out.
We approached each other in the dusk light. The kid was frowning, scratching his head. The Cruise Master’s engine ticked. It was one of the belts, maybe, that smelled a little bit like burning rubber. He handed me the keys.
“What do you think?”
“Naw,” he said, moving past me. “I guess not. Thanks.”
Pronghorn Are Not Deer
It wasn’t so much my dark deep then—at the closest campground—as it was an epic vodka-Tang and then the blow of another, bigger anvil:
memory.
I was only half-asleep when the chaos of images resolved into one nucleus of recall that spun and bumped and then cracked wide open. A vivid, Technicolor Dog floated out onto the black screen of the night to perform for me, and to perform badly.
I should have known.
This was my theme.
I should have foreseen. Of all people, me. I should have stopped it.
“Hey! Really?”
This drunk girl says she’s Jesse Ringer, says it three or four times. But who cares? She is meat to the Dog’s hungry eye. She is young but not too young. She is small and tan and wiry. Her hair is kinky, long, and wild, the color of cornbread crust, and she is not overly well groomed, which is a very nice thing in a girl, Dog-wise.
“Hey! Really?” She slugs Sneed in the arm. “You’re not just shittin’ me?”
Her clothes are skimpy summer stuff. But the summer seems like 1976 or so. She wears fraying cut-off Levis over a pair of lean brown thighs that insinuate their way effortlessly into the hot zones of personal bar-stool space. She wears an actual halter top—when have you seen that?—and she fills it to the brim, with a knot between her shoulder blades that would be oh so easy.
She is after Sneed, of course, not this mangy old Dog. She hardly looks the Dog’s direction, and in this way she implicitly assigns him to the shit-faced mumbling hag at the Dog’s left elbow, the one with the white wine spritzer, the queen-size cigarette, and the stupid red cowgirl hat perched atop a frosty perm.
“Whassyername?”
The Dog goes with “Cornelius.”
“Wha—?”
This drunk girl, Jesse Ringer, leans in on Sneed. Upon his dark forearm she lays an envoy to her whole flesh, this hand—strong and sun-chapped, fingernails cut short and a little dirty.
“This is wild,” says Jesse Ringer to D’Ontario Sneed. “You’re not going to believe this. This is
so
wild. I can’t believe this connection. Your mother’s in prison? Well, get this. My
daddy’s
in prison!”
Sneed catches the Dog’s eye. The Dog discharges a shrug of affirmation, bluntly covetous, as the next-door hag jabs him with an elbow. “Huh, Corneliush? Where’d you find your interesting friend there? He fall off a Greyhound?”
Sneed ignores this and smiles at the drunken white girl, looking a little stiff. “My mama
was
in prison.”
He hoists a Budweiser to free his arm from her too-forward grip.
“Jail, actually. I don’t know where she’s at now.”
He sets the bottle down.
“I don’t care either. I’m an orphan, far as I’m concerned.”
“Oh,” the girls laments sloppily. “Oh, that’s so sad.” She hooks that arm again, gives it a squeeze. “What did she do?”
Sneed tells her exactly what he’s told me: Nothing. His mama didn’t do a damn thing. Not really.
“I mean to get in jail.”
His face clouds. “Oh. Stole, I guess. Robbed a house in the neighborhood of my foster parents. Sold the stuff for drugs.”
“‘Cuz my dad,” this Jesse rushes in, one-upping, “supposedly murdered a guy.”
This stops everything. Jesse Ringer glugs warm beer from her plastic cup. Her breasts stir beneath the halter as she jars the cup back down and leans closer to Sneed.
“But he didn’t do it,” she tells him. Then her voice gets too loud. “He is
so
fucking innocent.”
The bar tender, the hag, the players at the keno machines, this benumbed and negligent Dog, everybody stiffens and looks the drunk girl’s way.
“That’s right people,” she
We approached each other in the dusk light. The kid was frowning, scratching his head. The Cruise Master’s engine ticked. It was one of the belts, maybe, that smelled a little bit like burning rubber. He handed me the keys.
“What do you think?”
“Naw,” he said, moving past me. “I guess not. Thanks.”
Pronghorn Are Not Deer
It wasn’t so much my dark deep then—at the closest campground—as it was an epic vodka-Tang and then the blow of another, bigger anvil:
memory.
I was only half-asleep when the chaos of images resolved into one nucleus of recall that spun and bumped and then cracked wide open. A vivid, Technicolor Dog floated out onto the black screen of the night to perform for me, and to perform badly.
I should have known.
This was my theme.
I should have foreseen. Of all people, me. I should have stopped it.
“Hey! Really?”
This drunk girl says she’s Jesse Ringer, says it three or four times. But who cares? She is meat to the Dog’s hungry eye. She is young but not too young. She is small and tan and wiry. Her hair is kinky, long, and wild, the color of cornbread crust, and she is not overly well groomed, which is a very nice thing in a girl, Dog-wise.
“Hey! Really?” She slugs Sneed in the arm. “You’re not just shittin’ me?”
Her clothes are skimpy summer stuff. But the summer seems like 1976 or so. She wears fraying cut-off Levis over a pair of lean brown thighs that insinuate their way effortlessly into the hot zones of personal bar-stool space. She wears an actual halter top—when have you seen that?—and she fills it to the brim, with a knot between her shoulder blades that would be oh so easy.
She is after Sneed, of course, not this mangy old Dog. She hardly looks the Dog’s direction, and in this way she implicitly assigns him to the shit-faced mumbling hag at the Dog’s left elbow, the one with the white wine spritzer, the queen-size cigarette, and the stupid red cowgirl hat perched atop a frosty perm.
“Whassyername?”
The Dog goes with “Cornelius.”
“Wha—?”
This drunk girl, Jesse Ringer, leans in on Sneed. Upon his dark forearm she lays an envoy to her whole flesh, this hand—strong and sun-chapped, fingernails cut short and a little dirty.
“This is wild,” says Jesse Ringer to D’Ontario Sneed. “You’re not going to believe this. This is
so
wild. I can’t believe this connection. Your mother’s in prison? Well, get this. My
daddy’s
in prison!”
Sneed catches the Dog’s eye. The Dog discharges a shrug of affirmation, bluntly covetous, as the next-door hag jabs him with an elbow. “Huh, Corneliush? Where’d you find your interesting friend there? He fall off a Greyhound?”
Sneed ignores this and smiles at the drunken white girl, looking a little stiff. “My mama
was
in prison.”
He hoists a Budweiser to free his arm from her too-forward grip.
“Jail, actually. I don’t know where she’s at now.”
He sets the bottle down.
“I don’t care either. I’m an orphan, far as I’m concerned.”
“Oh,” the girls laments sloppily. “Oh, that’s so sad.” She hooks that arm again, gives it a squeeze. “What did she do?”
Sneed tells her exactly what he’s told me: Nothing. His mama didn’t do a damn thing. Not really.
“I mean to get in jail.”
His face clouds. “Oh. Stole, I guess. Robbed a house in the neighborhood of my foster parents. Sold the stuff for drugs.”
“‘Cuz my dad,” this Jesse rushes in, one-upping, “supposedly murdered a guy.”
This stops everything. Jesse Ringer glugs warm beer from her plastic cup. Her breasts stir beneath the halter as she jars the cup back down and leans closer to Sneed.
“But he didn’t do it,” she tells him. Then her voice gets too loud. “He is
so
fucking innocent.”
The bar tender, the hag, the players at the keno machines, this benumbed and negligent Dog, everybody stiffens and looks the drunk girl’s way.
“That’s right people,” she
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