Georgia was my girl, she was my love. Georgia was taken from me. She is not of this earth now. Georgia awaits me in heaven.
Georgia was killed by a drunk driver last spring. Now winter is coming on and the murderer still walks the streets. He has money and a very good lawyer. His trial has been postponed repeatedly.
He has money and a good lawyer, but I have my granddaddy’s colt .45. I have decided to be judge, jury and executioner. I have waited long enough for justice.
I have followed him for the last two weeks. He goes out every night to the clubs. He does not drive now. He has a Cuban drive him in his big fancy car; the same car that took my Georgia.
It will be tonight.
As I wait in the alley for him to emerge from the newest, hottest club on Miami Beach, I think of Georgia.
My Georgia was only nineteen when we met. She was in Miami visiting a friend, and the friend suggested that she see Fort Lauderdale before she went home. I was at the bar in The Elbow Room sitting on my usual stool when they walked in. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but that night I had my doubts.
I sat there and looked on as a few guys hit on Georgia and her friend. They all walked away empty-handed. Normally, I wouldn’t have made a move, but something drew me to Georgia. She was full of life. If I could see someone’s aura, I’m sure hers would have been a light blue, a loving and pure soul she was.
To make a long and loving story shorter, I sweet-talked her phone number out of her. At that point, all I wanted to do was to get laid. But that was before I fell in love with my Georgia.
I called the the next day. We went sailing on my boat. I told her to bring her friend along so that she would feel safe. The three of us sailed the bay and then ate a picnic lunch on Elliot Key. The sun was setting into the western bay as we sailed back.
We hit Dinner Key just as it got full dark. By then I was in love.
My home base is Fort Lauderdale, about two hours up the Intercoastal Waterway.
I asked Georgia to go with me and I would send her back to Miami in a cab. To my surprise, she said yes.
In a cove off of Dania Beach, we anchored and made love. The sweetest most loving love I have ever known. From that moment on, she was “My Georgia”.
She flew home, settled matters and came back to me. We had two years before she was murdered. In those two years, I learned how to love another human being. I learned of tenderness. My Georgia taught me of love. And because of My Georgia, I will kill a man tonight.
******
It is coming up on 2:00 a.m., about the time the killer heads for home with his conquest of the night.
I see him now. He has his arm around a tall, skinny girl in a silver dress. He weaves as he walks. I hope and pray that he is not too drunk. I want him to know why he is going to die.
I step in front of them and tell the girl to hit the road. She hesitates, but when I raise the gun, she finds someplace else to be. Then I turn to the Cuban and say, “This ain’t your fight, and in a minute you won’t have a job.”
He hesitates also. So I explain it to him, “In one minute, your boss will be dead. Do you want a piece of what is about to go down?” I reckon he doesn’t because he shrugs and walks away.
Now it is just the murderer and me.
No . . . it is me, the murderer and my Colt.
I put a bullet into his shocked face. His blood and brains splatter the wall behind him. Then he died. So simple to kill someone. I did it with a gun; he did it with a car.
I thought I would feel better killing the son of a bitch. But you know what? It does not feel good to kill another human being. Though I am glad that I did it.
Now I am waiting for the cops. I hear the sirens nearing. But I am not worried; I will not be here when they arrive.
With the gun barrel in my mouth, I think of My Georgia and tell her that I am on my way to her.
When the night has come and the city is dark, that is the time that I leave my cabin. That is the time I go searchin’ for you. I look into the honky-tonks and I walk the streets knowing that one night I will find you.
You have long black hair that flows over your shoulders. Your eyes are gray, you have curves that I did not think a woman could ever have. I know everything about you except your name. Is it Diane? Is it Nadine? Or is it Aphrodite? You are my goddess of love.
When the night has gone and the light in the east tells me I must stop my quest, I go back to my cabin and think of you.
I saw you five months ago walking with a man. You went into Jimbo’s honky-tonk, and I followed. I sat at the bar and watched you. As I looked on, I fell in love. I fell in love with your smile and with your laugh. I fell in love with your beauty. From that moment on, I was yours. You just don’t know it yet. I should have followed you then, but I couldn’t move. I thought you’d be back soon, but haven’t seen you since. However, that is all right.
I dream of you while I sleep the day away. I know that if I am to find you it will only be in the dark of night where I first saw you. I’m searchin’ for you baby, and one day I will find you.
I just flew in from Missouri. I was up there promoting my book. It’s kind of hard to promote something that is only virtual. But more on that later. I had something profound happen to me while I was there and I would like to tell you about it.
I went to Mark Twain’s home state to start my “book tour” because my book REDEMPTION: The Further Adventures of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer is kind of a sequel to his two books. Although in my book, Huck and Tom are grown men. The way I decided to play it was to have business cards printed up. On the front is my book cover in full color and on the back are links on where to buy it.
