Thomas McGuane - Nothing but Blue Skies

He swung around and gave the hog a good crack. It was a mistake. The brute squealed and dove forward between Frank’s legs. Frank was astraddle the pig, looking into the sour but amazed face of the judge, and then the animal broke into a wild heaving gallop around the arena with Frank on its back, scattering other hogs and the contestants who tried to hold them back. Frank was trying to stay on in the hope that the hog would soon stop, but every time the pig looked back and saw him, it energized him into further squealing stampede.

There was a loud response from the bleachers that did not sound supportive. For a while, Frank felt that people and pigs were racing past him, but it was the marvelously steady and rapid gait of his own mount that swept him through a coliseum of obstacles. Coming around for another circle, he noticed showmen racing for the exits and the pop of flashbulbs. Frank was still trying to look his best. The crowd streamed past on the side. The rotation of the ceiling was no help and he was beginning to list, which put him in a better position to view the outthrust muzzle of the runaway pig. A very worried Jerry Drivjnicki appeared in front of him, arms outstretched like a traffic policeman. He was run over; and indeed, it was only another moment before Frank watched the plane of cat litter slant up at him and suddenly rotate, and the pig bounded away.

Frank sat up. Everywhere, shavings and animal droppings clung to the camel’s hair, and the front of his Stetson was bent back against the crown like Yosemite Sam’s. Instinctively, his eye sought the bleachers. Gracie and Ed, Holly and Lane, were hustling for an exit, fleeing from this disgrace as from a fire. Close by, legs stick-like in front of him, massaging a hoofprint in his scalp, Jerry Drivjnicki stared at Frank with anger. There were distinct veins in his cheeks and his lips were flattened against his teeth.

“I raised the pig that was supposed to be champion here,” Jerry said. “All you had to do for our partnership was stand next to that pig. It didn’t seem like a whole lot. I guess I got ahead of myself. But let me ask you this: how would you like a kick in the ass?”

“I think I’ll hold off.”

“You think you’ll hold off.”

Jerry walked away. The other contestants kept their distance from Frank. Whatever it was he had, they seemed to think they could catch. Frank was dismayed. He always liked Jerry. Jerry was a good guy. Jerry should have been a steady beacon to him and he was disgusted. Frank was interested in people who could throw a switch like Jerry just had. His father had that capability. He could cross his legs, grimace at something in distaste and make a waving-throwing gesture of his hand to indicate he was all through with this or that, whatever it was. Frank was always hung up in some gray area. He admired the way Jerry walked off. Jerry was all through with him. It was the last straw. Pretty good, thought Frank, the last straw. At that, Boyd Jarrell appeared before him.

“Well, what do you think, Boyd?”

“You rode the tar out of him, Frank. I believe you can ride anything you can get your leg over.”

“Thanks, Boyd.”

“Frank, I’ve got to talk to you.”

“This is a good time,” said Frank. He hoped Boyd had something nice and clear on his mind. Frank needed to discuss some objective thing.

“I thought you was a hell of a guy to overlook our differences and let me come back to work. I just wanted you to know I’ll stay as long as you and Mike hang on to it.”

“I appreciate that very much,” said Frank, thinking, There goes one more source of revenue. “I guess I owe you an apology for the car wash, Boyd.”

“It’s covered,” said Boyd, gesturing around the small coliseum where Frank’s disgrace lingered. “More than covered. I didn’t have an audience. I imagine you feel pretty bad.”

Frank looked up to see the last of the pigs crowding the exits. He wondered who won and felt a little gypped. They’d hardly had a chance to judge his beautiful red boar. Then a vision of his wild gyration through the hog show at the base of the bleachers came back to him and he felt the heat radiate from his skin again. His mind wandered.

“I’m all right.”

He went back to his house and stood in the kitchen opening mail in his topcoat while canned chili heated on the stove. There was some junk mail for expectant parents that he threw across the room. He stared through the cooking steam to think. He was still embarrassed. Worse than embarrassed — humiliated. Yes, that was it, humiliated. He took off the topcoat but momentarily retained the hat. Noticing a smell from the coat, he took it into the next room. He was wondering about Gracie. He started to feel a little crazy, so he turned the heat down on the stove, made himself a drink and sat at the kitchen table with his mail. Wearing the hat gave him the feeling he could jump up and run outside if he so desired. He started with the financial forecasts. He wanted to rise above the day. The drink was good in every way, a warm fun-bomb with great healing powers.

Nothing all that wrong with the market, really. People were definitely looking for yield, as who could blame them. Frank was starting to unwind. He was going from live pigs to more of a macro picture. It was certainly the day of bond mutual funds. And nobody seemed to give a flying fuck if it was municipal or global. There was plenty to cheer in today’s gasoline futures. All sorts of signals out there that the Fed was easing rates. The ever exciting General Mills was bringing out a four-grain version of Cheerios, with the usual motive of kicking the shit out of Kellogg’s Rice Krispies. Good luck: this was the fourth tune-up of a serviceable fifty-year-old idea and Rice Krispies was still around. Try to get it into your heads, boys.

The chili was done and Frank removed his hat. There was then a ring at the front door. Frank thought, This could be good. He plunged his hands deep into his pockets and walked around the bottom of the staircase to the hall. He just knew it was going to be Gracie.

He looked out the window beside the front door. It was Phil, stroking his beard with one hand and ringing the doorbell with the other. Frank had a moment’s thought, which immediately struck him as unworthy, that he might pretend not to be home. Ignoring his friends would be a sign of total collapse and he wasn’t going to let it happen. He went up and opened the door. Recalling a habit of their high school days, they made deep Chinese bows and Phil came in.

“Want some chili?” Frank said, leading the way down the hall. “I just got in from a pig show.”

“Okay, if you got enough. A pig show?”

“I got enough. Yeah, I had to ride a pretty big one. I stayed on, made the whistle.”

Phil didn’t know what Frank was talking about. He didn’t like anything to do with farming, ranching, agriculture. His assumption was that every pig was a government rip-off, a harmless creature that occasioned subsidies and price supports and had no reality of its own. Until now, though, he didn’t seem to realize people rode them.

In the kitchen, Phil looked into the cooking pot. “You got a salad or anything?”

“Look in the fridge.”

Phil got some tired-looking vegetables out of the refrigerator and began paring away the bad spots. “My old lady finally flew the nest for good,” he said.

“I didn’t realize she was still technically around.”

“We were legally separated, but I finally decided to tell her about Smokie.”

“So, what’s going to happen?”

“I’ll make it.”

“That’s good,” said Frank, keeping it small. He didn’t know if he wanted to get into this. He thought Phil was a little premature on the Smokie issue. “Couples seem to be a thing of the past, which should help the housing market. Although I see new home starts are down.”