Frowning, he returned to his previous place at the garage wall. Our boy is getting careless. Even reckless. His old urge to self-destruct? Or the carefree exuberance of winning trivial battles in a losing war?
“Don’t forget Rule Number Two,” Doc said, opening his beer.
“Don’t hurt anybody.” Hayduke had already opened another himself. “Murder only in self-defense.”
“No no no, that’s Rule Number One. Rule Number Two is, Don’t get caught, remember?”
“I know, I know, got to clean out that trunk one of these days.” He guzzled his beer. “Doc …”
“And George, you’ve got to stop drinking so much alcohol. You’ll get kidney stones, liver trouble, pancreatitis, varices. Remember the code of the eco-warrior: keep fit. The eco-warrior is strong, lean, tough, hardy. The eco-warrior can hike twenty miles overnight, over any terrain, in any kind of weather, with a fifty-pound pack on his back. Maybe sixty pounds. And do it night after night, through brush and swamp, cactus and rattlesnakes, mountain and forest. The eco-warrior does not chain-drink beer or chain-smoke cigars. The eco-warrior takes care of himself, herself, bounces back from injury and exhaustion, never gets sick or if sick carries on despite sickness. The eco-warrior is tough, the eco-warrior is brave, taking on the risks of a soldier in frontline combat, the dangers of a commando behind the lines. The eco-warrior is a guerrilla soldier fighting a war against an enemy equipped with high technology, tax-extracted public funds, legal privilege, media protection, superior numbers, police and secret police, communication police and thought police. Fighting them all, the eco-warrior cannot even carry a weapon; his own Code of Honorable Conduct forbids it.”
“What? Not even a sidearm? Not even some knife? How about toenail clippers? How about a live duck, Doc, to beat on his head? How about a snow shovel to whup his ass down the street? No? Nothing?”
“The eco-warrior does not fight people, he fights an institution, the planetary Empire of Growth and Greed. He fights not human beings but a monstrous megamachine never seen since the days of the Late Jurassic and the carnivorous dinosaur. He does not fight humans, he fights a runaway technology, an all-devouring entity that feeds on humans, on all animals, on all living things, and even finally on minerals, metals, rock, soil, on the earth itself, on the bedrock basis of universal being!”
Silence, silent applause, a sitting ovation.
“Great speech, Doc, great speech. You took the words right out of my mouth. Now about my personal problem …”
Doctor Sarvis felt in his pockets, pulled out a small wad. “I can lend you a twenty.”
“I need about ten thousand. But I’ll take the twenty on account. On account of I can use it. Tired of eating beans and slow-elk jerky. But, Doc, what I really wanted to ask you …” Hayduke paused, stopped, waited.
Doc waited, staring at Hayduke. “George … maybe Seldom can help you. I can’t. I’m a married man now, George, have a wife, a little boy, another child in the oven. Which reminds me of Rule Number Four: No domestic responsibilities. That lets me out. The eco-warrior does not marry, or if he marries he does not breed. Better not to marry. She does not marry or breed. The eco-warrior, like a priest or priestess, like a samurai, like a dedicated revolutionary, forgoes the personal pleasures of ordinary life, forgoes ordinary life, for the sake of the great cause. For a time only, naturally. When he reaches the age of forty, or she of thirty, if they’re still alive and not in jail, then they retire from the war against Goliath and rejoin the natural, evolutionary mainstream of organic life. The eco-war is only for the young. That also lets me out. Maybe I could lend you two twenties, George, I’m in a generous mood today.”
“I’ll take it.” He took it. Smiling now, not a grin but a sad almost winsome smile, Hayduke said, “What the hell, Doc, sorry to bother you. Maybe I can do it by myself. Wouldn’t want to get you guys in trouble again, would I? Fuck no. But you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
Doc felt a surge of sympathy for his young friend but fought it down. One beer and reason threatened to yield to the heart, to those reasons that reason knows only so much about. “Where’s your sidekick the Lone Ranger?”
Hayduke opened another beer, gazed at the wisp of C02 wafting from the hole. He smiled. “That old fucker? Doc, he’s older than you are. And crazier. Senile, maybe, talks to himself a lot about some fuckin’ horse named Whisky, falls in love with somebody named Oral or Opal, carries chicken guts in his pants pocket, damn near shot himself in the foot practicing his quick draw, not really much help. Good with horses. But I don’t need a horse for my special project, I need an ultra-light fucking flying machine. Where can I get one, Doc?”
