Western Swing Page 8

  The song ended and the announcement came on. “Benton County Sheriffs Department announced that the crash site of a single-engine Cessna Cherokee was found early today near Camden, Tennessee. The Federal Aviation Administration has been called in to investigate the accident which killed country singers Patsy Cline, Lloyd ‘Cowboy’ Copas, Hawkshaw Hawkins, and their pilot, Randy Hughes.”

  Just like that. There was no one to deny it to. The disc jockey came on all choked up and said something nice about Patsy, then he played “Leavin’ on Your Mind.”

  I looked at Mickey. We all looked at Mickey, waiting for a sign, waiting for him to show us how to feel.

  If you’ve got leavin’ on your mind,

  Tell me now, get it over,

  Hurt me now, get it over,

  If you’ve got leavin’ on your mind.

  I listened to the voice I’d discovered just two months ago. I sang her songs, I wanted to be Patsy Cline. She was country music’s center, our role model, and now her voice was silent. Not silent—dead.

  Mickey didn’t move, just stared at a point somewhere on the wheel while Patsy filled the booth, creating a sort of stop-action spell that held us stuck in the moment, no one wanting to go on to the next moment where she didn’t exist.

  If there’s a new love in your heart,

  Tell me now, get it over,

  Hurt me now, get it over,

  If there’s a new love in your heart.

  I was more worried about how it affected Mickey than how it affected me. Death made the getting drunk and fucking game seem pretty worthless and Mickey wasn’t the type to handle realizing the things he thought mattered were worthless. He blinked once, listening to her sing. I reached over and touched his hand, but I don’t think he felt me.

  Six of us, not thinking but feeling, hardly even breathing, sat through the end of the song and into a few seconds of dead air.

  “That was the late great Patsy Cline, and here’s a word from the men who keep those trucks on the road,” and the radio went into a Texaco jingle.

  “You through here, honey?”

  I nodded.

  The waitress leaned across Bob Bob and took my untouched plate of grits and eggs. “Shame about Patsy, ain’t it?”

  “Shame,” Mickey said.

  “You want more coffee?” and the spell was broken.

  7

  A storm blew up to the southwest. As I skimmed the last couple of miles between Pinedale and Rock Springs, the sun dropped below the clouds and sent American Rose-colored spires forking across the high desert. Deserts look real nice in some light shade other than bright white. The rocks come off as a soft stark that I like a lot.

  However, the explosion with Loren and three hours of past wallowing had pretty much exhausted my sunset-appreciation abilities. What my body and mind craved more than beauty was a modern relaxant. Like scotch. Sunsets take some viewing effort to make you feel the way you want to feel, whereas with scotch all you do is swallow.

  I pulled left on the north edge of town into the Outlaw Inn and parked across from the drive-in, walk-up liquor store. Turning off Hank Snow, I leaned back, breathed, and felt the highway vibration drain from my hands to the steering wheel. Wind blew trash across the parking lot and around the corner of the inn. Like a filmy black nightgown, the rain line slid down the bare ridge on the other side of town, turning all the shapes into gray blurs. Men hurried in and out of the motel and liquor store, trying to beat the rain. They wore boots and hats of some kind, a few cowboy hats, but mostly redneck work caps. Their sleeves were rolled up just below the elbows, and everyone I saw had thick wrists.

  The men seemed real sure about what they were doing outside the Outlaw Inn in Rock Springs, Wyoming. I was the only one sitting, waiting, but then, I was the only woman. All the other women had already gone wherever they wanted to go. I was the last.

  It wasn’t one of those rains where a few drops spatter your windshield, then it picks up a little, then a five-second lull before someone turns on the shower. This thing came across town like a waterfall on the march. I watched it jump the Interstate, then a Mobil station disappeared. Men hurried to and from their trucks, racing the deadline. The rain swept across the parking lot, and just as the Toyota went under, I thought maybe I should have gone inside sooner.

  Too late, I wanted my scotch. After scotch, I wanted to hear a familiar voice. Locking the door, I walked across the gap and into the inn. Not running, I refused to run. Running in a storm is admitting the world can beat you.

