Thomas McGuane - Nothing but Blue Skies

Frank made a rapid trudge to the street, where he tried to blend in yet knock the loose garbage from his clothes. He crossed the park from another angle, but their bench — he could tell it was theirs because he could line up the swings and the flagpole — was empty. Now, from a distance, he could see the boy leading two foot policemen his way. There was no time to think; he just had to run forward until he was out of the open space of the park, into an intimate blue-collar neighborhood, through back yards and under clotheslines, knocking a bird feeder out of his way in a spray of seeds, frantically navigating his way to Holly’s house, bursting through her front door and virtually into the arms of Lane Lawlor. Frank was acutely conscious of smelling like sweat and garbage. “Hello again,” he gasped, tilting his head and smiling, a gruesome shot at charm, ungainly in the extreme.

Lane watched him for a moment before speaking. “Let me build you a drink,” he said, making a point of forcing a smile, like pressing his own weight. “I came back to use Holly’s phone.” He paused, as though there was no telling what to expect from someone standing in a slight crouch with an unmistakable tincture of back yard garbage.

“Just catch my breath,” Frank said, moving to the living room and falling into a chair. He remembered seeing a redheaded man who had just had a heart attack at the airport, seated on the floor in a busy Salt Lake concourse, rushing travelers eddying around him, a look of perspiring embarrassment on his face, a morning newspaper at his side. Probably no one but his mother could have comforted him. His pupils were the size of dimes and he definitely seemed to be watching something coming his way.

Lane brought him a drink, the kind of strong drink you made when you meant to let your hair down. Frank was going to be careful of it. And it was a relief to be here with a highly objectified creature like Lane. It had been too much with Gracie. Every attempt to modify his emotions recently had gone upside down. He had just felt wild, and that was too much. He didn’t want that wild feeling taking him off. He wanted the type of steadiness that is always praised, in sports, in life, everywhere. With Lane it could be strenuous yet polite, like an old-fashioned sea battle: gentlemen captains getting their guns into position and altogether out of the question to act or feel wild.

Lane sat down. “Kind of a turbulent time for you,” he said.

“Afraid so.”

“Sometimes it helps having something to set all these tribulations against.”

“Yeah,” said Frank, “like, we sleep for eternity or something.”

“Not quite that dire. Maybe a few values.”

“What kind of values, Lane?”

“The kind you come in from the desert with, the kind that stand you in good stead. The kind that make you one with your own people.”

Lane probably had him here. The people who wanted to stop every river, kill every inconvenient animal and reduce every forest to usable fiber had a remarkable solidarity. They believed that every thing in the natural world was part of a conspiracy against the well-filled lunch bucket, the snowmobile with its topped-off fuel tank and the proper utilization of a deep clip of cartridges. Frank looked at him and tried to imagine him as a child, concluding that Lane had never been a child. He was born a full-sized spokesperson.

“You know,” Frank said, “I have a feeling if we share our philosophies we’re going to end by tearing this apartment up and it doesn’t belong to us.”

“Ha ha ha,” said Lane.

“I’m not kidding.”

“Okay, so another tack. Frank. You’re a businessman. You share my climate.”

“I’ve become a worse and worse businessman.”

“I’ll lay you three to one it’s because of the negative climate that we operate in — workmen’s comp, et cetera.”

“No, it’s not. It’s something else. It’s closer to chronic fatigue syndrome.” He didn’t tell Lane about his flat-earth theory or the exhilaration he sometimes felt when he thought of the big, brusque, variegated planet going on without him, like a Spanish galleon leaving a swimmer who had just walked the plank. This vision always ended like an old comedy going into reverse, with him rising from a big splash to run through the air back up to the end of the plank, run back down it into the crowd of sailors on deck. He wouldn’t leave earth voluntarily, given the paltry stats on the other shit-planets with their faded canals, daffy moon rings.

“I’m very motivated toward having a pleasant relationship with you,” said Lane. “I’m very drawn to your daughter.” Frank got the awful feeling again. “I’m not getting much encouragement from her.” He laughed. “It’s a credit to you and your wife that she has grown into such an intricately developed personality. I wish she would give me stronger indications of our future together.”

“That’s good,” said Frank. “It’s an inappropriate relationship.”

“I think the principals, and the principals only, are entitled to that view.”

“Couldn’t you find a conservative American your own age?”

“I could.”

“You could?”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Ah.”

“And Frank, your daughter is getting more conservative by the minute. And that’s not bad. We’re the ones who look around our nation and want the same thing: swift, retributive justice.”

Frank thought about this alarming and obviously premeditated phrase, without picturing where it could lead. “Anyway, do you know when they’ll be back?” he asked.

“They won’t. Mrs. Copenhaver has gone down to Deadrock, I think, and Holly’s at class.”

The streetlamps streamed slowly past as he headed to a downtown Deadrock bar on foot, the lovely curves of automobiles with intricate paint jobs and personalized license plates displaying the state’s pride in the Big Sky. An elderly cripple made his way along the sidewalk with gritty determination and shouted at Frank, “Watch where you’re going, you crazy jerk!” This filled Frank with a reassurance of the indomitability of man. He stopped to look up and down a cross street, noting a conspicuous whistle from his nose and shadowy rings around his vision. He gave a loud laugh and a car slowed down to look at him. Wave to those people! They didn’t wave back. We don’t care! Another big laugh. Ha, ha! More waving …

Frank found himself in the bar. He didn’t know how long he’d been in here, or how many drinks he’d had, but he decided to make a request by tracking the bar to the dance floor, pushing through all those dancers to the bandstand and asking the singer, who was usually the leader of the band, to play something special. There was Lucy Dyer! Hey, talk about special!

Lucy sat at the bar turned around on her stool so that she could watch people dancing. There were men on either side of her when Frank approached to take her request. No matter how he pressed her, he couldn’t get her to name that tune. Finally, the man on her left, a tall and unsmiling cowboy in a black shirt, said, “She doesn’t have a song to request. Hadn’t you been listening?”

“Frank,” said Lucy, “I’d like you to meet my honey, Darryl Pullman.”

Frank was right in his face with a warm greeting and a handshake. “What do you do, Darryl?”

“I’m a spray pilot.”

“That’s all right.”

“And a big-game guide.”

“Well, what about you, Darryl, anything you’d like to hear?”

“If they knowed any Dwight Yoakam, be okay.”

“Dwight Yoakam it is.”

Frank hated the way he seemed so sprightly in the presence of these salt-of-the-earth types, but he succeeded in getting in the request and the band played “Guitars and Cadillacs.” Up till then, he thought Darryl was kidding him, requesting some relation of Mammy Yoakam. He went back to Lucy and Darryl and said, “Would I be pushing my luck if I asked Lucy to dance?”