Mr. Clobber’s repertoire was like night and day. On “low,” the bull spun and rocked gaily like a merry-go-round. On “low,” one imagined the toots of a pipe organ. On “high,” one imagined the rup-rup-rup of a jackhammer. On “high,” the bull erupted like a volcano and broke arms and legs, squashed nuts (and a few ovaries), and created outrageous bar tabs. The latter consequence was why the owner kept the bull around.
Since we’d started playing there, Bandit had started a tradition at the Lone Star. Every night at twelve midnight we quit playing for half an hour and Abbey emceed a rodeo. Jay and I normally took a whirl on the bull ourselves. Seth was chicken.Zoe was too smart for such nonsense. Abbey, thank God, enjoyed conducting her rodeo so much that she didn’t get on the bull—just threatened to.
That night, the first rider was a female customer. There were a couple of gals who were pro snow skiers, and they could give any guy in the place a run for his money. These daring ladies requested the high setting and rode Mr. Clobber as easily as they negotiated six-foot moguls on the expert slopes of Squaw Valley. They were human, though. The week before, a stocky little brunette “got clobbered;” after she mopped herself up, she kicked the poor bull right in the friggin’ socks. The manager had to nail Mr. Cobber’s woolen anatomy back on—right then and there—to pacify the crowd.
The first contestant of the evening, a buxom girl—who was not a pro skier—mounted Mr. Clobber and requested the low setting, and that meant the bull’s reputation was in jeopardy. Abbey made everyone in her rodeo wear a ceremonial cowboy hat. Rider #1 put on the beat-up straw hat that was so big it covered her ears, and proceeded to slowly spin and rock. After guzzling a flaming shot for the crowd and symbolically licking the shot glass, the buxom girl started making rude S-shaped motions on the bull that drew catcalls and copious cheers.
Moo!
Abbey Butler liked a spectacle. But sometimes she was known to side with the bull. Her mischievous grin whetted the crowd’s appetite, and an anxious rumble filled the Lone Star.
“Well now,” she announced, managing a sort of western accent. “I think this little rodeo queen deserves some excitement.” She cued the band, and we played a scratchy riff in F minor that started very slow, and then got faster and faster and faster. Abbey yelled, “Hit it, Mike,” and the bartender who ran Clobber’s switch slipped the lever from “low” to “high.” A prouder Mr. Clobber bucked rider #1 on her pert little ass, to the cheers of all.
Jay grabbed his woodgrain Fender Precision bass—the neck with his left hand and the body with his right—and in a swift, fluid motion ducked under the shoulder strap. He placed the instrument on its stand. “Let’s go for it.”
“After you,” I said. I gave him a shove toward Abbey, with her ceremonial cowboy hat.
Jay went the designated two minutes on high without a moment where his balance was in question. He also wowed the crowd with his latest trick, which was to jump to a standing position and act like he was surfing, negotiating the bucks of Mr. Clobber like mounds of tumbling Pacific.
My turn.
When Mr. Clobber was cranked up, just to hang on in a sitting position took agility and concentration. The key was to not fight it, to get in sync with the rup-rup-rup, the whirl of forces.
A rider and bull have a similar relationship to a drummer and bassist. A drummer provides the back beat and, in a sense, presides over a band’s rhythm like a rider presides over an animal. At the same time, a good drummer tailors the beat to the bass line so that the product is two complementary sounds pulsing in unison. The drummer leads the bassist; the bassist leads the drummer. Especially in a jam session, where the band makes up the song as they play it, good rhythm is a matter of having a sixth sense. Drummers have to be mind-readers; robotic bull riders have to predict the beast’s crazy motion, or else bust their balls and get thrown on their faces.
Other nights, when I had tried to stand, I failed to maintain a firm slip-grip on the rope halter as I let out the slack. I noticed that when Jay went to the standing position, he kept himself stable by leaning back against a taut halter, keeping tension on it while sliding his grip. Steadily and fluidly, he swung to standing, the technique similar to a rock climber’s rappel.
This time, to my excitement, I was able to keep tension on the halter. I found myself standing, knees soft, leg muscles tense. The sensation was thrilling and frightening as I loomed from side to side, feeling like a nervous driver oversteering a car. Not with the grace and style of Jay Wong, but with unembellished determination, I rode out minute number two.
