Thomas McGuane - Panama

Enough of this. The marriage of my aunt, Roxanna Hunnicutt, impends. I must touch base with the orchestra.

But before I do, I would like to note that I, screw loose and fancy free, know certain things, that I am crazy like a fox. I know that Jesse robbed and killed and that he was lonely. I know he was left behind, left for dead. But I know he rose again from the dead. At the same time as these issues ring, I know that I must touch base with the orchestra.

As to this orchestra, I am an admirer; at the same time, I know better. I came of age like everyone else, wearing out copies of Tupelo Honey, feeling richly gloomy. Now in Los Angeles, Jackson Browne and the Eagles nurse everybody’s bruises, and Mick Jagger, the tired old hag, says the Rolling Stones are the best punk band in the world. It’s desperate. I prefer Jorge Cruz playing for endless Cuban weddings in Key West, the only city in America where you can buy novelty condoms in the municipal airport, and where the star of The Dog Ate The Part We Didn’t Like can have a little peace.

The first thing Jorge said was, “I wait and I wait and you never get back to me.”

“I had an egg on my head.”

“I wait and I wait.”

“Egg.”

“I see the egg in the paper. I see your discharge from Florida Keys Memorial. Still I wait.”

“Will you play for our family?”

“On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That the weeds are cut down at the Casa Marina so that my orchestra is not driven crazy with chiggers.”

“It’s a deal.”

“You hurt my feelings when you didn’t call. I thought it was my music.”

“I neglected you. Accept my apologies.”

“But I will, of course.”

I let go of Jorge’s handlebars. He rolled up Lopez Lane and disappeared behind a car body. The haze from City Electric brought its air of extraordinary romance. Each filling station seemed like a cheerful island with the bright pumps standing bravely in the tropical smoke. Through the open doorways of old homes came the anomalous ring of cash registers or piping television serials. I was transfixed by a beauty beyond the hideous. My heart was a song. Nothing hugs the road like a garbage truck.

I am enclosed in here, in my reflecto Ray-Bans. Look at me and what do you see? Yourself.

Peavey is in his office. I’m relieved that he’s out of Roxy’s Florida room with that girl, though I see her behind the water cooler, huge bubbles rising through her visage. She’s changing a column of those little one-swallow paper cups. She looks up at me and for an instant a bubble enlarges her left eye to the size of a melon.

I wave and she turns to Peavey, who’s turned to me.

“Counselor,” I say.

“Chet.”

“What’s the word?”

“Beats me, Bubba.”

“The hell you say.” I grin.

“What can I do you for?”

“I got Jorge Cruz lined up.”

“Fabulous.”

“Tell you though, the guy laid a condition on me. He wants the weeds down.”

“We’ll get them down but not because he said so.”

“Who do I call?”

“Southernmost Lawn. They got a big Weed Eater, go right through that junk. Got four Bahamians with grass whips. Put the place right in shape.”

“There are a lot of cats in that deep grass,” I say, starting to lose it already. Peavey fixes me and raises a Benson and Hedges to his lips.

“Well, they’re going to have to get out.”

“That’s the heck of it,” I say. Peavey knows I’m going down for the count. Might just as well face that.

“You seen that boat off White Street pier?”

I start around the desk and he says, “Get out.”

“Relax,” I tell him. “This is no clambake and you are among friends.”

I left Peavey balling the jack with bubblehead and all the lights on his phone shining like a southern constellation.

* * *

I stopped to see my uncle Pat. He used to be in American Intelligence and he has a tremendous amount of stuff from the Germans, including a phonograph and a stack of Nazi 78’s, which he often plays while working. Pat’s practice has gotten to where there’s no need of an office. He works on the dining-room table listening to Nazi songs — he’s not a Nazi — adding codicils and revising bills of grievance which he sometimes circulates free of charge. I told him two o’clock Sunday; no dresses. Pat wasn’t making any promises. Also, and I can’t be emphatic enough about this, he’s no Nazi.

* * *

And then — then! — it was raining. Rain in Cayo Hueso can be a rare thing, as you streak over the cracked sidewalk under the awning of trees, a curtain of translucent rain, the endless hiss of traffic. The watery green leaves turn up and the dust on the Spanish limes rinses down till their dark, vivid forms stand out in their own clouds of green. I step to the left and the cloud water, the ocean rain, goes straight to my skin and I picture that my own form is as vivid in this fatigue shirt and jeans and Sonia sandals as a Spanish lime tree, soaking energy from the rain and getting ready to drop seeds on those roofs until everyone inside is crazy from not sleeping. Rain is one thing that will make you feel you can go on.

* * *

Roxy is being fitted, standing on the aqua carpet with bright veins in her bare feet. A girl sits cross-legged on the floor, pins in her mouth, and says, “Iv vat about vight for lengf?”

“Just right. I want only the ends of my slippers peeping out. I have stringy calves, which do not go with my pot belly.” I think I’m the only one who sees Roxy as a comedian. Remember, she’d already died once. It fascinates me.

“O Miff Hunnicutt!”

Looking at Roxy, I felt a tingle of family comfort. You become a soft warm object and the brain slowly shapes itself to the facts. For a blessed moment, you are totally lacking in views.

When the little girl headed out, Roxy said she was a bit peckish and would I be a dear and take the Imperial and get us a couple of Big Macs? Pour quoi non, I chuckled. I headed for Roosevelt Boulevard. I never object to making a burger run. In Baby America, a fellow wants to know his fast-food inside and out. I bought Roxy and me two mid-range burgers and one large fries, with napkins and ketchup-paks to go.

And Roxy sure had eyes for the little dickens, sinking her teeth through the cheese shields with sudden fury, cupping her left hand underneath for drippings. Holding our hamburgers, we were both living in the present.

She was sitting in the green silk chair, threads poignantly snagged by cats over the years, as though by design.

“Tracked Ruiz down.”

“Oh?”

“Hand-lining grunts for Petronia Street.”

“I thought so,” I said.

“He had a heck of a deal here. Could’ve been a sinecure. But he couldn’t keep his hands off my grapefruits.”

“Seemed like there was enough to go around,” I said.

“Criminals don’t think that way,” said Roxy.

“No,” I crooned with boredom. “I don’t suppose.”

“Peavey and I don’t plan on children.”

I thought, I wonder if this is hilarious.

“Fine with me.”

“He felt you might think we were going to soak up your inheritance with babies. Have no fear. Anyway, most of it is going to that Jerry Lewis disease.”

“Muscular dystrophy?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine.”

“Otherwise it ends up in the hands of dope peddlers, dishonest professional athletes, and corrupt disc jockeys.”

“Really!”

“I think so, don’t you?”

“I imagine I do.”

“As to the wedding, I’ll be there,” she assured me.

“Me too.”

“Pat wants to be maid-of-honor.”

“I told him no dresses.”