My plan was to go to bookstores, make nice with the owner or manager and be allowed to pass out my cards to their customers. If they didn’t warm up to my sparkling personality and they told me to hit the road, well, then I’d stand outside the store and hand my cards to people as they came out.
The first two bookstores I went to were more than happy to allow me my pitiful little promotion. The third store was a little different. I was told to hit the pavement or the cops would be called.
It was 1:30 in the afternoon and I was hungry (I hadn’t eaten lunch yet), but my Irish was up, so I stood outside the store ready to pass out my first card when I saw a man sitting in a car across the street. Figuring I’d start with him, I crossed over.
Leaning down to the window, I held out the card and said, “This is my book. If you are interested, you can order it online.” The man smiled at me and took the card. It was then that I noticed the little girl in the seat next to him. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old.
Then the damndest thing happened. The man started to laugh. Softly at first, but the laugh grew into a full belly laugh as he held my card in his hand and looked at it.
I was already pissed off because of what I went through with the asshole manager of the bookstore across the street, so I snatched the card out of his hand. I started to walk off, but being of Irish decent, I turned and said, “I put my heart and soul into that goddamn book and I don’t appreciate you laughing at it!”
The guy immediately stopped laughing and said, “No offense sir, but I don’t own a computer. My little girl and I are living out of this car and we haven’t eaten in a day. I think a book is way down on the list of things I need in my life.”
I froze where I was. It took a few ticks of the clock, but I felt ashamed. I had money to spend on a fool’s mission to fly to another state, pay for a motel room and eat out in restaurants just to sell a book that would never, in its best day, help or change the world.
I walked back to the car, smiled and held out my hand. "The name’s Andrew Joyce, and I’m sorry. It’s my Irish temper. It gets me in more trouble than not." We shook hands and he told me his name was Chris. Then he introduced me to his daughter. Her name was Melanie. Chris called her Mel.
At that point, there was nothing else for me to do, but invite them to have lunch with me. They were hungry and I was hungry, though not as hungry as they were.
Chris hesitated for a moment; I could tell he had his pride, but he looked over to his daughter and said to me, “Mel and I would be proud to have lunch with a famous author like you.” I shook my head and told him I was far from that.
We settled in at a diner down the street. This is where the profound comes in. It’s a cliché, but it broke my heart to see how thin the little girl was. And Chris wasn’t much better off. It also broke my heart to see Mel look at the waitress as she passed our booth with her tray stacked with food. Mel’s eyes followed her until . . . until her father nudged her and gave her a look. A look that silently said, “Be cool.”
As I watched them eat the first food they had in a day, Chris told me his story.
Chris was a pipefitter. He had his own shop and was doing pretty well for himself and his family until about three years ago. Then his wife suddenly took sick and died. Mel was only seven at the time. Chris did the best he could. In one sense, he was lucky. He was his own boss, so he could come and go as he pleased.
On school days, he would pick Mel up after school and take her to his shop where she would do her homework in the office. When she was done, she was allowed to watch some television. He did not want her to be a latchkey kid.
Because of the economy, his business fell by the wayside. Finally, he had to admit defeat and close his shop. Eight months ago, the bank foreclosed on his house. They had been living out of his car ever since.
He told me he occasionally got day work by hanging out with the Mexicans at Home Depot, but because of his age, he was seldom selected to ride in the back of the pickup. Another factor might have been that he had a little girl by his side. Chris was not about to let Mel out of his sight. At least not until she was older.
That was his story.
We finished eating, and as we walked back to his car, I told him because I’m a writer, I could tell his story. Maybe that would get him job offers or at least a place to live.
“I appreciate it Andrew, but I don’t want it broadcast around the shape that I am in. If I can make it, I’ll make it on my own. Mel and I sure do thank you for the meal. And when I get back into the clover, I’ll buy your book.”
That just about made me cry. I knelt on one knee before Mel and said, “”You are the prettiest little girl that I have ever seen. And I know a prince that would just love you. And someday he will find you.”
We walked another block and came to an ATM. I took out the max, and handed the $400.00 to Chris. At first, he refused my inadequate gift. But I told him, it was not for him. It was for Mel. Before he could say anything else, I walked off.
As I sit here in my comfortable boat with air conditioning. With food. I am dry when it rains and I eat when I am hungry. I think of Chris and Mel. The only thing I want in this world now . . . is for Chris (and Mel) to be well-off enough to buy my book. Not for me . . . for them.
Note: Because of Chris' and Mel's wish for anonymity, I did not use their real names.
Next week, I fly to California to try to sell some books. Ya ‘all will receive my dispatches as I feel fit to send them.
My name is Tommy and I have something to say. I am nineteen and I am in love for the very first time. I want to tell you about it.
My parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was five. And seeing that I had no other family, I was placed in foster care. I went through many families. Some cared and some did not. Some were in it for the money, some thought they were doing good, but they all had one thing in common. Never, not once, since my parents died did I ever feel loved.
Two weeks before my eighteenth birthday I walked out of the house of my latest foster family. As far as foster families went they weren’t so bad, but still there was no love. I put out my thumb and was going to head to Montana; I thought I might get a job on a ranch and become a modern day cowboy. But I got sided-tracked along the way.
I was outside of Kansas City, Kansas, just west on Highway 80. The sun was sinking fast and turning the western sky a rich pink. I remember thinking that God at least got his sunsets and sunrises right. Yes, at that time, at that moment, I thought God still had some work to do, and maybe He does. But as I was standing there looking westward and contemplating the good and bad of God, He changed my life. I can tell you this much, God has one hell of a sense of humor.
A lemon yellow 1973 Ford Mustang screeched to a halt and the man driving leaned over and said, “I’m heading to San Francisco, that do you any good? I nodded and opened the door. Not only the door of the car, I opened a door onto a new life.
His name was Bryant. He was a few years older than me and he told me he made his living doing something with computers. I don’t know much about computers because I’ve never owned one. The only time I fooled with them was at the high school and then only for a few minutes at a time.
Within minutes the sun was below the horizon and the stars were starting to make their nightly appearance. We did not speak as we sped across the prairie. Well, not at first, but then Bryant started a conversation that lasted until we hit Colorado. We talked about everything under the sun. Religion, politics, women, sports, death and taxes. By the time we hit the Colorado state line I had decided to continue on with Bryant all the way to San Francisco. Fuck Montana.
We came into Boulder well after midnight. He pulled into the parking lot of a cheap motel and said, “I’m getting a room and you are welcome to share it. If not, I’ll be leaving at first light and if you are on the road, I’ll pick you up.”
Half way out of the car he stopped and sat back down. “How stupid of me,” he said. “You must be hungry. Let’s rustle us up some food then you can do what you want.”
He was right I was hungry. I had not eaten all day. We found a diner still opened and he bought me the best meal I ever had.
Now this next part is kind of dicey . . . kind of private, but it is germane to the story so here goes. At school, and in my life, I had never been attracted to girls. Like computers, they were foreign to me. They were just there, part of the landscape. I was never aroused by a well-rounded ass in tight pants. Tits did nothing for me, and a smile from a pretty girl did not start my heart a racing. However, at gym class and in the showers, I thought that the male body was so much more beautiful than a female’s. But I did not dwell on it. I wasn’t a fucking faggot.
After we had our greasy hamburgers and fries, we went back to the motel and Bryant got himself a room. As I was getting my bag out of his car he said, “Up to you kid. You want to sleep outside or inside?”
I chose inside.
There was only one bed, so I figured I’d sleep on the floor.
After the lights were out, and Bryant was in bed and I was on the floor he said, “There is plenty of room over here. If you want you can share the bed.”
I wanted to share the bed with him. I was attracted to him, but I was no faggot. Or was I?
I got myself up, slid beneath the sheets, and felt his warm body. He did not make a move toward me. He did not touch me. I found myself getting hard, and I reached out and touched his face. He took my face in his hands and drew me to him. We kissed; it was my first kiss ever. His tongue probed, he was gentle.
What happened next is no concern of yours. Today, at nineteen, I am married to the most loving man in the world. He does his computer thing and I take care of the house. And at nineteen, I got love. I give love and I get love. Amen.
Nobody knows . . . nobody sees . . . nobody knows but me.
Ten years ago, I saw her for the first time. She was tall . . . she was the most beautiful thing I have even seen. She was blond. She was all female. She was to be my destruction.
I once had a girl, her name was Karina. She was from Norway, but we met in New Your City at a jazz club on the West Side. My friend Lane had dragged me there; he told me that the sax player would really send me. I know, that is 60’s lingo, but Lane was a good friend, so I went with him that warm August night. It was a night that changed my life.
Lane and I were from upstate New York, we were friends in high school. We were both going to be writers and write the Great American Novel. And here we were, Lane wrote copy for an ad agency and I wrote short stories that no one would buy.
I was twenty-years-old, I had just dropped out of college. I wanted to be a writer and I did not think college was the way to go about it. I thought that the only way to be a writer was to write. So I headed for the big city, found myself a roach infested apartment and opened my laptop. I got lucky and sold my first short story to a weekly newspaper. It was a free paper, but they did print fiction. They paid me all of $25.00 for it.
After that, I figured it would be only a matter of time before I had TheNew Yorker knocking at my door wanting me to write my genius fiction for them, and if not the New Yorker, then at least the Village Voice. Well, things did not work out that way. Six months later, I had not sold another story. The newspaper that had bought my first was long out of business as I contemplated my future. I was nearing the end of my savings and something would have to break soon or I would have to get a job. Something did break and her name was Karina.
