, he never understood why people liked to drink alcohol, 

either. 

Until recently. 

Pete slides his gun out of its holster again. 

“Know why they call this a Colt?” 

Roy thinks he knows. 

“Named after the guy made it?” 

Pete scowls. 

“Well, yeah. ’Sides that, I mean. Here—lissen.” 

He leans forward, indicating Roy should follow suit. 

The room is quiet, the building still, the world has settled 

down. 

It is after three o’clock of a morning. 

The Straights are inside sleeping, the Crooks are outside 

creeping. 

Pete thumbs back the hammer past its safety notch. 

A distinct “C” sound can be heard. 

On past the half cock, an audible “O” registers. 

His hand pushes against the ratchet on the back of the 

cylinder and there comes an “L”. 

Finally, the hammer and trigger come together in the firing 

mode and a definite “T” comes forth. 

His point made, Pete grins and sits back in his chair. 

He releases the hammer onto an empty chamber. 

Cool. 

Roy is impressed. 

But what he really wants is more melted ice cream with Pete’s 

secret additive. 

Pete senses this as much as is pinched by the need himself. 

“Thirsty?” 

Roy nods briskly. 

Pete mirrors Roy’s nod. 


“Let’s try somethin’ different.” 

He stands and weaves towards the kitchenette. 

Roy’s loins tingle. 

He’s starting to feel giggly. 

Some people, when they drink—like Rick—get surly and 

unruly and pick fights and slide into dark places where they 

stay put until they pass out, while others—like Roy and Pete— 

become chummy, pleasant and congenial, and stay that way until 

they pass out. 

No matter which way you cut it, passing out seems to be part 

of the deal. 

Roy is very relieved and very gladdened to know that when he 

drinks he does not become a werewolf. 

It all began by accident, spending time with Pete— 

When he returned with his new CD player clipped to his belt, a white 

plastic bag of CDs in tow, ears warmed by the Bose ’phones—Roy was in 

Seventh Heaven. 

He bounded up the wide, carpeted stairs to his floor’s tatty landing and 

ran smack into Pete. 

Pete—obviously a very clean man—wrapped in his Cowboys and 

Indians robe, was again stepping out of the B THRO M, his hair again wet 

and combed out of his hatchet face. 

They had not seen each other since when Pete introduced him to Kahlua. 

Pete looked him up and down, making note of Roy’s new music 

apparatus, and spoke. 

Roy saw his lips move but could not hear a word, his head at that 

moment being filled with yodeling. 

He removed his new Bose ’phones. 

“—some time, OK?” 

Roy blinked. 

“Whatcha listening to, anyway?” 

Roy smiled and offered his new Bose ’phones to Pete. 

The volume was cranked high enough Pete didn’t have to put them on to 

hear. 

“The Sons.” His words carried with them his seal of approval. 

Roy beamed. 

“I love ’em.” 

Pete studied Roy’s beaming features. 


“So, howz ’bout it? You game?” 

Roy surmised this cryptic inquiry was connected to something Pete must 

have said when he wasn’t listening. 

Confusion clouded his face. 

Pete chuckled. 

“I said we oughta get together some time. I’ll introduce you to their 

movies.” 

Roy’s eyes widened. 

“They made movies?” 

“Yessir, they most surely did.” 

Roy’s widened eyes take in the snowy hair on Pete’s shoulders. 

“I’d like that. A lot.” 

He’s so old, even his shoulder hair’s white. 

In Roy’s world, people seldom live long enough to have white shoulder 

hair. 

“How ’bout tonight, then?” 

Roy didn’t have to think twice. It was better than being in his room by 

his lonesome, even if he did have the Sons. 

“Sure.” 

“Great.” 

Pete resumed his journey to his apartment, but didn’t make it all the way. 

Instead, he turned and presented Roy a lopsided smile and a nonsensical 

question. 

“You like vanilla ice cream?” 

—And so it began. Later that night Roy rapped on 28/RR— 

now known as the home of Pistol Pete—and listened as dozens of 

deadbolts cranked aside and hundreds of chains unshackled, and 

watched as the white-painted door creaked open to reveal Pete, 

his hairy legs planted in a colorful pair of cowboy boots. 

“They’re not all black and white.” 

Roy just wondered, was all. 

“I have some color ones, too.” 

They’ve just finished watching Stagecoach. 

“One of the best damned movies ever made,” is how Pete had 

described it. 

“You like?” 

Roy nods. 

“They dint show the gunfight.” 


Pete rewinds the movie. 

“First—there’s no they, there’s only he. And he is John Ford” 

Roy absorbs this information. 

“OK.” 

“Second—you don’t need to see Ringo kill th’ bad guys. It’s 

enough you heard it. That was Ford’s way. Oblique, like. That 

was part’ve his artistry. This ain’t some B Western, Roy. This is 

a great piece of film art.” 

Rhymes with wart. 

Filmwart. 

“OK.” 

“You’ll get it, Roy. Hell, I had to watch it ten times before 

I got it. Believe me, th’ day will come when you’ll see th’ 

stagecoach as a metaphor for our civilization, a stagecoach lost in 

the Monument Valley of our own unconscious.” 

Roy probes the cavity of his mouth with his tongue. When 

Pete stops talking, he says, 

“OK.” 

The rewinding tape in the VCR whirs. 

The second brace of drinks Pete concocted did not have ice 

cream as their binder. Instead, they had been doses of Bailey’s 

Irish Cream. 

Yum. 

Roy supposes he is probably through, least ways for a while, 

with sweet drinks. 

His head is spinning. 

clunk 

Spunning. 

The VCR rewinds no more. 

Spun. 

Pete’s windows are painted black and curtained over, and 

there is no timepiece, so it’s impossible to know what time of day 

or night it is. 

But it’s late. 

It’s very late. 

It’s so late it may be a different century. 

Not that either of these cats care. 

They are, after all, gentlemen of leisure. 


Pete stands and the floor creaks as he steps to the shelf that 

supports his VCR. 

He pops out Stagecoach, re-sleeves it and carefully replaces it 

amongst its peers. 

If Stagecoach can be said to have a peer. 

“Roy?” 

He calls this over his shoulder. 

“Hm?” 

“Wanna laugh yer ass off?” 

“Sure.” 

“Here.” Pete slides out another tape. “This’ll kill you.” 

He un-sleeves it and pops it into the machine. 

Roy, uncertain sounding as ever, replies, 

“OK.” 

Pete wobbles back to his throne. 

“I have a treat—” 

He flops into his wingback chair. 

As he had the night—or was it two nights?—before, Pete 

reaches for something on the far side of his chair. This time, 

instead of a bottle of Kahlua, he brings forth a small wooden 

box. 

He slides its tightly-fitted top open and releases into the room 

an aroma. 

Pete’s elderly fingers emerge with a plastic baggie. 

Returning his attention to Roy, who watches intently, he asks, 

“You smoke weed?” 

Roy knits his brow. 

How he hates to let people down. 

Lying to Pete could not, as with Rick, be considered an act of 

survival. Roy thinks it would not be a very good way to begin a 

friendship. 

So, regretfully, he shakes his head No. 

Pete scratches a bristly jowl as he takes this information in. 

“Never?” 

Downcast, Roy shakes his head again. 

“You are indeed a rare bird, Roy Weston.” 

Roy rolls his shoulders. 

“Wanna try? This is some fantastic shit.” 


It is what o’time in the whenever and Roy’s slouching towards 

his forties and he’s never done nothing bad to nobody not even to 

himself. 

What’s he waiting for? 

An invitation? 

Didn’t he just get one? 

Is he waiting for someone to twist his arm? 

Pete might stick a cocked, loaded gun in his face, but he would 

never make him do something he didn’t want to do. 

Then is he waiting for his host to beg? 

Pete would never do that, either. Nor would he berate, 

belittle, or threaten to cut out his liver and eat it. 

He’s just asked a simple question, made a simple offer. 

Take it or leave it. 

No pressure, Roy. 

And it is because of this, the fact that he has been left to 

choose for himself, that he decides to accept. 

Roy is getting that tingling feeling again. 

He’s tingling because he’s about to embark upon an 

adventure. 

An adventure with a total stranger and nutcase named Pistol 

Pete. 

Be cool, Roy. 

“Why not?” 

Pete elevates his eyebrows. 

“Why not, indeed?” 

Roy watches him roll a joint. 

How many times has he seen people do this? He has always 

believed that when someone smoked pot their brain got tiny little 

holes in it and that, if they kept smoking, those holes would grow 

larger and larger until their thoughts, if they ever had any, would 

have to take great big detours around the holes in order to get 

anywhere, and that was why stoners always talked so slow and 

moved so slow and forgot what they were saying in mid-sentence. 

He didn’t want that to happen to him. 

Still—how could a puff or two hurt? 

He figures the resulting pinholes would be so tiny that his 

thoughts would probably not even notice. 


Pete rolls the baggie tight, slips it back inside the wooden box 

and slides the lid closed. 

Perching the joint upon his papery lips, he settles the box on 

the floor behind his chair. Out of sight. 

Roy wonders what other marvels must lurk on the far side of 

Pete’s chair. 

snap 

A flame pops out of a yellow Bic lighter. 

The shadows that chase around Pete’s face when he lights the 

joint give Roy the heebie-jeebies. 

Pete takes a long drag and passes his hand-wrapped 

handiwork, with its glowing ember eye, to Roy. 

Roy accepts the joint and brings it to his chubby lips. 

Feeling like he must look stupider than usual, he sucks some 

smoke into his lungs and fights to keep it there. 

He is startled when Pete’s hand, all stretchy and deformed, 

zooms out of nowhere towards his face. 

Pete only wants the joint back, but Roy thinks maybe he 

wants his nose. 

As Pete takes another toke, he picks up the VCR remote and 

points it at the TV. 

The screen lights up, turning the room blue, and sucks Roy’s 

eyes towards it like a spider dragged down a drain. 

Pete fast-forwards to the title of the picture they are about to 

watch. 

BLAZING SADDLES 

Roy’s heard of it, but never seen it. 

A bullwhip snaps. 

The colors seem more colorful, the brightness more brighter, 

the music more music-y— 

Roy has this realization—he’s stoned. 

And he’s still alive. 

He can’t feel his hands his legs feel like rubber his mouth is 

dry as a bone. Like, full of talcum powder. 

For the first time and it’s a great time and it’s too late baby 

now it’s too late— 


Pete nudges. 

Holds out the joint. 

Such a nice man. 

“Zowie, huh?” 

A cone of thoughtful, throatful smoke escapes his lips. 

Roy daintily accepts the smoldering offering. 

He is able to manage a seminal smile, a nominal nod. 

Eyes slitted against its acrid fumes, he sucks down more of the 

magical smoke. In the background, a man sings— 

He rode a blazing saddle 

He wore a shining star 

His job to offer battle 

To bad men near and far— 

Pete is already laughing. He laughs with the glee of a child. 

Roy can’t help himself—he stares at Pete who stares at the 

TV with the glee of a child. For such an old guy, you would have 

thought he didn’t have any child left inside, gleeful or otherwise. 

Roy doesn’t feel like he has a child hidden somewhere inside. If 

he does, it’s hugging its knees to its chest and rocking on its ass 

in a dark corner. But this old guy seems like he’s happy with life 

and all the shit that’s befallen him lo his many, many, many— 

how many?—years. 

Roy wonders how old his new really old friend really is if he 

really is his new really old friend or if he really is a new old really 

friend or if— 

He conquered fear and he conquered hate 

He turned our light into day 

He made his blazing saddle 

A torch to light our way— 

“Only Mel Brooks could get away with shit like this.” 

Roy pulls himself away from his study of the gleeful Pete— 

laughing, snorting, cavorting Pete—and stares back into the blue 

tube. 

He can’t feel his lips. 


A man in cowboy clothes and black hat prances about on a 

railroad track. 

“Now come on, boys, where’s your spirit? I don’t hear no singin’. When 

you were slaves, you sang like birds. How ’bout a good ole nigger work 

song?” 

Roy flinches. He knows a lot of black men would beat the 

living crap out of him if he ever used the N-word. 

Pete continues to laugh his ass off. 

“Watch this, Roy—” Pete instructs him without turning his 

head because he’s so fucked up if he did turn his head it might 

break off and float away. 

Roy tries to concentrate. 

The black dudes start singing a song about champagne. 

I get no kick from champagne 

Pure alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all 

So tell me why should it be true 

That I get a bang out of you— 

As a consequence of his raucous laughter, Pete slips out of his 

wingback chair onto the floor. Wheezing, he grabs the chair’s 

arms and pulls himself up. 

Through his laughter he notices his new compadre sitting all 

shovel-faced serious with not a crack of smile anywhere to be 

seen. 

He wonders about this a stoned moment—not a scientifically 

categorized or recognized unit of time—long enough to distract 

him from the movie, cause him to miss the bit where Slim 

Pickins, as Taggert, delivers his “Kansas City faggots” line. 

He digs through the darkness for the remote, finds it and 

presses PAUSE. 

“What’s wrong, Roy? This is some funny shit.” 

Roy’s hiked shoulders rub the bottoms of his ears. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“You don’t—” 

Pete breaks off, uncertain how to respond. 

For him, Blazing Saddles is the best thing Mel Brooks ever 


did. With the exception, of course, of Young Frankenstein. Well, 

no, he also likes The Producers a lot. As well as the more esoteric 

Twelve Chairs. Space Balls was pretty funny in places. Pete has a 

soft spot for John Candy. Because he liked Hitchcock, he also 

liked High Anxiety, but it was patchy at best. Now, the first two 

seasons of Get Smart waere so damned funny— 

Where was he? 

He’s lost his place. 

Lost in Space. There was a good show. 

He tries to refocus on Roy. 

Roy, who sits like a bump on a log. 

An ugly bump, at that. 

So—? 

(His eyes return to the paused image of Cleavon Little as Bart 

about to brain Slim Pickins as Taggart with a shovel) 

—oh, yeah. 

Roy doesn’t think this is funny. 

He doesn’t think Blazing Saddles is a hoot. 

A riot. 

He swivels his head back to Roy who, like a moth, stares into 

the blue tube as if contemplating paradise. 

Pete thumbs off the TV. 

Roy shakes himself awake and looks at Pete. 

“You don’t? Really?” 

If one could be said to snort with incredulity, then Pete snorts 

with incredulity. 

“Why not?” 

The reason escapes Roy. He has no words with which to 

reply. 

His language center, never a busy place, has closed for the 

day. 

And the night for that matter. 

After a yawning abyss of quiet, he says, 

“That man used the N-word.” 

Pete stares. 

“And?” 


“He’s not ’spozed to.” 

Since it’s free to do so, Pete stares some more. 

“And?” 

“That wasn’t a work song.” 

“No.” The freely-staring Pete tends to agree. “Wasn’t. Was 

a Cole Porter song. Was a joke.” He blinks. “Know what satire 

is?” 

Roy knots his forehead. 

“Sort’ve. Maybe.” 

Again, Pete blinks. 

Roy’s eyes are like tiny deserts whistling with raging 

sandstorms. 

“Know what a cliché is? Or a trope? Or a metaphor?” 

Roy is sinking fast, headpiece filled with straw. He never went 

to school, or sat glued to books, and this old guy—who he hoped 

would be his friend—probably despises him for his dumbness. 

Meanwhile, Pete—a man of vast worldliness, brimming with 

insight into the cybernetic confluences we call human beings— 

smiles. 

“You need an edumacation’s what you need, buckaroo.” 

If one can be said to nod glumly, then that is how Roy nods 

now. 

“An’ I’m jess th’ dude what can git’er done.” 

Roy looks up as quickly as he dare (fearful his head might 

snap off). His convulsing heart leaves skid tracks on his karma. 

“Really?” 

Pete shrugs. 

Why not? It’s not as if, not like— 

Not like he’s got something better to do. 

Roy seems a willing student. He took to the Sons fast enough, 

didn’t he? 

Besides, Pete likes Roy. Likes his name. 

It’ll mean hard work and long hours. It will. But it’ll be fun 

to watch a bunch’ve movies with someone. 

Someone who’s never seen, or apparently done, anything. 

Someone who’s never even smoked weed. 

He studies Roy a long moment before he says, 

“Really.” 


At thirteen, he stood tall and broad, 

with a look that belied his age. 

For two years he toiled in the fields for Sol. He felt he owed him that. 

Still, it was as much fealty as love that kept him at the yoke—fealty for the 

family that had adopted him, and a love for Mod that had flowered and 

grown in measure and scope. 

Troublous times came to west Texas, after the Great Hostilities ceased. 

During the war, Texas had sided with the secessionists, providing troops 

of the Confederacy with beef until the Union Army blockaded commerce at 

the Mississippi River. After this action, the cattle population in Texas grew 

to such a considerable number that it was estimated there were three standing 

head for every man, woman and child in the state. 

It was in the same year as the Doughtery family’s arrival in Texas— 

1866—that a bold plan to drive some of these cattle northward was 

inaugurated by Col. Charles Goodnight. 

A former Texas Ranger, plainsman and Indian fighter, Goodnight 

thought to drive his herd straight through Comanche territory, across the 

Pecos and into New Mexico, thence northward to the gold fields of Denver. 

By the greatest act of providence, as he was collecting his vast herd, he 

encountered Oliver Loving, who had ranched the plains for many years, and 

whose knowledge of the Texas breed of longhorn cattle was unsurpassed. 

“I have heard of your plan,” Loving told him, “an’ if you will let me, I 

will go with you.” 

“I will not only let you,” replied Goodnight, “but it is th’ most desirable 

thing in my life. I not only need th’ assistance of your force, but I need your 

advice.” 