“So it really is the dam this time?”
“Dam? What dam? That dam? We’re savin’ that damn dam for maybe next year. Wrote a letter to Omar Kaddafi, he never answered yet. No, the Special Project is something new, wanta hear about it?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I don’t want to hear anything about it.”
They hesitated, paused, each waiting for the other to say something intelligent, useful, sentimental, nostalgic. Doc too thought often of the good old days and when he did he shuddered. Never again. What he wanted now, at this moment, was to extricate himself in graceful fashion from George Hayduke’s compromising and always dangerous company. To say goodbye to his old young friend and hopefully — hopefully? in a hopeful way? what is my diction coming to? — to say goodbye, hoping never to see him again. Forty dollars would be a tiny price to pay for such great good fortune.
“And now, George …”
“You’re excused, Doc.”
“… If you’ll excuse me, I really must pedal away, pedal home. Can’t be late for supper, you know, Bonnie would be hurt.” You insolent devil, he thought.
“Flap her big eyelashes at you and break your heart, eh, Doc?”
“Goodbye, George.” He offered his hand. They shook, fraternal eco-warrior style, each clasping the other’s wrist, like alpinists ascending a rotten crag of rotting dolomite. Doc glanced at the sky. “It’s going to rain again; better put that top up.”
“It’s automatic. Don’t work.”
“What do you do when it rains?”
“Drive fast.”
“When it rains hard?”
“Drive faster.”
Hayduke grinned his great hearty sardonic grin, started and gunned his V-8 engine, flipped into Drive and blasted off. Down the alleyway they roared, man and motor, centaur of flesh and steel. Garbage cans danced in their wake, rolled in the aisle, spun like tops. As he turned the corner at the street, Hayduke tipped his cap to the doctor, grinning his farewell grin, then disappeared downhill into the evening twilight of Greater Salt Lake City, the Wasatch Front, the Kingdom of Zion, the Land of Deseret.
Doc waved back, picked up his bicycle, straightened the front wheel, mounted heavily to the saddle and labored off in the opposite direction, uphill toward wife, child, home, safety, comfort and virtue.
15
Seldom Seen in the Field
Seldom Seen Smith stirred the coals of the fire with a stick of green willow, added another cup of water to the grounds in the coffeepot and placed the pot on the fiery coals. One more bourbon and coffee: then he too would retire for the night. He looked at the dim forms of the little Springbar tents, five of them, scattered out among the junipers on the slickrock. His customers, his clients, were all asleep, he reckoned, all but that one, that gorgeous what’s-her-name the stewardess — beg your pardon, ma’am, flight attendant! — who was waiting for him. A candle flickered in her tent, its soft glow illuminating the translucent canvas walls, revealing the woman’s graceful silhouette as she brushed her hair.
Seeing that classic female form outlined against the light, he thought, How come I can’t never git enough that there kind of living? How come I’m stuck on good-lookin’ wimmen in lacy underwear? How come I get a harder-on ever time I
see a pretty girl a wagglin’ her be-hind inside a hula hoop? straddin’ a horse bareback? a-high-divin’ off a springboard? a-touchin’ her toes in a black string bikini? a-climbin’ onto a hay wagon in a minidress? turnin’ cartwheels in a cheerleader skirt? What the hell’s wrong with me anyhow?
What’s wrong with you, Smith?
Guess I’m just a doggone ol’ pervert, always was and always will be and ain’t nothin’ I kin do about it except put a stout rubber band around my balls ‘till the ol’ family jewels turn black and dry up and fall off like a dead kumquat off a kumquat tree and if that don’t do the job stick my pecker in a sausage grinder and whittle it down about nine ten inches maybe that’d work but goldang even then I’d still keep on a-recollecting and a-recollecting the good ol’ times we used to have, me and Slim Jim here. Hot dang …! That long-haired gal in the short Levi britches in that there Earth Fist bunch or whatever they call it, goddamn I mean the way she walked, the way them hindquarters of hers kind of scrunched up and rubbed together when she moved, why I bet she could pull a cork or chew peanuts with that thing. What’s wrong with me, Smith? You queer?