Unbeknownst to me, Lane and his girlfriend (her name was Sally) set me up with a blind date. When we got to the club, I saw Sally sitting at a table with a blond girl. I immediately grabbed Lane’s arm and halted his progress toward the table. "What’s the deal?” I asked in a low voice. Then I added, “If Sally is trying to set me up again, I’m leaving. You know I don’t have any money to date.”
With a phony and shocked look on his face Lane said, “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that the poor girl is in town and doesn’t know anyone. Sally’s mother and her mother are friends. Sally’s looking out after her, that’s all. Don’t worry; she’s not your date. And she’s got plenty of money; she can pay her own way.” Lane was one of the worst liars that I ever knew.
With a sigh and a shake of my head I said, “Lay on Macduff.”
We seated ourselves at the table and I was introduced to the blond. Sally started right off yakking away, but I heard nothing she said. I was looking into the eyes of the blond. They were green, the color of emeralds, and they were sad eyes. She was good looking in a not glamorous sort of way. There was something about her, something that made me want to put my arms around her and tell her everything would all right. That night I fell in love, head over heels. To me she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. But it wasn’t her looks that got me, it was her soul. She looked vulnerable and she had those sad eyes. I know that’s a cliché, but that is what it was, plain and simple. I was hooked, and as you might have guessed by now, her name was Karina
We talked, and ignored both the music, and Lane and Sally. When Sally saw where things were going she nudged Lane and said, they had to go, but that we should stay. As they left, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lane hand some money to our waitress and point our way. He had made sure that I wouldn’t be embarrassed for lack of funds.
The music was really too loud to carry on a conversation, so I suggested that we go somewhere more conducive to getting to know one another. I had no hopes that she felt toward me as I felt toward her, but I just couldn’t let her go out of my life until I knew everything about her.
We settled in at a Starbucks and talked until the early morning. Her parents were both dead and left her relatively well off. She was in the States because she owned a cabin in North Carolina, up in the mountains, and she had come here to sell it. At twenty-two, she was two years older than I was. But that was okay with me, I liked older women. I prattled on about my writing and she said that she would like to read some of my stuff someday. Someday? I wanted her to read it right then and there. But I held my tongue.
As I walked her to her hotel, she slipped her arm through mine and we walked on in silence. My feet never once touched the ground.
We said goodnight in the lobby of her hotel. She looked at me with those big sad eyes. “Please, may I see you tomorrow and read some of your stories?” Now normally, I would let anyone read my stuff at the drop of a hat even if I had to drop the hat myself. But in this instance, I was reluctant to say yes. I didn’t want her to see how I lived. I mean she was staying at the Plaza for God’s sake! After a momentary hesitation, I told her I could bring my laptop over the next day and that I would be proud to have her read a few of my stories. We set a time and I left. We shook hands, we did not kiss goodnight.
Well, the short of it is she was as smitten with me as I was with her, why I don’t know. She postponed her trip south and stayed in the city. We saw each other every day and Sally must have told her about my financial situation because Karina always insisted we go someplace that cost no money. We hit the art galleries and the museums, among other venues, and our favorite, the park. As we walked through the park, I always saw a little bit of the sun in her hair and I fell more in love with her every time I saw that. By the end of two weeks, we both knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together.
Karina liked my writing and she told me I should be writing a full-length novel. Then when that sold, I could put out a book of my short stories. No wonder that I loved her, she believed in me, more so than I believed in myself.
One day, a Sunday, as we lay on a blanket in the park holding hands (we still had not made love, I was so much in love, I wanted to take it slow), Karina asserted herself. She told me in no uncertain terms that she was taking me to North Carolina, to her cabin, and she would cook and clean for me while I wrote my novel, and then when it sold, I could take care of her.
I told her that I would have to think on it. She then stood and took my hand. I raised myself from the ground, and forgetting the blanket, we went back to the Plaza. We made long, slow love all that afternoon. And then we did it again that night.
We hit the mountains of North Carolina as the leaves were changing. It was the perfect metaphor. Our lives were changing; we were melding into one entity. We were so in love.
As the snows came, I wrote and Karina loved me. I didn’t want to write, I wanted to make love to my girl, but she made sure I stayed at the computer at least six hours a day. The rest of the time was devoted to loving her.
As the snows melted and the leaves slowly returned to the trees, my book took form. Karina would read what I had written each day. She would correct my mistakes and give me input as to the characters and the plot. As I sat there in the evenings, seeing the firelight reflected in her eyes while she read my daily output, I fell in love with her all over again.
When spring was in full bloom, the book also bloomed. I had completed my version of the Great American Novel. I emailed my query letters to agents. Within a month, I had a signed contract. When summer came around, the book had been sold and I had money in the bank. Now I could take care of my Karina. But it was not to be.