The pair left Texas on June 6, 1866, trailing 2,000 head of a mixed 

herd, with an outfit of 18 armed cowhands, and the first chuck wagon ever 

devised. 

Legends grew up around the travails encountered along the Goodnight- 


Loving Trail—as it later became known—of dangerous stampedes, failed 

Indian attacks, and cattle given over to quicksand. And now, some three 

years after, another Goodnight-Loving drive was being gotten up, this time to 

trail an even larger herd to Fort Sumner. 

Cowmen for that drive were in great demand. 

Meanwhile, unsettled times prevailed between the newly-arrived farmers 

and the long-established open range rancheros in Texas. A species of war 

had developed between these two opposing camps, characterized by occasional 

lynchings, and many unexplained fires that consumed both crops and 

property. 

While these concerns occupied the mind of Sol Dougherty, the mind of 

his young protégé was filled with aught but thoughts of the Goodnight-Loving 

Trail. He had no desire to spend the few years God might grant him driving 

a plow behind a dray. 

Fox Quarternight, former foreman of the Lazy D, and boon companion 

to Priest Flood, had been hired by Oliver Loving and assigned the task of 

populating their ranks with drovers of good mien and reputable character. 

It was to this gentleman that Priest brought his young friend. 

The boy who had watched his mother and sister die at the hands of 

Union soldiers would now be represented, in his thirteenth year, as a fully 

trained and reliable cowman. On the strength of Priest Flood’s assurances 

that he was ready for this enormous and risky undertaking, the young man 

was hired and told to report within a month’s time to the trailhead in Young 

County. 

“Show up early an’ with gritted teeth,” Quarternight told him. “For, no 

matter what you may think you know about th’ world, your real education is 

about to begin.” 

He was to be paid in silver coin the enormous sum of $120. 

His travels to the trailhead would take at least two weeks, which meant 

he would have at hand that much time to reflect upon his turn of fortunes. 

The matter settled, he imagined it would be a mere tick to proceed with 

his plan, but he had misjudged Mod to think she would consider such a 

dangerous decision in a good light. She bade him change his mind, pleading 

that he should not present himself to such a lengthy and parlous ordeal. 

“There are Indians that will leave your bones to bleach in the sun,” she 

advised him, having heard of such terrors, it seemed, all her life. In truth, 

she knew next to nothing about Indians, or of what they were capable. All 


she knew was she needed her loved one to remain at her side. “Father needs 

you, as do we all. Just last week the Johansons were burned out, and are 

all but leaving the territory. Father lives in the fear the same fate may await 

us.” 

Thirteen years beneath a man’s belt was not enough to provide gravity 

to his decisions, for he was as yet too driven by whims and fancies, and he 

had fancied himself riding herd for far too long a spell to negotiate away 

such a vision on unsupported evidence, on mere speculation. He felt that if 

he remained, despite his chaste and true love for Mod, he might forever feel 

regretful of this other loss, his chance to prove himself in the saddle. 

“It will be an absence of only a few months, dear. I shall return before 

next winter, an’ bring back with me enough gold for us to buy land. Old 

man Drake has assured me of th’ acres we need. We’ll build a cabin first, 

then we’ll build a herd…” 

Mod was wise enough to know she was defeated. Her boy, if ever to 

be truly hers, must first become a man. Besides, his argument held sense. 

They would need money to start a life, and he would not find any farming 

for her father. 

On the day of his departure, she presented him with a small envelope into 

which she placed a clipping of her hair. 

“This is for remembrance of me.” 

“Thank you, darling Mod. But I have the stars at night to remind me of 

your beauty, and the sun in the day to remind me of your warmth.” 

After a lengthy embrace, he eased away and lightly swung into his 

saddle. 

Peering down at her from this height, he smiled the carefree smile of 

roguish youth, and told her not to worry. 

“I’ll be home before the first snow.” 



“RAOUL WALSH 

is where we’ll start.” 

Roy is rapt with expectation. His loins are tingling. 

He wants to please his mentor. 

His former captor. 

Pistol Pete. 

Raoulwalsh. Raoulwalsh. Raoulwalsh. 

He tries to memorize the name. 

Pistoilpete. Pistolpete. Pistol—Raoul. Walsh. Raoulwalsh. 

Raoulwalsh. 

Pete, for his part, appears as comfortable in the role of 

mentor as he had in the role of captor. An actor of exceeding 

range. Tonight, as if for a special occasion, he has exchanged 

his Cowboys and Indians robe for a brand new pair of Levis 

blue jeans. The cuffs, rolled up at least six inches, expose handpainted 

cowboy boots complimented and completed by a set of 

silver spurs. A red bat-wing shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps, 

its open collar accented with a bolo tie, completes his Western 

wardrobe. 

His ankles are crossed on the hassock, silver spurs 

overhanging the edge. In one hand he holds the remote. 

Smoke trails from a joint in his other hand. 

“Ever hear of Marion Michael Morrison?” 


No. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard of Malblon Mitchel 

Martian. 

“Sure, you have.” Pete passes him the joint. “He was born 

to a pharmacist paw, and had a dog named Duke. When he 

flunked th’ entrance exam for Annapolis, Tom Mix got ’im 

a summer gig as a prop man at Fox. That was where Raoul 


Walsh saw ’im an’ tapped ’im to star in his masterpiece, Th’ Big 

Trail. Ford would lie later, say he done it, but it was Walsh who 

discovered Marion Michael Morrison an’ changed his name to 

John Wayne. He taught ’im how to walk, talk, shoot an’ ride.” 

Roy is to the point now, after only a week, of looking forward 

to the lightness in his head that pot produces. 

His mind still drifts into worry about if he’s doing the right 

thing—growing holes in his brain—but he assures himself that, 

after his education is complete, he will have no tribble quoiting. 

Trouble quoting. 

Quiting. 

What did Pete just say? 

“Walsh told ’im to let his hair grow long. Wayne hated horses. 

Walsh gave ’im a buckskin suit. Said he chose ’im ’cause’ve th’ 

way he moved, he wanted to accentuate it. Wayne was maybe 

twenty-two—you followin’ any’ve this?” 

Roy has been studying his left hand for some time now. He 

holds it between his eyes and the blue TV screen, inspecting it for 

light leaks. 

He is wondering how X-rays work when Pete surprises him 

with his question about Mildred Mumson Something. 

He had no idea there would be pop quizzes. 

“OK. John Wayne.” 

Pete nods—satisfied Roy will get the big picture, if not all 

the delightful little details—and pries the joint from between the 

fingers of his student’s uninspected hand. 

snap 

A light pops up from Pete’s Bic lighter. 

He inhales. 

Where was he? 

Raoul Walsh. 

He looks at Roy who, for lack of anything better to do, intently 

studies the light-absorbing characteristics of his left hand. 

Johnwayne. Johnwayne. Johnwayne. 

Pete turns his attention back to the screen. 

“Walsh shot Th’ Big Trail in 70mm as well as 35mm, but it 

was released in 1929—th’ year th’ Stock Market crashed—an’ no 


theatre was about to invest in 70mm projectors, so for decades, 

whenever anybody saw th’ pitcher—which was almost never—it 

was always th’ 35mm print. What you’re about to see—” he 

swivels his head around to look pointedly at Roy, who moves 

his hand slowly back and forth before his face “—is th’ restored 

70mm print.” 

Roy’s hand moves back and forth, in and out, to and fro. 

The fact of Pete’s reveling in the history of cinema’s asides not 

being shared by the general population has always been a bitter 

pill for him to swallow. He imagines that understanding the 

details of how a picture got made, who wrote it, what occurrences 

took place during its filming, etc., enhanced its enjoyment. 

What an anachronism he’s become. 

The realization he has already lived his time—his heyday lies 

far behind him now—helps ease along the hours spent sitting 

semi-comatose in the semi-dark, laved by waves of photons from 

a flickering cathode ray tube chocked with long dead men and 

women. 

Pete presses PLAY. 

The blue screen disappears, to be replaced by one of black 

and white. 

Roy abandons the study of his hand and stares into the screen. 

They watch, occasionally exchanging the diminishing joint, as 

a lithe John Wayne dances about the screen in a fringed, leather 

suit. He’s good with a gun, great with a knife, even better with a 

bow and arrow. In time, he takes out the bullwhipping bad guy, 

outfoxes the slick riverboat gambler, and wins the beautiful gal. 

In the last shot—an ethereal, spiritual image—the lovers 

stand among ancient sequoia. They step in close, come together 

in silence, respectful of the beauty everywhere surrounding them. 

They speak quickly, hearts emptying words long held inside, but 

their voices don’t carry, can’t be heard. When they kiss, it is a 

deep, abiding kiss, a kiss that has been waiting over a year to be 

born. Hand-in-hand, they stroll through the trees towards, then 

past and beyond the camera. Now, with only the trees in frame, 

the wide 70mm camera tilts up, moves higher and higher along 

tree trunks of incalculable age, to stare into the vault of heaven. 


In Pete’s head, he can clearly see the eye-patched Walsh—a 

real-life swashbuckler, former cowboy, war hero, friend of Pancho 

Villa’s—leaning against a Conestoga’s wagon wheel, calmly 

rolling a cigarette from a Bull Durham bag, wondering what th’ 

hell would happen next since he was making it all up as he went 

along. 

Meanwhile, in Roy’s head, Roy dances about in a fringed, 

leather suit. He’s good with a gun, great with a knife, even better 

with a bow and arrow. In time, he takes out the bullwhipping 

bad guy, outfoxes the slick riverboat gambler, and wins the 

beautiful gal. Coonskin cap perched on his head, he and the 

beautiful gal stand among ancient sequoia. He towers over her 

as if a tree himself. As the camera tilts upwards, a celestial choir 

starts to sing, and— 

“Roy?” 

Roy, startled back into the world of drought and disease, of 

dread and Dolby surround sound, jumps. 

“It is now officially time for popcorn an’ brandy.” Pete stands 

and stretches. “Then we’ll watch th’ pitcher that made Wayne a 

stor.” 

Roy rattles his size-eleven brain inside his size-thirteen skull. 

“But you said Stagecoach did.” 

Pete produces a genial, gratified smile. 

His protégé has been listening after all. 

“Sort’ve. Since no one actually saw Th’ Big Trail, the first time 

people sat up and noticed ’im was in Stagecoach, an’ that pissed 

Ford off no end. He punished Wayne by sendin’ him back to the 

scrapheap of B Westerns for a few more years.” 

Roy organizes these facts in the giant wall of cubbyholes he 

keeps directly above his eyes, right behind his brow. 

“OK.” 

Pete sets sail for the kitchenette. 

His voice trails behind. 

“It was Howard Hawks who really made ’im a stor with what 

we’re gonna watch next—Red River.” 

Roy frowns up at the giant poster of John Wayne as Ethan 

Edwards in The Searchers. 


“When we gonna watch that?” 

“Watch what?” 

Pete turns from his popcorning labors. 

“That.” 

“Oh—that.” 

Pete returns to his labors. 

“You ain’t ready.” 

“I ain’t?” 

Pete shakes his head. 

“You ain’t.” 

He pours some chilled kernels into a pot of hot oil and settles 

the lid on top. 

“Dunson’s th’ first character Wayne played where ’is mean 

side showed. Hawks hadda age him for th’ part.” 

Exploding kernels, desperate to escape the heat, clunk against 

the lid. 

Popcorn aroma invades the room. 

“Th’ young buck was played by Montgomery Cliff, a fruit 

who couldn’t fight worth beans, he was so gay.” 

Pete grabs a rag, wraps the pot’s hot handles, and gives it a 

few shakes. 

“It’s Mutiny on th’ Bounty, with cattle.” 

Roy wonders what Mutiny on the Bounty, without cattle, is. 

Pete removes the pot from the burner and lifts off its lid. A 

celebratory cloud of steam arises, commemorated by a few corn 

cannonballs. 

“It was ’48, an’ Wayne came out in three pitchers that year— 

two by Ford, and this one. Th’ others were Fort Apache an’ Three 

Godfathers.” 

He salts, peppers, spices and sifts brewer’s yeast onto the 

popped corn. 

“Ford helped Hawks edit Red River, which was made in ’46. 

It was th’ first time Ford realized how good Wayne was, so he 

grabbed ’im for Fort Apache.” 

He pours his mixture into a metal bowl, snags two stemmed 

glasses from a shelf of such things, exits the kitchenette, switches 

off lights, and returns to his wingèd throne. 


“They were released th’ same year, but Hawks’ picture was 

made first. It was his first Western.” 

The bowl gets placed on the hassock and a glass gets handed 

to Roy. 

Once again, from the dark side of his chair, Pete brings forth 

a bottle. Once this is uncorked and poured, he replaces it and 

picks up the bowl of popcorn. Then he settles back, removes his 

silver spurs, stretches out his legs, crossing them on the hassock, 

and drops the bowl onto his lap. 

Roy drags his chair nearer so he can reach the popcorn. 

Pete raises his glass. 

“Cheers.” 

Roy presents a sheepish grin. He’s never been cheered before. 

They tap glasses. 

“Cheers.” 

He grabs a handful of popcorn. 

The brandy tastes awful—that is, at first—but soon enough it 

makes his belly feel warm and snuggly. 

“At this point, only eight of Wayne’s twenty-eight movies were 

Westerns, an’ only Tall in th’ Saddle was worth watchin’. Wayne 

had never done anything like what Hawks wanted. This—this 

was th’ pitcher made ’im a star.” 

On that note, Pete presses PLAY. 

This is some really great popcorn, thinks Roy, and tries to follow 

the action on the screen. 

The brandy has waffled his brain. 

The room is cozy from cooking and from two male bodies 

releasing tiny coils of heat and from tummy-warming alcohol. 

Perfect for long winter naps. Best popcorn in the world. He licks his 

fingers with great study and deliberation. Wouldn’t want to miss 

any. He stares into the bowl. Only a few oily, unpopped kernels 

remain. He’d like some more, but Pete is absorbed in the picture. 

He returns his attention to the tube. He could use another toke, 

too. And his brandy glass has been empty far too long. 

So? 

What do you think, Roy? 

Do you boldly rise and walk around Pete’s chair to where he 

keeps his stash? And do what—roll yourself a doobie? You don’t 

know how. Take a pull off his brandy bottle? 


That would be rude. But it’s what you want to do. 

So? 

What do you think, Roy? 

“I’ll do the thinking,” snarls Tom Dunson/John Wayne. 

I’ll do the thinking, lips Roy. His eyes narrow. I’ll do the 

thinking. 

He grabs holt of his saddle’s pommel and grunts his fat ass 

onto the sorrel. 

Next time I see you, kid—I’m gonna kill you. 

He digs spurs into the sorrel’s slats and pocks across the 

desert, trailed by a wake of dust. 

Roy’s full head of hair has gone mostly white by the time he 

reaches Abilene. 

The cattle are waiting there for him, driven by his nemesis/ 

son, Matthew, who had mutinied and left him behind to die. 

Cherry was right—you’re soft. You should’ve let him kill me, because 

I’m gonna kill you. I’ll catch up with you, don’t know when, but I’ll catch 

up. Every time you turn around expect to see me, ’cause one time you’ll turn 

around and I’ll be there… I’m gonna kill yah, Matt. 

The longhorn mill about on Main Street. The populace is 

celebratory; they haven’t seen this many beeves in years. 

Harry Carey/Mr. Greenwood gave Rick top dollar for his 

herd. 

Roy’s herd. 

Roy’s still gonna kill ’im. 

He gallops into town with a dozen rowdies. In sight of 

Abilene, and the steaming train, he turns to his men and drawls, 

I told you all where you stand in this. See that you remember it. 

They pull up short at the sight of the cattle that fill the town. 

Roy swings his girth off his horse and pushes through the 

cattle as if they were pre-schoolers. 

An inexorable force, he swaggers through the lowing animals, 

his face bent into a hell-born fury, his long legs devouring acres 

with each stride. 

Rick steps off the boardwalk onto the dusty street. 

His face twists into a snarl of hatred. 

Roy, clearing the cattle, spies his little brother. He lurches to a 

stop and crouches into a shooter’s pose. 


Draw, Rick. 

Rick snaps his cigarette into space and laughs. 

“You ain’t got th’ nerve, Roy—you’re a pansy.” 

I said draw. 

Pete presses STOP. 

The screen reverts to blue. 

The roar of .44s fills the air. 

Men of all stripe dive for cover. 

Cattle mill and fuss, disturbed by the loud reports. 

Rick’s wild bullet catches the gray John B. on Roy’s head and 

sends it sailing after the cigarette. 

Pete presses REWIND. 

Roy shoots Rick’s gun out of his hand. 

It chases after the hat that flew after the cigarette. 

Pete smiles. 

Roy is asleep, head cocked forward, chin to his chest. 

Pete had been so caught up in the picture he hadn’t heard 

Roy’s snores. 

Rick falls to his knees and whimpers. 

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that, Roy?” He holds out his 

bloody wrist. “Guess my little bro ain’t no pansy, after all—” 

Pete studies Roy and wonders what he’s dreaming. 

What would Roy Weston dream about? 

Too bad he missed the end of the pitcher. 

Dunson and the kid kissed and made up. 

He pours himself another shot, leans back in his comfy chair 

and hoists his glass to the snoring Roy. 

“Dream manfully and nobly, Roy, and thy dreams shall be as 

prophets.” 


Sorrow followed like an old scolding, 

as he rode to the trailhead. It was all he could do at times not to turn back. 

Mod’s pleading features hung suspended before him, as if a talisman. Her 

warm breath as she whispered her devotion was yet in his ears. The soapy 

scent of her clean, young skin still filled his nose. Even through rough, gloved 

hands, he could feel their fingers entwined. 

