Filling the stiff silence, Kid asked Bowl Cut: “Hey man, where’d you get such a fine pony?”
“Gumby,” the man replied with a wispy Mexican accent, distastefully as if Gumby’s name exceeded their importance. “He’s mi donkey.” Ain’t a donkey, she thought, but held her tongue.
“Okay, well, where'd you get the damn donkey then, Ace?”
“Mi tio.”
“Mi tio? Where’s that at?” The man didn’t reply.
They arrived at the backyard of a well-off house lit up by blacklights, which Kid was having too much fun with—spreading his mouth wide with his fingers, revealing neon-yellow teeth. Nobody else could muster any humor.
The backyard had a bowling lane set up with glowing pins, and just as they met eyes with the man of the hour, somebody got a strike that made her jolt. Pink Polo was sitting on a couch with an obvious smugness, arms stretched across two women on both sides of him. He didn’t stand, he didn’t speak, his sunglasses prevented any assurances. He was indeed wearing a pink polo (over which was a pink racing jacket covered in Japanese lettering and logos) and bleach-white pants that, under the blacklight, shone like a beacon of power.
The Nomads were seated in the grass before him. They all took their place, except for Jacob who was tonguing his cheek in defiance. Polo was chewing something, it looked like gum with no color, teeth whiter than bleached hell behind that smile.
Nothing happened between them for a long time, then Jacob scoffed and sat, relieving a little tension in the air.
There was a blaring white substance around one of the girl’s mouths under the black light. The other girl, listening to music on a portable tape-player, was the water-blader from earlier, her skates still on. Maybe she never took them off, Clementine pondered. She imagined her trying to take a shower, or giving a funeral speech in them, and that made her crack a grin. Seeing her again excited Clem, until realizing the context of their meeting.
Kid’s mouth fell when he noticed her, then pointed, which caused the girl to reel. “Hey, I saw you! You had them cool-ass skates! We’re big fans, gotta say.” Kid wrapped his arm around Noah, pulled him close. “My friend here would love to find out what’s goin’ on under the hood!” He realized what he had said. “Of the skates, ‘course. Though I myself wouldn’t mind neither one.”
The water-blader blinked.
“Don’t mind him,” said Noah behind nervous laughter.
Looking around, Clementine got the general sense that all these people in this party were associates of Polo’s, several guns tucked into waistbands. Some looming not far behind, getting closer. Although the backyard was a good size, she felt a gnawing sense of being trapped. She nudged Jacob’s sleeve and whispered in his ear, “Let’s get outta here.” He shook her off and continued his glaring.
“What was that?” Polo unhooked his hands from the girls and leaned forward.
Clementine looked around to see who he was speaking to, realizing with a delay that it was unfortunately her. “Huh-now?”
He lowered his sunglasses and got a good look at her. Up then down. In the blacklight, his eyes had a special shine, but one that could be evil. Admittedly he was handsome, bold chin but not too bold, a shapely nose, a daring smile, and nice hair. Maybe he’s a nice guy, just misunderstood like Jake. “Just now. What did you tell him?” Polo reiterated with devilish curiosity.
She went to explain herself but Jake put out an arm in front of her. “You can talk to me. My associates are shy.”
Polo smiled and flicked his glasses back on with one finger and a jovial laugh. “That so? Cowboy, you shy?”
Kid shrugged. “Can be, I ‘spose.”
“You don’t take me for shy. You take me as a go-getter. Do you go and get?”
“On occasion, I’ve been known to get out and got things, sure.”
“And what about you?” he asked Noah.
“Not really,” Noah said.
“Man Hands? You shy?” Clementine’s hands were manly, that was true—rough, a tad large, thick calluses across them from years of hard work. She groped for words but found nothing. No, he didn’t seem much nice, she thought, hiding her hands under her thighs.