I threw Abbey the cowboy hat, feeling like a hero. It made me feel good that she looked proud. “Right on, dude.”
Jay and I chinked beer mugs. I drained my glass.
“This place is bitchin,’” he said. “Man, I could hang out here forever. Fuck money. Fuck security. Fuck politics and Uncle Sam. Fuck the future. Fuck getting a new surfboard. Man, give me that bull anytime. Right now I’m thinking that bull is the most bitchin’ thing in the world.” He let out a howl. A chorus of wild, excited cheers filled the club. Mr. Clobber and bull riders, it seemed, filled the Lone Star with juice.
For some reason that night I didn’t get the juice. I howled, too. But my loud noise sounded embarrassing, made me uneasy.
I had just ridden the bull, rode that friggin’ thing standing, just like I had wanted. But what I had done seemed stupid.
I was thinking of my father, with his “level head.” I was seeing the nightclub through his eyes. The goings-on in the Lone Star were ludicrous, absurd.
Heavy thoughts. Did it mean anything at all to ride a mechanical bull? Did sheer fun justify fun?
I went and got stoned and drunk. You live, then you die, I rationalized. There’s no one correct recipe for what goes on in between. What the hell if I’d decided to take the flavor. What the hell if I’d decided to infuse myself with juice, when I could get it. This was the consolation prize, I rationalized the consolation prize for the loser.
* * *
Seth pierced the cellophane and let his thumbnail glide between the edges of thin sheets of cardbboard, corner to corner, making a full-length slit in the brand-new record jacket. On front, the album cover displayed an artist’s rendition of a foliage-covered brick wall with four painted figures dressed in preppie suits standing in front of it. One guy wore a striped necktie as a headband and had drumsticks sticking out of his front pocket. This guy, of course, was Domino.
Seth unsleeved the thin, groovy disc, and held it gingerly by its outside edges. He put Side A of Ivy League Dropouts by the Pricey Dexters on the turntable in the cabin called Oz.
The first cut played. “I have to admit, I like this. I wonder if every song is going to be as good?” Seth was wearing a pair of Zoe’s overalls because he had neglected to do his laundry. As hbe bent down to pick up a burning cigarette balanced on an empty Coke can on the fireplace hearth, you could see a fuzzy panda bear sewn onto the back pocket of the overalls.
“Are you wearing Zoe’s undies, too, dude?” said Jay.
Zoe blushed and stuck her tongue out at Jay. Seth stood holding his cigarette and shook his head.
“Jay’s right,” I told Seth, “you look like a friggin’ closet queen.” I was pissed at him for buying the Pricey Dexters’ album.
“Come on, you guys,” Abbey said. “I’m trying to listen to the record.”
“Listen and learn,” Zoe advised.
“Someday, this is supposed to be us,” Abbey continued. “Someday, it would be nice if Bandit cut an album, too.”
Seth, Jay, and the girls listened to the Pricey Dexters intently. I resigned to do the same. The album was pretty damn good, but that wasn’t the point, and saying that the P.D.’s were an inspiration for Bandit wasn’t the point either.
None of the others could hide it from me. Having this album playing in our cabin was like having someone to dinner whom they’d disown
ed—it was an experiment, a test. They were peeking at him and his L.A. band through a knot hole and deciding whether or not they were going to unlatch the door and let him back into their favor. Labor Day weekend was just around the corner. And each member of Bandit had to decide what he or she was going to do when Domino and the Pricey Dexters arrived in Tahoe.
* * *
I thought taking the girls someplace, hauling them around, would feel like old times, but it didn’t. On the way to the casinos, Abbey and Zoe didn’t evade me with feline smiles, private jokes, or girlish half-telepathic conversation; rather, they took turns talking to me individually. Abbey and I discussed our passion for seedy, glitzy cocktail shows. Zoe told me about how she wanted to learn Craps. When she discovered I didn’t know a thing about Craps, she turned the conversation back over to Abbey and reclaimed her copy of Win, Win, Win: A Primer for Games of Chance and flipped through pages. Dusk fell as we passed Meeks Bay, and when it became too dark for Zoe to read, she put the book into her briefcase.