Doubts crowded his thoughts as he rode. But no matter how he looked at 

things, it always came down to money. The young lover inside him yearned 

to rein in and head home. But it was the calmer, reasoning side of him that 

won the day. He would travel on and finish what he started. That thing 

that had seemed from a distance such a romantic longing—to live the life of 

a cowboy—was now merely a means to an end. His heart had been pierced 

by Cupid’s arrow. He would return to Mod and play out his days raising 

children and cattle. He would die in his new Texas home an old man 

familiar with the small joys of husbanding and fathering, not as a gunman 

with a tin star on his chest, or a lonesome cowpoke, or wandering paladin, 

drifting like a leaf on the wind. 

It was this determination—to return in triumph with purse enough to 

marry Mod—that led him on across the brown, barren plains, accompanied 

by a ponderous heart and the sound of his own, croaking voice. 

The wind did blow and the rain did fall 

And the hail did fall and blind me 

As I rode along my thoughts went back 

To the gal I left behind me 

If I ever get off the trail and the Indians they don’t find me 

I’ll make my way straight back again to the gal I left behind 

me— 

It was late afternoon when he swung down off his gelding before the 

Agate Hotel in rowdy downtown Fort Worth. He strove not to appear 

unnerved. He had arrived to an orgy of drunken, over-zealous men. Bullet 


holes peppered the clapboard shingles of the hotel before which he tied his 

mount, and there appeared not to be many whole panes of glass in the 

community. Shots punctuated the air continually, and would continue to do 

so throughout both day and night. 

This was his first cattle town, and he had been flat-footed by such a 

demonstration of hooliganism. 

It was at the Agate where he had been instructed to find berth, in 

anticipation of One-Armed Wilson, ramrod for Misters Goodnight and 

Loving. 

At this time of his history he did not wear a gun; such a thing would have 

been an unaffordable extravagance. He did, however, carry with him as a 

parting gift from Sol—on the clear understanding it would be returned in the 

same condition as it had been borrowed—a .44 Henry Rifle. 

Sol had not been extravagant when he claimed, “It’s a rifle you could 

load on Sunday and shoot all week long.” He had impressed upon him not 

only the rifle’s responsibility but, as kickshaw of its history, the story of its 

presence at the Battle of Altoona, in which a company of sixteen men armed 

with such levered devices had held at bay—and turned to riot—an assembly 

mounting into the hundreds. 

“Learn to shoot with this, and leave the short gun aside,” Sol counseled. 

“A rifle is the staff by which you shall be known a man who claims his 

business his own, and one not impressed by ballyhoo.” 

He took his bags and bedroll off the saddle, and shouldered the Henry in 

its boot. 

The Agate proved to be the finest hostelry in town, with red-and-gold 

flocking upon its walls—claimed by the management as brought all the 

way from Paris, France—and the floors covered with Byzantine-patterned 

Aubusson rugs. From a gold-leafed plaster medallion on the ceiling in the 

capacious foyer depended a colossal crystal chandelier from which, according 

to the manager’s chin-wagging, many strong men had swung in the name of 

drunken revelry. 

“I have come seeking a gent name of Wilson, who is in th’ employ of 

Misters Goodnight and—” 

“—Over there,” informed the pomaded manager instantly. 

The man he had occasion to indicate sat upon a chintz settee, reading 

a newspaper. The paper had been neatly folded into quarters, in order to 

facilitate his reading, as the man in question appeared, in accordance with 

his nickname, to have but a single arm. 


Wilson, a bilious-appearing man, lowered his quartered paper and 

peered up into the sinless features of the youth who stood before him. 

Wilson’s hair, parted in the middle, had been well oiled into submission. 

Thick mustachios obscured his mouth and jaw, and high cheekbones provided 

embrasures for severe indigo eyes. 

As the boy spoke, he set the paper aside and warped his face into a smile. 

“Sir, I have been told you are Mister Wilson.” 

Wilson acknowledged this with a faint nod. He looked the boy over, then 

landed on his eyes and screwed them tight with his own. 

“You got pluck, boy?” 

He was not sure how best to answer. 

“How far’d you come to get here?” 

He informed this man Wilson of his journey’s origin. 

“Homesteader?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“What’s your age?” 

He lied. 

He noticed, when Wilson’s smile widened, that he had a gold tooth. 

“I take that to mean considerable younger. Very well, then. Drovers 

most are about your age anyway, although not so tall. So you may say what 

you will about your years. No matter to me. But mind this—a day slips 

by an’ you don’t tote your load, you’ll be a free man back where you started. 

You hear me?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Wilson’s eyes drifted towards the Henry. 

“Any good with that?” 

Along the trail he had often practiced, always with the mindfulness of 

his few cartridges, which fact served well to make his aim the truer. He had 

been blessed with keen sight, a steady hand, a sensible nature, and a natural 

aversion to gasconade or profligacy of any type. 

“I can hit what I sight.” 

Wilson seemed pleased with his reply. 

“You can livery your horse across th’ street. Get yourself a bath an’ some 

chuck, compliments of th’ company. It’s like to be th’ last water you’ll be in 

besides rain an’ rivers th’ next few months.” 

He arose as he spoke, to stand a head shorter than his new cowpunch. 

“You’ll ride drag at th’ start.” 


When this failed to elicit a response, Wilson broadened his smile to 

expose, not a solitary, but a brace of gold teeth. 

“You don’t know what that means, do you, son?” 

In truth he did not, and owned up to this shortcoming, feeling foolish, 

as though he were a sharecropper after all, duded up in chaps and spurs, yet 

without a notion of their true meaning, or use. 

“This may well be a decision you’ll regret but once, son, an’ that 

continuously.” 

He began to leave, but turned and added, 

“We trail at dawn. And—I wouldn’t hold it as personal if we never 

saw each other again.” 


“THE SONS FIRST 

appeared in a 1935 short, which I don’t have, an’ which may not 

even exist anymore, called Slightly Static—you writin’ this down?” 

Roy looks aggrieved. 

Was he supposed to? 

“No. I—” 

Pete laughs at his consternation. 

“You’re a good boy, Roy.” He chuckles as he lights the joint 

dangling from his lip, scrunching an eye against the smoke. 

Pete passes the smoldering twist to Roy. 

Tonight Pete wears black jeans, black lizard boots, a black, 

bat-yoked shirt with mother-of-peal snaps, and a black leather 

vest decorated with big, silver conchos. 

Tonight Pete wears black. 

He also wears his Colt. 

“Their songs’re a part’ve th’ Western canon. Ford used 

’em a lot—they were in over a hundret pitchers, not countin’ 

background songs an’ radio shows an’ th’ like.” 

The drug wallops Roy, and he’s flooded with a sense of 

calmness and well-being. He feels secure and cared for here 

in the apartment of Pete, something he has not felt before, 

something he is not used to. Something he likes. 

“—hard to decide, so I selected William Wyler’s Th’ 

Westerner—” 

Williamwyler. Williamwyler. Williamwyler. 

Pete drones on. Roy half-listens. 

Details elude Roy. So far, though, he’s enjoyed watching the 

movies. 

And getting stoned. 

And drunk. 


And the popcorn. 

Best popcorn in the world. 

“—William Wyler won three Oscars, second only to Ford’s 

two—” 

But the thing he loves most is Pete’s knowledge. He loves that 

he doesn’t learn stuff for money or fame. He also loves listening 

to his raspy old man’s voice, makes him feel like a teacher’s pet 

that he would spend so much time telling him what he knows. 

“—his pitchers feature multiple horizontal planes, with 

characters arranged in diagonals at varyin’ distances from—” 

Even if some of it is boring. 

“—wasn’t Toland an’ Welles who first used deep-focus 

shots in Citizen Kane, but Wyler in Th’ Good Fairy—scripted by 

none other than Preston Sturges—Norbert Brodine was th’ 

cinematographer—” 

The joint reappears in Roy’s face. He concentrates on 

plucking it from Pete’s creased fingers. 

“—made over forty Westerns, said he used to lie awake nights 

tryin’ to think up new ways’ve getting’ on an’ off a horse. See, 

Willy Wyler was th’ greatest—after Ford, of course—director 

who ever—” 

Wistful Roy eyes the remote. 

But Pete’s just warming up. 

“—an’ there really was a Judge Roy Bean, an’ there really was 

a town called Vinegaroo—means scorpion, in Texican—but his 

story became a legend an’ like th’ reporter at th’ end of Liberty 

Valence says—when th’ legend becomes fact, print the legend. You might 

want to write that down, Roy.” 

Roy, bogarting the joint, nods. 

Roy no more understands what bogarting means than he 

knows who Bogart was. 

Noticing the joint’s growing absence, Pete reaches inside his 

vest pocket and produces its twin. 

Finally, he picks up the remote. 

Finally. 

Lecture over, Roy settles back. He smiles his greeting to the 

second joint. This means the one he currently, barely, holds is 

his. 


His own, personal joint. 

Imagine that. 

Pete presses PLAY. 

Roy watches closely, in part to make up for falling asleep 

during Red River, in part because he can’t take his eyes off Gary 

Cooper. What a pretty man! But still a man’s man. A man who 

shoots and fights and rides and fucks. And who also thinks. He 

watches Coop think his way out of being hanged by Judge Roy 

Bean, played by Walter Brennan, as he leans against the bar of 

the Jersey Lily, Bean’s/Brennan’s saloon. 

BEAN: What’re you doin’ in Vinegaroon? Homesteader? 

COLE: Oh, just passin’ through. 

BEAN: Where yah hale from? 

COLE: No place in particular. 

BEAN: Where ya headin’ fer? 

COLE: No place special. 

BEAN: Oh, saddle tramp, huh? 

Roy’s eyes glaze as much from the dope as from the dialog. 

No place in particular. No place special. 

Jess passin’ through. Drifting. Wandering. 

Saddle tramp, huh? 

No place special. No place in particular. 

Jess passin’ through. 

A chill runs along his spine, puddles in his loins, buzzes his 

charkas, diddles his gonads, thrills his thoughts. 

What was the difference between Cole’s drifting and his own? 

Roy has lived on the streets plenty, but he’s never left Seattle. 

He’s been a bum and a beggar. A street person. He doesn’t 

imagine a man like Cole would ever have been any of those 

things. Of course, Cole lived in a time when all you had to do 

to disappear was ride off in the general direction of the sunset. 

You could change your name and vanish forever. But you can’t 

do that these days, not anymore, not with giant corporations and 

UPC codes and TV cameras and cell phones that take pictures 

and Global Positioning Satellites and laptops and palmcorders 


and who knows what else to track your every move, know every 

book you read, what groceries you buy, what motels you stay at, 

restaurants you eat in, schools you go to, grades you make, work 

record, birth record, medical record— 

How can you disappear in a world like this? 

Roy’s always figured no one could disappear as much as he 

has, but that was before he met Pete. 

What, exactly, does he know about Pete, anyway? Besides 

being a font of film lore, he might be a murderer in hiding, which 

would account for his gun. Or maybe he’s a witness to something 

terrible and the Feds put him here for safe keeping until the trial. 

Or maybe he was a hit man for the C.I.A. Or maybe— 

Roy’s thoughts drift as he lurches alongside the movie, 

sometimes galloping, sometimes cantering, mostly barely keeping 

up—always hearing the voices, seeing the pictures, watching 

the story unfold—and yet at the same time not. As his mind 

darts in-and-out of focus, he becomes aware of this creepy bit of 

knowledge—starting in his tingling loins, ascending his curving 

spine, clutching his bald scalp in a painful grip—that he has no 

real place to be, no real time to be in, no guides or rules to tell 

him what he ought to do with the few years he has left. Should 

he wander like Cole, or live like Pete and be a dress-up cowboy, 

stay stoned and watch old movies? Roy has no ties, other than 

Rick—who is, in truth, more of a noose than a tie—and no 

friends to speak of…except for Pete. 

Bean enters the big, empty theatre. Gas lights flicker. He 

has bathed and pomaded his hair and wears his gray Civil War 

uniform, dangling sword scabbard banging his knees. With 

money fleeced off strangers pretending he was a Judge, he’s 

bought every single ticket in the house and told his men to guard 

the doors. 

Tonight it’s just Roy Bean, the hanging judge, and Lillie 

Langtry, the Jersey Lily. 

He can’t decide where to sit so he picks up a seat and places it 

in the center aisle. 

But it’s no good. Cole’s already inside, gun drawn, eyes 

narrowed— 

Why do shootists always narrow their eyes? 


Judge Roy Bean will never leave the theatre alive. 

Watch out, Judge—here comes Cole! 

Bang Bangbang Bang 

Cole gets him, of course. Now Roy Bean can be a legend. 

And legends never die. He was an ordinary man, sitting in his 

Civil War uniform waiting for Miss Lillie. 

Bang Bangbang 

Cole cradles the dying old man. Old as Pistol Pete. He 

carries him like a baby into Miss Lillie’s room. Joy comes to the 

Judge’s face then the screen goes black as he slides into death and 

becomes a legend. 

Like Lincoln, like John Wayne, like Trigger, like like— 

THE END 

—Roy Rogers. 

Pete presses REWIND. 

“Wasn’t that great? Huston made a version with Paul 

Newman—it’s interestin’, what’d you expect, but Huston wasn’t 

half the director Wyler was—you OK, Roy?” 

Roy nods. 

“Thinkin’s all.” 

“Well.” Pete chuckles. “Practice makes perfect.” 

He reaches down to where he keeps his stash. 

“Snort?” 

Roy continues his nod into a new paragraph. 

His thoughts spring like a deer at the sound of cracking twigs. 

Their glasses from the night before set sticky on the floor. 

Pete unsticks his. Roy does likewise. 

Pete pours. 

The cork squeaks back. 

He places the bottle on the floor between them. 

“Pete?” 

Pete drinks. 

“Hm?” 

Roy offers him a steady look. 

“Who are you?” 

Pete savors his mouthful of spirits. 

“Who am I? I dunno. Who are you?” 


“Don’t know anything about you.” 

Pete shrugs. 

“What do I know about you? You love th’ Sons. You’re here. 

I’m here. Ain’t that enough?” 

Roy’s expression indicates maybe he reckons it ain’t. 

“Where you from?” 

Pete dons a crafty smile. 

“No place in particular.” 

Roy grins. 

“And you, Roy? Where you headed?” 

“No place special.” 

Pete snuggles into his chair. 

“There ya go.” 

But Roy isn’t done. 

“You a murderer?” 

Pete drains his glass. 

“Me?” He peers into his empty glass. “Am I a killer of my 

fellow man?” He strokes his stubbly chin. “Wouldn’t you like to 

know?” 

Roy nods. 

“Why I asked.” 

Pete plants his boots on the floor. 

“It’s time you watched Fort Apache.” 

He moves to the VCR and pops out The Westerner, slips it into 

its sleeve, replaces it on a shelf and pulls down another. 

“It’s the first of a trilogy of Calvary pictures Ford made— 

maybe the best—but Wayne always liked his role as Nathan 

Brittles in She Wore a yellow Ribbon—” 

He inserts the tape and returns to his wingback. 

“An’ in the third one, Rio Grande, you’ll get to see th’ Sons.” 

The journey has winded him. 

He pours. 

“Down the hatch.” 

Roy hasn’t touched his. He says, 

“I guess you been all over the world, and done all kinda 

things—even maybe killed somebody needed killin’—so I was 

just wonderin’ what you’ve done and where you’ve been, is all.” 

Pete stares at his dilated pupil. 


“You got the look of a man whose innards are bein’ gnawed at 

by a badger.” 

Roy considers this. 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

Pete asks, 

“Ever seen Bronco Billy, with Clint Eastwood?” 

“No.” 

Pete sips. 

“Life’s all twisty and turny, Roy. You can waste it, you can 

drink it, you can smoke it all away—but it’s yours ’til you die. To 

ask a man who he is, is to open a can of worms. Once they’re 

loose on th’ carpet, there’s no getting’ ’em back inside. You want 

that?” 

Roy hadn’t thought of it that way. 

“It’s just. I got this feelin’. Something’s changin’, Pete, an’ I 

don’t know—” 

Pete grins, thinks he comprehends. 

“You don’t know how to talk about it. So you think maybe if 

old Pistol Pete opens up he might jess say somethin’ that’d help.” 

He presses PLAY. 

The blue screen snaps off and the FBI Warning appears. 

It is red and scary. 

Roy is disappointed. 

Pete glares at the FBI Warning. 

“Fuckin’ Feds.” 

Roy sits back and digs in for another movie. 

To his surprise, Pete says— 

“I’ll think about it.” 

And so he does. 

He thinks about it while Henry Fonda struts around the 

desert, and John Wayne lopes around the desert, and Shirley 

Temple pouts around the desert, and Victor McLaglen drinks 

around the desert, and Ben Johnson gallops around the desert— 

he thinks about it until he decides against it—at least for now— 

comes instead to this conclusion: maybe they’re on the wrong 

track. 

Pete surmises Roy’s not ready for Ford. 

He seems unimpressed by Wayne. 


He does seem to like horses, though. 

By the time Wayne—Kirby York—is done four-flushing 

reporters about what a great man Henry Fonda was—Lt. Col. 

Owen Thursday—lying about his misdeeds and misjudgments 

for the sake of the Calvary’s honor, thereby tying a Gordian knot 

of confusion for historians to come, Pete has reached a decision. 

It would be a while before his protégé sees the other two 

Calvary pictures. 

Or be ready for The Searchers. 

It’s time for something more potent. And more to the point. 

It’s time for Roy Rogers. 


“SERGEANT WESTON!” 

“Suh!” 

“Scout up ahead for a safe passage to the river!” 

“Yessuh!” 

“And don’t take any chances with them Pawnee.” 

“Nosuh!” 