Pink Polo chewed silently, gravely, nobody sure how to react, then he burst into a quickly fading laughter. “Relax, guys! Relax.” She was seeing flashes of Jacob in this man; the difference being she knew Jake to be a good guy, his teasing was how you knew he loved you, while Polo’s teasing carried a certain maliciousness that Jake’s lacked.
He got up and strode past them casually, picked up a lava-lamp bowling ball, looked over at her, and fingered the holes sensually. She squirmed in her seat. Jacob’s face reddened. Polo smiled, and switched to a professional bowling stance: he held the ball to his chest, took a serious breath, and with master form, rolled a strike. His friends unsurprisingly cheered him on and took a drink, as seemed the rules of Beer Bowling.
“Write that in,” Polo said, pointing to the scorekeeper. Then he strode to the bar and drank after being served. Everybody treated Pink Polo as if they were actors on a set he created. None of these people truly cared about him, they cared about what he had to offer, she could tell that with a glance. The only person not giving him the same treatment was the water-blader who carried an admirable indifference to the whole event. Half the time she was staring at Kid, perplexed. The Nomads looked at each other and shrugged, confused if he was coming back to resume their meeting.
Jacob ambled up to him, but when he went to place his hand on his shoulder, Polo snatched it and twisted him to the ground. “Hey, hey, I’m cool, man! I’m cool!” Jacob grunted. “Hey man, what the fuck! Madison sent us. Madison said you were cool!”
Kid stood up to help, but just as he did, Bowl Cut with the mini-horse stepped between them. Gumby bared his yellow chompers. “I don’t want no trouble,” Kid said, hands raised.
“Mi donkey will eat you to pieces,” the Mexican said, and Kid backed up, believing him.
After Pink Polo released Jake he stayed on a knee and wiped himself off with a frown, windmilling his shoulder. “What the hell, man? Madison said you were interested in what we have. If you ain’t, then let us get out of your hair. No trouble needed.”
“Let me ask you something,” Polo said, downing his drink, half of it spilling down his chin. “Do I have a nice pair of perky tits on me?” He grabbed his junk. “Do I have a hairy cunt between my legs? Hm? No? Then how could I be Madison?”
“Look, partner, we–”
“No, you look, pardner,” he said, in a mocking Southern drawl, then knelt and hissed into Jacob’s ear: “I seem to remember you cut me off earlier. Black van, right?”
Jacob mouthed fuck. “Look–”
He smiled that cold smile and lightly slapped Jacob’s face twice. “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay. Unlike the people I work for, you’ll find I’m actually quite charming. You can tell I’m charming, can’t you?” It was asked in a way that demanded an answer so Jacob shook his head. “Truth be told, you look like nice enough people. Thing is, I could give fewer shits about what you want from me. Oh no, look at your faces. That’s not what you wanted to hear. But all hope is not lost! No, no. Your job, right now, is to sell it to me.” Polo stood to take his next turn.
“Sell it to you?”
“Yeah, that’s right, sell it to me. But to be more specific. I want–” With the ball in one hand, he pointed to Clementine. “–her to sell it to me.” She became keenly aware of the copious amount of sweat under her armpits. Pink Polo rolled another strike. Drinks went down. Some lackey dressed in a jester’s uniform frantically did a jig and stacked the pins for the next turn.
“That– that can be arranged,” Jacob said. “But why? Why her?”
“Why not? She looks fun. Yup, so it’s decided then. Me and the girl will go to a secluded room and she will sell something to me. A transaction as old as domesticated farm animals. You country folk like those, no?”
“Hey what gives, man?” Kid said, flustered. “What’s with all the pussyfartin’ around?”
Polo ignored that. “What will it be? Sounds like a simple enough plan?”
Clementine and Jacob met eyes; hers wide, minutely shaking her head, his conflicted but resolved. They said: You will do this. Please.
This is what Kiku would have wanted her to do—use men’s own devilish desires against them. That’s why Kiku unbuttoned her shirt one button too many, why she put on all that makeup. I bucked my first stallion at seven and a half years old. I corralled many horses spooked and kicky during a storm. I can ride a thousand-pound animal no problem, and yet this skinny twig of a man is what makes me nervous? Why? She could conclude only one thing: man is infinitely less predictable and more frightening than beast.