  The Outlaw Bar is a long, low Naugahyde and shadows affair with no room for a decent band. I’d been there once before. The night we drove up from Denver, Loren and I drank an incredible amount of tequila while some pale kid with a JC Penney guitar, a Mr. Microphone amp, and a drums-in-a-box machine sang Beatles songs, reading the words off a notebook paperclipped to an iron music stand.

  That’s the kind of place I chose as sanctuary from the storm and my botched-up life. My crises never have any class.

  I ordered a double Red Label and demanded the change from my one and only twenty in quarters.

  The bartender complained, “That’ll clean me out.”

  “So?” I’d had it with men who didn’t like what I wanted.

  Scotch in the right hand, change clutched in the left, I dribbled rain back into the lobby and a bank of pay phones.

  The band was supposed to be playing an almost uptown lounge near Clovis, New Mexico. With luck, I could catch him before the first set. The manager or whoever answered didn’t feel much like looking for anyone, but I was rude, and five minutes and another round of quarters later, Mickey’s high twang drifted over the lines from New Mexico.

  “Yo.”

  “Mickey, it’s me, Lana Sue.”

  “Hey, Lannie.” The voice moved away. “It’s Lana Sue.” Then back again: “Did you get the postcard from San Antonio? You should of been there, Lannie. The club thought they’d booked a New Wave act, whatever the hell that is, and we showed up drinking Turkey and chewin’ Hawken. They like to shit. No one in the joint had ever seen a pedal steel. We played one night before they bought up the rest of the week. Weirdest crowd you ever saw.”

  “Mickey, I left Loren.”

  There was a pause. “Think it’s for good?”

  I drained a swallow of scotch. “I suppose. Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Another one bites the dust, huh?”

  “Looks that way.”

  There was another pause while he covered the phone mouthpiece and said something to someone near. Mickey came back. “Where are you?”

  “Rock Springs.”

  He whistled low. “That’s no place for anyone carryin’ a cunt, Lana Sue. Why don’t you come down here awhile? Sing some unhappy songs. Or we’ll be up in Cody Monday after next. You could meet us there and drink heavy for a couple weeks.”

  I laughed—sort of—and took another gulp. “Maybe, but I doubt it. Getting wasted, not sleeping, and smelling bad never did much for me.”

  “Makes me younger.”

  “How do you know, Mick? It’s the only way you’ve lived for twenty years.”

  “Only way I feel comfortable. How’s old Loren taking it?”

  “I don’t know. I left.”

  “Anyone ever hear anything about that boy of his?”

  “Nope.” I waited for a subtle Loren’s-had-enough-trouble-without-you jab, but none came. Maybe it was implied by the silence.

  Mickey made a high rattle sound with this throat. “Say, Lana Sue, you be insulted if I gave some advice, in a friendly spirit, I mean?”

  I threw a couple ounces of scotch into my system. It helped. “In a friendly spirit?”

  “Lana Sue, you’re not so young anymore. There’s gonna come a time when good looks and a wet crotch won’t be enough, and I think you oughta con
sider and stop leaving ever’ one that cares for you. You might think about settling for somethin’ less than perfect.”

  Washed-up old alcoholics leave themselves wide open to cruel put-downs, and I came within a real shade of using one on Mickey, but he meant right, in his own disgusting way. Besides, over the years I’ve cut Mickey with every cruel word possible and nothing I ever said affected him one way or the other. He’s a prick, but he’s not a bad prick. What I said was, “That’s your advice?”

  “In a friendly spirit.”

  “Listen, friendly spirit, is Cassie around? I’d like to talk to her.”

  “She’s right here. Lana Sue, Cassie gets better-looking and sings stronger ever’ day. You may have royally fucked your own life, but you done good by her.”

  How many ways could I take that? “Just put her on, Mick.” I switched the phone over to my other ear and sucked on the empty scotch glass a moment. Sometimes being best buddies with a former lover isn’t all that satisfying. I mean, I know I can turn to Mickey whenever the S hits the F, but I also suspect the well-meaning brotherly bit is a cover-up and he secretly loves to see me down enough to need him. Something of a “she left me then, but look where she runs in times of stress” attitude.