Roy, mounted on his spirited coal-black steed, Presto, sprints 

off at a fast gallop ahead of the advancing Seventh Calvary, 

Company C. Behind him, he leaves a wagon train packed 

with a golden-hearted whore; a drunken lawyer; two disputing 

suitors for the hand of the Battalion Commander’s redheaded, 

freckled-faced, blue-eyed daughter; a man with a bad head cold; 

a maudlin Army captain about to retire; an alcoholic, Irish 

doctor; an Indian Agent who has secretly been selling guns to 

the Indians; a woman who adores Roy, but who he must ignore 

for the sake of regimental morale; a massive Master Sergeant 

who lusts to kill Roy, but who will ultimately become his friend; 

a small boy Roy rescued from an Indian raid, who loves him like 

a father; a toothless, tetchy old cook; a beautiful, fine lady from 

Virginia who cannot abide the sight of the whore; a sweet young 

girl, whose husband has been scalped, and who is about to have 

a baby; a tall, angular, well-dressed gambler from Louisiana, 

who carries a grudge against Roy—who caught him cheating 

at cards—as well as a brace of nickel-plated derringers he 

longs to use against his perceived foe; a convict, handsome and 

dashing even in chains, who claims he is innocent of the charge 

of murder, that the man he killed had killed his family; the 

Sheriff who is conveying him to trial, but whose heart is not in 

his job because he suspects his prisoner to be innocent; the Judge 

who will try the case, who is himself on the payroll of a corrupt 


politician in need of the young convict’s hanging, if he is to be 

re-elected; a fat, blustering banker, filled with the pride of his 

own certitude, whose portmanteau is stuffed with the currency 

he has embezzled from his own bank; and one of the sons of 

Cochise—Humping Maiden—on his way to the stockade at Fort 

Bixby on the Arugula River—a stoic, smoldering, blue-eyed 

man for whom the fine lady from Virginia can’t help but feel 

loathing—and lust. 

Their chances for making it to the Fort are slim-to-none. 

Without their scout—Roy Weston—and his amazing coalblack 

steed, Presto, they won’t stand a chance. 

The Ghost Dance is bringing all the tribes together—Pawnee, 

Sycamore, Seminole, Coco Puffs, Shoshone, Moose, Elk and 

Shoehorn—and only one man knows all their tongues, knows 

all their customs, most of their recipes, as well as their favorite 

flowers—and that man is Roy Weston, Indian Scout! 

Off in the distance, war drums have begun their rhythmic 

booming. 

Like the rumble of cannon at the Battle of Bull Run. 

Like the sepulchral lowing of cattle late of an evening— 

bangbangbang 

—late of an evening, when the— 

bangbangbang 

—when the men are ranged around the campfire— 

bangbangbang 

—the campfire, and the yarnin’ starts— 

Someone is calling Roy’s name. 

The voice is far away, but is growing closer. 

—and the yarnin’ starts, and the bottle and the bowl make 

their rounds— 

bangbangbang 

It is a familiar voice, too. 

BANGBANGBANG 

Roy’s eyes snap open. 

Even with the Bose headphones covering his ears, he can hear 

someone banging on his door. 

He starts awake and props himself up in his creaky bed. 


squeak 

He is still dressed, having made his way directly from Pete’s, 

his head filled with the vapors of spirits and the smoke of C. 

sativa. 

He wonders if he ever finds a safe passage to the river. 

“ROY!” 

Roy’s heart shrinks at the sound of Rick’s voice. 

“Roy! I know you’re in there! Open the fuckin’ door!” 

Panic grips him. His mind races. He doesn’t know what to 

do. 

If he stays quiet, maybe Rick will go away. 

Outside, a greasy light smears the sky. 

If there was a fire escape, he could open the window and— 

“ROY! You peckerheaded freak! Open this fuckin’ door— 

NOW!” 

Roy, his decision made for him, springs to his feet. He tears 

the Bose headphones away from his ears. 

He needs to pee. 

Really, really bad. 

He thinks to hide his new CD player lest Rick take that, as 

well. 

As well as all his money. 

But hide it where—under the mattress? 

Heart in his throat, eyes popped with fright, against his 

will and better judgment he unlocks the thick white door that 

sometimes protects him from the world, and cracks it open. 

Just from the way he stands, he can tell Rick’s pissed off. 

His leather jacket, stitched together from mismatched pieces, 

is covered with hand-painted slogans, skulls and crossbones and 

his bitch-list of women he’s fucked. 

“Hey, bitch. What took so fuckin’ long? Pullin’ your pud?” 

His gray watchcap with the peeling Mariners logo is beaded 

with rain. 

He elbows his way past Roy into the room. 

His ferret face probes the room’s sparse contents. 

“Whatta fuckin’ pit. Exactly the way I pictured it—Roy’s 

hole.” He sniffs. “Even smells like your ass.” 


His eyes land on the mattress. 

Roy has not moved since Rick entered the room. 

He stands slack-jawed, watching his brother, really needing 

to pee, feeling helpless, incapable of defending himself or his 

property, both real and intellectual. As he looks on, expecting 

the inevitable, he bates his breath, counts the seconds, really 

really needs to pee, and wishes his brother would get an 

aneurysm or whatever and die. 

Noticing where Rick’s India ink eyes have traveled and 

landed, he feels compelled to do or say something. 

This is what he comes up with: 

“Hiya, Rick. It’s you.” 

Rick snorts. 

“Nooo, it’s not me, Roy. It’s a fucking impersonator.” 

squeak 

Rick sits on the stained mattress, bounces to test its 

springiness. 

squeaky squeak 

“Figure you forgot to invite me, so I invited myself. You’re 

cool with that, right bro?” 

Roy nods woodenly. He knew Rick would find him—knew as 

a certainty he would—he always does. 

As certain as rain in Seattle. 

It had only been a matter of time. 

Time’s up, Roy. 

“—after all, we’re such a close-knit family, right?” 

Roy doesn’t like where this is going. 

“Sure, Rick.” 

Rick’s nodding head reminds Roy of those little dogs with 

spring-loaded necks people put in the back window of their cars. 

“You hurt my feelings, Roy.” 

Roy frowns. 

“I. I’m sorry, Rick. How’d I do that?” 

Rick nails him with a scalp-tingling glare. 

“You forgot our deal.” 

Roy washboards his forehead. 

“Deal?” 


“Yeah.” Rick’s eyes narrow. “You remember our deal, 

don’tcha? The one where you give me half your dough?” 

Roy feigns enlightenment. 

“Oh, yeah, right. Our deal.” 

“Yeah, right. Our deal.” Rick bounces some more on the 

mattress. “And since you forgot our deal, you get dinged.” 

“Dinged?” 

Roy’s knees turn to water. He knows what’s coming next. 

Rick compresses his lips into a thin slit then pops them apart 

with a popping apart sound. 

“It’s like a bank charges late fees, Roy—dinged. And my late 

fee is—one hundred per cent.” 

Roy tries hard to think. 

He wishes he wasn’t so distracted by his bladder. 

“You said I should bring it Thanksgiving.” 

This recalled fact nudges Rick back into the Anger Zone. 

“Don’t fuck with me, asshole! I need that money now—TO 

day.” 

He slides his feet to the floor and with a swift practiced 

motion the switchblade puts in its appearance. 

He flicks it open. 

“Where’s the money, Roy?” 

Roy can’t help himself. Involuntarily, his eyes dart from 

Rick’s snarling face to his mildewed, money-stuffed mattress. It 

only lasts an instant, but it’s long enough for Rick. He smirks. 

“You’re so fuckin’ predictable, Roy.” 

He holds Roy at bay unnecessarily with the point of his bare 

bodkin while, with his other hand, he lifts the mattress. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

Who said that? 

Roy didn’t. 

The brothers—whose eyes have been riveted on each other 

to the exclusion of the rest of the world—spin as one at the 

introduction of this new voice. 

THE GOOD 

Roy’s bald dome is beaded with sweat. His face is covered 

by several days’ stubble. His eyes are red-rimmed from residual 


dope and restive sleeplessness. His watery blues are dilated with 

fear. He stares in disbelief. He struggles to master his bladder. 

THE BAD 

Rick’s snarl returns. His upper lip curls. An intense hatred 

clouds his rodent’s face. He shifts his weight to face his new 

opponent. The tip of his knife stabs the air. He is like any small, 

feral animal that finds itself unexpectedly cornered. 

THE UGLY 

Pete is framed by the doorway. He wears his Cowboys and 

Indians robe. His bullet-filled gunbelt is strapped on, hairy legs 

stuck into hand-painted boots, feet slightly apart, knees slightly 

bent, right hand on the butt of his Colt Peacemaker. 

So gladdened is Roy by this surprising turn of events, he 

almost forgets about his bladder. 

“Pete!” 

His voice is a quavering blend of hero-worship and hallelujah. 

“This is my brother—” his eyes bounce between the two men 

“—Rick.” 

Rick straightens from his killer’s crouch and the swagger that 

had momentarily abandoned him returns. 

“So. This your girlfriend?” 

He spits. 

A splatter of his venom glistens on the floor. 

“Fuckin’ sick losers.” 

He snorts, produces a derisive laugh, and returns his attention 

to the mattress. 

A tide of panic once again rises in Roy, who turns in 

helplessness to Pete. 

Pete stands like a statue in the hallway. His lips, when he 

speaks, barely move. 

“I said—I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

Rick doesn’t bother to turn. 

“Yeah, well you’re not me, asshole.” 

He lifts the mattress higher. 


“And, fuckin’ A—I’m not you.” 

His gleaming eyes make out something nested deep in the 

cleavage of the acute angle formed by the mattress and box 

springs. 

Pete slides his Colt from its holster. 

Roy’s eyes bulge. Involuntarily, his hands seek out the sleek 

new Bose headphones and clamps them over his ears. 

Pete narrows his eyes. 

Roy wonders why shootists always narrow their eyes. 

Pete speaks. 

“If you don’t stop right now I will kill you, you sneaky son of a 

bitch.” 

Something in the way he says this causes Rick to stop. 

Causes gooseflesh to ripple up and down his spine. Causes 

him to clench his ass. 

Causes him to turn, to learn what’s going on. 

Causes him to utter the word “Fuck”—his favorite word to 

utter—and drop the mattress. 

The limp, stained mattress thuds down and expels into the 

room a gaseous cloud of stink. 

Rick faces his challenger. 

Here’s a new one. 

Not that he hasn’t looked down the barrel of a gun before, just 

not one held by an old fart wearing a bathrobe and hand-painted 

cowboy boots. 

He swells his bantam chest and blusters. 

“Put the piece down—now, old man.” 

In an effort to appear menacing, he jabs at the space between 

them with his little knife. 

Pete doesn’t bat an eye. 

In fact, he doesn’t blink. 

“Put it down.” 

Rick shakes his head. 

“Fuck you.” 

Pete’s right thumbnail whitens as he applies pressure to the 

Colt’s hammer. 

“C” 

Rick’s ears pin back. 


“O” 

His grip on the knife tightens. 

“L” 

He burrows his eyebrows into a frown. 

“T” 

Rick is now looking down the barrel of a loaded, fully-cocked 

Colt held by an old fart wearing a bathrobe and hand-painted 

cowboy boots. 

Definitely a new experience. 

“You’re bluffin’.” 

Pete produces an almost imperceptible head shake. 

“This here’s a Colt .45. It fires a 230 grain soft head bullet 

with a muzzle velocity of 830 feet per second. That means 4,000 

pounds’ve pressure per square inch on impact—with you. From 

this close it’ll make a hole the size’ve a walnut goin’ in, an’ th’ 

size’ve a grapefruit goin’ out.” 

Rick remains very still and quiet while he takes in this news. 

Then he snorts. 

“You’re fuckin’ crazy.” 

His beady eyes dart between his brother and Pete. 

“Both’ve yah.” 

He seems to be considering his next move. 

“Cocksuckin’ assholes.” 

The tip of his tongue races back and forth across his razory 

lips. 

Pete’s eyes remain squeezed into slits. 

“Fuck.” 

The Colt floats between them, a resolute and solemn reminder 

of life’s brevity. 

“Shit.” 

Rick eases out of his crouch and folds his knife. 

It disappears into his patchwork leather jacket. 

“OK, old dude. Back off. Everything’s cool.” 

A smile twitches on Rick’s face and he steps over to Roy and 

squeezes his shoulder. 

“Hey—he’s my bro. Wouldn’t hurt a hair on his head.” 

He pats Roy’s bald dome. 


“That is, if he had any—haha.” 

No one laughs. 

“C’mon, guys—lighten up.” 

For the first time since the standoff began, Pete moves. He 

takes two steps back and waves the five-and-a-half inch barrel as 

if directing traffic. 

“Get out’ve here.” 

Rick pats the air between them with open palms. 

“Fine—OK. So fuckin’ serious. Just foolin’ around, man. 

You know—brother shit.” 

As he passes out of the room he pauses long enough to flash a 

look at Roy. The message is clear—there will be consequences. 

The pit of Roy’s stomach hardens. His bladder reasserts itself. 

Rick offers Pete a grin. 

“You’re one tough old dude, man—I wanna party with you. 

Hey—Roy?” 

Roy is in the process of removing his sleek new Bose 

headphones. He stops what he’s doing and stares. 

What now? 

“Thanksgiving, man—like you promised.” 

He turns back to Pete and the Colt. 

“I made him promise to bring you with ’im. You know, 

turkey and cranberry shit. Mel’ll be real disappointed, you don’t 

show. So—guess I’ll see you there.” 

Met with stony silence, Rick nods and backs along the hall. 

“You can put the pea shooter down now, pops. I’m goin’— 

see?” 

He waves. 

“Asta, man.” He gives his brother a significant look. “See you 

later.” 

He turns and saunters the rest of the way to the stairs. 

Pete and Roy watch his head disappear from sight. 

Pete uncocks the Colt. 

“You best go pee, Roy.” 

Roy settles the Bose headphones around his neck. 

“I should?” 

Pete’s eyes drop down to Roy’s crotch where a black stain is 

spreading. 


“Shit.” 

Roy trots down the hall to the B THRO M. 

“When you’re done—” Pete calls after him “—you can take 

me out to breakfast.” 


From beneath the shadow 

cast by his broad-brimmed beaver hat, Wilson offered a grin. 

“Mornin’, hand.” 

“Mornin’, Mister Wilson.” 

Behind Wilson—in fact, all around him—in truth almost as far as the 

eye could take in—longhorn cattle moved. Their backs appeared as troughs 

and crests of a restless ocean. The waves of heat that radiated from the 

animals, even at this early hour, was almost overwhelming. 

The night before he had bethought himself something akin a fool for 

pursuing this strange passion—murderous savages, stampedes, scorching 

deserts and nerve-shattering sleeplessness awaited him. He mulled over his 

short life’s deeds and desires as he ate his dinner of prime steak, potatoes in 

gravy, lima beans awash with butter, and a plate-sized slice of fresh-baked 

apple pie. 

Soon after his arrival to Abeline, he purchased a pencil, several sheets of 

stationary and envelopes. As he ate, he wrote a letter to Mod. 

One of the Ladies of the House approached, a mischievous eye towards 

his glass of cow’s milk, and inquired if he wouldn’t rather have something 

more potent to drink. 

“No, ma’am,” he informed her reluctantly. “I don’t imbibe.” 

She appeared amused by this. 

“I saw you talkin’ with Wilson. Figured any man rode with him was a 

drinkin’ man.” 

He colored and shook his head, thankful for the apple pie to absorb his 

attention. 

“What’s that you’re writin’?” 

“A letter.” 

“To your girl?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You trailin’ with Wilson and Charlie Goodnight to Denver?” 


“Yes, ma’am, reckon so.” 

She laughed. 

“How do you plan on sending her letters, or receiving any back?” 

He hadn’t considered this. 

After a moment of thought, he replied, 

“I shall send this with a return of General Delivery, Denver, then the 

others will serve as my journal for her upon my return.” 

She shook her head. 

“If you return, you mean. I was you, I’d have a drink with my last 

meal.” 

In the bath—the first indoor one he had ever visited—he again thought 

of returning to Mod, and dashing his insane scheme. 

But the sun, as it broke the horizon, found him in his saddle, speaking to 

Wilson. 

“Thank you kindly for th’ room. I’m fed an’ well rested and ready for 

work.” 

Wilson chuckled. 

“And so you shall have it in spades—Lucius!” 

A short lick of a man spurred his sorrel to join them. 

“Boss?” 

“Take this boy in hand. He’ll be ridin’ drag with th’ other young’un.” 

Lucius, his given name—Lucky, his appointed one—eyed his new 

charge with serious mien. 

“That’s fine, boss. Come with me, buck.” 

Wilson raised his hand and stopped him, then turned to the Young 

Cowboy and smiled. 

“Goodnight runs the best damned outfit in this country, son, and you’re 

fortunate to have employ with him. You’ll meet him after a bit. Until then, 

when you talk to me, you talk to him. We got us a few simple rules here. 

The main one is, you shoot a man and you’ll be tried by the outfit on the spot 

and if found guilty, hang. You understand?” 


“You can’t drink whisky an’ work for us.” 


“You can’t play cards an’ gamble an’ work for us.” 


“You can’t curse an’ swear in our camps or in our presence an’ work for 

us.” 



“Very well. You listen hard to what Lucius tells you. He fought th’ 

damn Yanks with me an’ Bobby Lee at Chuckamonga an’ in th’ Wilderness. 

They don’t come with more flint, or better horse sense.” 


Wilson returned back to the problems that result whenever thousands of 

bovine brains congregate. 

Lucky drew him up at the end of the herd. 

“You an’ Chet’ll follow along for now, draggin’ behind th’ herd.” He 

pointed to the Young Cowboy’s neck. “Neckerchiefs out here ain’t for 

decoratin’. Two thousand head of beef kick up a bit’ve dust—Chet!” 

