In the City of Shy Hunters (18 page)

That's different, I said.

What's different? Rose said.

Searching for something to get you hard, I said, Is different from searching for your hard-on.

What's different? Rose said.

What gets you hard, I said, Is out there. Getting hard, I said, Is in here. I was pointing at my chest.

Rose's leather crotch was inches from my face. I not-looked at his crotch while I looked up at Rose's face. His lips opened into a big smile, but it wasn't a smile. Just something he put on his face.

So this Charlie 2Moons guy has your hard-on? Rose said.

No, I said, He's got my heart.

Rose was looking at me again, really looking.

The Greeks, Rose said, Believed the hero is allowed to struggle against the superior power of destiny. The lucid compulsion to act, Rose said, To act polemically, Rose said, Determines the substance of the self.

Polema-
what
? I said.

Polemically, Rose said.

By resisting the gods, Rose said, The hero substantiates himself.

Rose turned his crotch around and there was his butt. He wasn't wearing black leather pants. He was wearing black leather chaps, and his bare black butt was staring me in the face.

Wounded by the aroma of love. Definitely not Polo.

Rose kept talking as he walked away. It's to ourselves, Rose said, That we are strangers.
La lutte
, Rose said—Rose raised his fist—The struggle, Rose said, Reveals to us who we are. The hindrance to our task is our task.

Rose had to duck his head to get through the Dixon Place door. His slick shiny big black butt, his leather legs, his combat boots, walked up the stairs.

Then, all at once, Rose turned, crouched down.

I'm curious, Rose said, Did Andy draw your cock?

Andy Warhol? I said, No way!

You're lucky, Rose said, Because if it was Andy Warhol stole your erection, you'd never get it back.

Why's that? I said.

Andy Warhol could be the Ultimate Shy Hunter, Rose said, But he's too afraid.

Rose was across the street at the telephone booth by the service station when I caught up to him.

What's that? I said. A Shy Hunter?

The black leather shine of Rose in the unrelenting service station light. The shine on his shaved head. Rose's eyes at me were two bits of hard coal. The shine of coal.

Family secret, Rose said.

Rose took off walking again, and it was the rub of leather chaps tight around hard muscle. Rose's ass. The unrelenting fluorescence on the hairs of Rose's ass. Two combat-boot steps and, just like that, the shine was gone and Rose walked into the night.

So what's he afraid of? I said loud, Andy Warhol? What's he so afraid of?

In the unrelenting fluorescence, I put my hand above my eyes. My skin was beige, dull green. No shine.

The shadow of Rose in the Manhattan night kept walking up Second Avenue, didn't look back.

Your genitals, Rose yelled, He draws your genitals. Not your eyes, your lips, not the slope of your neck.

My hand went down from above my eyes and touched my neck.

And so what if Andy Warhol did draw my cock?

Now I was yelling too.

How would I get it back? I said, Do I have to be a Shy Hunter?

Then smooth, just like that, one long dark leap and Rose was out of darkness, back in the service station light, right there in my face, Rose's face. His smile. The gap between his two front teeth.

Second rule, Rose said. You got to be one to get one.

CHAPTER
SIX

T
he liar's space.

That's what Bobbie called the gap between Charlie 2Moons's two front teeth.

Don't know which came first, Bobbie said, The liar's space or the lying.

But Charlie didn't
lie
. Charlie liked to tell stories, tall tales. Probably because of all those books he read. Like
Robinson Crusoe, A Tale of Two Cities, Huckleberry Finn. As soon
as Charlie opened his mouth to tell you about something that happened to him, or to his mother, Viv, or to his grandfather, Alessandro, or to his horse, ayaHuaska, you could bet your life there was some truth in what Charlie was telling you.

Bobbie said Charlie was a born bullshit artist.

Maybe it's the truth. But I think it was Charlie's nature to tell a good story, which means he expanded on some of the details.

Mostly Charlie's stories were about his father, his famous fancy-riding, trick-riding father, who was a full-blood descendant of Geronimo, who worked as a movie extra in Hollywood and hung out with Gene Autry and Roy Rogers and Tom Mix and Gary Cooper and Randolph Scott and Cary Grant and John Wayne.

