Marathon Cowboys Read online

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  “That’s good. You boys get on home, now, so I can get some work done.”

  We walked outside, and JC3 tugged on my sleeve. “I left my bags in the locker at the bus station. Can we swing by and get them?”

  “Sure. That was your Uncle George?”

  “He’s not my real uncle. He and my granddad were in the Marine Corps together. I’ve always called him my uncle.”

  “They served in Vietnam?”

  “Yeah. Two tours each.”

  “You don’t mind him calling you a fairy?”

  “I used to do this thing, my own interpretation of the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.’ It was a favorite around our house at Christmastime.”

  “Gotcha. Okay, you can call me Mary, if you can’t remember Maryboy, and I won’t bust your ass. Don’t call me zo-zo. I’m gonna call you Jesse. JC sounds too much like Jesus Christ, and I am not calling you JC3. So, that’s names settled.”

  “What are you going to call The Original if you’re calling me Jesse?”

  “I’m gonna call him Sir.”

  “Ooo, nice one!”

  “Are we getting burgers first, or do we need to hit the road?”

  “Burgers. I know where to go.”

  THE road to Marathon was a two-lane that went through empty Southwestern mountain desert, the country they call the High Lonesome. It was already dark, but it didn’t smell like home. The rocks were a different color, and the creosote and ocotillo that crowded the road’s edge gave the air an astringent smell that I liked. It was so dark the stars were brighter than I had ever seen before, almost thick across the sky. Some of the guys in my platoon had taken to stargazing in Afghanistan, because the dark made the starshine so bright. I never did. I didn’t want to get too comfortable there. It wasn’t my land.

  Jesse pulled open his backpack and brought out a sketchbook, opened it to a new page. He made some notes, turned to me. “Do Marine infantry guys carry machine guns?”

  I could feel my eyebrows fly up. What was this about? “No, they carry an M27 IAR. Infantry Automatic Rifle. It’s something like the portable version.” I waited a minute while he wrote this down. “Why?”

  “Oh, you know. Just thinking about icons. Warriors and their tools, cowboys and their tools. I always thought of cowboys and Indians together, but they’re really not. Not anymore. Since World War II, the Navajo have been Marines, right? The Code Talkers and all that. I was thinking about what you said to that guy in the bar, that they let Indians back into Texas when they needed a war fought. It’s more like, now, when the country needs warriors, they turn to men with brown skin, and names like Maryboy and Sanchez and Washington.”

  I thought about the guys in my platoon. “You could be right.”

  “But cowboys are in the American imagination as the iconic tough guys. I’ll have to figure out some way to merge these ideas.”

  I watched the road for a while, and the stars, and listened to him sketch in his book, the whispery sounds of pencil over good watercolor paper. “So you’re an artist? I mean, a real artist? You make your living with your art.”

  He looked up and smiled at me. “Yes. It’s actually a lot more work than it seems.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being around a real artist. Seeing what it’s like, the process, you know? How you concentrate. How you take ideas and flesh them out.”

  “So it would be okay with you if we share the studio space?”

  “If it’s okay with you.” Through the windshield, a bright spark of light arced across the sky, leaving a trail of silver behind it. “Hey, did you see that?”

  “A shooting star. I’ve seen them down here before. Never anyplace else. It’s like they belong to this little corner of Texas.”

  “That was my first. Jesse, if you want to go to sleep, I’ll wake you up when we get to town. It’s a straight shot, right?”

  “Pretty much.” He stuffed the sketchbook into the top of his backpack. “Maybe I will go to sleep.” He sighed, closed his eyes. “You think JC sounds too much like Jesus Christ? That just gives me more gas for the fire, you know? American icons, The Marlboro Man, Jesus Christ, and Geronimo, all rolled into one. But I’d have to make it truthful. Those three are pretty much legend.”

  “You could put some pretty angel wings on your cowboy. Everybody likes angels.”

  Jesse sat up, scrambled for his notebook again.

  “I was kidding, right?”