A boy about his own age cantered over on a big chestnut gelding. 

When he drew up beside them, Lucky spat. 

Tobacco juice splattered his wool pants. 

“You boys got one job between yah, an’ it’s an important one. You look 

out for th’ drags—th’ weaker cattle. Th’ speed of th’ whole herd’s decided by 

th’ weak ones, so you gotta keep up th’ corners an’ make sure th’ strong ones 

are forward of ’em, an’ out’n th’ way, an’ make sure th’ rear ain’t no wider’n 

th’ swing. An’ keep them strays in line. That’s all you gotta do for th’ next 

twenty-five hundret miles.” 

Chet, a moon-faced, freckled fourteen-year old, blanched. 

“We gotta ride drag th’ whole way?” 

Lucky laughed. 

“Ev’ry son’ve a bitchin’ job out here’s jess as important as ev’ry other. 

We all take turns—ceptin’ for th’ two pointers—ridin’ drag an’ swing. It 

ain’t so bad back here, boys. Hell, Injuns come up, they’re like to kill us 

afore they kill you. Might even give you time to high tail.” 

He watched for their reaction, and appreciated it when it came. 

Sweeping his Texan hat off, he toweled his white forehead with his hand. 

“Days won’t be more’n eighteen, mebby twenty hours long. Man can 

get lots of saddle sleep, he knows how. You need a fresh mount, we’ll cut 

one from th’ remuda. We got one of th’ best ole wimmen for a cook I ever 

knowed. He can make a biscuit that can take a bullet an’ still taste like a 

bride’s first kiss.” 

Chet’s eyes shifted away. 

The Young Cowboy asked, 

“What’s an old woman?” 

Lucky laughed. 


“That’s what we call a coozie, son—a trail cook.” He returned his hat 

to its proper place. “Biscuit shooter’s somethin’ else we call ’em. Name’s 

Nathan Clive Boudreaux. He’s a good ole Johnny Reb from around 

Chickasaw. I hear th’ South in you, son—where you hail from?” 

“Georgia.” 

Lucky nods approval. 

“Chet here’s a Yank, but we ain’t a-gonna be holdin’ that agin him, are 

we?” 

Lucky produced a prodigious wink. 

“You boys nose each other out. I got work to git at. Jess remember’ 

this—you’re ridin’ for a Brand now. Whether you’re ridin’ flank or point or 

wing or drag—ain’t no matter. What matter’s is bein’ loyal to th’ Brand. 

See y’all ’round th’ chuck.” 

He spat another sluice of brown liquid and cantered away. 

Chet drew his bay closer. 

“You ever done this work before?” 

“A little. Man named Flood taught me a bit, while back. Been drivin’ 

a plow these last two years, though.” 

Chet seemed relieved. 

“I hired on green. I lied to Mister Wilson, told him I knew quite a bit.” 

His new acquaintance nodded. 

“Well, I’m sure that we’ll figure this thing out between us.” 

He put out his hand. Chet leaned over and they shook. 


“ROY ROGERS 

was th’ real deal. He wasn’t just some hammy actor who hated 

horses, like John Wayne.” 

Roy stirs his coffee. 

“Thought you liked John Wayne.” 

They sit at a table opposite each other in a window booth at 

the Kountry Korner Kafe, a venerable Georgetown eatery. 

Outside, an atomized mist wets the world. 

The table is battered and scarred, and there are places where 

the metal banding around its Formica top has loosened and 

yawns away. The dented Juke Box selector hunkered between 

them hasn’t worked since the ’70s. The walls—covered with 

tan, peeling paper bordered with boldly-rendered wagontrains 

driven by great, long mule teams—have been decorated with 

various kitschy fragments from a spurious West: vintage frame 

saws, branding irons and hoof picks, hand-painted circle saw 

blades, and two-man pull saws. A badly chipped counter runs 

the length of the room, missing a few of its stools. 

Behind the badly chipped counter, a waitress—plump and 

pimply—hums. Her brown hair is netted and her nametag 

proclaims she is Lucy. 

Behind where Lucy hums is the kitchen window, orderwheel 

a-flutter with green tickets. Framed by this window, a 

tall, bearded, sleepy-looking young man wearing a paper hat, a 

cigarette perched in the alpine of one ear, occasionally moves his 

arms, hopefully cooking breakfast. 

“I do, for th’ most part. Especially his work before World War 

II, an’ the stuff he did with Ford. But that’s not th’ point.” 

“OK.” 

Roy sips his java black. 


He wishes it was a double-tall Americano. 


“Roy loved horses, like General Grant.” 

“OK.” 

Roy hates the little plastic creamers restaurants set out in 

bowls these days. 

“Ulysses S. Grant was considered th’ greatest horseman in th’ 

whole Union Army.” 

By now Roy knows Pete knows a lot of stuff Roy doesn’t know. 

“Anyhow, Roy was like that.” Pete is getting excited. Maybe 

it’s because he’s only on his third cup of coffee. “He could sit a 

horse like he was part of it.” 

Before leaving their building, Pete had dressed up a bit. He 

braided his hair, traded out his hand-painted boots for black 

lizard-skin ones, donned a pair of rolled-up blue jeans, royal blue 

bibfront shirt, cream colored neckerchief, fringed suede jacket, 

big white Stetson Tom Mix hat and a belt with a silver buckle the 

size of a slice of Wonder Bread. 

And on the buckle—in bold, gold letters—are the letters J and 

W. 

“He was a real cowboy, grew up on a real farm in a real place 

called Ohio. Then bad times came, and he and his pa went to 

work in a shoe factory.” 

Lucy glides back into their lives. 

She swirls a Pyrex globe of coffee. 

“I sure am hongry,” reports a wistful Roy. 

Lucy dimples. A wisp of brown hair escapes its netting to 

tickle her forehead. She shoves this aside with the back of her 

free hand. 

“Any minute now, Sugar.” 

Pete holds out his empty coffee cup and reads her black, 

rectangular nametag. 

“What d’you know about Roy Rogers, Lucy?” 

Lucy frowns. Lucy pours. Lucy smiles. Lucy pours. 

“You mean the King of the Cowboys? The guy who sang 

Happy Trails with his wife, Dale? You boys know he usta come 

in here?” 


Her eyes, like the sky, start to mist. 

“Before my time, of course. Ma was workin’ here, then. Not 

my Ma—we just call ’er that. Usta be, famous folk would stop 

by for a buckwheat stack, back in the day. Jack Benny and Elvis 

was in a buncha times. Man, could that boy pack it away. And, 

let’s see—Bing Crosby. Garry Moore. Steve Allen. Loads of 

musicians. Merle Haggard. Robert Goulet. Remember him?” 

Pete nods. 

Roy stares out the window. 

“We got their autographs in a book out back.” 

Pete asks, 

“You said Roy stopped in?” 

Lucy sniffs. 

“That man. He come in here before he was famous, back 

when he didn’t have a pot to piss in—excuse my French. Ma 

saw he was nosin’ the menu a good long while—sure sign he’s 

addin’ up pennies—noticed his guitar case an’ asked could he 

play. Well, sir, he popped out that ole geetar and started yodelin’ 

and stopped the place cold, he was so good. Ma give ’im a stack 

on credit. Years later he come back in—this is when the whole 

world knew who Roy Rogers was—and paid Ma for that stack. 

Just stopped in ’cause he said he owed her.” 

She wipes her nose on the back of her free hand. 

“Ah, God. What we need in this world’s more people like Roy 

Rogers.” 

ding 

“That’s probably yours.” 

She pats Roy’s hand with her snotty one and returns to the 

kitchen, zig-zagging from table to table, pouring coffee. 

Pete beams. 

“That’s what I’m talking about, Roy. See, he lived by a Code. 

You ever heard’ve th’ Code of th’ West?” 

Roy’s attention is focused on three things: Lucy, the kitchen, 

and food. 

“OK.” 

“It wasn’t written down, but everybody knew it. Here’s some.” 

For each adage he recites, Pete raises a finger. “Never miss a good 


chance to shut up. Don’t squat with your spurs on. Always drink upstream 

from th’ herd. Don’t corner something meaner’n you. Life is easier when 

you plow around th’ stump.” 

Lucy, arrived with their food, adds, 

“An’ never name a cow you plan on eatin’.” 

She settles the plates before them. 

“Anybody ever tell you you look like Willie Nelson?” 

She smiles at Pete while Roy tries to flag her attention. 

“No.” 

“Excuse me, ma’am—you have Tabasco?” 

Lucy nods. 

“Sure do, hon.” 

Pete feels uncomfortable beneath her stare. 

“That’s a handsome rig you’re wearin’. From ’round here?” 

“That’s right,” admits Pete, as he pricks a jittering yolk with 

his fork. 

“Y’all should come in more often.” 

Lucy’s smile appears to lack as many teeth as the counter 

lacks stools. 

She takes a step towards the table behind her and returns with 

a bottle of McIlhenny’s Pepper Sauce. 

She hands this to Roy. 

“This your boy, Willie?” 

A smile creeps across Pete’s face. 

Roy has the cap off, bottle poised—awaiting Pete’s reply. 

Pete shrugs. 

“Nephew.” 

Lucy’s smile deepens. 

“From Texas.” 

Lucy is impressed. She scrunches her chin. 

“Name’s Roy.” 

She widens her eyes. 

“That right?” 

ding 

“Roy Weston.” 

Lucy’s eyebrows soar. A tone of reverence invades her voice. 

“That was one’ve his names.” 


Pete mixes runny eggs with hash browns. 

He lifts an eyebrow at Roy. 

“Tolt ya.” 

Lucy bends down and stares into Roy’s face. 

“Damn. You got his eyes—he’s got Roy’s eyes. Damn. I 

wisht Ma was still here. Hoo-whee. Roy Weston. From Texas. 

I thought there was something familiar ’bout you when you come 

in.” 

ding 

“Shoot. Y’all need anything, just hollar.” She starts to leave, 

pauses to look at the two chewing men, and sighs. “Just think. 

Willie Nelson and Roy Rogers on the same day. Hoo-whee.” 

Roy sprinkles dots of aged hot sauce over his food. 

“You should taste it first,” suggests Pete. 

Roy shrugs, caps the bottle and sets it aside. 

“Nobody’s ever told me I looked like nobody before. Nobody’s 

ever said nothing about my name before, either.” 

“Your lucky day. Say—can you make biscuits an’ gravy?” 

Roy shrugs. 

“Had a recipe, I could.” 

“Back on th’ trail, cowboys called th’ camp cook a biscuit 

shooter.” 

“OK.” 

Pete sips from his fourth cup of coffee. 

“They got a museum down in California.” 

“Biscuit shooters?” 

Pete frowns. 

“No. Roy and Dale.” 

Roy leans in closer and lowers his voice. 

“He really stuff his horse?” 

Pete nods absently. 

“Antelope Valley. It’s a ways from here. Always thought I 

might like to visit.” 

“That’s weird.” 

Pete sets down his cup. 

“Goin’ to California?” 



“Stuffin’ his horse.” 

“Oh.” 

Pete eats. 

“These are great biscuits.” 

“So he had ’im gutted and stuffed like a fish?” 

Pete shrugs. 

“People do weird shit with pets. Roy loved Trigger, taught 

him everything. An’ horses aren’t that bright. But, Trigger… 

See, if it was jess Roy an’ Trigger an’ Dale on a ranch, that’d be 

one thing. Then he prob’ly wouldn’t have stuffed ’im. But it was 

more’n that. It was Roy an’ Trigger—an’ ten million little boys 

an’ girls. They loved Trigger, too. I know I did. And all of ’em 

wanted to ride ’im, at least meet ’im. Roy dint want to deprive 

any of us. That’s why he stuffed ’im.” 

Roy screws up his face. 

“And you can sit on him like that? A dead horse?” 

Pete shakes his head, his features flushed from the rush of 

C 8 H 10 N 4 O 2 . 

“No, Roy. You can’t. He’s not—it’s a museum. So. How far 

you think it is to Antelope Valley?” 

Roy sits back. 

“Never heard’ve the place.” 

Pete reflects on his own question. 

“Figure least a thousand miles.” 

Roy mops up the last of his food. 

“That’s a ways.” 

Pete eyes his compadre. 

“You don’t drive, do you?” 


Pete looks out the window. 

“Dint think so.” 

“You gonna tell me more about Roy?” 

Pete pats his coat pocket. 

“Sure thing. Where was I?” 

“Shoe factory.” 

Pete retrieves his tobacco pouch and EZ Wider papers. 

His tobacco pouch is filled with a special blend of Light 

Virginia burley, a touch of Turkish and a pinch of Maui Zowie. 


Watching Pete unzip the pouch, Roy leans forward and 

whispers, 

“Don’t think you can smoke in here, Pete.” 

Pete seems not to hear. 

“So—th’ shoe factory. Lenny hated it.” He stops fiddling 

with his smoking paraphernalia and raises eyes to Roy. “That 

was ’is real name—Leonard. Leonard Slye.” He busies his 

fingers again. “His pa took sick one day an’ stayed in bed with 

a headache. Lenny went to work an’ decided then and there 

he was done with it. He went home an’ told his pa they should 

visit kin out in California.” His twiddling digits produce a wellproportioned 

cigarette. “His pa’s headache cleared up right 

away, an’ off they went in a rattletrap car, campin’ along th’ 

way. That was th’ Spring of ’31. By ’33, he an’ Bob Nolan had 

founded the greatest Western singin’ group of all time.” He 

parks the rice paper tube on his lips, digs out a kitchen match 

and ignites its bulbous, strike-anywhere, red-and-white head on 

his thumbnail. 

He inhales. 

The peculiar blend of weeds perfume their space. 

“Ever travel much, Roy?” 

Roy dimples, shakes his head. 

“Nah.” 

“Any reason? I mean, other than total commitment to 

window washing?” 

Roy shrugs, scoots his plate away. 

“Jess never did’s all.” 

“OK.” Pete flicks ash into his plate. “So, you think you ever 

will?” 

Roy shrugs again, scoots his plate some more. 

“Dunno. Maybe.” 

“Maybe. Maybe not. Probably wise not to. Outside th’ city 

limits there are many horrors.” Pete chuckles. “From A Confederacy of 

Dunces. Ever read it?” 

Roy shakes his head and wishes Pete would change the 

subject. 

“Great book. All takes place in New Orleans.” Pete appears 

thoughtful as he smokes. “Useda live there. All through th’ 


’60s an’ ’70s. Guy wrote th’ book offed himself in ’69 ’cause he 

couldn’t get it published. After he died, his maw got it published 

an’ it won th’ fuckin’ Pulitzer Prize. Life can be a bitch, Roy.” 

Lucy sidles up. Her nose crinkles. Her hand not swirling 

coffee fans the air. 

“You’re such a bad boy, Willie! You ain’t supposed to be 

smokin’ in here.” 

She drops their check, sets down the coffee, and starts 

stacking plates. 

She has unbuttoned the top buttons of her blouse so that when 

she bends to clear their table her bottomless cleavage is revealed. 

Every man knows the magnetizing effect of bottomless 

cleavage. 

The boys ogle. 

She smiles up at Roy. 

“Yours is on the house, sugah. Maybe you’ll come back one 

day when you’re rich and famous. And you—” she smiles hard at 

Pete, then leans her lips into his hairy ear “—my number’s on the 

back.” 

Their dirty dishes piled into the crook of one arm, Lucy 

plucks Pete’s cigarette from his fingers. She takes a long, deep 

drag. 

“Hoo-whee! Now that’s a cigarette.” 

She exhales a plume of borrowed smoke. 

Her recidivist wisp licks her forehead again. 

“Damn.” 

She retrieves the coffee pot. 

“Hoo-whee.” 

She bats at the recalcitrant wisp. 

“Damn.” 

ding 

“Catch yah later, Willie—I hope.” 

She winks at Pete and flounces away. 

Pete slides the check towards Roy. 

Roy, whose face has hardened into a knot. 

“Th’ badger still gnawin’ your innards, Roy?” 

“Huh?” 


“What’s eatin’ you?” 

Roy shifts on his haunches. 

“Would you really have shot Rick dead?” 

Pete gives Roy a long appraisal before answering. 

“Nah. Just wing ’im, most like. Maybe nick an ear. Crease 

’is scalp, stuff like that.” 

Roy grins. 

“Teach th’ prick a lesson.” Pete squints at Roy. “He really 

your brother?” 

Leaning back in the booth to reach his horse choker, Roy 

nods. 


“Piece a work.” 

Roy peels off a bill. 

Pete continues, 

“I’ve known lots of dudes like him, Roy. All’ve ’em are busy 

bein’ dead right now.” 

He looks steadily at Roy. 

“You ever really want ’im dead, lemme know.” 

Roy stops peeling. 

“I know folks what’ll get ’er done.” He leans back. “Maybe 

even do it myself.” 

Roy drops a twenty onto the table and irons it out with the 

edge of his hand. 

“OK.” 

Pete studies Roy. 

“He scares you, don’t he?” 

Roy dips his head. 

“Sometimes—but he wouldn’t do nothin’. He’s all talk.” 

Pete’s stare is unwavering. 

“Rick wouldn’t do nuthin’—we’re bros.” 

Pete nods. 

“So were Cain an’ Able.” 

Roy’s mask drops a hair and reveals a bunch of sadness. 

“So what’s this business ’bout Thanksgivin’?” 

Roy’s eyes search the tabletop. 

“Nuthin’. Just Mel, Rick’s housemate.” He offers his 

compadre a sheepish grin. “He makes a big dinner every 


Thanksgiving, and he wants me to invite you, but he’s really 

gay—you know, really—and you probably wouldn’t wannna 

come anyway, so I dint bother you with it or anything.” 