Charlie's father discovered Clint Eastwood. Charlie said his father one day was buying himself a new saddle in a saddle shop in Beverly Hills and the guy waiting on Charlie's father was Clint Eastwood, and Charlie said his father took one look at Clint and saw Spaghetti Western written all over Clint's face.

Another story Charlie always told was that his father had supernatural powers that he inherited from the spirit of Geronimo, and one of these powers was that his father could change into different animals any time he wanted.

Mostly, though, Charlie said, What my father turned into was Wolf.

One day lying around in Bobbie's bedroom, listening to Johnny Mathis,
Heavenly
, Charlie told Bobbie and me that his mother, Viv, of
Viv's Double Wide Beauty Salon, wasn't a hairdresser at all, she was an alien being who had come to earth to gather information about the effects of despair on the cosmos. Charlie said the task of his alien mother on this earth—being an Indian and woman and all—was to study despair by feeling it.

Then there was one night when Charlie and Bobbie and I were up in the barn, in the back, where the bales of straw and the straw on the floor were. We were sitting on the old white-trash couch, the black-and-white wedding diamond quilt over us, a kerosene lamp for light, the floor swept clean of straw around where the lamp sat. It was nice up there in the barn, listening to the big old Zenith radio.

The only station we could get was KSEI. On Saturday nights KSEI played the top ten hits, and every Saturday night for sure—if Father wasn't home—you could find Bobbie and Charlie and me up in the barn, sliding a two-step on the straw on the barn floor, slow dancing, jitter-bugging, listening to Patti Page singing “The Tennessee Waltz” and Tennessee Ernie Ford singing “Sixteen Tons,” and then, of course, “Love Me Tender” and “Hound Dog.”

Father had taught Bobbie how to roll cigarettes with one hand, and Bobbie was teaching Charlie. Bobbie was showing Charlie how to undo the Bull Durham pouch with your teeth, how to hold the paper, how to lick the paper.

Neither one of them would let me learn how to roll because I was too young. I told them that I was already a sub-teen and sub-teen meant it was high time you started smoking, but both Bobbie and Charlie shook their heads.

The only thing Bobbie and Charlie ever agreed on was me. What was best for me.

Ray Charles was singing “I've Got a Woman,” and Bobbie was singing along, her eyes closed, chin up, rolling her head back and forth like you do when you're alone in your room, her brown hair long enough to fall back.

Charlie's hair was long, pulled back wavy and braided into one big braid. He finished rolling his cigarette, put the cigarette in his mouth, lit the cigarette, and inhaled, and when he exhaled Charlie said, You know this here barn we're sitting in is haunted.

It was summer because we were all barefoot. Bobbie was rolling a cigarette too.

Charlie 2Moons, Bobbie said, You told us that shit the first time we ever met you.

Charlie leaned in closer to the flame, the flame in Charlie's eyes.

I'm serious! Charlie said. This barn is haunted, Charlie said. And it's not only haunted, Charlie said, It's
sexually
haunted.

Bobbie didn't move her head. She wiped her wrist across her brown bangs and just kept looking at the hand rolling the cigarette.

What do you mean
sexually
? I said.

Charlie 2Moons, Bobbie said, Every goddamn time you open your mouth that space between your teeth gets wider and wider.

It's the truth! Charlie said. I've experienced it myself.

Bobbie raised her head up, just her head, gold flecks in her eyes. She lifted up her butt cheek, farted.

The Green Door
was playing on the Zenith.

You experienced
what
yourself? Bobbie said.

Charlie raised his head up too, looked right into Bobbie's brown eyes, didn't blink. Being sexually haunted, Charlie said.

What the fuck does that mean? Bobbie said.

Charlie poked his chest up, his chin out. His hands started flying all over in the air.

You're a girl, Charlie said. You wouldn't understand.

Bobbie moved her face closer to Charlie's. She took a match out of the matchbox, struck the match on her thigh, lit her cigarette. Blew smoke into Charlie's face. Tossed the stick match onto the broken green dish we had for an ashtray.

What's
girl
got to do with it? Bobbie said.

I'm not a girl, I said. I don't understand.

Shut up, Will, Bobbie said.

My forearms.