It was August once again, almost to the day that Karina and I first met. We were leaving the next day for New York. My agent needed to meet with me and she wanted me to meet with my editor. There was still work to be done. Writing the story is one thing, getting it out there is another. However, before leaving I wanted to buy something for my love. I went into town and bought Karina a ring. Nothing fancy, it was a simple band of gold. I was going to ask her to be my wife. I couldn’t wait to get back to the cabin, get down on one knee and tell her of my love for her.
I saw the smoke long before I turned into the drive to our cabin. Then I saw the flames. I pulled the car to a stop,
rushed to the cabin, and heard her screams. Those screams will never leave me.
“KARINA!” I shouted as I rushed the door.
When I pushed open the door, a blast of flames knocked me on my ass. I got up; nothing short of hell was going to keep me out of that cabin. And that is exactly what kept me out . . . hell. I could not penetrate the flames. On my third attempt, the burns and resultant pain caused me to pass out. When I awoke, I was in a hospital’s burn ward.
Karina was gone and I was alone.
I sold the rights to my book to my agent. I couldn’t edit and work on it with anyone else now that Karina was not with me. I took the money and bought a sailboat down in Miami. I had painted on the sides “Karina” in large letters the color of her eyes. I now sail Caribbean, going from island to island, looking for nothing. Because I once had a girl and her name was Karina, she is all I ever wanted.
I am three steps from meeting my maker. Three more steps to the noose. I am ready to die; I think I deserve to die. I have killed before, but never for such a frivolous reason as brings me to these last three steps.
The whole mess started down El Paso way when I walked into the cantina. It was a bucket of blood, a real dive. But I had a thirst and it was the first saloon I saw as I came into town. Once inside, it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. When I could see again, I saw a bar against the far wall with only two men at it. They had their elbows upon the bar, staring into their drinks. A few tables separated me from the bar and they were all empty. It was mid-day, so that was no surprise.
I made my way to the bar and put my foot on the rail. The barman was a little slow in coming my way. I had just rode twenty-five miles and the dust was thick in my throat. I had no patience for a slow movin’ barkeep. When he was opposite me at the bar, I grabbed his shirt and pulled his face to mine. Looking him dead in the eye I said, “Give me your finest rotgut and if you dilly-dally, I’ll put a bullet in your leg.” As I said it, I drew my .44 from its leather and pointed the barrel at his right leg. His eyes widened and he reached under the bar and came up with an almost full bottle of some good stuff. “Here mister, it’s on the house,” he said.
Now that that was taken care of, I leaned my back against the bar, and leaving the glass where it was, took a good pull from the bottle. I had rode my horse almost to death. I had to move fast, they were on my trail. I mean the posse. Yes, I had killed two men, but they were trying to kill me. I finally lost the posse in the badlands. Now I’m only a few miles from Mexico and freedom. But as it turned out, I might as well have been a million miles from the border.
I don’t know what she was doing coming into that hellhole of a bar, but when I saw her, my plans changed. She pushed through the swing doors as though she owned the place. And in a way she did. She was tall and blond. Her hair was up and her smile could kill. Her figure had more curves then a coiled rattler. Her eyes were gray and they looked my way.
She came right up to me and said, “Ain’t you the big one.”
Without a word, I took the empty glass from the bar and poured out some of the amber liquid into it. She took the proffered glass from my hand and said, “My name is Rose and I like a man that will buy a girl a drink.”
When the bottle was half-gone, she told me to grab it. Then she took me by the hand and led me to the stairs. We ascended to the second floor to a door at the far end of the hall. “This is where I call home,” she purred. By now I had forgotten about the twenty-five dust coated miles, the posse, the killings, everything.
Once in the room with the door locked, she pointed to a table and said, “You’ll find some glasses over there, pour us a shot. I went to the table and found the glasses, blew the dust out of them and did as I was told. When I turned around with the glasses in hand, she was sitting on the bed. Patting the mattress she softly said, “Come and sit by me.”
Well partners that was all she wrote. We had our booze and food sent up, and for the next three days we did not leave that room. I have never known a woman like her. I’ve mostly only been with whores, but she was no whore. She told me that she loved me. We spent three days exploring every inch of each other’s bodies and I fell in love for the first time in my life.
It was on the morning of the fourth day that my head started to clear. We were lying in bed, I was on my back and she was propped up on one elbow running her finger down my chest when she said she wanted to go to Mexico with me. I told her that was fine by me, but there was no rush. That’s when she got a funny look on her face and exclaimed, “No, we have to leave today!” Before I could say anything there was a knock on the door. I got out of bed and slipped on my pants. I knew who it was; it was the little Mex boy who had been bringing us our food and booze. I usually took the tray at the door and handed him a dollar. But this time was different. He beckoned me out into the hall and asked me to shut the door. When the door was closed behind me he whispered, “Senor, you have been good to me so I must tell you that you are in great danger.”