His eyes search the table. 

Pete scratches his stubbly chin. 

“Normally I take my turkey down at th’ Shelter.” 

Roy looks up from the beaten tabletop. 

“Really?” 

Pete nods. 

“Really. I love turkey and cranberry an’ giblets an’ all that 

shit. After my birthday, it’s my favorite holiday.” 

Roy’s face beams. 

“Really?” 

Pete slides along the bench, drags his jacket with him. 

“Really.” 

Roy leaps to his feet. He unballs his yellow raincoat. 

“So...when’s your birthday?” 

Pete draws on his fringed jacket. 

After he smoothes his hair, he arranges the Stetson on his 

head. 

“Really, really gay, huh?” 

With his right hand’s extended index finger, he tilts back the 

brim of his sombrero. 

“Think I can handle that.” 

Seconds later, an ageing Ratso Rizzo and a portly Joe Buck 

push their way through the door and back onto Georgetown’s 

mean streets. 


From Ft. Belknap, on their journey’s 

first leg, they made a mere five miles. 

Charley Goodnight—Tejano, as the Apache called him—turned out to be 

a wise soul all of thirty years old, whose knowledge of the land and the beasts 

he drove, and of the men who rode with him, was remarkable and deep. 

He taught his men—those who were green or tender—that the stampede 

was especially to be guarded against during the first ten days on the trail. 

It could amount to several weeks before the animals were satisfactorily trail 

broke. Hence, all men were instructed to sleep—when sleep was possible— 

on the ground in their sougans with their horses staked nearby. It was not 

unusual for a cowboy, during this breaking-in period, or whenever the threat 

of stampede seemed imminent, to keep his boots on for weeks at a time, and 

to sleep no more than two hours out of twenty-four. 

“A stampedin’ herd is hard to fathom,” Goodnight explained around the 

fire to his hands, on their first night out. “Once it starts to run, it becomes 

almost chronic. An’ even though th’ herd might run itself to exhaustion, 

their nervous tension doesn’t subside there. Night after night, they have 

been known to take fright at somethin’. I seen three thousand steers dozin’ 

in peace—only a few restless old fellows on their feet—with th’ night riders 

circling ’round ’em at an easy gait. Then—somethin’ happens. Lord 

knows what. An’ them animals are up on their feet with unbelievable 

suddenness—as quick as the flash of a wakeful eye, unexpected as the flush 

of a covey of hidden quail—an’ with an ungodly roar of hoofbeats, an’ the 

distinct quaking of the earth, they will be up together in a second—an’ be 

gone. Whereas, an instant ago they slept in peace, scattered an’ headed 

to every point of the compass, now they’re on their feet, headed in th’ same 

direction, in th’ pitch of night, a wall of beef that will flatten a man until he 

is indistinguishable from th’ earth itself.” 

Throughout Charley Goodnight’s speech—one that he had oft repeated— 

his partner, Oliver Loving, an older man, seemed to draw into himself, and 

remained mute, happy to reside on the sidelines. 


The men dined on hearty fare, and turned in soon after. In the course of 

the night, however, a cloud came upon them, one that blotted out the stars, 

and heavy rains fell, sending the cowboys to the chuck wagon where an 

awning had been erected. 

On the following night, barely beyond Camp Cooper, Indians attacked 

and stampeded the herd. 

In the darkness there was no way to tell how many attackers there were. 

What was of utmost importance—besides saving their own skins—was 

turning the stampede back. 

The Young Cowboy and Chet, his new bedroll-mate, had been fortunate 

in their choice of ground on which to sleep. One edge of the buffalo pelt they 

rested upon had been caught and held upright by the high grass, and it was 

this that saved their lives. 

A dozen or more Indians rode out of the darkness and began firing rifles 

and shooting arrows into the herd. One of the arrows would have killed 

Chet, but that it struck the upturned portion of the buffalo skin and turned 

the arrow under, its tip buried into the ground. 

Chet, overwhelmed by the noise and roar of beasts in stampede, stood 

and began to run. 

“No! Stand your ground!” 

But he failed to heed his bedmate and, in an instant, an arrow lodged in 

his neck. 

The Young Cowboy started in disbelief for a second, then he clawed the 

ground, searching for his Henry. With this in hand, he rose to his knees and 

began to fire. 

Off to his right he could see Oliver Loving. He had tied his horse to 

the chuck wagon. In an effort to divert the thundering cattle from his men, 

struggling to find guns and horses, he stood in full view of the herd and 

waved a blanket, shouting at the top of his pitch. The man was obviously 

fearless, a fact that would prove itself over and over, and his tactic worked— 

the cattle, seeing him, split apart and his men were saved. 

The Young Cowboy, with occasional quick glances at Loving, continued 

to keep up a steady, accurate fire. Several Indians fell to his well-placed 

bullets, and soon they rode away at full gallop. 

In an instant, Loving, his belt knife out, cut his horse’s reins free of the 

wagon, and was up and on, faster than the eye could see. 

“The cattle!” 


The Young Cowboy, with a look to his new friend, whose body lay 

crumpled nearby, sprung to his horse, whose blood was already up, flesh 

tremoring with excitement, eyes flashing, and followed Loving, sliding the 

Henry into its boot, spurring his mount into a fast gallop. 

The storm from the previous night revisited them, reinvigorated and filled 

with a belly of wind and rain. Lightning cracked all around as they rode 

in utter darkness, trusting their horses, across treacherous prairie dog towns, 

up hills and down, across ravines and knolls and gullies. For the Young 

Cowboy, it was an elemental experience, one that would remain with him 

forever. 

Bose Ikard, an ex slave and fine night rider, managed to head off the herd 

and mill them back upon themselves. Only during lightning flashes could 

the men see clearly. The beasts were running so fast their bellies appeared 

to sink into the earth. By one o’clock in the morning the storm became so 

intense, and the wind came at such velocity, that the riders were forced to give 

up. 

At daylight, the herd was finally stopped. Greatly fatigued, the cattle 

soon fell to sleep, and the cowboys, worn to a frazzle, circled them while 

sleeping on their horses. 

All but one that is, who high-tailed it back to the chuck wagon where lay 

the body of his friend. 

He was amazed and relieved to learn his friend was still alive. The 

coozie, Nathan Boudreaux, came running up and knelt beside him. 

The spike of the arrow stuck in the bone just behind the boy’s ear. It was 

long and had gone in all the way. It was hoop-iron and not steel, and had 

to be removed before it corroded. Luckily, the point of the arrow had deflected 

off the bone, and pointed down, away from the brainpan. 

“Best to git that out’n him plenty quick,” Boudreaux advised. “Even if 

he is a Yank.” 

The only instrument they had to do this with was a pair of shoe pinchers. 

Loving galloped up then and peered down from his horse. 

“Is he alive?” 

Chet groaned. 

Loving swung to the ground. 

“Then best we keep him that way.” 

Being a bigger, stronger man than the other two, he held onto the boy’s 

shoulders. 


“You hold down his legs,” he instructed Boudreaux. Then he looked up 

into the Young Cowboy’s frightened face. 

“Son, you did real good tonight. I seen you, calm and coolheaded, shoot 

down several them Indians. Now it’s time for more courage. We’ll hold ’im 

down while you pull out th’ arrow.” 

Reluctantly, the Young Cowboy knelt and achieved a tight purchase with 

the pliers. 

Oliver Loving leaned down and peered into Chet’s frightened eyes. 

“You have any idea what today is, son?” 

Tears swelled in Chet’s eyes. 

“Why,” continued Loving, in an attempt to offer rough-hewed comfort, 

“today is Thanksgiving. Somethin’ to do with Indians bein’ our cousins. 

Ain’t that a hoot’n a half.” 

Boudreaux chuckled as he took hold of Chet’s legs. 

“Now, son, I’m not gonna lie to you—this is gonna hurt. But it’s your 

only chance. You scream all you want, won’t nobody hold it agin yah. We 

git this out’n you, I’ll personal ride you to my ranch an’ my wife, Mary, will 

nurse you back to good. But first we gotta git it out. You ready?” 

Chet, trembling with fear, face white and covered with sweat, managed a 

nod. He squeezed his eyes together tightly and waited. 

Loving looked back at the Young Cowboy and winked. 


A BUG-EYED 

black boy opens the picket gate for the two gents. Without 

dismounting from their horses, they enter Mel’s palatial grounds, 

with its topiary garden and chittering waterfalls. Their horses 

clomp up onto the wrap-around porch as the little pickaninny 

runs to the screen door and calls— 

“Massuh! Massuh! De’gentlemens hair!” 

Almost immediately the door swings open and Mel greets 

them with a huge smile. An immense magnolia blossom lolls 

above his left ear. He wears an iridescent, purple-striped taffeta 

bustle dress with fringe trim at the neck. The bustle back is 

decorated with tiny little baby blue bows, and the waist belt is 

cinched tightly to display his hourglass figure. 

His hair has been augmented with a cascade of finger curls. 

At his throat is a diamond cameo brooch. 

“Why—Roy, darlin’! You scamp! And here we thought you’d 

be at Manassas or some nasty place like that! How clever of you 

to come!” 

Roy, resplendent in a Confederate uniform, shoulders adorned 

with the gold braid of Lt. General, dismounts and doffs his 

plumed hat. He takes Mel’s fingers and kisses their tips lightly, 

properly maintaining eye contact. 

“Not at all. It’s an honor. May I introduce Mister Peter 

Bowie, from Texas.” 

Mel’s plucked eyebrows soar. He draws back slightly. 

Roy chuckles at his consternation. 

“Never fear, my dear. He’s on our side.” 

Pete, wearing a brace of pearl-handled Remingtons, fleece 

chapaderos, a white Tom Mix hat and Hereford cowhide vest, 

swings a long leg over his horse. Black lizard-skin boots with 

silver spurs thud onto the wooden porch. 


ching ching 

He chings his way to the lovely Melpomene. 

Sweeping up a clutch of Mel’s bejeweled fingers, he removes 

his hat and bows. 

“Ah ahm yore servant, ma’am.” 

An intricately embroidered Point de Gaze fan appears in Mel’s 

other hand. Its wing beats the air as if an elegant, crippled 

butterfly. 

“Why, Mister Bowie.” 

Pete rises from his beau geste. 

“Please, ma’am. I insist y’all call me Pistol Pete.” 

“Well.” Mel bats long, mascaraed lashes. “If you insist.” 

He offers an arm to General Roy, but his eyes—coquettishly 

veiled behind the beating fan—are riveted on Pistol Pete. 

“Gen’rul…” 

Roy takes Mel’s arm and they enter into the main Ballroom. 

“Roy?” 

Pete nudges him. 

“Wake up, Roy. We’re here.” 

Roy opens a pair of watery blue, bleary eyes. 

He’s got the best sleep of his life since he started smoking 

Pete’s pot. 

With a long, metallic squeal, and an eruption of compressed 

air, the bus jerks to a stop. 

Roy had fallen asleep listening to the Sons singing Ghost Riders 

in the Sky. His new, blue, Chinese player no longer spins CDs at 

500 revolutions per minute. Pete stands when the driver calls 

out— 

“Roy!” 

It is the same wizened, gay driver from before. 

Roy is sure the driver didn’t recognize him when they 

boarded; he had been too busy staring at Pete. 

Pete had spent the morning dressing, while Roy had spent it 

washing. 

Roy had enjoyed a really long, hot soak. A really long, hot 

soak, and a shampoo. Pete had offered to let him use some of 

his expensive hair shit. He also shaved. He also plucked some 


hairs from his ears. Not all mind you, because (a) the light in the 

B THR OM was so bad, and (b) he just really didn’t care. After all, 

if he plucked out all his ear hairs, where would it end? Would he 

pluck his back, next? The space between his eyebrows? 

His crotch? 

He just thinned it a little. 

Donned in a clean pair of jeans and a rumpled white tee-shirt, 

over which he pulled one of his three Pendelton wool shirts, he 

waited while Pete took his sweet-ass time. 

Of course, while he waited he listened to his new CDs. So 

accustomed to this new machine has Roy become—and in such 

short order, too—that the thought of returning to his old Sony 

tape player now seems inconceivable. 

He’s so done with stretchy tapes and broken cassette cases. 

Besides, coupled with his new Bose headphones, the CD 

sound is awesome. 

Roy had faced the music, and his verdict was in—CD 

technology rocks. 

Thus had he been lost in his tunes, his remaing hair drying 

naturally, sitting on his musty bed, eyes closed, rain pelting his 

windowpanes, sitting thus when the knock came that signaled 

Pete was done. 

Despite his new Bose headphones, Roy heard the knock, 

having been anticipating it forever, and quickly sprang to his feet. 

He pressed STOP as he crossed the tiny room, and opened the 

door. 

Respectfully, he removed his new Bose headphones. 

Pete was resplendent in rhinestones. 

“Ready?” 

All Roy could do was nod. 

From his white hat, circled with a solid silver band, to his 

white boots, painted with American flags—Pete was every 

inch the electric cowboy. His jacket, also white, was intricately 

embroidered with green cactuses and pink roses outlined in 

rhinestones while, on his back, a bald eagle soared, surrounded 

by gold and red stars bespangled with jewels. Red and silver 

fringes were sewn to the outsides of his sleeves, and hung as well 


from the bat-wing piping that crossed his chest and back. His 

shirt was purple, with embroidered half-moon pockets and two 

large, yellow, vined hibiscus flowers. To finish it off, a bolo tie— 

a silver concho—adorned his neck. 

His silver-tasseled pants were held up with a rhinestoneembedded 

belt, its silver buckle decorated with a golden eagle. 

“An original Nudie,” Pete announced, without further 

elucidation. “Better to be looked over than overlooked.” 

That was why the old gay bus driver stared. 

And why all the other passengers on the bus craned their 

necks to stare, too, most likely wondered where Pete and his 

sidekick might be headed, dressed like that. 

Maybe a Rodeo’s in town. 

But this is where they were really headed—: to Mel’s, for 

Thanksgiving dinner. 

“The lettuce is all wilty!” 

Pete and Roy stand on Mel’s front porch. The front door 

gapes open, the screened door lounges closed. 

From inside, a high-pitched voice shrieks— 

“I said, the lettuce is all wilty!” 

Roy offers Pete a goofy smile. 

“It looks like gadamned wet, green toilet paper!” 

Pete raps some knuckles on the lounging screen door. 

Roy freaks a tiny bit when he hears his brother’s voice. 

“—th’ fuck eats that shit, anyhow?” 

“Fuckin’ bunnies is who, white retard,” replies the shrill voice. 

Pete’s knuckles bark louder. 

“Was that the door?” Shriller voice, less shrill this time. 

“Someone’s at the door! Answer the fuckin’ door, Rick!” 

“Fuck you, bitch.” 

“Five dollars and a health card—which I know you ain’t got 

neither of.” 

From the hallway leading into the kitchen appears Mel. 

Roy is disappointed he is not wearing a hooped skirt. 

He does, however, wear a lacy apron. 

“It’s Roy!” He calls this back over his shoulder. “And he’s not 

a-LOWooone!” 

Mel arrives at the lazy screen door wearing all kinds of smiles. 


He studies Pete from head to toe. 

“Candygram for Mongo?” 

An impassive Pete touches his hat brim. 

Roy introduces them. 

“Mel, Pete. Pete, Mel.” 

Mel springs open the lounging door and offers Pete a soft, 

ringless hand. 

“Howdy, Sheriff.” 

Wearing pink boating shorts with matching polo blouse, 

a slender black man floats into the room. His bare midriff’s 

pierced navel is adorned with a glittering stone. When he sees 

Pete, his hand flies to his mouth. 

“Ohmygod! A Republican!” 

Behind them, a leaf-lengthened dining table has been covered 

with a white linen tablecloth and set with Lalique plates, Limoge 

stemware, and Tiffany cutlery. 

As its centerpiece, a thick cut-glass vase bursts redly with 

roses. 

Mel is definitely putting on the dog. 

He can’t take his eyes off Pete who removes his hat and 

smoothes back his white hair. 

Mel reaches out a hand. 

“Allow me to take your Stetson.” 

“Much obliged.” 

Mel receives Pete’s hat as if a relic of Tutankhamun. 

The young pink-and-black man stretches out a cashmere 

hand. 

“I’m Jason, the black fairy. I spread Happy Dust far and 

wide. You must be the boyfriend we’ve heard so nothing about.” 

Pete frowns. 

“Th’ what?” 

Mel cradles Pete’s hat and snorts. 

“Don’t mind her. Mimosas for breakfast with no breakfast.” 

Jason’s mascaraed eyes smoulder. 

He turns back to Pete and examines his gleaming togs. 

“Honey, I got an outlet if you got an extension cord.” 

An unperturbed Pete penetrates further into the room. 

“Nice place yah got.” 


Mel is preoccupied with where to put Pete’s hat. He brushes 

Pete’s compliment aside. 

“Combination early Twentieth century and too-late-to-fix.” 

His eyes land on the Ardley Hall china cabinet. As he 

transfers Pete’s relic of American cinematic history to the peak of 

the battered, but not beaten, Ardley, Rick enters the room. 

“Fuckin’ A.” 

Everyone but Mel turns. 

“Eek. It got out.” Jason steps closer to Pete. “Save me, 

daddy.” 

Rick’s hair, wet from a recent dowsing, is combed back from 

his ratty face. 

Pete ignores Jason and stares hard at the recently-rinsed Rick. 

A shadow beneath Rick’s nose testifies to the birth-pangs of a 

mustache. 

He wears a white poet’s shirt open to his breastbone. Black 

leather pants make him sound like a human huarache when he 

walks. 

Pete turns to Roy. 