My eyes stared straight ahead. After Meeks bay, the road to South Shore became windy and treacherous—a ribbon of pavement cut in the mountains like an altitudinous crack.
“Learn anything?” I asked.
“I think I’ve gotten the gist of it,” Zoe said.
The windy mountain road gave me white knuckles. It didn’t seem to bother Zoe at all.
“Oh, my, I think we all ought to try it. It’s simple. Each shooter begins with a come-out roll, Seven or 11 he wins, 2, 3, or 12 he loses, ‘craps out,’ 4, 5, 6, 8, 9 and 10 combinations the shooter rolls until his point reappears, or —”
“Fascinating,” I said.
“It sounds like an awfully fussy game,” Abbey said. “I’m sure I wouldn’t enjoy it. You might be good at it, Danny.” She put her head on my shoulder and shut her eyes.
Zoe continued, “Play the pass line. Play the don't pass line. Eight the hard way. According to this book, the main thing is you just have to know when to quit.”
“Win or lose,” I said.
“Shit,” said Abbey.
“Win or lose,” Zoe said.
She went on to discuss craps from a statistical point of view. Abbey groaned periodically. I punctuated Zoe’s key points with words like “okay,” “yes,” “sure,” and “ahum.”
Over the course of the summer, Zoe had evolved into a new person. She had always been smart, but now she seemed to showcase her intelligence, wield it like a weapon. She had developed into the type of person my father longed for me to be.
I didn’t begrudge her for it—not much anyway. The new Zoe was an awesome manager. The Lone Star gig was netting Bandit excellent wages. What’s more, Zoe was growing confident that she could get us another shot at the Lake Club. She was literally hounding Case Johnson to give us another chance.
She had a slick way of bossing us around without coming off the wrong way. She pushed Seth hard to write and expand our repertoire of original music. She wanted us to stop playing copy tunes, to play our own material exclusively. It had been a real trip to watch Zoe change from a sedate, brainy groupie into a dynamic businesswoman who carried a cordovan briefcase and wore a Panama hat.
* * *
Standing in the lobby of Caesars Tahoe, Abbey said, “Look at all the people playing slots. They all have such funny expressions. My God, it’s like they’re hypnotized and seeing pink elephants.”
“They’re seeing bananas, cherries, and oranges,” said Zoe.
Abbey pointed toward a middle-aged man wearing yellow trousers and a white shirt; he stood rigidly and fed three machines at once from a paper bucket full of quarters. “He’s utterly tranquilized.”
Like a zombie, said Zoe. “Oh my.”
The girls laughed. Abbey stepped on my toe with the heel of her most recently acquired boots—a semi-used pair of white cowgirl boots with leather fringe and silver studs—purchased at Tahoe Thrift. “Come on,” she said. “We’re off to see the wizard.”
We set forth toward the gaming tables like Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion, and drew lugubrious looks from a few idle slot machine players, who had lost all of their nickels, dimes, and quarters. The rest of the gamblers didn’t seem to notice us.
We found three open seats at a $2 ante blackjack table. Abbey patted the stool next to her, offering it to Zoe. “I see a twenty-five cent craps table over there. I guess I’ll catch up with you two later.”
“Stay with us and play twenty-one,” Abbey coaxed.
“I have my heart set on playing craps. Besides, three’s a crowd.” Zoe’s voice was full of the same sensibility it carried when she was conducting herself as Bandit’s manager. Her decision was not to be contended. “Adieu,” she said. “Meet you for the show.”
“Are you sure?” Abbey called after her.
“I’m positively sure,” she said, not looking back.
“Isn’t she a sweetheart?” Abbey said. “She has it so together lately.”
“You’re sweeter,” I said.
“You never quit, do you?” she said.
The cocktail show we planned on seeing later was a smoke ‘n’ fire pop song review, featuring a band from New York called Jo Tokyo. It was in the Coral Room, one of Caesar’s two-drink minimum lounges.
Abbey didn’t have any money at all after buying her new boots. So I gave the dealer a twenty and got back ten two-dollar chips. I gave half of them to Abbey. I figured if we bet the minimum and had a little luck, we could last long enough for one or two free drinks.