Charlie struck a match with his thumbnail, lit his cigarette, blew smoke into Bobbie's face, tossed the stick match onto the broken-green-dish ashtray.

Girls don't have cocks, Charlie said, Now do they?

Bobbie sucked on her cigarette, wiped back her bangs.

You need a cock to be sexually haunted? Bobbie said.

Helps, Charlie said.

What's it help? Bobbie said.

Helps you get a hard-on, Charlie said.

A what? Bobbie said.

A hard-on, Charlie said, smiling his gap-tooth smile.

Bobbie smiled too, a little bigger but not really a smile.

Bobbie Parker! Charlie said. You of all people can't tell me you don't know what a hard-on is.

Bobbie quick-looked up from the kerosene lamp, over at Charlie. The gold flecks in her eyes were fire.

What's a hard-on? I said.

Shut up, Will, Bobbie said.

You'll find out soon enough, Charlie said.

Bobbie leaned back on the couch, pulled her leg up, leaned her head on her elbow, flicked the ashes off her cigarette into the broken-green-dish ashtray.

Bobbie's face was real red, not Indian red but blotchy red, the way she got.

You dumb son of a bitch! Bobbie said. You fucking men don't have a clue.

When I looked over at Charlie, Charlie was biting his thumbnail, and I knew it was the truth. Charlie was a fucking man without a clue.

Just like that, Bobbie got up and walked down the length of the barn, walked down the stairs, her footsteps inside every board on the floor of the brick barn.

The Everly Brothers were singing “Cathy's Clown.” I poured some tobacco into my hand and started rolling it up.

Charlie looked like an Indian James Dean with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his eyes squinting, the cigarette going up and down, up and down, as Charlie spoke.

You'd better not let your sister catch you doing that! Charlie said.

I don't do everything, I said, Bobbie tells me to do.

Yes, you do, Charlie said.

After a while, we heard Bobbie at the stairs and I quick put the tobacco back in the Bull Durham pouch.

Charlie just looked at me. Charlie never made fun of me, or put me down, or made me feel small in any way ever. He just looked at me.

Bobbie walked up to us and threw some magazines down on the straw on the floor in the kerosene lamplight.

Charlie's eyes got real wide and he leaned back like the magazines were some kind of black magic or other scary thing that you like to be scared of.

One of the magazines was
Playboy
, and there were two other magazines, I don't remember the names, with half-naked women in them. I'd read the magazines before lots of times. Bobbie kept them in the secret place in her closet, along with
Lady Chatterley's Lover
,
The Song
of the Red Ruby
, and
Peyton Place
. I read all those books too, but I never told Bobbie.

Charlie 2Moons, Bobbie said, her hands on her hips, Here's some education for you. Read these and then get back to me about just what a hard-on is, OK?

Charlie didn't say anything, just picked up the
Playboy
and opened up to the centerfold. Charlie was breathing hard and sweat was coming out his forehead. I thought he was going to pass out.

A woman's got a vagina, see, Bobbie said and pointed to in between the
Playboy
bunny's crossed legs.

Some call it a vagina, Bobbie said, Some call it a pussy. I like to call it and everything around it my Deep Flower, but when I'm feeling especially horny, I call it my poon.

When a woman gets hot, Bobbie said, Her poon gets wet, and inside her poon is the most wonderful place on a woman's body, and that place is called the clitoris.

Clit, Bobbie said. Clit's inside the poon. And the clit gets hard when it's right for a woman, Bobbie said. If it ain't right, forget it, but when it's right the clit gets hard and stands up like a man in a little boat.

Granted, Bobbie said, The clit don't get as big as a cock, but to a woman size doesn't much matter, and even though the clit don't get as big as what you call a hard-on, the clit's got it all over the hard-on, hands down. Hard-on shoots its cum out in one big load, while clit just keeps on purring and purring and purring and cumming and cumming.

With a hard-on, Bobbie said, It's usually a one-shot deal. If you're lucky, maybe two.

But with a clit, Bobbie said, And a nice wet poon, you can come for days.

Charlie threw the
Playboy
down, jumped up off his butt, and, just like that, ran off into the dark. Charlie in the dark groaning groaning. Then silence.

When Charlie came back into the light, Bobbie was rolling another cigarette, her head bent, her eyes looking down at her hand.