“You’re absolutely positive he’s your brother?” 

Jason laughs throatily and wraps a gaggle of fingers around 

one of Pete’s old-man biceps. 

“You’re funny.” He leans closer. “I’m a Libra.” 

“You’re a bitch,” opines Rick, who then laughs as if he just 

said something witty. 

He glares hatefully at Pete. “And you—” 

Mel—his hands relieved of Pete’s hat—waggles a warning 

finger. His gayness is instantly gone. 

“You behave tonight. I mean it.” 

Behind him, above him, as if the light surmounting a 

lighthouse, Pete’s white hat gleams. 

“This is my dinner. I paid for it, I cooked it, and I’m gonna 

enjoy it—with or without you, mister two-months-behind-in-hisrent.” 

Rick fumes. His face chases after the color of the red, red 

roses. He sputters when he speaks. 

“Me an’ Roy, we got bidness—” 


Mel holds erect the selfsame, still-threatening finger. 

“Zip it.” 

Rick’s ears ride back on his head. His nostrils flare and his 

teeth grind. 

But he doesn’t say another word. 

“You ain’t got nothin’ but trouble headed your way you fuck 

this up for me tonight, understand roomie?” 

Mel turns from the seething Rick and presents his guest with a 

placid smile. 

“Bet you’re a Capricorn. Are you? A Capricorn cowboy?” 

Jason snuggles against Pete and giggles. 

Pete tenses his old-man bicep and smiles his old-man smile. 

“Leo, ma’am.” 

“Leo? That’s what Mae West was. She was in that picture 

with Cary Grant. What was it? He was a Capricorn.” 

“She Done Him Wrong. 1933. And I’m a Leo.” 

Mel beams. 

“A Leo who likes old movies?” 

Pete hikes a spangled shoulder. 

“Maybe. A little.” 

Roy snorts. 

Jason’s fingers unravel from Pete’s dilapidated arm. 

“I see dead people.” 

Pete and Mel size each other up. 

“I like Westerns,” Pete announces. 

Mel appears delighted with the news. 

“Me, too, girlfriend.” Mischief gleams in his eyes. “Did you 

know Randolph Scott was gay?” 

Pete seems genuinely surprised. “I thought he was acy-ducy.” 

Jason laughs, forgetting to cover his crooked teeth. 

“I’d say he did his best work in th’ late forties, early fifties— 

pitchers like Th’ Tall T.” 

A suggestion of gravity creeps over Mel. 

Mel: “Fighting Man of the Plains.” 

Pete: “Seven Men from Now.” 

Jason (stage whisper): “I wanna see that one.” 

Mel: “Comanche Station.” 


Pete: “Buchanan Rides Alone.” 

Mel: “Thunder Over the Plains.” 

Jason and Rick drift towards the kitchen. 

Pete: “The Stranger Wore a Gun.” 

Mel: “Ride the High Country.” 

Pete: “Sam Peckinpah directed. Joel McCrea and—” 

Mel: “—Mariette Hartley. What was Scott’s horse’s name?” 


“You know that?” 

“I do, indeed. Do you, mister Leo DiCapricorn Cowboy?” 

Mel grins. 

Pete may have met his match, but not his master...or whatever. 

“He rode Stardust, a golden palomino.” 

Roy: “Did he stuff it?” 

Pete, choosing to ignore Roy, instead studies Mel as if for the 

first time. 

“I’m impressed.” 

“Why? Because I’m a swish?” 

“No. ’Cause I never meet nobody—man woman or swish— 

knew that much shit about Randolph Scott.” 

Mel waves this away as if it’s as unimportant as it actually is. 

“Know ’em all, sweetie—raised watching shoot ’em ups. I’m 

from Kiss-ass Tex-ass.” 

A hint of awe leaks into Pete’s voice. 

“You’re from Texas?” 

Roy is surprised by the news, too. 

“I dint know that.” 

“You don’t know much, Roy—” Mel pinches Roy’s cheek 

“—but you’re sweet.” 

Pete frowns. 

“You don’t sound Texan.” 

“Thank you—I don’t act Texan, either. Although I like to 

screw one every now and then. I left home—Waco—when I was 

fourteen. Not a fun place for a gay caballero.” 

Pete nods as if he understands. 

“You like the Sons?” 

“The Sons? Hell, I was raised on the Sons. Whenever 


daddy wasn’t drunk and beating on us he used to listen to the 

Grand Old Opry. Roy Acuff, Patsy Cline, Ernest Tubb, Hank 

Williams—” 

Jason rushes into the room. 

“The dildo-thingy popped out.” 

Mel bats his eyes. 

“Then baste and turn off oven.” 

Jason perches his left fist on his hip of the same side. 

“I ain’t gonna use a fuckin’ baster, uh-uh. Them things weird 

me out.” 

Mel sighs. 

“You boys find your places at the table. Dinner’s almost 

ready—we’ll be right out.” 

Grabbing Jason by the shoulders, he spins him around and 

shoves him along the hall. 

Pistol Pete sneaks a peek at Eponymous Roy. 

“Well, well.” 

He slips off his spangled jacket. 

“Yeah.” Roy shucks his yellow raincoat. 

Cardboard tents indicate who sits where. Mel has the table’s 

head, with Roy on his right and Pete on his left. Rick sits next to 

Roy, Jason next to Pete. 

“This oughta be amusin’,” opines Pete. He hangs his jacket on 

the back of his chair. 

Roy scoots in across from him. 

“Thanks for comin’, Pete.” 

Pete squints at the renunculus wreath on the rim of his plate. 

“No problem. I can see why you might not’ve wanted me to.” 

Roy shrugs. 

“Mel’s OK. Sometimes he can be a little weird’s all.” 

Pete shrugs back. 

“Hey—he’s from Texas. Gotta expect that.” 

Roy nods. 

“OK.” 

Distracted by one of the paintings hanging nearby, Pete 

scrapes back his chair and steps around the table for a closer 

look. 


In the foreground, a cowboy gallops at full tilt, hat flattened 

by the wind, while behind him fingers of lightening reach down 

from a black sky and strike into a herd of stampeding cattle. 

“It’s not real, of course.” 

Mel appears, this time apronless, carrying one of the largest 

turkeys Pete’s ever seen. 

Resting on an enormous silver platter, it is surrounded by 

stuffed, baked apples and sprigs of Italian parsley. 

“’Course not.” Pete moves towards the table. “Can I hep?” 

Roy starts to stand. 

“Thanks, no—I’ve got it.” Mel sets the roasted behemoth on 

the table’s open range. “There.” 

He steps back and admires the view. 

Pete gazes upon the perfectly-browned bird. 

“It’s real purdy.” 

Mel asks, 

“The Remington, or the turkey?” 

Pete grins. 

“Both.” 

Mel rubs his hands together. 

“Sit, sir. Let the revels begin.” 

Jason carries in a large pot of mashed potatoes and a boat of 

gravy. Rick follows behind, barely managing a big plate piled 

with steaming garnet yams in one hand, and a tureen swimming 

with lima beans in the other. 

It takes the trio three trips for all the food to appear. 

Pete’s eyes search each delivered item for signs of something 

cranberry. 

Finally, Jason sets down the last two dishes—a Waldorf salad, 

and a bowl of Chianti-colored berries floating in a crimson pool. 

“The cranberry sauce is great-gran’s recipe. She was the first 

white woman born in Waco. Her specialty was chasing down a 

chicken, wringing its neck, plucking it and frying it to perfection 

in under twenty minutes.” 

A smile plays with Pete’s mouth. 

“A saint.” 

Mel studies the table briefly, frowns, then shoots a malefic 

look at Rick. 


“Where’s the wine? You drink it all?” 

Rick reacts as if stung. 

“Fuck, no. Don’t drink that shit.” 

Mel glowers. 

“See if you can’t keep your fucking potty mouth clean for two 

hours—OK? Now go get some godamned wine!” 

Rick spins and stalks out of the room, a black cloud trailing 

after. 

“I want this to be a nice meal, Rick!” Mel speaks to Rick’s 

retreating back. “Not a circle jerk.” 

Mel takes his place at the table’s head. Everyone sits. Pete, 

pulling in his chair, comments: 

“Hard to believe they’re brothers.” 

Mel reaches over and pats Roy’s hand. 

“My big strong, Holly Golightly.” 

Roy’s hand slides into his lap just as his brother stumps back 

into the room. 

“Here’s your fucking wine.” 

He bangs two uncorked bottles of Beaujolais onto the snowy 

linen cloth then, dropping heavily into his chair, he stares 

balefully into his plate, oblivious of the renunculus. 

Mel glugs wine into his stemmed glass, then passes the bottle 

around. When all but Rick has a measure before them, he raises 

his glass in a toast. 

“In the words of Frederic Remington—‘The West is dead. 

Long live the West!’” 

When bottoms of stemware touch back down onto the 

tabletop, Mel asks this of Pete: 

“Would you mind saying grace?” 

Under his breath, Rick utters his favorite word. 

Pete closes his eyes and lowers his chin. 

Jason squints his eyes closed and bows his head—the things 

learned in childhood—then kicks Rick when he does neither. 

Had he not had a childhood? 

“Lord—I reckon I’m not much jess by myself. I fail to do a 

lot’ve things I oughta do. But, Lord, when trails’re steep an’ pass 

is high, help me ride it straight th’ whole way through. An’ in 


the fallin’ dusk when I get th’ final call—I don’t care how many 

flowers they send—above all else, th’ happiest trail will be for 

You to say to me—‘Let’s ride, my friend’. Amen.” 

A smile settles on Mel’s face. 

“I’m just so...tickled to have you with us tonight, Pete.” He 

turns to Roy. “Thank you, Roy.” 

Roy stares into his plate and shrugs. 

Roy, who has not the slightest idea what a renunculus is. 

“What—” interjects Jason “—ever. Can we eat, now?” 

Mel, ignoring the question, raises his glass to Pete. 

“May your horse never stumble, your spurs never rust, your 

guts never rumble, and your cinch never rust.” 

Their glasses touch with a clink. 

clink 

“Now—” Mel informs a goggle-eyed Jason “—we can eat.” 

He looks at fuming Rick. 

“Ricky, you think you’re so good with a knife—let’s see what 

you can do with a turkey.” 

Trapped by his inability to pay rent, seething at Mel and 

Roy—especially that old asshole—oh yeah, and Jason for being 

such a flaming faggot—he savagely attacks the inert bird. 

Within minutes, a once proud, masterfully-roasted turkey is 

rendered into a mound of lacerated flesh. 

Hands relay bowls and plates of tasty victuals; spoons reduce 

levels of beans, gravy, and soup; forks fly; mouths fill with food, 

instead of words; wine bottles empty; candles melt; roses wilt. 

The human digestive system has limits. The body can absorb 

only so much nutrition, then it must stop. Then enzymes must 

undertake heroic tasks, and peristalsis strut its stuff. Then acids 

must roll up sleeves and set tattooed arms to work. 

And, throughout this regimen, men and women alike must 

become slaves to lethargy—unzip trousers, loosen girdles, 

uncinch belts, belch, fart, yawn and droop. 

“What’s for dessert?” 

That was Rick’s annoying voice. 

The rest of the table lolls and mulls and sprawls and dawdles. 

“I told him—” he points to Roy, whose face instantly fills with 


dread “—I told you to bring dessert. Dildo.” Rick shakes his 

head in despair. “See what I put up with? I knew you’d fuck it 

up, baldy.” 

Mel, distrubed from his tryptophan trance, slides his eyes to 

Roy. He delivers a smile meant to convey All is Forgiven. 

“I want dessert,” bleats Rick. “What’s fuckin’ Thanksgiving 

without fucking dessert?” 

When Pete raises a hand in objection, Rick twists his face into 

a snarl. 

That same hand of Pete’s that demonstrated its objection 

rummages about inside the fringed, spangled jacket. When said 

hand emerges, it holds a plastic-wrapped object. This plasticwrapped 

object, tossed, lands on the table before Rick. 

Rick’s snarl ebbs and flows into a gape of amazement. 

Before him rests a sizeable bag of pot. 

In a flash, he snatches it up and unpeels it. 

A pungent bouquet suffuses the room. 

Rick, salivating, utters his very most favorite word, while 

Jason, giggling girlishly, says, 


Mel molds his features into a benignant smile. 

“You may come to Christmas dinner also, Pete.” 

Jason agrees. 


Pete flips a box of EZ Widers onto the tablecloth. 

It is barely landed—is, in fact, still moving—when Rick seizes 

upon it and starts plucking out ricepaper sheets. 

Guttering candles flicker in the passing drafts of time. 

Mel inhales deeply, shakes himself awake, then stands and 

utters a single, two-syllable word. 

“Cognac.” 

Afflicted by the stiffness of age, he rises and crosses the room 

to a corner cabinet where he stands swaying a bit as he digs a 

keyring from his pocket. A small key enters into the cabinet’s 

ornamental lock and the dark, raised-panel door swings open 

to reveal an array of bottles. Selecting a rotund one from his 

collection, he re-locks the cabinet door and unstably returns to 

the table. 


“I have to keep everything of value locked away.” He explains 

this as he re-settles into his seat. Uncorking the bottle, he pours 

himself a belt. “I have a suspicious character for a housemate.” 

He passes the bottle to Pete. 

Rick is heedless of this jab, focused as he is on the production 

of five white torpedoes. 

Pete, poured, passes the bottle to Roy. 

Mel looks approvingly upon Roy as he fills his glass. 

“I see someone’s been broadening Roy’s palette.” 

Roy flushes. 

“Pete’s been havin’ me over his place, some.” He looks to Pete 

as if for approval. “We watch old black-and-whites. Westerns, 

mostly.” 

Mel is intrigued. 

“Mostly?” 

Pete picks up the thread. 

“I might’ve given th’ lad a dram or two. Can’t rightly recall. 

An’ I may’ve rolled ’im a doob once or twice. Wouldn’t surprise 

me any.” 

Mel chuckles into his glass. 

“No one’s telling, dear. I say it’s about time. Next thing, our 

Royboy will be having sexual congress.” 

Roy’s eyes shift nervously. 

Jason snorts. 

“Yeah, when feral cats line dance.” 

“Now, now,” chides Mel. “It’s always the quiet ones.” 

He presents his glass for Pete and Roy to clink. 

“Here’s to old black-and-white Westerns.” 

“Skoal.” 

“OK.” 

clink clink clink 

As if gifts from merciful gods—gods placated by clinks and 

tinkles—five joints travel around the table. 

“Ah,” announces Mel. “The Life.” He tips a candle towards 

the slender cylinder between his lips. 

Briefly, his face is bathed in saffron light. 

Pete sparks off his old Bic lighter. 

A lull ensues. Quiet reigns as the group’s higher brain centers, 


lobbied by lower thoughts, swell chest cavities with inhaled smoke 

that diffuses across alveolar membranes, pass into pulmonary 

capillaries, and stampede stoned hemoglobin to brains. 

“Fuck.” 

This comes, of course, from Rick, master of the monosyllabic 

bon mot. 

“Shit,” vouchsafes Jason, first runner-up. 

Roy—replete from the groaning board, saturated with the 

several beverages imbibed, and now thorougly stoned—has 

nothing of substance to add. 

The reigning quiet is interrupted in places by the bark of a 

cough or an occasional, monosyllabic expletive. 

Mel is the first to make a foray into sentence structuring. 

“‘They bought me a box of tin soldiers, I threw all the 

generals away. I smashed up the sergeants and majors, now I 

play with my privates all day.’” 

Rick’s doobie glows. 

“Great dessert,” observes Jason, staring fixedly into the 

flickering of a candle’s flame. “No trans-fats.” 

Roy’s eyes droop. 

Pete leans forward and removes Roy’s plate just as Roy’s head, 

like an overheavy sunflower, thunks upon the linen-covered 

tabletop. 

“Almost innocent lamb,” appraises Mel. 

While Jason continues to stare into the candle’s flame, Rick 

recklessly kicks back his chair and staggers to his feet. 

“Fuck.” 

He sways as he walks towards the stairs, his favorite word 

trailing behind. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” 

Mel and Pete watch as he ascends, half-crawling, half-drawing 

himself upstairs with the aid of a handrail. 


“Kids today.” 

Mel hoists the brandy bottle. 

“Drinkie?” 

Congenial Pete seems well disposed to Proposing Mel’s 

proposal. 


Mel, unopposed, pours. 

clink 

“So what’s up, Pete? Mentoring Roy into manhood?” 

Pete shrugs. 

“Sorta jess happened’s all.” 

Mel farts. 

“So did that.” 

Pete employs his stemware to indicate Snoring Roy. 

“He never hearda th’ Sons.” 

Mel shakes his head. 

“When he baked you a lasagna, Rick figured you were 

bunkmates.” 

“Sneaky little Bob Ford.” 

“The dirty little coward who shot mister Howard, and laid 

poor Jesse in his grave.” 

“Necktie party most like in that hombre’s future.” 

Mel nods, his attention drifting away. 

A stoned silence ensues. 

The old house ticks and pops. 

“So.” Mel, snapping awake, licks his lips. “Big Roy Rogers 

fan?” He tries to focus on the flame-flickered Pete. 

Pete replies shruggingly, if such a thing is possible. 

“Reckon so. Why dy’ask?” 

Mel’s thoughts have to make exhausting detours around the 

giant holes in his brain. 

“Your, uhm—prayer.” 

Pete crumples his forehead. 

“Yeah? Seemed fittin’. Myself, I don’t do much Bible readin’ 

these days.” 

“Did you ever?” 

“Some, once, in th’ calaboose.” 

“Did some time?” 

Pete nods. 

“Nickel.” 

He tries not to ignite his nose while relighting his roach. 

