Part 19 (1/2)

”Maurey, this is Dog Whiffer.”

The notorious Dog Whiffer who made chili and didn't clean up after herself. ”Freedom's in the c.r.a.ppiest mood. He got ripped off or something in Dallas. Went down for five thousand Seconals and came back with twenty-five hits of mescaline.”

Critter stared at the brown crust on the burners, apparently stymied by where-to-begin. She asked, ”Save any for me?”

”Freedom said not to. He says you get funny on mescaline.”

”I like that.”

”Last time you went deep on us.”

Critter gave up on the steel pad and dipped herself a bowl of chili. ”Want some? It's not vegetarian or anything. We transcended the petty divisiveness of moral judgments based on food.”

I went into what-the-h.e.l.l, you-only-live-once, and accepted a wooden bowl and a fork. To be safe, I sloshed in some Dustin before I ate.

Dog Whiffer did a counterclockwise twirl on her toes. ”Freedom was unG.o.dly till he copped some Dilaudid. You should have heard the fight with Owsley. The kid hasn't been going to school and a truant officer showed up at the door.”

”Kids today don't know how easy they got it,” Critter said, as if her generation walked barefoot through the snow to a one-room schoolhouse.

”What's the age difference between you and Owsley?” I asked.

”Three years. But they're vital years.”

The chili was tasty stuff. Dog Whiffer had put in more beans than most cooks in Wyoming. Wyomingites eat lots of cow, especially the men. Usually men consider other men who cook as effeminate, only the stigma doesn't count with straight cow things-chili, rare steaks barbecued outside, whole calves reamed lengthwise and turned slowly over hot coals.

Shane's voice boomed from the living room. ”South America, the southern tip of Paraguay, I contracted terminal malaria. A native shaman mixed up a c.o.c.ktail our Negro guide said was used to kill zombies. With some uncertainty, I quaffed the brew. In less than an hour, I was free of malaria, but I've had no feeling in my legs ever since. I'll give you twenty dollars if you let me tweak those exquisite b.r.e.a.s.t.s.”

Critter's fork stopped in midair as we listened for an outcome. A moment later, Shane went into W. C. Fields. ”I'm a little short today, but I will gladly pay you next Tuesday.” He got a laugh instead of a slap. Rankled me no end.

”You think the others might do food?” Critter asked.

”I'll take a couple bowls to Marcella and Lloyd. You can ask Shane yourself.”

Critter dipped a tin cup into the pot. ”You better work out this envy thing with Shane. If he dies before you've reconciled the friction, the burden may slop as far as your next three lifetimes.”

”That blob's not going to die.”

Shane's stupid, lying story must have unstuck the catatonic because the walls suddenly vibrated with Doobie Brothers. I slid Dustin into my back pocket and took the two bowls from Critter. That's the up side of half-pints-they fit in the back pocket of a pair of Wrangler's.

As I left the kitchen, Dog Whiffer shouted over the music, ”I hope you don't mind, but I balled Freedom while you were gone. He said it was okay.”

22.

Marcella wouldn't touch the chili. She s.h.i.+ed back to the far side of Moby d.i.c.k as if I'd offered her a bowl of smallpox.

”Don't you go giving Andrew any of that stuff, neither. He's too young to be addicted.”

Take it from me, you're never too young to be addicted. ”Where is the sprout, anyway?” I asked.

She pointed across the yard. ”He refuses to come inside. They won't give him dope, will they? I'll be real angry if they give him dope.”

Andrew was playing over by some of the more energetic hippies who were taking turns flinging painted horseshoes at each other. Seemed to be at each other because no one hit within five feet of the ringer poles. They held bottled beer-thankfully not Coors-in their left hand, threw with their right hand, and alternated between saying Wow and s.h.i.+t. Freedom sat on a folding chair, smoking cigarettes and scowling at the inept.i.tude of his troops. A man wearing nothing but Jockey undershorts ohmed dangerously close to the flight path. He had erect posture, his feet pretzeled over his knees, his fingers poised in prayerful O's, and his eyes closed in on his soul. So to speak. As it were.

Andrew studied the meditator closely, then stepped up, drew back his child-size cowboy boot, and kicked him in the sternum.

One eye opened briefly, then closed again. Ohm, ohm, hairy krispy, hairy krispy.

Andrew yelled, ”Eee-yah!” and karate-chopped the guy in his Adam's apple. No reaction. We're talking Don Quixote's attack on the windmill.

I took Marcella's bowl over to Owsley, which was more or less what I'd planned all along. He sat under the pecan tree in the dying Oklahoma light, concentrating on his eagle and snake.

When I handed Owsley the bowl he said, ”You're the alcoholic, aren't you?”

”No.”

”Tell the scared lady there's an all-night truck cafe out on Highway 81. That's where I eat when everything at this house is poisoned.”

”Does that happen often?”

He shrugged and went to work on the chili. I stood next to him, looking down at his unbelievably beautiful hair. I wanted to touch it the way you want to touch a pulsating coal in a dying campfire. ”Is that a golden eagle or an immature bald?”

Owsley glanced at the picture, then up at me. ”What's it to you?”

”The golden has feathers all the way to the toes, you've drawn the legs bare.”

”Well, I guess it's an immature bald eagle, then.”

I tried to take my eyes off his hair and look at the drawing, but it took effort and I wasn't in the mood for effort. ”But you didn't know you'd drawn an immature bald until I told you. That's sloppy art. I looked through your work while you were inside and you're good, way too good to put a golden body on bald legs.”

The angel eyes snapped in such a way that I knew for certain Freedom was his father. ”You touched my stuff while I wasn't here?”

”Are you listening? A person with your talent has a responsibility to draw nature the way it is and not cross animals or put things where they don't belong. You can be Pica.s.so and screw it up, but only if you know the right way first.”

He threw the bowl and what was left of the chili toward the mailbox post. ”People in this dump touch anything they please. It makes me sick. If only straight pigs have privacy, I'd rather be a straight pig.”

Evidently, I'd rubbed a sore spot. ”Owsley, I'm sorry I touched your personal pictures. I was just looking at them. You have a great talent.”

”Don't let it happen again.” With that he picked up his charcoal and went back to studying the picture. I'd been dismissed.

Can't leave without one last shot: ”You want to grow up to be a straight pig you better stay in school. Fool.”