Tom Robbins - Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

Siwash Ridge had become as quiet and inanimate as the geology book that might describe its formation. Indian summer, the ham, was taking yet another curtain call, and the hills, warmed into an expansive mood, heaped bouquets of asters at its feet. Goldenrod, too. And butterfly weed. Giant sunflowers, like junkie scarecrows on the nod, dozed in one spot with their dry heads drooped upon their breastbones. Their lives extended another day, flies buzzed everything within their range, monotonously eulogizing themselves, like the patriots who persist in praising the glory of a culture long after it is decadent and doomed.

Eventually, Jelly spoke again. “You sure brought some cute weather with you. Looking around today, you'd never believe the snow and howling winds that are gonna slam this place in a month or two.”

“New York gets a long case of the won't-quit shivers, too,” Sissy said. “I've never spent a whole winter in one place before, not since I was a kid.”

“One just has to snuggle up,” said Jelly, copping a glance at the bunkhouse. “Miss Adrian, when she first told me you were comin' out here, she said that you'd been recently married.”

“About nine months ago.”

“Hmm. Yeah. I never figured that you'd be the type to marry and settle down.”

“Nobody did,” said Sissy, sort of laughing. “Including me. But it's all right.”

“I've got this theory,” Jelly said. “Men — in general — are turned on by women who are attached. It's an ego challenge to break that attachment and transfer it to themselves. Women — in general — are turned on by men who are unattached. Freedom excites 'em. Unconsciously, they're aching to end it.” She scanned Sissy's face. “It would have been the opposite in your case, though. Or was it like that?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I've never thought about it that way. You see, Jelly, I was alone for a long, long time. Few women are alone by choice — maybe that's our major weakness — but upon the advice of nature I chose not to be boxed in or play it straight. Alone, I was able to shake to the big beat, dance the fourth dimension and make transportation talk out of its head. Only nobody cared. Oh, Jack Kerouac and a dozen other desperate souls, maybe, had a whiff that I was something more than world's champion, but nobody else. Well, so what? I did believe that my accomplishments might have lifted human spirits, the way that a comet fills people with joy for no logical or productive reason when it shoots across the sky. If they had paid attention. They didn't, and that's okay, because I was really hitchhiking for myself. Myself and the great windy powers. Then, all of a sudden, there was somebody who needed me. For the first time in my life, I was needed. It was a powerful attraction.”

Jelly was scratching her horse's ears. The animal was named Lucas, after Tad. “I guess men need wives, all right,” she said. “Just as women think that they need husbands.”

“Julian needed more than a wife,” said Sissy. “By most standards, I'm not even a very good wife. On a conscious level, Julian doesn't appreciate or understand me a drop better than anyone else, but somewhere in him he knows he needs what only someone like me can offer. Julian is a Mohawk Indian who has been deformed by society. He denies being Mohawk, denies any possible physical or psychic benefit from it. He needs to be loved in a way that will put him in touch with his blood. And that's the way I'm trying to love him.”

Taking her time, Jelly mounted. “That makes a certain amount of sense,” she said. “If love can't re-create lovers, what good is it? But let me give you this caution, Sissy, my podner: Love is dope, not chicken soup.”

When Sissy continued to look puzzled, Jelly added, “I mean, love is something to be passed around freely, not spooned down someone's throat for their own good by a Jewish mother who cooked it all by herself.”

With that, Jelly swung down along Lucas's side, in imitation of a stunt once performed at high speeds by the horse's namesake, and kissed Sissy, half upon the mouth, half upon the chin. Then she righted herself and galloped away.

That afternoon, in the bunkhouse, when Gloria made a comparison between Sissy's thumbs and the hunchback of Notre Dame, Bonanza Jellybean slapped her chops.

47.

"THE POLISH SAUSAGE POLKA" was interrupted for a news bulletin about the international situation, which, as listeners in the bunkhouse soon learned, was desperate, as usual. Speaking of desperation, there was an expression of mild despair upon Big Red's face as, without knocking, she opened the door of the main exercise room.

Guests and staff alike stiffened when Big Red entered, for all of them were a bit uneasy about cowgirls by then, and Big Red, the flaming tower of freckles, was the roughest-looking cowgirl on the spread. There was no cause for alarm, however. Big Red had overheard Miss Adrian announce that the final weigh-out was to be held this day. At the close of the day's activities, guests were to assemble in the main exercise room for their last ride upon the Rubber Rose scales. The following day, at the low-cal barbecue that would mark the official end of the ranch's season, prizes would be awarded those women who had squirted off the most poundage into the dry Dakota air. Big Red coveted no award, was not eligible for one and, frankly, deserved none, but she did wish to consult the scales. Wearing her one-piece forest green swimsuit, she took a place in line before the oracle. After easily obtaining the guests' permission, Miss Adrian ushered Big Red to the head of the line.

The hugest cowgirl weighed, winced, grunted and, to everyone's relief, left as she had come. On the way back to the bunkhouse, Indian summer paying its respects to the flesh that bubbled out around the edges of her swimsuit, Big Red had a flash, a mental visitation perhaps no less intense than Delores del Ruby's First and Second Visions. Seized by inspiration, Big Red thought, “Wouldn't it be dadburned wonderful if there was a machine that you could hook up to your plate of food that would extract the flavors from it. After you'd ate all your belly could comfortably hold, you could stick a plastic tube in your mouth, switch on the little machine, and the flavors would continue to run into your mouth for as long as you pleased, without nothin' goin' into your belly to make it fuller and fatter. Mmm, Lord, Lord; ham gravy, cheese 'n onion pie, chili, rice puddin', Lord.”

In the main exercise room of the Rubber Rose, there was an immediate market for such an apparatus, and, no doubt, sales around the world could be counted in tens of millions, the international situation notwithstanding. It would, moreover, constitute an unprecedented boon for mankind, keeping as many people off the streets as television and saving move lives than a cancer cure.

Therefore, in the public interest, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues offers the Big Red flavor device idea free of charge to any inventor who can make it a reality.

48.

"JULIAN, I HAVE A FRIEND."

“A friend you say, dear?” It was a barely tolerable connection. “That's good. New friends are fun.”

“You don't understand. I have a girl friend. I've never had a girl friend before.”

“Oh, now, honey, you exaggerate. Isn't Marie your friend?”

“Marie is your friend. She's only interested in me as an exotic cunt.”

“Sissy! We're on the telephone!”

“Sorry. I just wanted to tell you about Jelly, but never mind.”

“Jelly is that troublemaker you're supposed to be keeping an eye on for the Countess, isn't she? How's it going with those cowgirls? I hope everything is smooth out there. I worry about you constantly.”

“No need to worry about me, ever. I carry my guardian angels around on my hands.”