  “A cowboy angel, wearing a crown of thorns, eyes raised to heaven, holding an M27 IAR. How fucking awesome would that be?”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “First artist lesson for you, my friend. Don’t think about what your mother would say. You need to be free of censorship before you can do any work that isn’t crap, and your own internal censor is the worst.”

  I drove on for a while, listening to his pencil on the paper. “Thanks. I’ll have to think on that for a bit.”

  That got me a sweet smile.

  WE ROLLED into a little West Texas town that looked so quiet and still I wanted to get out of the truck and take a picture. There were train tracks going through town, a little grocery store, and a decent-sized bookshop, and the houses were small and battered with wide, deep Texas porches. A tiny ball of tumbleweed rolled down the street, and a yellow dog that had a bit of golden retriever in him came out from between a couple of houses, stood watching the truck, his tail wagging just a bit. I gave Jesse a nudge.

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “Well, that’s always the big existential question, isn’t it?”

  I sighed, stared up at the stars, and thought about kicking his ass. He blinked awake, yawning and looking around.

  “Okay, sorry. Go down there to Seventh Street and turn left. We’re at the end of the road.”

  The houses got farther apart, and after about a quarter mile, stopped all together. “Keep going,” Jesse said. “You’ll see the windmill.”

  I pulled into the driveway of an old Texas spread. Nowhere else in the world, I thought. The house had a metal roof and rainwater collection tanks under the wide eaves, and a porch that wrapped around the house. There was a light on somewhere in the house, kitchen, probably. There was an old windmill, like the West Texas farmers had used to pump their well water, and a big metal stock tank sitting at the base.

  “Texas hot tub,” Jesse said, pointing to it.

  “Where should I put the truck?”

  “Pull around back. You’ll see where The Original has his parked. You can just pull in next to him.”

  Home thirty seconds already, and I thought Jesse was getting a bit of a soft Texas drawl back in his voice. I pulled the truck around back of the house, parked it, and pulled the backpacks and my duffel bag from behind the seats. When I got back around the front of the house, the porch light was on and Jesse was wrapped up in his grandfather’s arms.

  The Original was whip thin, with a leathery face and neck. He was up and dressed in jeans and a snap-front shirt, and he came down the porch steps and took my duffel bag. “Come on in the house, son.” And his voice was a slow old-Texas drawl. “I bet you’re tired, that long drive.”

  “I’m okay. Jesse kept me company.”

  “Well, in that case, let me fix you some coffee and eggs, and we can talk a bit. You have a good trip out here?”

  Jesse took the backpacks. “I’ll go put these in our rooms, Mary.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Mr. Clayton looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “That boy hasn’t been a pest, has he?”

  I shook my head. “No, not at all. We had a bit of negotiation about names, that’s all. We’re settled, now.”

  “You sign your cartoons ‘Maryboy.’ Is that your family name?”

  “Yes, sir.” I pulled up a chair at the kitchen table. It was a battered pine table, with mismatched chairs. There was a blue-speckled enamel coffeepot on the stove, just like in my grandmother’s hogan. There was a newspaper on the
table and a cup of coffee where Mr. Clayton had been sitting. I felt a sudden burn of tears in my eyes, it felt so much like home.

  He set a mug of coffee next to me. “You take anything in it?” I shook my head. He walked over to the kitchen door, called down the hall. “Jesse, get in here and make us some eggs, son.”

  Mr. Clayton sat down next to me at the table, held out his hand. “How do you do. I’m Jesse Clayton, and I’m pleased to meet you.”

  I shook his hand. “Lorenzo Maryboy, sir, and I appreciate your hospitality. I’ve been really looking forward to coming down here. Getting started.”

  “Well, that’s fine, then.” He had the same blue eyes as Jesse, with deep wrinkles near them that made me think he spent a lot of time smiling and looking into the sun.

  Jesse had a small towel to his face. It looked like he’d splashed some water on his cheeks to wake himself up. He gave a brisk scrub and slung the towel over his shoulder. “So, I’m taking orders. Granddad, you want some bacon? Sunny side up?”

  “That sounds good, Jesse.”

  “Mary, you want an omelet? Some French toast?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll just have what your granddad’s having.”