  “Mama?”

  “Cassie, how’re you doing?”

  “Great, Mama. We like to filled the place last night, and when I sung ‘Stand By Your Man,’ a whole bunch of people stood up and cheered. It was wonderful.”

  “Sang.”

  “What?”

  “You sang ‘Stand By Your Man.’ Not sung it.”

  I shouldn’t have said that. After a moment of breathing, Cassie said, “Heard you and Loren split up.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Any special reason?”

  I couldn’t think of a special reason. “Naw,” I said. “Just something that had to be done.”

  Cassie giggled. “My old love ’em and leave ’em Mama.”

  “Yeah.” No one spoke a moment. “Is Mickey treating you good?”

  “Hell, Mama, you know Mickey.”

  I never know if Cassie is putting me on. “You hear from Connie any?”

  “Got a letter the other day. Skipper’s been offered a junior partnership, only he doesn’t know it’s on the condition that she plays friendly with the boss.”

  “What’s she gonna do?”

  “Play friendly. She wants Skipper to get that partnership real bad so they can get a big-screen TV.”

  “She say anything about me?”

  “Mama, you know Connie hates the ground you walk on.”

  Set myself up for that one. Tilting the glass to pop an ice cube in my mouth, I asked, “How about your daddy?”

  “Aw, he don’t write much. Guess him and Wanda are happy as ducks down there in Houston, making all that money and buying all that stuff.”

  “He always did enjoy that.”

  “Yep.”

  Nobody said anything for a while, so I figured it was time to end it. I felt kind of emotional. It’s funny, I never cry in front of anyone, or hardly ever, but stick a phone in my ear and I’ll go puddle-eyed every time.

  “I’ve got to go, I’m running out of quarters.”

  “Mama, you take care of yourself, okay?”

  “Yeah, you take care of yourself. Watch out for Mickey.”

  “Aw, he don’t take much watching out for. He only wants two things. Give him those and he’s happy as pie.”

  “Booze and pussy,” I said.

  “You got it. Booze and pussy.”

  • • •

  Since I left Loren in a spontaneous snit, I wound up in Rock Springs with the shirt on my back, the jeans I was wearing, and one twenty-dollar bill that wasn’t going to last long. I’d have landed barefoot if I hadn’t found a pair of sandals on the truck floor. Separation should be thought out, I know, but planning ahead is not the Lana Sue style. “Packing a few things” takes the edge off the drama. Better to buy a new wardrobe.

  My billfold was in the glove compartment, so the problem wasn’t anything challenging. Wood and dirt may be real, and plastic fake, but my cousin Roxanne has a saying: “A Visa card will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no Visa card.”

  I slapped plastic on the counter, signed my name, and a nice man gave me the key to a big, clean room overlooking the indoor pool.

  Given a choice in these matters, I’d live in a motel room every day of my life. They’re so clean and pure and sterile. Houses reek of memories. Every spot and every object in a house carries associations with someone or something emotional.

  A motel room holds no past. The only true rest I’ve found came while standing on a paper shower mat or sleeping between sheets I’ve never slept between or making it with some man I’ve known less than an hour. Pure happiness cannot be linked to the past because the past isn’t pure.

  Jesus, I’m starting to talk like Loren.

  Anyway, I found myself in a beautifully noncomplicated room, took an hour-long bath so hot I turned red from the neck down, and dried myself with a towel I’ve never seen before or since. Flipping on the television for background noise, I lay naked on the bed and stretched. I do like my body. Unlike Loren, all my parts work fine. Every nerve can feel great. Every joint knows the joy of full rotation. My body contains the highest quality hair, teeth, eyes, breasts, feet and hands. The skin fits perfectly, neither too loose nor too tight, each pore working properly.

