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

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.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 2