After playing a couple of hands, Abbey turned sideways and said, “I wish Zoe would find someone.”
“Pay attention to the game,” I said. “We don’t have very much money.”
Why did I keep getting such lousy cards? I held four low cards totaling fifteen, no aces. The dealer hit me with a jack, and I busted.
Abbey went bust, too. “Are you listening to me, Danny?”
“She’s too busy planning Bandit’s rise to fame to be interested in men,” I said. My voice was quick and hyped by the cards.
Abbey motioned for the dealer to hit her new hand—once, twice. She folded. “Oh craps,” she said. She was out of chips; so she took one from my pile, leaving me with only one chip myself. “Zoe’s old-fashioned when it comes to men.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, not looking at Abbey but rather at the dealer’s face, trying to get some kind of clue as to what he was holding.
I won my hand; Abbey won hers also. Now we each had four dollars.
“Men are such jerks,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Zoe,” she said, putting her lips close to my ear. “She’s still a virgin.”
“Oh my,” I said.
“Jerk,” she said. “I wish I was, too.”
We quit talking and played blackjack with cranky concentration. Why in the hell was Abbey suddenly so preoccupied with Zoe’s love life? Why couldn’t Abbey worry about our relationship instead of spending her thoughts on matchmaking for someone else? Even though I’d gotten close to her there was a part of me that knew damn well she could cut me out of her life in an instant, and never bat her witchy green eyes.
The blackjack cards became friendly. Soon I was up ten dollars and Abbey looked like she was up about fifteen. The waitress brought a round of free drinks. Abbey held her rum and coke next to my gin and tonic for a toast.
“Fuckin’ cheers,” she said.
“To us,” I said.
We both doubled our bets the next hand, and the dealer showed a blackjack. Easy come, easy go.
A few minutes later, Zoe reappeared. “You two are not going to believe who’s here.”
“Who?” I asked.
“A movie star?” Abbey said. “Someone famous?”
“I wish,” Zoe said.
“Do we have to guess,” I said, “Or are you going to tell us?”
“I be
t it’s someone famous,” Abbey said. “Is it David Bowie or Sting or someone like that?”
Zoe took off her Panama hat and shook her short blonde hair as though her hair felt hot and was a nuisance. “No. He’s here. I’m talking about Uwe.”
“Shit,” Abbey said. She took a cigarette out of her purse, lit it, and blew smoke through her nose.
“What on earth is Uwe doing here?” I asked.
“He’s working at Caesars—” Zoe said, “In the casinos. I talked with him.”
“I’m sure,” Abbey said incredulously, “college graduates are just dying to get jobs in a casino in Lake Tahoe. Just watch. He’s going to kiss up to us and try to get back in the band. That snake. Just watch.”
“Seth was right,” I said. “He did see Uwe cruise by the Hofbrau…spying on us.”
“It’s not that way. Hold on, you guys. Uwe told me he’s applying to law school at Oakley Hindale. Not this fall, but the next one. He’s taking a year off to make some money, ski, and that sort of thing. One of his fraternity brothers has a place in Heavenly.”
“This whole thing is a pretty big coincidence,” I said.
“Even though I still dislike him,” Zoe said, “I think he told me the truth. He’s too stupid to come up with such an outrageous scheme just to be around Bandit.”
“That’s a thought,” Abbey said.
“Hindale is a very poor school,” Zoe said. I’ve heard that people buy their degrees there. I’m not sure if it’s accredited. Plus, who would want to go to school in Sacramento?”
“I wouldn’t,” said Abbey.
“If we see him, are you going to be mean to him?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Zoe said, “Just so I know.”
* * *
“Well if it isn’t my comrades from Bandit,” Uwe said. He was ushering for the ten o’clock show in the Coral Room.
Uwe had lost some weight and had a dark tan. He didn’t have any zits on his face at all. He looked the best I had ever seen him.
“Hello, Uwe,” said Abbey. “But whatever happened to your job in L.A.? And all the bands Domino was going to get you in?”
“That piss-ant company reneged because ‘technically’ I don’t have my degree yet. One of my bozo poly-sci profs gave me a ‘D’ spring quarter.