Thomas McGuane - The Bushwacked Piano

“What’s this? What is this, Mother?”

“The wig bank! The wig bank!” The famous lapis lazuli glitter of eyes.

“Oh.”

“You say ‘oh.’ ”

“Actually, yes.”

“I wonder if you would say, ‘oh’ in some of the circumstances I have been forced to visualize.”

The gnomic tone bothered Ann.

“Maybe I would say something quite different, Mother.”

“I wonder if you would say ‘oh’ if you were a part-time secretary at the bank in Wyandotte who had dropped December’s salary on a teased blonde beehive which you had stored all through the summer and broken out for the Fireman’s Ball in November only to find that the expensive article contained a real thriving colony of roaches and weevils; so you spray it with DDT or 2, 4-D or Black Flag or Roach-No-Mo and all the bugs, all the roaches, all the weevils run out and the wig bursts into flames by spontaneous combustion and the house which you and your hubby — because that’s what they call their husbands, those people: hubbies —burns down around the wig and your nest egg goes up with the mortgage and it’s the end. I wonder then, if you were her and had owned this wig which you had stored privately, I wonder if you would have wondered about a refrigerated fireproofed wig bank after all? Or not.”

A little voice: “I would have put my wig in the wig bank.”

“I THOUGHT SO. And I was wondering one last thing. I was wondering if the owner of this wig bank came up to you and hinted at a partnership I was wondering if you would shrug with that pretty little dumbbell face and say ‘oh.’ ”

Suddenly Ann wanted to bring in the cane crop in Oriente Province where the work and earth was good all at once and Castro came out in the evenings to pitch a few innings and maybe give your tit a little squeeze and said he appreciated your loading all those arrobas for the people; and the cane fields ran to the sea where a primitive but real belief in Art helped people meet the day.

“How can I be your partner?” she asked.

“Come to Detroit with me now.”

“But Nicholas I wanted to see more of Nicholas.”

“You wanted to see more of Nicholas.”

“Don’t make fun.”

“I had smaller chances for developing standards, my girl. But I developed them I assure you. I was fussy.”

“Well, so am I.”

“Not to my way of thinking.”

“I’ll go along with that.”

“You control your tone,” her mother said.

“You control yours.”

“Trying to extort a half interest in my wig bank and not plan on showing up for the work side of things.”

“I don’t want a half interest in your little bitch of a wig bank.”

“You don’t have the standards for the job anyway,” says the Ma, lighting a Benson and Hedges. “Well, you won’t get it I assure you. We need people who are fussy.” When Missus Fitzgerald got rolling scarcely anyone in sight got off unabraded.

Ann went to her room. She was comforted a little by it and by the tremendous number of familiar objects. But the objects themselves brought a special discomfort. In this way: Ann felt that it might soon be requisite for her to go with Payne someplace and she wanted to do that. But she wanted to stay around and play with all the junk in her room and look out of the window and read passionate books and write poems and take photographs that held meaning. And she didn’t mind getting laid either if she could sleep at home; but to be out there on the road doing it and not be able to go back and play with all the junk at night.… Plus, someday, and this had to be gone into rather systematically, when it became necessary to think in terms of the long run, she did not want to find she had closed the door on George, the rara avis, as her father called him.

Payne knew the time was coming now. He didn’t know when precisely; nor did he know that Wayne Codd, former Gyrene and present-day homicidal knucklehead extraordinaire, stalked him from afar, looking for an opening and feeling soundly backed up by the Fitzgeralds senior. Codd himself had no plan. He was just going to get in there and let the worst of his instincts take over. By contrast, Payne, excited about his coming travels, thought of the open roads of America and the Saturday Evening Post and its covers by his favorite artist besides Paul Klee: Norman Rockwell. “Make it me who’s out there!” He saw spacious skies and amber waves of grain. Most of all he saw the alligator hammocks of Florida and, in his mind’s eye, a stately bat tower standing in an endless saw-grass savannah over which passed the constant shadows of tropical cloudscapes; merry bats singled out stinging bugs at mealtime; Payne confronted a wall of Seminole gratitude. And on a high rounded beach the multiple amputee of original bat schemes smiled at a blue horizon.

You’d think he’d never been there.

These frosty mornings put the young wanderer in mind of the Tamiami Trail. He remembered, not uncritically, juice bars where the hookers went to keep up their vitamin C. He remembered a cocktail lounge with aquarium walls that let you see water ballet. He remembered his surprise when girls who had waited on him before appeared behind the glass, streams of bubbles going up from the corners of forced subaqueous smiles. Most of all, he remembered the vivid, rubbery cleavage of one of the girls who swam toward the glass. He wanted to stir her with wrinkled waterlogged fingers of his own. One day, he sat close to the glass and made a simian face over his cuba libre. The girl, who turned out to be a Seminole, laughed huge silver globes to the surface.

He was seventeen. Those were the days when he still went around on crutches for no reason at all and carried a pistol. He was riding his first motorcycle, an early hog, acetylene-torched from the contours of a Harley 74 (“Call it a Harley cause it harley ever starts.”), toward Everglades City with the Seminole girl on the back. For the first part of the ten days they traveled together, she seemed as assimilated as an airline stewardess — owned a bikini, ate snacks, screwed with a coy reserve and made, while doing so, the same “bleep” Payne heard subsequently from small weather satellites. He carried the crutches on the bike, the pistol in his pants. By the end of the trip, the coy reserve had vanished and in all respects, Payne felt, she had become an aborigine.

She taught him this: Hold the pistol at the ready, ride the back roads in the ’glades at night in first gear with the lights on dim; when you spot a rabbit, hit the brights, shift to second and “get on it a ton” until you overtake the rabbit, draw the gun, shoot the rabbit and stop.

Then the aborigine would skin the rabbit, make a fire and cook it over little flames that lit their faces, the motorcycle and the palmettos. After that, whiskey drinking and off-color games would set in.

One night she took him to see an alligator the poachers hadn’t found: an enormous beauty with jaws all scarred from eating turtles. Miami wasn’t far away; but this was a thousand years ago, back when the Harley was already old.

Now Payne meant to show Ann what it had been like. Incipient Calvinism would keep him from divulging the details of the Seminole girl’s lessons. Historically, she would be simply an Indian who had guided him in the Everglades.

Payne had no way of knowing that Ann would expand his entire sense of the word “aborigine” with cute tricks of her own.

Codd was summoned to the library, scene of recent ballpoint skirmishes and terminal conferences re: the transgressions of Payne. Missus Fitzgerald smoked contemplatively in the bay window, looking out upon the greedy willow that secretly probed for delicious effluents in the Fitzgerald septic tank. Fitzgerald, turned to the liquor wagon, his back to Codd, his hands doing something invisible like a baseball pitcher adjusting a secret grip on the ball. Abruptly he turned with one of his chunky famous highballs aloft for Codd — thinking, “The foreman is brought in for a drink with the owner”—and said, “Our dear Wayne.”