Guess I’m queer. I like women. Women and horses and little wooden, lap-straked dories. Full of girls.
He thought of an old frontier ballad, an anonymous song from the days of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young:
I love to go swimmin’
With bare-naked wimmen
And dive between their legs …
Yep. Queer. You’re queer, Smith. But I’ll grow out of it someday. When I’m dead I’ll grow out of it. That’s the best time to grow out of it anyhow.
He looked again toward the lady in the tent, brushing her hair, turning, yearning, candle burning, waiting for him, Seldom Seen Smith. Her name was Julie, no, Cindy, or was it Candy? — brain damage, Smith — and she’d been on several trips with Smith before. Down the Colorado River, down the Escalante River, into Grand Gulch, into Pucker Pass, into the Black Box of the San Rafael, through Muley Twist in the Waterpocket Fold — all them there tight hot juicy all-natural scenic wonders places (no preservatives added) that he loved so much.
Queer, Smith, queer, you’re queer as a double-ended horny toad. To hell with another cup of coffee I’m gone to bed. Right now!
The pot was steaming. He jerked it off the red coals, kissed his scorched fingers and stood up. Somewhat creakily. The squatting position didn’t come as easily for Smith as in former days. Knee joints getting a mite stiff. Hip bones wired together. Middle joint maybe not quite as stiff as it should be. But she’d take care of that. Them stewardesses know their job.
He limped toward her tent, dick-swole, bow-legged and sore-footed. Old Seldom needed the exercise. Never walked when he could ride. Even kept a horse tied to his front porch for trips to the barn, ninety yards away. Even invented an extra-long long-handled hoe so he could hoe his cantaloupes from the saddle, only man in Dipstick, Sawdust, Snakeweed, Greasepit, or Landfill Counties (Utah) to think of a labor-saving device like that.
Smith heard a faint disturbance among the horses. They were tied in a bunch in the tamarisk thicket by the stream. If he could break them animals to eat tamarisk he’d be the richest man in the whole Four Corners region. He paused, looking, listening.
The horses stamped their feet, shifting about. Sounded nervous. Mountain lion? Rattlesnake? Smith’s handgun was in his saddlebags, heaped with the saddles and saddle blankets under a staked-down tarp. Only weapon on his belt was the Buck jackknife in its little holster. He glanced once more at his sweetheart in her tent — give me just two more minutes, honey — pulled the flashlight from his hip pocket and lurched into the dark beyond camp.
The great rolling eyes of the horses glared in the beam. Knothead, Ginger, Nelson Eddy, Miss Peach, Hook the big sorrel, Fred the giant Appaloosa, Billy Buckskin, Dirty Gertie the fence jumper, Shithead Dudley the Shirt-Eater — saddle horses, pack horses, all present and accounted for. No sign of snake nor lion.
“Take it easy, fellas, whoa there, Billy, you boys and girls settle down now, what do you say. Daddy’s here, nothin’ to fear. You smell a cat, Fred?”
The big gelding stood with noble Roman head up high, peering into the dark, velvet nostrils flexing like over-anxious pudenda. Smith put a hand on his shoulder and stroked him; the horse was trembling. “Relax, boy, relax, goldamnit anyhow. …” Anxious himself, he glanced back toward camp, looked for the glow in Cindy’s, yes, Cindy! — Cindy’s little canvas boudoir. Still burning— but how much longer? Can’t expect a gal to wait all night long, not even for him, S. S. “Superslick” Smith the easy-riding slow Wham! delayed Bam! jack-Mormon man. Well, he would if he was her but he wasn’t her he was him. Try to keep that straight.
The horses quieted. Smith gave each a final pat on the nose, a rub between the eyes or a caress on the neck, and turned away.
A hand fell on his shoulder, gripping hard. “Whoa there, pardner,” said a basso profundo, sotto voce.
“Awwwwffff!” Smith twisted away, stung by terror. Backed against a tree, he switched his light beam to and fro, seeking the nameless horror in the night. He saw a pair of little red eyes squinting at him, below the eyes a shining toothy excessive and disembodied grin. Only that, the eyes, the teeth, floating on the darkness, before supporting features became apparent: broad brown face, immense shoulders, a deep and hairy chest.
“George …?”
“Shit, Seldom.”
“That you, George?”