I took the tray from his hands and said, “Don’t worry son this is the kind of danger I like,” and winked at him.
I started to turn, but he grabbed my arm. “You do not understand. She belongs to another man, a bad man. She has done this before and three men have died. Her man will be back tomorrow, so today she will ask you to leave and take her with you. If you are here tomorrow José will kill you.”
I put the tray on the floor and asked the boy to tell me all that he knew. He told me people were making bets with each other if I’d get away before José got back or if I’d be planted up on the hill with the other three. It seems Rose, my great love, was using me to get away from José. In this country a woman can’t travel alone. And besides, the boy told me José leaves her with no money when he goes away.
The news kinda punched me in the gut. I gave the boy a five-dollar gold piece and thanked him. Picking up the tray, I entered the room with a smile on my face.
“Where have you been? I missed you big boy,” she intoned.
Still smiling, I placed the tray on the bed and told her to have some breakfast. I was going to have a drink. I had me some thinking to do.
As I sat in the chair and watched her eat, I weighed my options. We could leave together and avoid this man José, or I could leave alone. Or, we could stay and I’d have it out with José. The problem was I didn’t know if she was worth it. She had played me. If I took her with me would she ditch me once we were in Mexico?
I was still thinking on those thoughts when she broke my reverie by saying, “I want to be out of here by noon. I’m going to take a bath; you pack and then settle our bill. I’ll meet you at the livery stable.” Still smiling I answered, “I’ll see you at the livery.” She gathered up some clothes, got herself dressed and left to take her bath.
When she had gone, I sat there in thought and added another option that I could take. I could just kill the lying bitch and be done with her. What to do? What to do?
I put on my shirt and boots and went downstairs still undecided. By the time I reached the livery I had decided that I’d leave without her. She was a fine looking woman and the sex was good, but I had enough trouble and I didn’t need no crazy man after me. I saddled my pinto and started down the street at a slow pace. As I passed the saloon, Rose pushed through the swing doors and saw me. She dropped her bags and ran up, grabbed ahold of the saddle and walked along side. Looking up at me she implored, “Where you going? Wait, I’ll get my horse.”
“I’m sorry, it was nice, but this here is where we go down separate trails.”
She wouldn’t let go of the saddle, so I picked up the pace a mite. She still hung on. Then I saw her look down the street and the look on her face said it all. She let go and hightailed it back to the saloon.
I didn’t have to look, but I did. Astride a sorrel rode a big man, a big mean looking man. It had to be José. As we came abreast of each other he grabbed the reins of my horse. There we stood, eye to eye, neither one of us speaking. Finally he said in a very deep voice, “Whatcha doin’ with my woman?”
“Nothing, just trying to get outta town,” I answered.
I saw it in his eyes; he was going to draw on me. I may be slow when it comes to women, but I’m fast on the draw. I had a bullet through his forehead before he cleared leather. That was my mistake, that and taking up with Rose. I should have let him draw first. The whole thing was seen by the town marshal and I was quickly arrested. I thought for a moment of killing the marshal before he arrested me, but I never did kill no man that was not trying to kill me.
For three days I knew of love. In three steps I die.
The sun shines down on the world, on the trees and on the green grass of my home. God is in his heaven and I lie in my grave. Two years ago, I killed a man, I thought for love. I killed him out of fear, out of fear of losing my love. But I lost her anyway when they hung me from the old oak that stands out front of the courthouse.
My name ain’t important, hell, I ain’t important no more to anyone except maybe the worms that crawl through my body. I had me some bottomland, only forty acres, but it was mine. I cleared it and planted corn in the summer of 1905. I was a man in love, her name was Faith and she was the most beautiful woman in the world, at least to me. This is my story.
I’ve never been around woman folk all that much, so I wasn’t prepared when I first saw her. I was in town for supplies, and I had just finished loading my wagon when she walked by. She looked as an angel; she looked as I don’t know what. I fell in love. Her hair was long and raven black. As she walked away from me, the light shone on her hair and rippled as over an ocean. Her eyes were gray and she made my legs quaver.
I did not see her again until the grange meeting. I went because the topic of discussion was to be water rights. I had my water, but if someone was going to take some of it, I needed to know about it beforehand. She sat stately in the front row. Nothing much was accomplished at the meeting. Afterward, I stood outside lighting my pipe when she walked up to me. She was so beautiful; I got weak in the knees.
“Hello Mister MacDonald, my name is Faith Simpson. My people own the land next to yours; I’ve been wanting to meet you.”
That was the beginning.
Before I knew it, her family had my water and she had my heart.
On the third moon of our meeting, we were betrothed. She was mine.