  “Very well.”

  Mr. Clayton studied me. “So, do you prefer Maryboy? That’s your name as an artist, your Marine Corps name. What do your people call you?”

  “Lorenzo.”

  “Well, that would be fine with me.”

  “I thought zo-zo sounded cute. No capitals.”

  We both turned to Jesse at the stove. “No,” I said, and he sighed and went back to cracking eggs into a bowl. “You and I have already had our discussion regarding names.”

  “Names are important,” Mr. Clayton said, studying my face. His eyebrows were raised, his eyes amused. “Names are identity, and it’s not a bad idea to have a way to keep your work identity separate from you as a person. You don’t want to get sucked down the rabbit hole, and that can happen to artists. Suddenly people are calling you zo-zo and you’re answering.”

  Bacon was frying in an iron skillet, and between the smell of the coffee under my nose and the bacon, I felt like swooning. “In my family, my grandmother decided what we were to be called and no one thought to argue with her. Same with the USMC. I’m not used to having all these choices.”

  “Well, how about this. You boys look exhausted, and it looks to me like those bruises and cuts on your face are hurting. So let’s eat some eggs, and then you take some aspirin and go on to sleep. Everything else can wait until later.”

  I was so grateful I was ready to weep. “Yes, sir.”

  “Not you,” the old man said to his grandson. “You and I need to have a little talk.”

  Jesse gave him a big-eyed look, scooped some eggs onto a plate. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Three

  I WOKE with bright sunshine coming through the bedroom window. The walls were beaded board, painted the color of eggnog, and the iron bed I was sleeping on was covered by a light patchwork quilt. There was a small dresser and a tiny closet, nothing else. The room immediately appealed to my frugal Navajo-USMC soul.

  I made up the bed, pulled on some running shorts and a T-shirt, and carried my shoes and socks down the hall. I sat down at the kitchen table to put them on, drank a big glass of water, then let myself out of the house. Mr. Clayton was sitting on the porch in a rocker, a big book of cartoons open on his lap. He looked up when I sat down to put on my shoes. “Morning, son.”

  “Good morning, sir. Anyplace in town I shouldn’t run?”

  “I don’t believe so. If any dogs come running out the back of the house to bark at you, they’re probably just saying hello. You’ll know otherwise when you feel their teeth sink into your ass.”

  “Understood.”

  I made a perimeter sweep and was able to circle the entire town in fifteen minutes. It lived up to what it looked like in the middle of the night: a quiet, dusty town bisected by a railroad track, with porches on the houses and the occasional adobe, friendly dogs. A couple of people passed me, all driving pickups, and they each raised their fingers from the steering wheel in a friendly salute. I moved out onto the highway going out of town, and when I’d run another thirty minutes and was starting to feel the parch in my throat, turned back around and headed back to 7th Street. I’d gone about a mile when I noticed my pickup truck heading my way, going real slow. Jesse was behind the wheel. He handed me a bottle of water out the window, made a three-point turn in the road, and went past me, going back to his granddad’s house.

  That boy was a piece of work. He made me smile, thinking about his smart mouth. That’s the big existential question. Was he just saving that up for when somebody asked him, where do we go from here? Or did it come to him that quick? What had he said up in that bar? He didn’t like the hostility he was feeling? I had an idea for a cartoon: one of my devil dogs, surrounded on all sides by an enemy squad with their weapons raised, saying, I don’t like the hostility I’m feeling here! When I got back to the house, I ducked into a quick shower, grabbed an oatmeal cookie from the plate on the kitchen table, and joined Jesse and Mr. Clayton on the front porch. The quiet was peaceful, too peaceful, and Jesse had to fill up the silence with chatter. “Hey, did you see that hot dog cart downtown? Umami Dogs? That’s my cousin’s food cart. I talked to her this morning. She says she wants to bring street-food culture to Marathon.”

  “Something’s wrong with that girl,” Mr. Clayton said from behind the paper. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. “She tried to give me a hot dog made out of tuna fish.”