  Due to a lifelong diet between sugar binges, I carry no excess fat. All right, that depends on your definition of excess. Most men like my shape, but most women in my shape would think about losing five pounds. I’d call myself tightly packed without any overhangs. Sometimes I get nervous internally, my digestive tract shuts down or overworks, but that is a small problem fixed by roughage, prunes, or chalky pills. I’ll never giggle uncontrollably again, and the thought of two days without sleep turns me to trash, but on the whole, without making aging a battle or an obsession, I’ve held together real well for thirty-eight years. I’m quite proud of me.

  I don’t have a whole lot else to be proud of, but a good body is something—a lot more than some people can brag about. My sister for instance, looks formidable. Half the time Roxanne could pass for a San Antonio hooker. And Mom, poor Mom, spent thousands of dollars fighting gravity and lost. Even that hero-worshiping, possibly husband-chasing little sixteen-year-old down the road pops a pimple every time she drinks a Pepsi.

  Mickey shouldn’t have said that about good looks and a wet crotch not being enough. I’m not old. Good looks and a wet crotch will always be enough.

  • • •

  I am thirty-eight years old. How odd. Sometimes, when I first wake up in the morning, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and I say it aloud. “I am thirty-eight years old.”

  Where did it go? No matter how old you are, you never can pin down where it went. I don’t feel thirty-eight. When I was eighteen, I didn’t think thirty-eight-year-olds had emotions or problems, and I never dreamed they had sex. I figured they just sat around waiting to die.

  Now, I suppose I feel that way about eighty-year-olds—and when I’m eighty, I bet I’ll say aloud, “I am eighty years old,” and I won’t know where it went.

  I hate to think about things without answers, like where it went. I never solve anything and after a while I feel worn out and confused. I don’t see how Loren does it.

  • • •

  An hour later I sat on the end barstool, smoking a low-tar concoction and contemplating another double Red Label. As a habit, I don’t smoke. I mean, I used to. With Ace I smoked like a flaming snow tire, and I never officially quit. Living in our mountain cabin next to a clear, unpolluted stream, I started liking the idea of putting clean stuff in myself and, after a while, I started not liking the id
ea of putting in scuz, so I gradually tapered on down to nonsmokerdom.

  Now, I smoke cigarettes on three occasions. Make that four occasions. Sugar binges, which happen once in six months or so; extreme drunks, which happen even less; on the make for a man, something that hadn’t happened since I married Loren; and the day before my period. I smoke a full pack during the PMSs.

  The cigarette in the Outlaw Bar was caused by condition three—on the make for a man. Lord knows, there were enough of them around, the bar was three-fourths full and seven out of eight customers were single men, but I was picky. I wanted a certain kind of man. Pleasant, unassuming, nice-looking with a reasonable body, yet no one I was likely to feel any emotion for. The last thing I wanted was emotion.

  Loren always makes me feel something—love, hate, disgust, warmth, frustration, passion, sick. He’s so damn intense, and I don’t always like intense. Feeling all the time burns me out. Every so often I like sex that’s all sweat and no emotions.

  Unless he was a total loser, I figured on taking the third pass. Number three must be a little daring to take a shot after seeing one and two strike out, but he wouldn’t be too cocky or he’d try sooner. Three is a safe number.

  Knowing that, I still managed to screw up.

  “Hi there.”

  “Hello.”

  “Care to meet a nice guy with charm and personality?”

  “No.”

  “How about me. I’m a jerk.”

  “That was rehearsed. Go away.”

  “How about I buy you a drink instead?”

  “You’re caller number one.”

  “Huh?”

  “I never pick number one. They’re always inadequate.”

  “Hey, nobody calls me inadequate.”

  “Not in that way. Desperate, insecure. You’ve got a flaw, I can feel it. Sorry, but I like to think I can do better.”

  “Nobody else’ll try.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  Snappy patter is a delicate art form. We can’t all be Neil Simon and Marsha Mason. Still, I try to keep it above astrology, where are you from, and insinuating eye contact. The goal with a possible sex object is to score a few points without overpowering the poor schmuck while testing him for some sign of intelligence and quickness. It helps if both parties have the same end in mind.