Then on a cold dark night, I made the mistake of my life. She was putting up curtains in my cabin. She was getting it ready for when she would live there. Jim Peters from up a ways on the mountain had come down on his way to town and stopped by when he saw the light in the window.
I know now that I was mistaken, but this is what I saw. As I walked up to the cabin, I saw her in his arms. Now I know that she had stumbled and Jim caught her before she hit the floor. But I didn’t know that then. I pulled my gun and sent Jim Peters to another word.
It was a mistake. And for that mistake, I lie here in my grave and try to feel the warm sun on the green grass of my home, my grave
Howdy, the name’s Jim Bridger and I’ve got me a story to tell. It ain’t no shoot ‘em up western tale, though it does take place in the west. It ain’t no detective yarn, though something is found. And it sure as hell ain’t no love story, though a love blossoms. I reckon I best be gittin’ to it.
I rode the rodeo circuit all my life, started out as snot-nosed kid handling stock. Then I was given a chance to break stock for the promoter I worked for. And I was pretty damn good at it. So I saved up the entry fee and entered myself in the bronco event when we set up in Salinas. I came in second and that was all she wrote. With the prize money, I bought myself a pickup truck and started to follow the circuit. I was never the best, but I made out all right. It wasn’t long before I was entering other events. I was particular to bull riding and steer wrestling. Of course, I had to do chute dogging first to prove myself before I could do any steer wrestling.
I broke my fair share of bones, and nowadays when I wake up in the morning, it takes me ‘bout an hour to work out all the kinks before I can walk straight up. I never had no social life. It was just movin’ from town to town, mostly sleeping in my truck. I reckon the only thing I was ever close to was my horse, a gray dun that I had named Tex. I had to put him down five year back when he got the colic.
When all the broken bones and the other abuse I put my body through finally caught up with me and I couldn’t compete no more, I became a rodeo clown, and then even that became too much for my old bones. I was offered a job handling stock, but that was where I started out thirty years earlier. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. So I hit the road in my twenty-year-old pickup looking for something, I had no idea what. I was fifty-five-years old, had a hundred and twenty dollars in my pocket and a half a tank of gas in my truck.
I picked up day labor here and there. It kept me fed and gas in my truck, but one Sunday morning, a year after leaving the rodeo, I found myself out of gas, out of money and there was a gnawin’ in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten in a day. I was just outside of Blythe California, just across from the Arizona line.
The truck coasted to a stop and I looked about. The country looked as desolate as my spirits. There was only one building that I could see, it looked like a small farmhouse, but then I noticed the sign. It read: KATE ARCHER, VETERNRIAN. With nothing to lose, I decided to go up and ask to work for a meal. It being Sunday and all, I figure no one would be about, but it was my only option.
As I approached the house, my heart sank. It was in disrepair, it looked as though no one had lived in it for a while. Then I saw the corral, and there was a single horse in it. I knocked on the back door and it was opened by a woman of about fifty.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday mornin’, but I was wonderin’ if you might have some work that needs doing in exchange for a meal?”
She took so long to say something, I thought she was gonna slam the door in my face. But finally she told me to come in, that she was just fixin’ breakfast.
“Ma’am, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather do the work first.”
She smiled and said, “I can tell you're hungry, and a man can’t work on an empty stomach. God knows there is plenty that needs doing, so don’t worry, you’ll earn your meal.” Then she stood aside so that I could enter.
As she busied herself in the kitchen, and I sat at the table, we introduced ourselves. She was Kate Archer and she was a veterinarian. Her work place was in the front of the house and she lived in the back. We made small talk until the food was ready. Nothing never looked so good. As I shoveled my eggs and bacon into my mouth, Kate said that it was good to see a man enjoy her cooking.
The short of it is, she told me there were some shingles that needed replacin’ on the roof, and that there were a stack of ‘em in the lean to out back. I thanked her for the grub, found the ladder and shingles and got to work. Four hours later, just as I was finishing up, she called up to me and told come down to lunch.
While we were eating she asked, “So what are you plans?”
“Reckon when I git done this fine food, I’ll walk into town and look for work?”
“She looked shocked and asked, “You’ll walk to town? Don’t you have a car?”
“I’ve got a truck, but it’s kinda outta gas.”
Then she wanted to know what kind of work I did.
“Whatever needs doin’. ‘Ceptin’ I don’t do no doctorin’, things like that.”
She smiled at my little joke and said, “I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a lot of work that needs doing right here. I can’t pay much, but I’ll feed you and you can sleep in the lean to.” I didn’t have to think on it long.
I pushed my truck into the yard, put my kit in the lean to, then went up to the kitchen door and knocked. When she came to the door I said, “All moved in ma’am. What do you want me to tackle first?”
“First I want you to call me Kate, then I want you to get comfortable. That lean to needs some fixing if you’re going to live in it. So why don’t you work on that. At dinner I’ll give you a list of things to get started on and you can get to them tomorrow morning. It’s Sunday after all, a day of rest.”