  “That must have been the Wasabi Dog. Sadie said that was the best, but no one in Marathon would try it.”

  “If the tuna fish dog is the best she’s got, then mumami isn’t long for the streets of Marathon.”

  “Umami, Granddad. The fifth taste.”

  “Whatever. Okay, boys. We need to have a frank discussion about what we’re going to do. My agreement with Staff Sergeant Maryboy, a gentleman’s agreement, was that he could use the studio out back to set up a workspace for his cartooning. I would give him a place to stay, some bacon and eggs, and studio space, and I’d pass on whatever little bit I have learned over the years as a cartoonist. Jesse, you know you’re always welcome here, son, but you weren’t expected. What is it you need?”

  “I need a tall studio space. High ceilings and good light. I want to start a new series of paintings, and I wanted to spend some time down here with you.”

  “I think Jesse has priority in this situation,” I said. The Original was too honorable to back out of his deal with me, but naturally Jesse had first call on his resources, his time, his heart. “He’s your grandson, for one thing, and for another, well…. Okay, he’s your grandson.”

  “Granddad, I think Mary and I can share the studio, if you can stand to have us both in the house. Since I’m the one crowding in there, I’ll buy the groceries. We can take turns cooking.” He gave me a gentle elbow. “We talked about it last night on our way down here. We think we can share the space and work together.”

  “As long as the septic tank holds out and the well don’t run dry, I’d say we’re good, then. You take Lorenzo back and show him the studio. He gets first dibs on the side of the studio he wants, Jesse. Maybe give him the side with the phone line so he can hook his computer up.”

  Jesse dragged me around the back of the house. The studio was a long white clapboard building with high windows. “Lucky you, you get the dial-up connection!” We stepped inside, and I could see why Jesse wanted to paint here. Windows on every wall, light and shadow flooding the space, and the ceiling must have been twenty feet high. There were ceiling fans in a line down the rafters, spinning the dust, and a concrete floor.

  “No AC out here,” Jesse said. “If you close the blinds and open the windows by about nine, it stays pretty cool. Otherwise you’ve got to work early and late, and take a long, sweet nap in the afternoon. That’s the Texas way.”
There was a desk built into the wall, with a long worktable attached with an integral bookcase. “That’s your space down there. We got a little bathroom out here too.”

  I walked over and looked at the desk. I just needed to give it a wipe down and I’d be ready to start work. “Jesse, I’m going to get set up, okay? You don’t need me for anything?”

  “I’ll stay out of the bars so you can work.” I looked at him over my shoulder. He had shed his San Francisco clothes, was in a pair of baggy Levi’s and a blue T-shirt the color of his eyes. Still had the red sneakers on. “I know where there’s a good lamp for the desk. I’ll bring it out here.”

  “You got any of your painting stuff? What do you need, canvas?”

  “I shipped it. It’s coming.”

  I hauled my gear out of the back of my pickup. It felt strange, unwrapping the whiteboard I used for sketches, the computer and file boxes. It felt like a year had passed since I had wrapped these things so carefully in Quantico. I was a different person, so much time had passed. Jesse brought a lamp, a good gooseneck, asked me if I was up for a Wasabi Dog.

  “What’s in it?”

  “It actually sounds pretty good to me. It’s got cucumber and green onion and apple, and the dressing is sour cream, cilantro, lime juice, and wasabi. On sliced, seared tuna.”

  “Um, what else?”

  “I think the Javelina Dog is smoked pork of some kind. The Umami relish has capers and green onions, I’m not sure what else.”

  “I think I’ll go with that.”

  “The Original’s getting the Big Bear Dog, with seared jalapeno relish. And with that one I think we swept the menu.”

  The quiet settled over the studio, felt like it was falling like the tiny dust motes in the air, falling like that shooting star we’d seen on the way down from Alpine. I had a picture in my mind, that silly bar fight. I had never seen a bar fight where so many people did so little damage to each other. It all seemed to be about the noise, the shouting, and big gestures. I could have leaned back against the bar and finished my beer, and the end result wouldn’t have been any different. I scratched a bit at the stitches on my cheek.