Thomas Mcguane - The Cadence of Grass

She took note of her new partner with the detachment of an anthropologist, his nice quality of having no more than smoothed his blond hair back after his shower; she absolutely loved that he seemed afraid to speak to her. He was a handsome and perhaps uncomplicated unit. When humans are raised for meat, Kansas feedlots will give this guy all the grain he can eat. He had plunged his hands into his pockets in a particularly hopeless gesture when he asked her to dance, and yet he was very becoming. All Evelyn’s green lights were on as she hung round his strong young neck. “What is your name?” she asked.

“I’m Evan.”

She was mad for this shy politeness, incongruously coupled with his newly palpable arousal. This was getting good, though whether it would cure the dolor of the morning’s shipping remained to be seen. The waves of alcoholic euphoria were sure helping. Evelyn was determined, no matter how many drinks she had, not to tell him how attractive he was. That always blew up in your face. That made scumbags out of Boy Scouts!

“My name is quite close to yours, Evan. Mine is Evelyn.”

As she said this, she felt the room grow distant and time awkwardly slow. She couldn’t for the moment understand why saying her own name aloud made her loneliness so evident that it nearly choked her. Now all funny thoughts had fled. She looked at her young dance partner and wondered if he yet understood that all the cures for loneliness failed, that it was a chronic state and that anything used to anesthetize it turned into its own problem. Yes, she thought, we’ll spare Evan that.

The lead singer came rushing across the stage, bent back from the waist, madly waving a handkerchief, his mouth a distorted trumpet. A sort of codpiece slid halfway down one thigh as angry quarter notes from the guitarist drove him back to the microphone screeching, “Don’t need no, Don’t got no—!” while he raped the stand that held it up. This provided an awkward background that Evelyn suddenly thought was funny. At that same moment, when the front door opened and snow flew in, the singer took time out from his throes to actually frown at the weather.

That did it. Evelyn doubled in laughter. Indeed, Evan had to hold her up, even as she recognized this as hysteria and a ghastly form of release. But it was contagious: the dancing stopped. Right after the fraught singer had concluded several pacts with the devil, the air went out of the room. The lead guitarist peered through the lights furtively. The drummer’s blurred arms no longer seemed part of him as he stole furtive glances at the audience. Evelyn’s hysteria was a conquering force. The singer seemed strangely platitudinous when, so soon after his arrangements with Satan, he demanded of the crowd, “You want to try this? Anybody like to get up here and show us how good they are?” An unshaven brute in the audience, beer bottle brandished by its neck, his hat on backward, informed the singer that he was “crazier than a shithouse rat.”

Evelyn had to get out of here right then. “I need some fresh air,” she said to Evan.

His mouth dropped open an instant before he caught himself and tried to look wise and in control. It was adorable . This had every chance of being several hours of true love, an inoculation that could last the entire winter.

“I got a car,” he said.

“I’ll bet you do, Evan.”

It was a perfect old Cadillac Coupe de Ville, astonishingly spacious. The foot of snow on the windshield seemed to cast its own pale light on the interior. She unexpectedly began asking herself what she was doing here, with things rather going around and love somewhat less easy to reference. Evan no longer seemed afraid of her, and she was not sure she liked that. The idea of a sudden new Evan was not in the cards. The stillness of his gaze struck her as predatory. “Like the car?”

She watched him to see if anything in his expression might help her answer his question. “I do like it, Evan. It feels big, almost like a boat.”

Evan weighed his words, his face barely moving as he spoke. “I like it because it don’t have an electronic ignition.”

Evelyn felt challenged to understand Evan’s remark.

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about those electric things.”

“Well, you ought to know about that one.” Evan seemed riveted.

“It’s too late now,” she said, thinking to add, “to learn auto mechanics,” but she was unwilling to chance anything clever. She had to see where this was going since the unblinking face of the newly confident Evan now made her want to get out of the car. She thought she’d better humor him. “Perhaps you could fill me in on this ignition business, in your own words, of course.”

“You know about the New World Order?” He was unzipping his fly.

She frowned at this behavior, and he stopped. “Is it like the United Nations?” she asked hopefully. Oh boy, she thought, here come the black helicopters.

“It’s way worse.”

“Uh, in what way, Evan?”

“They want to turn us into slaves.” He was matter-of-fact about this.

“You don’t say. But Evan, what about the auto mechanics you promised to explain?” Everything seemed to have gone to his eyes. She had a fleeting thought that if she were suicidal, this would be her man. “Didn’t you promise?”

Evan watched and waited her out.

“The New World Order is gonna use satellites to turn off all the electronic ignitions. They’re gonna enslave all the white males who own recent-model cars.” Evelyn widened her eyes to suggest that she hadn’t realized this automotive feature was available. “Then they plan to use Gurkhas to round us up and put us in concentration camps located in Kansas. It’s common knowledge.”

Kansas? Evelyn remembered that was where her calves were going.

“But Evan, why do they want to do this to… white males?” She was thinking about what great instincts she had, heading for the parking lot with this turkey.

Finally Evan’s face moved: he smiled. He had something to share with Evelyn. He told her very evenly, “They want to subject us to maritime law.”

Evelyn had to admit that even she didn’t even see that one coming. Still, she was reluctant to ask picky questions like, Isn’t that the law of the sea? Instead, she said, “Evan, I’m going back inside to dance. This is my reward for a long day. When I dance, I don’t think about these larger issues.”

His hand encircled her wrist, gently at first. “You don’t even like the band.”

“That’s true. But it’s still more or less music.”

“You pretended you wanted to spend the night with me.” She saw two couples angling through the parked cars toward the entrance, hunched up against the latest dusting of snow. One of the men gazed lovingly at his companion, a rosy cheeked brunette. As Evelyn pulled her arm back, Evan tightened his grip and looked as if he was about to accuse her of treason. “Admit you like it nasty.”

“No, Evan, I do not admit I ‘like it nasty.’ But Evan, one thing I do great is scream. Know what I mean? I can get you into the clink even without maritime law. So let go of my arm or you’re going to be one of those white males headed for slavery in Kansas. I know Gurkhas in high places.”

The grip did loosen. Evelyn was surprised by his compliance. She opened her door, snow falling into her lap. The interior light flashed over Evan. His role as spotter of megatrends bent on the elimination of his kind was evaporating fast, leaving a disoriented hayseed. Evelyn was now in control of the situation but didn’t feel the time for compassion had quite arrived. “Evan, you need a new car.” Evan flinched at these words.

“Have a look around,” she said. “Take a chance. Buy one with that funny ignition. You’ll be in the same boat with the rest of us. And now this old single gal is going to vote with her feet.” The snow blowing into the Cadillac seemed to emphasize his forlorn state, and nearly obliterated the view of the bar, which no longer seemed a haven. She stopped instead and turned to her car.