“Right now?”
“Oh, the lady speaks!” Polo singsonged. “And sure, yeah, now would be acceptable. Five minutes ago would have sufficed, but now is fine.” He pointed to the water-blader and said, “Take the sheriff down to the saloon for a little drink. He looks parched.” The girl nodded. Clem thought the water-blader was going to have a problem getting around on the grass, but she activated her skates and glided across the lawn as if it was ice. When she got to the house, she looked back at Kid and nodded for him to follow. He basically ran knees-to-chest to join her.
Noah looked like he wanted to say something, to come to Clementine’s rescue, but he hesitated, and she understood why. The yelling earlier hadn’t helped, likely, or maybe it helped him to understand that what she truly wanted was for Jacob to come to her rescue for once, to grab her by the arm and stop all this nonsense. But he didn’t. Nobody did.
Clementine followed Polo through the house to an upstairs bedroom, the prototype vial resting uncomfortably large in her pocket. It was a child’s room. She sat on the edge of the small sports-car bed, plastic pressing on her thighs. Maybe it is his room after all, she thought.
Polo squished in next to her, air thick with orchestrated silence. He wanted her to be uncomfortable, he wanted her to squirm. “So, where you from?” He held her face still with a tight grip and examined her features as if he were a scientist scrutinizing a cancer cell under a microscope. She looked around for help, and when she realized it wasn’t coming, she answered, “Texas.” Her ears were ringing in the immense quiet of the room, throbbing from the loud house music of only seconds ago.
You can teleport away any time you want, she told herself. If he goes too far you can always escape. But if you don’t do what he wants now then there is no escaping the life you fled in Texas. There will be no better life. There will be no redeeming yourself.
“Texas. That’s far. Texas.” It took her everything in her being not to reel from him, his noxious beer breath. “Madison… She’s from Texas too, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” she mumbled through her squished cheeks.
Christ, if you’re there, you smite this man down right now.
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He finally let her go. “So,” Clementine cleared her throat, rubbed her jaw, “you want me to tell you about the drug, sell it to you, ain’t that right? Well… the first thing to know is–”
“I think you know what I want.” He took off his sunglasses and looked her up and down, started sliding his hand up her thigh. She stormed off the bed and firmly placed herself in a corner. He smiled. “Kidding, only kidding.”
“The truth is,” she continued the pitch with a shaky voice, “we don’t know much about the product, but we believe–”
“Woah. No. No. I don't care about that. Not until you prove you aren’t a narc. What, did you honestly believe you were going to come in here, bat your eyelashes and the world was going to fall at your feet? No. You aren’t pretty enough for something like that. I just need you to prove you aren’t a narc.” Polo put his hands up amiably. “That’s all.”
Clementine knew what he was asking, but she was afraid. She tried to remember the train attendant’s words—One isn’t given many advantages at birth, and your youth and womanhood are two. Do not waste them, or fear using them to get what you desire—but they were drowned by this man’s black-hearted aura.
Then, as if she willed some of this aura into substance, Pink Polo began again, now with a slow and insidious tone: “You know something, my father was a good man. A hard man, sure, but men from that generation often were. What I mean to say is, you could dislike him, but you couldn’t fault him. He was also a devout American and Catholic. Those were the two things that filled his heart: America and God. God and America. Well, when things started going south in the country, no pun intended, my father realized he was fighting for the wrong side. My father’s father was split in two by a witch who didn’t know how to control his arcana. Pop, like an atom in a Z-bomb. My dad, only a bright-eyed tyke, watched it happen. Broad daylight. They were getting ice cream. Ain’t that a bitch?” Polo stretched out on the bed, hands behind his back, as if he were recounting a story to an old friend at a sleepover.
“My father was a smart man, see. He didn’t just go on his merry way after witnessing this. He learned. He knew anything to do with the arcane was beyond what humanity should be capable of. That tampering with it was going against America and God. So when the war washed over the country, my father did what he could to help. The borders were points of contention, so one couldn’t just jaunt across them easily. Instead he joined some resistance groups fighting for the south to help stave away evil in our local communities. It’s obvious my father didn’t succeed. He was burned to death by a witch. They called him the Blue Flame Devil. He died, yes. Screaming out in devotion to his country and God. But that doesn’t mean he was wrong. No, he wasn’t wrong. It just meant that the world screamed louder.”
No words. She vigorously rubbed her clementine necklace. “Please. We just want to–”
“I know what you want, but I don’t care,” Polo stated simply, staring at his cuticles. “Think I’m not aware you want something from me? Everybody wants something from me. But what about what I want? Nobody cares what I want. Now, uncap that vial in your pocket there and take a swig, Clementine.”
The water-blader unfurled a glittery baggy of red sand. Kid couldn’t help but grin at the sight. The bit he took in the Porta Potty was nice but he was already craving more. She dished out a line on the cluttered kitchen counter and he vacuumed it up with his nostril. While he was reeling, head spinning pleasantly making the kitchen blacklights throb, she asked, “You drift in on the wind, cowboy?” Her alluring voice created in his mind an image of them on horseback, brisk summer night’s wind through his hair, riding off on a starry trail.
Kid recalled when he had first seen her she had left an impression on him, one that he himself didn’t quite understand. He wasn’t a poet, but he knew it was the kind of impression that a poet would write about. Flowers and waves and moonlight, all that gay junk.
“Somethin’ like that.” He tipped his hat back with a finger, eyes trying to catch up, and wiped his nose. “You got a name?”
“Lotty. You?”
“Kid Black, miss—Wait, Lotty? What the hell’s a Lotty?”
“What the hell’s a Kid Black?”
“Tushy.”
“Touché, you mean?” She batted her long lashes, her silver jewelry jingling with her every cat-like movement. She couldn’t seem to rest in one place, like her body was filled with the world’s energy and the world’s energy couldn’t be neatly contained in her body. “I like you, Kid Black. You’re a strange one. You don’t trod the beaten path, do you?”
We’re gonna bone.
“I’m a trailblazer, hun,” he said.
“Maybe we can blaze some trails together,” she added slowly, full red-lips glistening, touching then parting, before falling into an easy smile.
Kid’s penis was hardening in his pants, edging against the zipper. Oh, we are totally gonna bone!
She took a line herself and came up with a big grin on her face, delicately wiped her nose of the red dust. Her pupils were great big saucers he briefly lost himself in. Kid Black liked Lotty too, he realized, a whole lot. While settling from the Cherry, she poured herself a glass of tap water to help diffuse the drips. “Want some, cowboy?”
“Hell nah. I bet they put gold in the water here too. Got a cerveza instead?”
“You really believe that gold has any effect on witches? That’s just an old wives tale. The South used that lie to get everyone to turn in their gold, and start a war if they refused. And anyway, Oregon’s never done anything like that, even if it were true.”
“No shit…” he said in disbelief. He gulped the entire glass down in one swig. “Refreshin’. Like it came straight from the mountain’s tit.” She laughed at that. “May I have another?” She took the glass and filled it up and he downed that one too.
“Woah, easy killer! It’s not running out anytime soon.”
“I just… I was always worried I’d lose a part of me by drinkin’ it. Trust me, I had enough of that bullshit growin’ up in a home.”
She leaned forward, listening intently. Lotty smelled like flowers Kid wanted to know the names of. “Was it bad? Tell me all about it.”
“Well, it all started when my parents died.” Got her right in my hands. “Oh God, you wouldn’t believe the orphanage. If I could only begin to describe the hardships I endured. The brainwashin’, tellin’ us that God can’t love us if we use our gifts, forcin’ us to take downers that kept our abilities under ‘control.’” Putty. “I still get constipated from time to time.”
“That’s just cruel. I’d hate to imagine my life without magia.” Kid liked hearing her accent and the way her plump lips formed the words. He quite liked the way her verdant eyes screamed sex, too. He imagined then, him mounting her, her screaming out in ecstasy as he pulled her hair. “Or pooping,” she added with a laugh.
He laughed. What are we laughing about?
“The plus side is you’re no longer in Texas. Here you can be anything you want to be; a firefighter, a doctor. You could even be an accountant if that tickles your fancy.”
“Hell, I guess I could be whatever I want. Tell me, tax man allowed to wear Stetsons?”
“Yes? No. I don’t know. I’ll make sure to ask my dad about that one.”
Kid Black leaned on the table, their elbows touching. “You close with him?”
“Well me and him, we don’t particularly see eye to eye when it comes to the decisions I’ve made. Anyway, that’s old news.”
Kid could see she didn’t want to discuss her father. Good; Kid didn’t want to talk about Lotty’s father either. “So, how’d you learn how to do all that fancy stuff with them skates?”
“I learned it in school. There’s some really great programs that sprouted up after the war. One being A3—Arcanic Arts and Academics—where I went.”
“Wait—there’s schools here where you learn how to use magic?”
“Yup. You can’t graduate unless you prove you can control your arcana. They taught us how to find our vessels, how to use magia to protect ourselves and our loved ones, and how to replenish our anima.”
“Anima? The hell’s that?”
She took the opportunity to drag her finger across his chest, slow and sweet. “It’s the soul. Where magia resides, mi amor. Want to come up to my room? I’d like to get so high we dissolve into the bed.”
“Boy howdy,” he said.
“Boy howdy,” she repeated. “Did I mention I like you, cowboy?”
Fuck, I’m stiffer than a dead man in an ice box.
Clementine sat in a room alone. Only she wasn’t herself.
Her hands were a man's, left index finger stumped to the first knuckle. The room was her mother’s. But her mother wasn’t in her sick bed. She never left her sick bed… The ashy hands were laced in prayer. Even though they were older hands, she still recognized them. This was Matty, but how was she seeing through Matty’s eyes?
The sound of an engine driving on the dusty road to the house. Matty stood and looked outside. Black car. A man with a black suit and a black soul stepped outside. He wore a bowler hat; he took it off, rubbed his mustache. Texas Ranger Martinez, she recognized.
Matty met him at the door. The Ranger was leaning against a post. Matty invited him in.
They sat in the dull echoes of a dead home once alive.
“Know why I’m here, sonny boy?” the Ranger greeted sardonically.
“I ‘spose.”
“Where she ‘et, you reckon?”
“Hell if I’m ‘sposed to know. Haven’t seen her in years. Wasting your time.”
“Too bad. Way things are goin’, I think she may be twisted up in some downright nefarious affairs. I could help her.”
“I spose she might be. Again, I know nothing ‘bout her. She ain’t my kin no more.”
The Ranger stood, looked around the place; dusty place, dusty pictures, dusty memories. “Your kin’s always your kin,” he said softly, as if he knew something deeply on the subject.
He sat again, crossed his legs, wiping his shiny snakeskin boots.
“Saw the sign outside. That's bad business. Bank takes and takes. But hey, when you’re gone, I’ll take goood care of the place.”
“What?”
“Bought her up. Good piece of land. Not much here, but land’s land. Hard to come by.”
“Look outside, there’s lands every which way as far as the eye.”
The Ranger went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “End of an era, these matters. The world's twistin’ upon itself. A reckonin’ sweepin’ the witch away. Your daddy was a witch. Know that? So was your sister. You a witch, too? Hey, don’t look so mad, sonny boy. Keep your head on your shoulders. That’s the way of the world. Hey, you look blacker than hell, son. I came here out of my own accord, off duty, ‘cause I wanted to–”
“You mean to say no one knew you was coming out here.”
“That’s right. Now, don’t be gettin’ any sly ideas.” He laughed. “Use that head of yours now. I only meant to jest with you some. Make light of a dark sit-shi-ation.”
“You came out here by your lonesome, did you? Sweep the witch away, did you?”
The two men stared into one another. Neither swallowed, too dry anyway.
“I was only jokin’ ‘bout the house, sonny boy.” The Ranger’s hand slowly hovered over his holstered revolver. “No need to get heavy ‘bout it. I didn’t buy your house. If looks could kill you’da killed me by now. Now only I came here to find out about your sister. Her boyfriend, he was in town a year ago now, stirrin’ up trouble—gettin’ good men kilt.”
“You’re a puzzle to me,” Matty said. “Come all this way and…” He trailed off. “Can I ask you something, Ranger… Martinez was it?”
“That’s right. Ask away, kid.”
“You have trouble thinkin without your head, mister?”
“What’s that–?”
And the Ranger’s head swelled into a watermelon, and exploded across the room. Seeds and watermelon guts all across Matty. He made no move to clean it off him. He only stood, took the keys from the Ranger’s pocket and got into the Ranger’s car. He drove it into the empty barn.
No horses remained in the stables. Only dust.
The last thing Clementine saw of the vision as she came to, sitting at the edge of the toilet, was Matty mumbling to himself, watermelon guts dripping off his twitching stump finger.
Clementine was not okay. Spiraling, spiraling, spiraling. Hello? Nobody was there. Wait, no, yes there was, she wasn’t alone. Not completely. There was a spider in the corner of the toilet nook, hiding in his webs. Hello, spider. Hello, spider. She was sure she was speaking aloud. Hello, spider. Hello, spider. Hello, spider. Why wasn’t the spider responding? Did the spider hate her, too? It seemed that was a common thing as of late. She couldn’t look away from the entrancing web, the further she looked and followed the details the more lost she became. Her life started diverging down the web’s many paths, tracing the intricacies with her eyes. She saw a cold face in one life. A swollen stomach, rubbing it softly in another. She saw a life of delusion and loneliness and one where her father was alive and her brother didn’t despise her.
Her mind was on fire; the vision of Matty’s hands dripping with watermelon.
And there, in the toilet water, was herself refracted; her image distorted, shifting, changing. The Clementine of yesterday morphed anew, askew, and lost. She was sweating profusely and there was a fiery heat, an angry heat emanating from the far corner of the bathroom. It was a man.
A man with a Pink Polo and the face of her brother.
“Matty? What happened to your finger?”
Wicked white smile. He just laughed, but it all sounded a million miles away. Despite her lack of awareness, he continued his interrogative questions. He was asking her things but she couldn’t decipher the words, as if he was speaking an alien language. The idea of language became foreign in her mind. Words lost meaning. Thoughts floated around in her head and she wasn’t sure if she said them aloud. Then she got locked onto her own gaze in the toilet water, and it was holding her there. The other her, the dark her, gripped her neck, choking the life from her lungs, spit falling into the toilet, veins bursting from her forehead.
“Look at me! Look at me and acknowledge what you did!” the dark her yelled. It was for his own good! “You heard him! He hates your guts! You were ‘sposed to protect him from the world and you made it a hell! Your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault! God is dead and it’s your fault!” No! I didn’t, I swear! I did it for Matty, I did it for Ma! “LIES! LIES! LIES!” No! “LIES! LIES! LIES!” No pleas–
She threw up, silencing her inner voices and her dark reflection.
“There’s two cops here!” a man’s voice called out. So much fear in the voice as if she was him. “Yeah, homie, but they– Just get out of there if you can!”
The man with the wicked white smile yelled, “Shit! You set me up, you bitch!” He grabbed her neck and pushed her into the pukey toilet water. When she came back up gasping for breath, he was gone, and it was as if he was never there at all. She felt she had put herself into the toilet. Maybe she had. Maybe it was that evil witch who had been yelling at her from within the still water.