“Oh for chrissake, Seldom, you blind or stupid or drunk or something? Or what?”
“They said you was dead again.”
“Who said that? He’s a fuckin’ goddamn liar and I’ll peel his fuckin’ skull. Who?”
“They all said it. Everybody. Not me.”
“Who? I’ll remove his jawbone. I’ll tear off his arm. Who said it?”
“Not me, George, hell I knew it all the time you’d be around somewhere, come back to see me sometime, you sure you ain’t dead? George?”
Hayduke looked aside. “Get that light out of my eyes.” Smith lowered the beam, turned off the light. Hayduke looked toward the camp, the illuminated tent, the lissome silhouette within. “Got company again, huh? God, Smith, but you’re a horny sumbitch. Don’t you ever get enough? You got three wives, you got these all-purpose horses, yeah don’t lie to me, Smith, I know you’re a fuckin’ horse lover, never knew a cowboy yet didn’t like to bugger the livestock.”
Still shaky, Smith essayed a joke. “Cowboys, they make better lovers, George.”
Hayduke forced a sour grin. “Sure, ask any cow. Look, Seldom, I won’t take much of your time, I know she’s waitin’ for you, so I’ll make this short.”
“No,” said Smith.
“No what?”
“Can’t do it.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Can’t do whatever it is you’re a-plannin’ on, George.”
“Well you got to. I need some help. Just one night, then I’ll turn you loose.” Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Hayduke surveyed the other tents, unlit and silent. “They all asleep? Who you got here this time? Any nosy young returned missionary, maybe?”
Smith looked where Hayduke looked, at the five little tents spread out under starlight over the sandstone bench. “Yeah, they’re asleep. All but one.” He smiled. “No R.M.s, though, except Oral, he’s my personal private probation officer, always hangin’ around to watch over me, keep me out of trouble and it’s a good thing too. He likes to play poker and can’t win for losing. Took six dollars from him this evening.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. He’s an informer for the FBI or CIA or something and you know it.”
“I know it but he don’t know I know it.”
“Don’t be too sure of that.” Hayduke peered about in various directions, eyes penetrating the darkness. “You sure he’s in his tent?”
“I seen him go in never seen him come out.”
Hayduke paused, listening hard. Lowering his voice to a rasping w
hisper, he said, “Seldom, I need you to give me a hand with that you know what. It’s creeping closer to Lost Eden every day. If you and me don’t stop it — “
Smith put a hand on the other’s massive arm. “George, you think I don’t feel bad about it too? I lay awake nights thinkin’ about that goldang monster. I get nightmares about it. I get the feelin’ that thing is a-comin’ after me personally. After everybody. But George, doggone it, George, we’re whipped, there ain’t nothin’ we can do anymore, we fought it ever’ way you can and they beat us. They own the guvmint, George, you know that. They own the politicians, the judges, the Tee Vee, the army, the po-lice. They own ever’ damn thing they need to own.”
“They don’t own me. They don’t own you.”
“They don’t need to own us.”
Pause. Hayduke spat on the ground. He raised his head and stared into Seldom’s face as if unable to understand or believe or even quite hear his old buddy’s words. All that Seldom could see of Hayduke’s eyes were two tiny red dots, like the “Power On” bulbs of a large and mysterious night machine. Like two glowing sparks in a fire nearly dead. Like … like the dim distant receding taillights of a departing — never to return — runaway express. One cool breath of reality would extinguish those twin pinpoints of hope forever.
Why me? mourned Smith, why do I have to give poor ol’ George the word? Where’s Bonnie? She could make it a little easier and one hell of a lot sweeter for him. Where’s Doc? He could explain it for him. Doc can explain anything to anybody, he’s our doggone goldamn State of Utah philosopher, ain’t he? Why, ol’ Doc could explain to Gawd Hisself exactly where He went wrong — and make Gawd feel good about it too.
Why me? “Besides,” he mumbled, “I got responsibilities, George. You know what I mean. I mean it ain’t merely the fact I got three women to keep happy and them little childern to boot and all these damn worthless horses and them watermelons and cantaloupes and this here non-profit guide business but, well, to tell the truth, George …” Smith gulped, feeling his eyes moisten, watching that film of pity and self-pity descend between himself and George Washington Hayduke. “To tell the truth …”