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

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’.”
1 0 ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY