My favorite movies that nobody else cares about: 1

We all have them, guilty pleasure movies with bad reviews and no fans, but you just happened upon it one night on Channel 44 or whatever.

So here’s one of mine.  Rancho Deluxe (1976). Rancho was contemporary western with a gorgeous Montana setting based on a novel by gorgeous Montana writer Frank McGuane. It starred Jeff Bridges and Sam Watterston as modern-day rustlers in the outlaw-country West: their hair is long, their attitudes anti-establishment and the music is by Jimmy Buffett (semi pre-famous).

The Neg: all forgotten movies have them.

  • Lame backstory re the Bridges and Waterston characters.
  • Sam Waterston as an Indian.
  • Director Frank Perry would soon after  commit career suicide with Mommy Dearest.
  • Horrible Reviews. Roger Ebert: “I don’t know how this movie went so disastrously wrong. 1 1/2 Stars.”

The Pos:

  • The stars don’t matter cuz the flick is rustled by a gang of ruthless character actors.
  • Slim Pickens as the cattle detective Henry Beige: This would be the role of a lifetime if he hadn’t already done that in Dr. Strangelove.
  • Clifton James, the archetypal movie blowhard of the ’70s, as a baffled beauty- parlor-owner-turned-land-baron.
  • Charlene Dallas as Beige’s irresistibly fetching “niece.”
  • Harry Dean Stanton and Richard Bright as a pair of dimwitted co-conspirators.
  • The gorgeous Montana Scenery in almost every shot.
  • Sam Waterston as an Indian!

The Why:

  •  With a face like that and a name like that, how did Charlene Dallas not become a star?

The Highlight

(Since this is virtually the only clip from the movie on YouTube, you know we’re talkin’ obscure!

Until next time . . .

If you’ve been eagerly awaiting Avengers Infinity War

You will probably hate my blog.
Sorry. I like to post about stuff that is from the world of the real, the tough, the hard (maybe even -boiled) and the classically goofy. It won’t all be OLD, but it will be CLASSIC.
●What does the sound of a distant train horn mean when you are poor and lonely and dreaming of a better place?
●What was it like to be having breakfast in Oahu, Hawaii one morning, and walking outside to see a Japanese fighter plane strafing a line of bullets right up your street?
●In my book, the characters are in the grip of their times, the 1930s and ‘40s. A 2017 reader has an entirely different frame of reference. Today there is a level of acceptance that simply did not exist back then. If you were a public figure, especially in Hollywood, you were not gay.
But, in a way, so what? After all, to be in the upper echelons of Hollywood, you had possibly already given up your name, your family history, your cultural background, your natural hair color or hair line. You may well have had sex you didn’t want to have, given up a child or a spouse, and betrayed the one friend or colleague you had sworn never to desert. After all that, the loss of one’s open expression of sexuality was perhaps a minor quibble, or in an overwhelmingly closeted world, maybe even a relief.

Fred Andersen at Bay Area Book Festival this weekend

Oakland Airport

I saw them as soon as we walked into the terminal. More important, they saw us.
I didn’t think we could drive back and still get to school tomorrow. So I used Willy’s desktop to buy us four airline tickets online, and we slipped out of Tracy hunched down in the back of Willy’s Tahoe. My car was left at Willy’s to pick up later. As we got out at the departure drop-off at the Oakland airport, Willy said, “I’ve got a guy inside. He’ll keep an eye on you.”
But the eyes we’d caught were a couple of not very subtle Latin gangbanger types, one in a green nylon Eagles football jersey and one in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. They began to move toward us as we walked through an arcade of restaurants and gift shops heading to the boarding gates. My heart sank and anger flamed in me, so hard and high I almost could not move. I was bloody sick of being chased and threatened by Mexican thugs.
Cristian pointed at a bright red and yellow sign. “In-N-Out Burger. They’re good.”
Brenda glanced at me. “The boys are hungry. Is there food on the plane?”
“On Southwest?” I said, irritable.
Brenda slowed down. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
She obviously had not seen the two men. I wished I had gotten details from Willy as to who was waiting for us. Bringing the boys had been foolish. I should have stood my ground. Now we were stuck.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing.” I tried to regain my composure. “They have the same kind of shops on the other side of the security,” I said. “Let’s get that over with.”
She gave me a look.
“Just, I’ll feel better when we’re in a security area.”
We walked around a sort of mezzanine where the escalators were partitioned off by a short wall. I took advantage of the little ripple in traffic to hitch up the strap on my bag, half turning and glancing back. They were there, easily within sight, but I did not catch them looking at us.
We came to the line for the security check. It wasn’t a very long line or a very crowded area. Ahead of us, uniformed people directed passengers through the familiar routine: shoes off, objects into tray. Armed officers stood on either side of the corral, attentive and calm. I felt better already. Standing in line I turned and glanced back again. Our new admirers had disappeared. I scanned left and right for them, trying to stay casual. Nothing. If they were still watching us they were well hidden. No one else looked suspicious either.
I began to relax a little, conceding that I was just a bit on edge, and could have misconstrued the glances of a couple of Mexican-looking dudes. In fact, what kind of reaction might my red-eyed glare have produced in them? If they were illegal aliens, or even if they weren’t, a visual going over by an old man with an attitude might have made them at least a little uncomfortable.
Someone was giving directions. A slim, exotic looking woman in a blue Southwest Airlines shirt spoke to the couple ahead of us, pointing to her left. “Gates thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, and forty, forty-one, forty-two, you have to take the elevator. Yes sir, it’s construction. Yes, the elevator will take you down one floor, then you just follow the passage. Los Angeles, yes.”
We were headed to gate forty-one. As my eyes followed her pointing finger, I saw a large group of people crowded around a single elevator. That couldn’t be right, yet it clearly was. I looked at the woman. “We haven’t gone through the security gate yet.”
“That’s right,” she said. “They have security down there. Just follow the passage.”
“Oh, great.” Brenda growled under her breath.
“We’ve still got two hours,” I said.
“Of standing in line.”
But there was nothing we could do. And there was plenty of annoyance around. As the crowd swelled behind us, more people noticed that there was only one elevator, no stairs, and the elevator held maybe a dozen people at a time. No one was happy.
Something poked me in the back, the corner of a suitcase or something. I flinched badly. That could have been a knife. A man and a woman just ahead of us jabbered in a foreign language, not Spanish. A tall hipster dude next to them stared at me with eerily bright blue eyes. What was he staring at? I looked around for the two men who had followed us, for a green jersey, a black shirt. I didn’t see anything. But in truth, anyone around us could be an assassin.
I leaned to Castellon’s ear. “I don’t like this.”
She gripped my arm and gave it a pat.
We shuffled slowly forward, hemmed in by people and their luggage. Suddenly the jam broke free for a moment, and the boys were moving ahead without us. Brenda let go of me and snared Adam’s jacket. But Cristiano kept moving ahead, oblivious. She said, “Cris—”
He didn’t hear her, but the movement stopped, and he turned and look at us. As the crowd shifted he wormed his way back.
“Don’t get separated,” Castellon whispered.
We were stalled again. It was hot. The tall guy was not looking at me, but I could sense his awareness. He had edged closer, and now stood an arm’s length from Cris, hand inside his leather jacket, like Napoleon. What the hell was he doing? He fumbled with something in there. I gently pulled Cristian around me and eased toward the man.
Beneath his jacket, the man’s thumb pushed something repeatedly. His hand withdrew from the jacket. Empty. As the coat settled around him, I glimpsed a phone, and saw the thin wires that ran up past his collar to the buds in his ears.
Jesus, did I need a break.
Once down the elevator—one floor—we entered a crowded makeshift security checkpoint. Unlike the calm scene upstairs, this was chaos, with security people directing groups from one line to another, and doing baggage checks on the floor by the wall. A female officer looked at our tickets and double-checked our driver’s licenses, which didn’t match each other in any way other than showing the same home town.
“These your kids?” The woman watched us for a reaction.
“No,” said Brenda. “My sister’s. We’re taking them while she and her husband go on a cruise.”
The kids stood there placidly, obviously with us. The woman handed back our IDs, already dismissing us from her attention.
We walked away, free of the crowd at last.
“Your sister? On a cruise?”
“Whatever. She just wanted to hear something normal. Not, we’re running from a drug gang.”
“You are a cool customer.”
Her eyes flashed merrily. “Just trying to keep up with you.”
We followed a windowless hallway to a junction where a makeshift sign showed arrows pointed right for gates 36 and 37, and left for the others. Most of the people turned right, we turned left, came to a stairwell, and went up to a broad concourse that smelled of new carpet and paint. It was almost deserted, and you could see spaces where shops and restaurants were going in. None of them were open.
“There’s nothing here,” said Brenda.
I had promised them something to eat. “Are you really hungry?”
“No, no. It would be a hassle to go back now. As long as there’s a bathroom.”
There were people movers—horizontal escalators—running down the side of the concourse. Cristian and Adam lit up at this minor thrill and pulled Brenda and I onto the belt. The boys cackled as they strode ahead.
“Don’t run!” I said.
They passed unaided walkers in the concourse as if winning a race. Then they went into reverse until Brenda and I caught up, then took off again, matching giant steps. Fortunately there were few other passengers on the belt, so the hijinks didn’t bother anyone.
The concourse stretched out past one gate, then another, and into the distance. A burst of passengers came out of gate thirty-eight, heading inbound. As their excited chatter diminished behind us, I could see the passageway ahead was almost deserted. Having no one around relaxed me a little.
We arrived at our gate. The area was so empty I double-checked the tickets. Yes, five-thirty flight to L.A. and Phoenix. Yes, the same flight number. But it was only three forty-five.
After the two days I’d just had, I should have relished the chance to sit, relax, maybe even catch a few winks. But I couldn’t quite get there. What if those two Mexicans showed up again? What if I’d been distracted by them, or the crowd, and missed our real pursuers?
We took seats among the rows of connected chairs. The sun slanted through the glass wall behind us. The boys walked up to the glass, drawn by the jets and baggage carts moving around on the concrete apron and the taxiways beyond.
I walked back to look down the concourse. Still largely deserted. I wished for food, but there was not even a vending machine. I took another longing glance up the concourse as I turned to go back to my seat.
Someone was coming. Someone in a black shirt, coming at a trot. I walked over to Brenda, in a fit of indecision. Should I tell her of my fears? But I didn’t know who was coming. And what were the odds he came here to kill us? Pretty low, but should I be measuring the odds?
As I walked up to Brenda, a door next to the boarding gate opened, and a young black man in the blue button-down Southwest Airlines shirt came into the room. He wore a friendly-looking goatee—some goatees can be fierce looking or squirrelly. He glanced at us, then looked again. Perhaps sensing my anxiety, he walked toward us. If there was an out, I wanted to take it. Maybe my fears were groundless, but maybe not. This guy had to help us.
He stopped in front of me. He smiled. “You doing alright, folks?”
“No, actually. We may be in danger.”
Brenda gave me a sharp, surprised look.
The ticket-taker, or whatever he was, appraised us for a moment. “All right. You can come with me.”
“Boys!” Brenda called softly, and gestured.
Adam and Cristian came over, still energized by the novelty of the airport.
To the man I said, “Where are we—”
“Security.” He nodded confidently. “Just right this way. It’s right down here, by the restrooms.”
I couldn’t believe our luck. A security station, right at hand. I felt a little bit of my anxiety draining away. And it didn’t hurt that it was a brother helping us. We walked up the concourse not more than a hundred feet. The man in the black shirt was closer now, but not running, and he did not look at us. I couldn’t tell if it was the guy I’d seen before or not.
The airline man opened the door. “Right down the stairs.” We trooped down the metal stairs. “Just at the bottom there,” he said.
Three men stood on the landing in front of a door which seemed to go out onto the runway. I turned to ask the man behind me what to do.
And got clubbed in the face by something very hard.
I sagged against the banister, head spinning. The men grabbed Brenda and the two boys.
The ticket taker was holding a gun now, and jabbed me with the barrel. “Just come along,” he muttered. “Or I’ll pepper them right here.”

Pregnant w/o a Cause

This is the latest edition of Wilshire Lewis’s YA-NA-MC-RTV comic novel. For the acronymically challenged, that’s:

YA: Young Adult (teen)
NA: New Adult (twenties-ish, or, alright millenial)
MC: Midlife Crisis (thirty-somewhat, Gen X, and usually Gen Ex-)
RTV: Reality TeleVision (The Genre That Ate Basic Cable)
YANAMCRTV is pronounced, Yana McRatvey, or in Glasgow (only) Yana McRilvey.
Who’s the father—no, wait. Who’s the mother?

“If you think you know what’s coming, you are in for a surprise . . .this funny book makes you laugh, shake your head–and think. I loved it!” Vijaya Schartz, award-winning author of Coyote Gorgeous.
“This book was unexpected, I love the twists and how I, personally, couldn’t see anything coming.” Goodreads reviewer Brook Hill. ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
“This book is some crap reality TV on print.” Goodreads reviewer Jaimi S. ☆
When Callie Scharf discovers that her “super-rational Supermom’s” unplanned pregnancy was the result of a one-night stand, and that the baby is going to be given up for adoption, she has to do something. Something fast, and something brilliant. Obviously her mother, suffering from well-deserved guilt and “after-birth crazy” cannot be totally trusted. So Callie comes up with a seemingly bonkers idea that keeps Baby Booms in the family, allows her mother to dump her idiot boyfriend and appear on a reality TV show, and makes Callie a high school legend.

Whazzup w’ me

March 22-25: Left Coast Crime, Reno, signing and schmoozing.

April 27: Sonya Andersen graduates with a Masters in counseling!

April 28-29: Bay Area Book Festival, Berkeley. Selling and Signing.

This summer: more book festivals, events and presentations . . .


Jaxon Square by Fred Andersen

You talk about thrills.  Name one that could beat walking out of jail and seeing your girl there.  Mary.  Tall, slim and twenty-two.  The prettiest smile.  But the smile wasn’t fully lit.  Something had gone sour.
Naturally the first thing you suspect is that she hadn’t spent the last three weeks alone.  But I quickly reminded myself not to bring the paranoidal mindset outside with me.  The Orleans Parish Prison needed to be left there where it was, on Perdido Street. Leave Hell in Hell.
We went home.  The awkward feeling passed.  How could I worry about Mary?  She bailed me out.  Worked her ass off to do it.
She started getting dinner together.  And I hit the couch.  How great to have a couch, instead of a bunk.  Even if the couch was in a little rented shack behind another house.
Then around five o’clock I see this guy park a red VW bus in the driveway and head for our door.  Tall and easy-moving.  Trouble.  Walking up to the door like he’s just going to make himself at home.
Mary saw him through the screen door. “Hi Muke!” she sang.  “Guess who’s baaaaack!
The guy stepped in the door.  Big but skinny.  Had that squared-up look of a college boy.  But he was dirty, his long hair stuck into a faded bandana.
“Remember Will?”  Mary hopped across the room and slid onto the couch next to me, laughing.  “My old man?”
“Whoa,” he smiled.  White, even teeth.  He pointed at me.  “Be right back.”
And he was right back.  Holding up a six-pack of Jax.  “I just got these.  Had ‘em in my cooler on a new block of ice.”
I remembered this Muke from right before I left.  He came to New Orleans from California or someplace and made friends with Eddie, who lived in the front house, who must have told him he could park his van in the driveway.  That’s where he slept.
The guy set the carton of beers on the coffee table in front of me.  “Welcome home.”
“Thanks, brotha.”  I shook his hand.  When you been where I’d been, you appreciate appreciation.  And you know the proper order of things, and the importance of a show of respect.  But what was he headed for when he first walked in the door?  He didn’t expect to see me.
We sat there in the front room in the breeze from the window fan.  Mary took the third beer after I and the guy had popped ours.  “I’ve been letting Muke take a shower here, cuz he fixed the sink for me.”
“Just needed a washer.”
“It wouldn’t stop turning on.  Or couldn’t turn off!”  Mary giggled.  “You know what I mean.”
Muke grinned.  “Jes’ helpin’ out.”
Mary went into the kitchen.  So he was just after a shower, not Mary?  She never mentioned this big dog sniffin’ around when we were talking through a grate the last three weeks.
I looked out the window.  Fear and indecision had me feeling unsteady.  Outside, the late sunlight slanted against the wall of the big house.  I could see Phil sitting in the kitchen, just across the tiny lawn that separated our little shack from the big house.
The big house looked out on Magazine Street, where other houses and a drugstore and a movie theatre looked back.  The upstairs of the house had been blown out by a hurricane, maybe five years ago.  No one bothered to repair it.  So the house just sat there, the yellow walls peeling.  Phil’s parents owned the property and Phil lived in a little kitchenette at the back of the first floor.  His job was to watch over it, which he did about as well as a psycho could who had to pop Thorazine to keep from seeing Russian bombers flying over.  Eddie the unemployed oil rig diver lived in two rooms in the front.  And Mary and me in the back cottage.
And now Muke in the driveway.  He had a job with a crew of spades remodeling a house near here.  I asked him what he made.
“Two dollars an hour,” he shrugged.  “Easy work, but dirty.  Low-key.  Things move along kind of stately.”  About what you’d expect from a pack of New Orleans nigras.  Muke took the other three beers out of the carton and placed one in front of me and one in front of Mary before he opened the last one for himself.  “You want me to ask my boss?”
“No,”  I said.  “I got something better going.  I heard this story in the place.  Some cat got busted walking out of a dope deal in the Quarter.  He climbed a trellis over a fence and managed to bury a plastic bag full of twenties in a garden before they caught up with him.  I know where that garden is.”
They both stared at me, their beer cans sweating.
“At first I thought it was just jailhouse talk.  But the day before I got out, the guy who told the story?  He got shivved.  The story is real.  The money is there.”
Mary lost her smile.  “Please don’t tell me.”
I’d told it just because it was a good story.  A jailhouse horror story.  That’s what people expect when you get out.  But suddenly I saw it different.  It came to me in a second-beer flash, even as I told it.  I can be accidentally brilliant like that. I looked at the guy.  “What do you think?”
He gulped his beer loudly. “I don’t know.”
Oh, yeah, brilliant.  If I could get this Muke alone, I could figure out if he screwed my woman.  Later on, Mary’s reaction would reveal first, did she screw him—in case I was still in doubt.  Second, if she did it, was she sorry?  Third, if she did it, was she still loyal to me?  That’s three things, but really only one.  Like God the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

The guy left.  Mary and I sat on the couch in the dark while the sounds of night came in the window.  She cried a long, deep cry.  She wouldn’t say why.  I couldn’t hate her.  No matter what.
“I got laid off at the store.  So I had to get the job at that dive.  Two months rent due now.”  An engine growled in the street.  Someone banged a lid on a garbage can.  “Phil’s father came around.”
My arms folded her in.  Soft and lavender.  “Don’t worry.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get the car back.”
“Forget the car.”  I smoothed her hair.  “That rollin’ wreck.  You did enough just getting me bailed.  Forget the car.”
That was when I got popped.  This cop hung around Louisiana Avenue, and I’d run into him before.  I had been dealing a small amount of weed and speed to an El Salvadorian there who sold it in the neighborhood.  This cop rousted me a few months ago, but he couldn’t get anything on me and it pissed him off.
So I was driving the old Continental down Magazine Street at Louisiana, and he pulled me over.  I mean right there.  I was just going to the store to buy some toothpaste and some smokes.  He dives behind the seat of the car and comes up with a brown glass vitamin bottle.  Inside, forty-some white crosses.  It floored me for a second, but then I realized those pills ain’t mine.  The mother had planted them on me.
After all the shit I done, to get busted by a cheating cop.  Smart, but a greasy-nose cheater.  So into jail I went.  And to the impoundment the Continental went, never to return.
I kissed Mary.  “I know it’s been rough.  You did the time with me.  I can never forget.”
She laid her hands on my chest.  “You can’t go breaking into houses.”
“I’m not.  It’s in a garden.  The people don’t even know the money’s there, and it doesn’t belong to them.  And the guy who told me is dead.”
“How will you ever find it?”
“It’s at 515 Dumaine.  In the soft ground, by the hose.  I know this.  I can almost picture it.”  The squirrel who told me the story of the money tin had put me through a long guessing game about the location.  I understood he was just toying with me out of boredom and ego.  And I only played the game out of my own boredom and ego.  But he had just enough detail that I thought maybe the story wasn’t complete bullshit.
But was the money really there?  I had not planned to look for it, until suddenly I had a need to toy with someone.

We had dinner, and then Mary led me to bed.  I thought it important for her to say when on that.  Of course I’d been dyin’ for it.  She ended up crying again, trying to smile through tears, her cheeks boiling pink.  All the tears confused me.  Sweetness mixed with sorrow.
About ten I left her asleep and dressed in the front room.
I walked over to the driveway.  The van was quiet, but the side doors were open.  When he popped his head out I said, “You want to do this?”
“Well,” he said, “I’m willing to check it out.  That couldn’t hurt.”
He drove us to the Vieux Carré and parked by the tracks.  Lower Dumaine Street was quiet, no tourists around.  515 was two-storied with an iron balcony, like I’d pictured it.  But 515 did not have a front garden.  523 looked right.  Something about the depilorated pink stucco.  I tried the latch on the gate.  Not locked.  We went to a bar for a beer and some planning.
“I think that’s the place.  It’s got a flower bed along the walk.  How I pictured it.”
He sipped.  “We got no shovel.”
“You don’t have anything in the car?  Tools?”
“Wrenches and stuff.”
“But there’s no one home.  Now is the time.  We’ll find something.  Shit, I’ll dig it with my hands.”
We drank the beers.  Had another.  Pool balls clacked in the back of the room.
“Thanks for helping Mary,” I said.
“No problemo.  Did she tell you that she let me stay at your house one day?  I had this god horrible toothache.  I couldn’t work, or even move.  She let me stay on the couch.  It was a hot day.  I woulda been a broasted chicken in the van.”
“S’okay.  I’m glad she helped you.”  Yeah, friendly indeed they’d been getting.
Muke had given me no reason so far to suspect that he’d poked Mary.  And on his placid sunburned face I saw no fear of me being a dangerous guy who just got out of jail.  I needed to raise the bet.  “Did you notice some guy coming around?”
He shrugged.  “Around your house?  Nobody.  Not that I ever saw.  But I wasn’t there a lot.”
“There’s this one guy from her home town, Morgan City.  Named Stebo.  Ex-boyfriend I say, though Mary won’t admit it.”
Muke shook his head.
“Good.  Guy gets on my nerves.  Like he’s got something on her.  She lets him hang around, just to be polite, I guess.  Next time he shows up he might go home with a crowbar in his skull.”
Muke rasped a chuckle.  He told me about this old girlfriend who ran out on him in California and then did it again in Colorado.  He was getting tuned up as we drank.  Talkety.  Even a little hilarious.  And still not scared of me.
”It’s tough to be in jail,” I said.  “With a pretty girl like Mary at home, and I left her  pretty flat.”
“It’s got to be tough.”
I leaned toward him as if I didn’t want the bartender to hear.  “I was afraid she might go back to turning tricks.”
His eyes darted away from mine.  “Tricks?”
“For money.  That’s what she was doing when I met her.”
“No way.  She’s such a girl-next-door.”
“Yeah.  But she knows how to use what she has.  I made her stop.  But it was too late.  She had herpes.”
“Her peas?”
“It’s a fungus.  You’ve heard of it.”  I could tell by the way he straightened up that this was news to him.  Left jab, right hook.  “She gets these sores all over her pud.  If you get it, it won’t make your pecker fall off, but it’ll make you wish it would.”
He laughed, but not because it was funny.  “But does that mean?  That you and her don’t…”
“There’s times we don’t do it.  Other times the rash goes away, but the fungus is always there.  But I don’t have to worry.  I’m immune.  A few people are.  Maybe you are.”
His pink ears turned pinker.  “Well, I don’t know.”
“You’re born with the immunity.  You either have it or you don’t.”
Muke ducked his head.  “I haven’t been around that much.  Round, round, get around, I don’t get around.  Just the one girlfriend, really.  Banged her bowlegged though.”
And there you had it, sports fans.  After what I told Muke,  it bothered him having to confess he was practically a virgin, not that his crotch might start itching like the mange.  So I found him innocent.  It made me happy. Because if he passed, there was no reason for me to not trust Mary.
“Well?”  I swirled the last inch of my beer.
“I’m getting brave.  We better do it before I shoot past brave right to stupid.”
I laughed.  Pretty funny guy.  I guess I could see how he got to park his van in the driveway.

We went back to 523 Dumaine, opened the gate, and slipped inside.  The house was dark, and some shrubbery along the front fence protected us from passing eyes.  A couple of bent steel patio chairs clustered in one corner.  Moss in the cracks of the bricks softened our steps.
I found a small garden spade on the porch, and poked around with it a little in the soft dirt between two bushes.  Then Muke took the tool and dug a little more energetically.
“Wait!  Djew hear that?”  He handed me the shovel and bent down to feel around in the dark hole.
Right there, holding the shovel, him with his back to me, was when I would have brained him and left him to his fate if I thought he’d screwed Mary.  But I was glad I didn’t have to do it.  Mary never turned tricks.  She’d give it away, and probably had at some point to that coon-ass dishwasher Stebo.  But apparently not to Muke.
So this had become a hoot.  Maybe we would find a box of money.  When he thought he found something, my heart raced for a moment.
Just then the light went on in the curtained window to our right.  I pressed my hand on Muke’s back and hissed.
He looked up.  “Shi-i-i-it,” he breathed.
Muke raised himself quickly and silently, while I lay the shovel on the ground.  I pushed some dirt back in the hole with my foot.  We tip-toed out and ran away laughing like seventh-graders.
I had to stop to breathe.  “What did you find?”
“In the hole,” I gasped.
He shook his head.  “Dunno.  Piece of tile.”
I had to laugh.  “I think we better call it a night.”  Since I had no treasure, and damn little besides, Muke bought a bottle of cheap, sweet wine and we drank it.  Then he bought another.
In a pukey-smelling dive on St. Ann he said, “I want you to know, I never touched Mary.”
That’s when I knew that he had done just that.  He had sensed my suspicion before, and then sensed that I’d been convinced of his innocence.  The beach boy had fooled me.  But then he’d fooled himself.  And me without a shovel in my hand.   Now I had to keep him with me a while longer.  I smiled my least wolfy smile.  “I know you didn’t, or you’d be itching by now.”
Muke chuckled jovially.  Then I knew that he not only knew about herpes, he thought he knew more about it than I did.  And he thought he knew that Mary didn’t have the fungus.
“Hey,” I said.  “You’ve been buying all the drinks.  Let me do something for you.”
“Okay, bro.”
“Here.”  I held out a yellow tablet.  “This will mellow you nicely.”
“It’s not a downer, is it?  I can’t handle those at all.”
Oh please, step into my left hook.  “Nah, it’s synthetic THC.  Like trippy grass.”
Muke took it out of my palm.  “What about you?”
I held up another tablet, popped it in my mouth and took a big swallow of beer.  Palmed the pill, of course.
Muke laughed merrily at my derring-do, and took the pill.  Down the hatch with Phil’s Thorazine.  One of these takes Phil from ready to jump off a building to, can’t get out of his chair.  I’d hate to see what it’s going to do to the Sundance Kid, here, especially aided by beer and wine.
When we finished our beers, I steered Muke outside.  “Look here.  I’ve got something else.  A special treat.”  We staggered down to the far end of Bourbon Street, to a particular kind of bar, where a trio of trannys, all chiffon and pink lipstick and hormone shots, took my boy into the restroom.  He was looking at me laughing as they led him away.  I heard some whooping from in there.
I had to leave.  I’d hate to see what happened when the Thorazine kicked in.  Waking up face down on the floor of a French Quarter gay bar at nine in the morning might be the best he could hope for.
Sometimes I’m deliberately brilliant.


My Antonia by willa cather

When Pavel and Peter were young men, living at home in Russia, they were asked to be groomsmen for a friend who was to marry the belle of another village. It was in the dead of winter and the groom’s party went over to the wedding in sledges. Peter and Pavel drove in the groom’s sledge, and six sledges followed with all his relatives and friends.
After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a dinner given by the parents of the bride. The dinner lasted all afternoon; then it became a supper and continued far into the night. There was much dancing and drinking. At midnight the parents of the bride said good-bye to her and blessed her. The groom took her up in his arms and carried her out to his sledge and tucked her under the blankets. He sprang in beside her, and Pavel and Peter (our Pavel and Peter!) took the front seat. Pavel drove. The party set out with singing and the jingle of sleigh-bells, the groom’s sledge going first. All the drivers were more or less the worse for merry-making, and the groom was absorbed in his bride.
The wolves were bad that winter, and everyone knew it, yet when they heard the first wolf-cry, the drivers were not much alarmed. They had too much good food and drink inside them. The first howls were taken up and echoed and with quickening repetitions. The wolves were coming together. There was no moon, but the starlight was clear on the snow. A black drove came up over the hill behind the wedding party. The wolves ran like streaks of shadow; they looked no bigger than dogs, but there were hundreds of them.
Something happened to the hindmost sledge: the driver lost control– he was probably very drunk–the horses left the road, the sledge was caught in a clump of trees, and overturned. The occupants rolled out over the snow, and the fleetest of the wolves sprang upon them. The shrieks that followed made everybody sober. The drivers stood up and lashed their horses. The groom had the best team and his sledge was lightest– all the others carried from six to a dozen people.
Another driver lost control. The screams of the horses were more terrible to hear than the cries of the men and women. Nothing seemed to check the wolves. It was hard to tell what was happening in the rear; the people who were falling behind shrieked as piteously as those who were already lost. The little bride hid her face on the groom’s shoulder and sobbed. Pavel sat still and watched his horses. The road was clear and white, and the groom’s three blacks went like the wind. It was only necessary to be calm and to guide them carefully.
At length, as they breasted a long hill, Peter rose cautiously and looked back. ‘There are only three sledges left,’ he whispered.
‘And the wolves?’ Pavel asked.
‘Enough! Enough for all of us.’
Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two sledges followed him down the other side. In that moment on the hilltop, they saw behind them a whirling black group on the snow. Presently the groom screamed. He saw his father’s sledge overturned, with his mother and sisters. He sprang up as if he meant to jump, but the girl shrieked and held him back. It was even then too late. The black ground-shadows were already crowding over the heap in the road, and one horse ran out across the fields, his harness hanging to him, wolves at his heels. But the groom’s movement had given Pavel an idea.
They were within a few miles of their village now. The only sledge left out of six was not very far behind them, and Pavel’s middle horse was failing. Beside a frozen pond something happened to the other sledge; Peter saw it plainly. Three big wolves got abreast of the horses, and the horses went crazy. They tried to jump over each other, got tangled up in the harness, and overturned the sledge.
When the shrieking behind them died away, Pavel realized that he was alone upon the familiar road. ‘They still come?’ he asked Peter.
‘How many?’
‘Twenty, thirty–enough.’
Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the other two. Pavel gave Peter the reins and stepped carefully into the back of the sledge. He called to the groom that they must lighten– and pointed to the bride. The young man cursed him and held her tighter. Pavel tried to drag her away. In the struggle, the groom rose. Pavel knocked him over the side of the sledge and threw the girl after him. He said he never remembered exactly how he did it, or what happened afterward. Peter, crouching in the front seat, saw nothing. The first thing either of them noticed was a new sound that broke into the clear air, louder than they had ever heard it before–the bell of the monastery of their own village, ringing for early prayers.
Pavel and Peter drove into the village alone, and they had been alone ever since. They were run out of their village. Pavel’s own mother would not look at him. They went away to strange towns, but when people learned where they came from, they were always asked if they knew the two men who had fed the bride to the wolves.
“My Antonia” by Willa Cather, first published, 1918



I got out of the water and went to the cabana, which was really a sultan’s tent, white and tangerine. It went well with my pullover. I sat down to dry my legs.
He followed me. “ I wasn’t kidding about the watch. I really want you to have it.”
“Steady, playboy. Stay in your lane.” Yes, I was being flip, because I did not want to be mean. But I did not want to owe this meatball anything. He took it the wrong way. He took it as a challenge. I had become a challenge.
He sat down on the wicker couch. “And a tousand.”
“A thousand what.”
“You know,” he whispered. “Dollars.”
“Fuck you.” We were so outtahere. I stood up. Carissa and Michael were in a hot tub near the other end of the pool.
I looked around. That way led back to the bar–
“Wait,” he said. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I’ve got it perfect.”
“That’s not it.”
“You can’t treat me like meat, I haven’t done a god damn thing to make you think you can treat me like that.”
“That’s it. That’s why.”
“Why what.”
“I wouldn’t offer all this to a . . . woman who would—”
“Whore, you’re trying to say.”
He didn’t move, just sat there staring up at me.
I had no moral objection to fucking him. Aesthetic objection, I had. But that was all irrelevant. I was in danger, now. A whirlwind of emotions was flitting around in my chest, having to do with something that my seducer could not imagine. Amanda.
I had known Amanda all my life. Two years ago this summer, she went to Vegas with her boyfriend. He was a drug dealer and he had made a big score and they went to Vegas to celebrate. And after a crazy night they had a crazy argument and he shot her, accidentally, but dead just the same. It was a pointless, almost random death that seemed to want to make her whole life seem pointless as well. But no one’s life is pointless, which is why this incident was so painful for her family and her friends, including me. Ever since then I have walked on eggshells in unknown social situations. And I have cleaved to the straight way. Obsessively. Today I had let down my guard a little, and look how it ended up. With this peachfuzz gangster who offered money with one hand, and might have a gun in the other. It was not that I feared for my virtue. I feared for my life.
He grabbed his gym bag and looked in. His hand came out with money. He put a little packet of bills on the couch next to him. It was held together with a spring clip. He put another one on top of it. “Two.”
“You’ve got the stink of drug money all over you,” I said. I waved to Carissa at the other end of the pool. She seemed to look at me but did not move.
“Three,” he said.
I felt my legs tremble. Much as I wanted to leave, I could not move. I sat down on one of the lounges that faced the pool. I was no longer angry about being thought a whore, or afraid of being killed. I believed he really meant what he said. In his mind it was all perfectly ordered. He was buying purity. I am not Purity. “You still don’t get it. I don’t want anything you’ve got, cuz you are trouble. And I don’t want no more of it.”
“What will it take? Five thousand, and all I want to do is sniff cocaine off your naked breast.”
I was so shocked at what he said, that I began to cry. Now I was really afraid. Now we were entering into a kind of depravity I had never experienced. I could see the lust in his eyes. I know boys. He would not stop with that. Once they get started they hate to stop.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
I took a deep breath. “You said you want me because I’m not a whore, and then you want to treat me like one. And you don’t know anything about me. Or care.”
“You’re right. I don’t know about you. I don’t know your story. And if that means that I don’t care about you, then I guess that’s true. But I do care about you. I admire you. You have grace, and beauty, and charm, like the ancient queens. You are a star. I don’t need you for sex. I can have unlimited sex whenever I want. This is just a little fun little thing. To show my admiration for your beautiful body.”
I looked around. I thought about the money. I thought about dignity. And honor. Just words, aren’t they. Charm and grace are also words.
​    “Count it out,” I said.



He stopped in the doorway of the KP room and looked back at the messhall. He remembered the picture the rest of his life. It had become very quiet and everybody had stopped eating and looked up at each other.
“Must be doin some dynamitin down to Wheeler Field,” somebody said tentatively.
This seemed to satisfy everybody. They went back to their eating. Warden heard a laugh ring out above the hungry gnashings of cutlery on china, as he turned back into the KP room. The tail of the chow line was still moving past the two griddles…
That was when the second blast came. He could hear it a long way off coming toward them under the ground; then it was there before he could move, rattling the cups and the plates in the KP sinks and the rinsing racks, then it was gone and he could hear it going away northeast toward the 21st Infantry’s football field. Both the KPs were looking at him…
Warden grabbed his coffee cup in one hand and his halfpint of milk in the other and ran out through the messhall screendoor onto the porch. The far door, into the dayroom, was already so crowded he could not have pushed through. He ran down the porch and turned into the corridor that ran down to the street and beat them all outside but for one or two. When he stopped and looked back he saw Chief Choate and Stark were right behind him. Chief Choate had his plate of hotcakes-and-eggs in his left hand and his fork in the other. He took a big bite. Warden turned back and swallowed some coffee.
Down the street and over the trees a big column of black smoke was mushrooming up into the sky. The men behind were crowding out the door and into the street. Almost everybody had brought his bottle of milk to keep it from getting stolen, and a few had brought their coffee too. From the middle of the street Warden could not see any more than he had seen from the edge, just the same big column of black smoke mushrooming up into the sky from down around Wheeler Field. He took a drink of his coffee and pulled the cap off his milk bottle.
“Gimme some of that coffee,” Stark said in a dead voice behind him, and held up his own cup. “Mine was empty.”
He turned to hand him the cup and when he turned back a big tall thin red-headed boy who had not been there before was running down the street toward them, his red hair flapping in his self-induced breeze.
“Whats up, Red?” Warden hollered at him. “What’s happening?”
The red-headed boy went on running down the street concentratedly, his eyes glaring whitely wildly at them.
“The Japs is bombing Wheeler Field,” he hollered over his shoulder. “I seen the big red circles on the wings!”
He went on running down the middle of the street, and quite suddenly right behind him came a big roaring, getting bigger and bigger; behind the roaring came an airplane, leaping out suddenly over the trees.
Warden, along with the rest of them, watched it coming with his milk bottle still at his lips and the twin red flashes winking out from the nose. It came over and down and up and away and was gone, and the stones in the asphalt pavement at his feet popped up in a long curving line that led up the curb and puffs of dust came up from the grass and a line of cement popped out of the wall to the roof, then back down the wall to the grass and off out across the street again in a big S-shaped curve.