Mel regards the lighter’s flame. 

“So.” His wandering eyes alight upon Roy’s fallen baldness. 

“Bet he’s never hearda Hoot Gibson.” 


Pete snorts. 

“Or Tom Mix, Gene Autry. Or Leonard Slye.” 

Mel’s cognac swirls. 

“Who?” 

Pete browses the shadowy room. 

“Roy Rogers.” 

The last trace of Jason’s consciousness toggles off. 

He slumps forward, slowed in his decline by Pete’s hand. 

Pete slides aside Jason’s plate with his free hand. 

“Oh. That’s right. He changed ’is name.” 

“That’s th’ Merkin Way,” observes Pete as he eases Jason’s 

head down gently onto the tabletop. 

Mel cranks up an eyebrow. 

“That why JW’s on your belt buckle?” 

Jason greets the tabletop with a sigh. 

“What d’you remember most ’bout Roy Rogers?” 

Mel fills his sinuses with cognac fumes. 

“The ranch. The fat guy with the funny voice.” 

“Andy Devine.” 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.” 

“So your daddy was a Texan?” 

“Daddy was a Texan, I’m a son of a bitch.” 

“Dint git along, huh.” 

Mel belches. 

“He wanted me to be John Wayne. I wanted me to be Dale 

Evans.” 

“Tough hombre?” 

“Made Pecos Bill look like Dick Cavett.” 

Pete takes a moment to ponder this. 

“Ma?” 

“’Till he run her off.” 

Sipping Pete commiserates. 

“Life shore ain’t nothin’ like in th’ movin’ pitchers.” 

“No, no, it sure ain’t.” Mel moistens his lips. “Ever see The 

Last Picture Show?” 

Impenetrable Pete ignores Mel’s moist, recent question. 

Instead, he makes an announcement. 

“Man’s gotta have a Code.” 


If one can be said to frown with consternation, that is how 

Mel frowns. 

“You ever been on a horse, Pete?” 

Pete parries Mel’s thrust. 

“Roy Rogers lived by a Code. Good one, too.” 

“Boy Scouts live by a Code. Cute ones, too.” 

“Your pa had a Code, things-ad been different.” 

“Pa hadn’t been a sadist, things-ad been different.” 

Snoringly, Roy mumbles. 

Pete says, 

“That boy there.” He points towards Roy’s crown. “Needs a 

Code.” 

Mel’s head is inclined to agree. 

“That boy there needs to get th’ fuck outta Dodge.” 

Pete longs for a wooden kitchen match upon which to chew. 

“Makes yah say that, Mel?” 

“Why, honey—Roy’s never been anywhere, except Seattle and 

MONroe.” 

“MONroe?” echoes Pete. 

“Work Farm. Visit Little Ricky.” 

“Not MonROW?” 

“No, Pete. Not. ” 

Swirling Mel airmails old Pete a kiss. 

“The West, sweetie, is gone. Fuckin’ been long gone. Wild 

Bunch? Who the fuck cares? All gone, long gone.” 

Pete, extending his right index finger, taps the side of his 

nose. 

“Except what’s up here.” 

“Boogers?” 

“In my head.” 

“That where you keep your Code?” 

One of Mel’s digits suddenly stabs the air— 

“I know what else! Roy’s dog, Bullet. Always wanted a dog 

when I was a kid. Wanted a horse, too. And a bra.” 

“You remember Dale’s horse, Buttermilk?” 

Mel nods. 

“Wonder she stuffed it? Wonder she stuffed ’er bra?” 


Pete slides his chair out from under the table in preparation 

for sliding himself out of selfsame chair. 

He becomes erect. 

“Best be headed out, Mel.” 

Mel leans forward and stares. 

“Pete. I do believe you’re erect.” 

Pete slips on his fringed jacket. 

“Thanks for th’ grub. An’ th’ talk.” 

“It has been a delight.” Mel flattens hands upon the tabletop 

and presses himself upward. “By all means go to California, 

Pete. Swimmin’ pools. Movie stars.” 

Pete’s fringes sway whitely. 

“Ain’t nothin’ there fer me.” 

“Roy’s museum,” Mel reminds. 

Had this fact slipped Pete’s mind? 

“Yup.” 

“Just a thought.” 

“Yup.” 

And then those antediluvian snores. 

Roy’s snores. 

For some reason, he’s begun wearing pink-and-green tie-dyed 

Bermuda shorts. 

For some other reason—maybe the same reason, who 

knows?—so has Pete. 

Each grips a glass suitcase filled with snapping and popping 

electric eels. 

They stand on Mel’s front porch, a Bozo the Clown bop bag 

rocking nearby. 

Mel squeaks opens the screen door and steps outside. Upon 

his head is perched a pith helmet. The remainder of his body is 

dressed for safari. 

“Boys! You returnin’ the helium pie?” 

Pete rests his case and removes several tomatoes from his 

jacket’s pockets. He hands these to Mel. 

“Keep the change, ma’am.” 

Smiling, Mel takes the tomatoes and puts them under his 

helmet. 


A car squeals to a stop. The three of them—and Bozo—turn 

to look. 

Jason sits inside Herbie, the Love Bug. He sticks an enraged 

face—his own—out the window, and starts to scream. 

“You bitch! You bitch!” 

Bozo’s nose glows redly. 

A cloud of colorful cockatiels fly past. 

Jason grips a gun. 

“You’re sleeping with him! You lyin’ bitch!” 

Roy is chewing gum, and only hears every other word. 

“You’re…with…You…bitch!” 

bang bang bang 

Mel’s shirt sprouts bloody roses. 

His hands fly to protect what’s left of his un-shot self. 

bang 

A bullet penetrates his right hand, the one he had been using 

to protect—inadequately—his heart. 

“Ow!” cries Mel. “Yah got me!” 

He crumbles, tumbles down the steps and onto the shadowpuddled 

lawn. Blood stipples the porch. Streaks of red smear the 

treads. 

“Ow! Ow!” 

Jason’s voice: 

“Serves you right—fuckin’ Pisces!” 

“Ow! Ow! I’m murdered!” 

The screen door flies open and Rick flashes past. He slips 

in Mel’s blood and lands on his backside beside his fallen 

housemate. 

“Mel!” 

“Rick!” 

“I love you, man!” 

“Love you too, babe. Bye.” 

Mel closes his eyes. 

Rick is enraged. 

“Fuck! Who did this?” 

Mel’s arm lifts and points a bloody finger. 

Rick’s eyes follow the length of Mel’s raised arm and sights 

dramatically along its bloody finger. 


“You!” 

Pete turns and stares at Roy. 

“You? You shot him?” 

Bozo nods. 

Rick stands. 

“Thou most murderous villain!” 

Roy is chewing gum. 

“...most…villain!” 

But he gets the drift, does Roy. 

“Dint.” 

“Did so! You killed him.” 

A gun appears in Roy’s hand. 

Pete gasps and steps back. 

“It was you.” 

Rick snaps open a switchblade Samurai sword. 

Roy shakes his head, backing along the porch until Bozo’s 

nose stops him. 

beep 

“I dint. I’m innocent. It was Jason—” 

Jason sticks his head back outside of Herbie. 

“Nah-uh! I saw the whole thing—baldy did it! Kill him, 

Ricky! Kill ’im, Roy! Whoo-hoo!” 

A somber Pete agrees. 

“You better kill ’im ’fore he kills you. Then me. Then all th’ 

virgins in th’ world.” 

Roy transforms into Don Knotts and points a blunderbuss at 

Rick. 

“But th-th-the eels, Andy—” 

“Eels my ass!” Rick advances towards his brother. “You 

killed my lover!” 

“Tell ’im, baby,” encourages a moaning, murdered Mel. 

Roy’s pink-and-green tie-dyed Bermuda shorts are gone. In 

their place, he wears a classic cowboy rig covered in rhinestones 

and sequins. 

Just like a real, godamned cowboy. 

A silver-banded black hat rests atop his head. 

He has grown a mustache. 

“Don’t take another step, Bart.” 


Rick takes another step. 

“Or another.” 

Rick takes another. 

“I’m a-warnin’ yah.” 

They stand on the porch of the Brown Betty Saloon. 

A warm wind whistles, tumbles tumbleweeds along a rutted, 

dusty street. 

The scent of sagebrush fills the air. 

Rick slashes the space between them with his Samurai sword. 

blink 

It turns into a Winchester rifle. 

blink 

He wears chaps and nothing else. 

blink 

He sneers around a handlebar moustache. 

“I shot pa through th’ back, now I’m a-gonna shoot you 

through th’ front.” 

Roy tries to back further away. 

beep 

Bozo’s nose again. 

blink 

Mel, wearing a sombrero and sitting astride a burro, bloody 

puddles beneath his feet, rolls a joint. 

“Jest keel heem so whe can fook won last tyme, hokay?” 

Pete, the town drunk, stumbles through the saloon’s swinging 

doors. 

“Need a hand, marshal?” 

A tin star appears on Rick’s bare chest. 

“Ow!” 

“Not you,” says Pete. “Him.” 

The tin star vanishes from Rick’s chest, leaving two red 

pinholes. 

blink 

It reappears, affixed to Roy’s spangled vest. 

“Nah.” Roy spits out his gum. “I got ’im.” 

“Hey—Roy?” 

The murdered Mel again. 

“Roy?” 


Roy squeezes his eyes together. 

Cold hands do shake the darling boy of clay. 

beep 

Bozo again? 

“Time to get up, Roy.” 

Roy’s eyes flutter a moment before opening onto the semidarkness 

of the candlelit room. 

Mel is standing over him. 

“Whu?” 

Roy’s lips feel like parchment, although Roy has no idea what 

parchment is. 

With a groan, he sits up and clears his throat. 

Fluids have coalesced at the corners of his eyes. 

He knuckles his cornered eyes. 

“Whu?” 

Behind him, something moves. Could it be a bushwhacker? 

Pete’s white fringes sway. 

Mel’s eyes look enameled, like cloisonné. 

“Up up, Holly.” 

“And go,” adds another voice, now wearing a hat. 

“Lightly,” concludes Mel. 

Can a voice wear a hat? 

Fringes whitely sway. 

beep! beep! 

“Cab’s here.” 

Not Bozo’s nose. A cab’s ear. 

Pete scoops up his plastic bag of pot and drops it into his 

plastic pot pocket. 

“Coat, Roy?” 

On knees bendy and bowed does Roy stand, arises to find 

himself surrounded by death—everywhere he looks is cold, dead 

food. 

Did he miss dessert? 

Did it miss him? 

His raincoat appears from enveloping shadows. 

Mel helps him into it. 

Roy thinks briefly to shield his nipples. 


There is motion; he is ushered along; the sound of rug-muffled 

steps. 

They pass through the front door. Cool air laves Roy’s face 

like the last page of a good book. 

A Yellow Cab, lights on and motor running sits waiting, as 

does its driver, his head wrapped in what appears to Roy to be a 

red towel. 

The three of them—candy-assed Candide, old cowboy fart 

and gay geezer—clump off the porch and down the steps. 

The waiting Yellow Cab driver sees them and smiles 

ferociously. Quickly, he exits the cab and rushes forward. 

Roy searches the ground. 

Where’s all the blood? 

The two men are talking. 

“—what I said.” 

“—I will, hand.” 

“—You really should go.” 

“—would, weren’t so old.” 

Their words make no sense to Rubbery Roy. 

The driver’s hands reach out and assist Roy into the Yellow 

Cab. 

The driver then bows and says, 

“There is only One God.” 

A door slams. The cab rocks with Pete’s additional weight. 

Mel is on the sidewalk, smiling. 

A smiling sidewalk. 

And a voice that can wear a hat. 

Imagine that. 

And now there is only One God. 

Softly, the driver’s voice speaks into his ear. 

“Whosoever controls the mind, he is the true pilgrim.” 

Then the smiling Sikh slides behind the wheel. 

To be continued... 


THE END 

OF 

VOLUME ONE 





THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

Blue Shadows on the Trail Music and lyrics by Johnny 

Lange and Eliot Daniel, 1948. 

Streets of Laredo (Cowboy’s Lament) Variation of a 

nineteenth century Irish ballad, A Handful of Laurel. 

Ragtime Cowboy Joe Music and lyrics by Lewis Muir, 

Maurice Abrahams and Grant Clarke, 1912. 

Don’t Fence Me In Music and lyrics by Cole Porter, 1934. 

Pecos Bill Music and lyrics by Johnny Lange and Eliot 

Daniel, 1948. 

Green Eyed Lady Music and lyrics by Sugarloaf. 

Higher Than the World Music and lyrics by Van 

Morrison. 

Blazing Saddles Music and lyrics by Mel Brooks for the 

movie of the same name, 1974. 

Red River quotes Written by Borden Chase and Charles 

Schnee, directed by Howard Hawks (and Arthur Rosson), 

released in 1948. 

Back in the Saddle Again Music and lyrics by Gene Autry, 

1939. 

Tumbling Tumbleweeds Music and lyrics by Bob Nolan, 

1932. 

QuickDraw McGraw theme From the CBS-TV cartoon 

syndicated in 1959. 

Happy Trails by Dale Evans, 1951. 

Wizard of Oz theme by Harold Arlen, lyrics by E.Y. 

Harburg, 1939. 

Happy Roving Cowboy by Hank Williams, 1949 



FROM VOLUME TWO 

Sentimental? 

Is Roy sentimental about leaving Seattle? 

Will he miss the street corners where, as a small boy, he was forced into 

servitude by his for-the-most-part drunk parents—on the rare occasions 

they were around—and made to stand in the cold and wet to beg? Will he 

miss walking past the big, green dumpster behind the Odd Duck, where his 

brother almost killed him? Will he miss the traffic islands, Yuppie shops, 

snotty women, deep-throating lesbians, music stores, Grunge, Microsoft, 

Starbucks, Tower Records, the Space Needle, Ivar’s, the Hammering Man, 

Safeco Field, the Fremont Troll, Experience Music Project, the downtown 

public library, the Alibi Room, Sound Garden, U District, Dick’s Drive 

In, Wedgwood, the Floating Bridge, Belltown, Larry’s Market, the PCC, 

the Monorail, the Bon Marché, the Arboretum, Chinatown, Chubby and 

Tubby’s, Boeing, Woodland Park Zoo, Ballard, Puget Sound, Pike Place 

Market, Queen Anne, Lake Union, Kerry Park, Smith Tower, Amazon. 

com, Harborview, Nordstrom, Rainier Brewery, or Tully’s—or even his 

latest haven, Georgetown? 

He won’t know until he finds out. 

And he’s bound to find out soon enough as they hike south along the I-5 

corridor, not trying to remember, not trying to forget, just trying to leave. 

Finally. 

Roy is trying to leave Seattle. 

Thumb out, chin high, one step at a time. 

So he is not being sentimental about leaving Seattle. At least, not yet. 

Right now all he can think about is this: for the first time in his dull, gray, 

monotonous life, he’s doing something adventurous, he’s going somewhere he’s 

never been—he’s taking a chance. 

Throwing caution to the wind. 

Tossing out the baby with the bath. 

And all because of his new friend, Pistol Pete. 

Or whatever his name is. 

And so you might rightly ask: how did this revolution come about? How 

did simple, window washing Roy Weston manage to alter his life-long 

perceptions, shake up his ordered world and shift paradigms so thoroughly, 

and in such a brief span of time? 

So, rightly, you might ask. 


The dudleyclark Story 

highbrow slapstick 

dudleyclark was born ahead of his time and somewhat against his will 

in New Orleans, Louisiana, wintertime 1952. His parents failed to be 

impressed when he began reading at three. Likewise, they were not much 

interested when, at ten, he declared himself a writer. Later in life, he 

dropped out not only from high school but also Tulane University where 

he vainly attempted to study philosophy––a subject that, ultimately, 

rendered him even less employable than he naturally was. 

Thus began his years of wandervogel (literally, wandering bird), and his 

accumulation of sometimes humiliating, sometimes stimulating, always 

excruciating jobs. In his time, he has been––presented here as neither a 

complete cataloging, nor in chronological order––a movie projectionist 

in a porno theatre, bookstore manager, welder, carpenter, rock ‘n’ roll 

roadie, television cameraman, advertising rep., yacht broker, bartender, 

waiter, assassin, nightclub manager, deck hand, assistant ranger, private 

investigator, building contractor, newspaper reporter, preschool teacher... 

and so on. 

Amazingly––considering the time-frame of his youthful years––he 

managed to avoid the Scylla and Charybdis of alcoholism and drug 

abuse, and arrived at middle-life relatively healthy and robust and 

capable of completing not only whole thoughts and entire paragraphs, 

but books as well. 

His first book, monkeydo, proves this point admirably (as does the one 

you hold in your hand). An historical phantasm set in fin de siecle Africa, 

it is a comic send-up of the Tarzan story set within the confines of a 

pen-and-ink jungle. 

“Filled with the calls and cries of unfamiliar birds, along with caricatures, formulaic 

plotting and all-too familiar cliches, monkeydo somehow manages to break new ground, 

albeit with a very small spade, and provides fresh air to a stale genre.” 

—The Charenton Post-Dispatch. 

He followed this up a few years later with Apocalyptic Crawfish!, a comic 

gem set in the green diadem of rural south Louisiana. AC! not only 

convolutes McCarthyism, mutant monsters, homosexual Air Force 

officers, and the ’50s dread of eggheads and all things foreign, it also 

provides a classic recipe for etouffé. 

dudleyclark, a man of some leisure, when not polishing another opus 

of post-modern comic primitivism (such as Roy Rogers in the Twenty-first 

Century, Vol. 4), can usually be found in a stupor hoeing in the veggie 

gardens of his heavily-fortified family estate, “elsewhere.”

volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

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