That’s how it started. There were always things that needed looking after, both inside the house and out. And somehow, I just never left. But after almost two years, I had the place looking good and few dollars in my pocket, so I reckoned it was time to move on.
For the most part, Kate took care of farm animals. Generally she was gone during the day making her rounds, but every once in a while someone would bring her a dog or a cat to patch up. I was out back by the corral replacing a cracked board. Kate kept no horses of her own, the corral was for her patients. It was on that day, the day I was thinking of leaving, that Kelly trotted into my life. She was a black mustang not much more than a foal. Of course her name wasn’t Kelly then. She was just a scrawny little filly looking the worse for wear. I gave her some water and a little oats and put her in the corral. Then I went about my work.
When Kate got back that night, a troubled look crossed her face. I was rubbing the mustang down in the lean to and talking to her gently. “Hello,” said Kate, “how did she get here?”
I was startled for I had not heard her drive up, probably because all my attention was on the mustang. But I recovered and answered her question. “I don’t know how she got here. She just came into the yard, trotted right up and nuzzled me. I think it was love at first sight on both our parts.”
“Well, we have a problem. That horse belongs to John Middleton and he’s not a very nice man. It’s likely when he learns she’s here, he’ll swear you stole her and have the law on you.”
I stopped rubbing the mustang and said, “Hang John Middleton! This horse has been mistreated and if I ever met the man, I’ll beat the tar outta him. This horse goes back to him over my dead body.”
Kate sighed and said, “Put her in the corral and come inside and we’ll talk about it.”
As I sat down at the table, a name flashed in my head. KELLY!
Kate made us a drink of bourbon and water and sat down opposite me. “Jim we’ll talk about the horse in a minute. But first I want to talk about us.” She saw that I was uncomfortable, so she hurried on. “You’ve been making noise over the last few weeks about leaving. I just want to ask you, aren’t you happy here?”
I sipped my whiskey and told her the truth. “Kate, when I showed up at your door, I was a broken man. I didn’t have a dime to my name and my prospects were zero. You fed me and housed me. For two years now this has been my home. The only home I’ve ever known. I never told you, but I was an orphan. I ran away from the place at seventeen, and in all these years you are the only person to show me any kindness.” I noticed that my glass was empty and stood to pour me another shot. Seeing her glass was still half full, I sat back down and continued. “I can’t stay here. If I do, I won’t have no self-respect. There’s no work here anymore.”
Kate sighed, downed her drink in one gulp, and said, “Make yourself useful, pour me another one, no water this time.”
When she had her drink before her, she didn’t touch it. Instead she leaned back in her chair and stared at me for a full minute. Then she shook her head before saying, “Now you listen here Jim Bridger, this place was worthless until you showed up. Now it’s worth three times what it was. You work all day and then if I have a night call you drive me. You have a way with animals. There were many a time if you had not been there to calm a sick and scared horse, I might have been trampled. I figure you earned your way into a partnership. And I dare you to say otherwise!” With that she downed the entire contents of her glass.
I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never seen her like this, I mean angry. She stood up and retrieved the bottle from the counter saying, “This will save steps because we’re not leaving this table until we work things out.”
There was nothing to say to that either, so I sat there with my mouth shut. But Kate sure had more to say. “For two years now, every single day we’ve eaten our meals together. We go shopping together. We talk on the porch in the cool of the evening. And not once, Jim Bridger, have you ever made a move on me. What’s wrong with me? You make a girl feel unattractive.”
She was so wrong. I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world, at least to me. There were many nights I lay in my bed and I thought of her. How I wanted to say something to let her know how I felt. But a man with nothing has no right to speak to of such things to a woman.
There we sat, across the table from each other, neither one of us speaking. Then Kate got up from the table, came to me and plopped down on my lap. She put her arms around my neck and gave me the longest, deepest kiss I’ve ever had. It took me a few seconds, but then I started to return it.
When we broke apart she said, “Now that we have that settled, go and get your things and move them into our bedroom.”
“I will as soon as you get off my lap.” She laughed and told me that she might not ever get off my lap.
With her arms still around me , I asked her what we were going to do about Kelly. She tilted her head sideways and said, “Kelly?”
“The filly out in the corral.”
“Oh yes, her. Middleton is a son of a bitch, but he owes me money, I’ll tell him I’m taking the horse for payment. And if he gives me any trouble, I’ll report him for animal cruelty. What is her name again?"
“Kelly.”
“A nice name.”
That was the day I got me two first class fillies. A year later, we sold the house, she sold her practice, and together with Kelly, we moved to Montana. We bought a small cabin and I built a heated barn for Kelly. When it snows, Kelley is content in her barn. And Kate and I are content in each other’s arms.
