Thomas McGuane - Driving on the Rim

I believed I could pass the time by embracing radio music. I hunted the dial until I found some rhythm and blues, where a phrase like “all night long” or “yes, it’s me” could last half a song. I didn’t usually listen to lyrics, but these tunes were really wrapped around the words and it was a pleasant exercise to listen and think. I was surprised to hear how many of the country crooners admitted sneaking out on their marriages. It came up so often that despite the disclaimers and professions of suffering a kind of exultation was implied. An equal number sought to “put a ring on your finger.” The cycling between hoped-for togetherness and feverish cheating was disconcerting. Even stranger, the glamorous barflies of the lyrics described the liquor of their choice as being wine if the song was about marrying or cheating on your spouse. If beer was the beverage, it signaled a rowdy call to arms for “country” values. There was a surprising number of quite threatening songs of patriotism, often with a semi-thudding march tempo, a gathering of violent warnings. Lots of biography on the part of the singer about other famous singers he knew or admired. Our deteriorated modern world was often deplored, from heaven, by “Hank.” God took a wider view, but Hank had a streak of sarcasm and disappointment over how sorry things had gotten. Another decried those who preferred sandals to “manly footwear.” I turned the radio off: I was sick of these people, all prison-bound, where they would be challenged to avoid sodomy by monsters from the inner city. It was easy to think like this when the driveshaft fell out of your car at seventy per.

The tow truck was driven by a nice young man named Lane who was happy to have the work. He had big work-hardened hands and wore green zip-up coveralls with a sky blue bandanna tied around his neck. His billed cap said ICE DOGS and displayed a flying hockey puck trailed by stars, and all around the edges of the cap his thick blond hair stuck out. He winched the 88 up with a cable drum, chocked the wheels, boomed it down with chains, and invited me into the cab. As we drove east, I enjoyed the elevation and the wide beam of lights that declared our progress and right-of-way a long distance ahead. The big meshing noise of the diesel seemed authoritative and reminded me of my father’s descriptions of the sound of Panzer tanks.

Lane said, “Let’s have some music for the occasion” and punched a button on the tape deck. A booming song emerged, “I’m in love with my car,” with extraordinary words—“When I’m holdin’ your wheel, all I hear is your gear”—all sung against screaming arena rock guitars and keyboards and end-of-the-world percussion. At last it was over and Lane turned it off.

“You like Queen?”

“Sure…”

“I’ve got news: that wasn’t Freddie Mercury.”

“Oh. Who was it?”

“That was the drummer, Roger Taylor. Freddie was backup and backup only on this one. But bottom line, great album. Triple platinum, to be exact. You like glam rock?”

I didn’t know what glam rock was, but I was so averse to having Lane explain it to me that I told him I liked it very much. That seemed to satisfy him and he sank into a steady concentration on the road ahead.

We dropped my car in the parking lot of a repair shop. A cold wind blew. I paid Lane and walked to the Grand, where I got a room and tried to figure out how to get hold of Jocelyn. Nothing worked; it sounded as if she just had her cell phone turned off. I crawled into bed in a vague state of worry and managed to go to sleep. In the morning I went downstairs to check out. Womack and Jocelyn were sitting in the lobby reading the Big Timber Pioneer . I said, “My car broke down.”

She said, “Whatever.”

I chirped, “Good morning, Jocelyn!”

“Right.”

Without looking up from the paper, Womack said, “You needed to get rid of that piece of shit a long time ago. Don’t look to me like being a doctor is doing you no good.”

I stood in front of the hotel, furious, as I watched the two of them drive off. I think that describes it. I knew I was offended and belittled by my own jealousy. I disliked caring about Jocelyn so much, but there it was: her swagger, skills, and independence were so attractive. Our lovemaking was something of a clash, but it was powerful and showered sparks. She regarded the missionary position as an ironic exercise and threatened me if I closed my eyes. I felt vacuumed by orgasms and rarely regained full consciousness before finding myself admiring her naked body through the bathroom door as she concentrated on brushing her hair. She was very unconscious of her body until she needed it to make something happen; when she thought there was a chance we’d make love again, she would stand next to me as I lay on the bed, and brush her teeth in a mischievous way, blowing bubbles in the toothpaste. Then with a laugh she would whirl away, giving me time to think and knowing I’d be ready as soon as she had rinsed. She was never wrong. And if she thought that by luring me into this erotic cellar she could addict me to her with no other effort at being thoughtful, she was right. It was not good for my self-respect.

I resolved to discuss it with Jinx. The Olds was out of the shop and the hands of reluctant mechanics, who urged me to haul it to the wrecking yard. The weather had abated and I was heading for the Corral Motel in Harlowton, plying the heaving road across the northern half of Sweet Grass County, not a cloud in the sky. I was no longer a sitting duck in my house — though I felt the tug of possibly missed walk-ins, and the day-and-night worry over Jinx’s plan to move away. And that was just about how specific a plan it was: away, a yawning destination to say the least. I wanted to forbid it. Was this friendship?

The desk clerk — or I guess he was the owner — just said “five,” leaving me to work out that it was room 5. I left the Olds parked by the office and walked around the front of the building in a rising disorientation that made my feet on the gravel sound like someone was following me. And yet the smell of pavement and sagebrush, the cloudless sky and great distances visible all around, were almost pleasant intimations that I was in a story and it was my story.

I knocked on the door of room 5, which produced a scurrying noise from beyond. Finally, the door opened: Womack. He didn’t open it very far but we were face-to-face. As though he had never seen me before, he said, “What can I do for you?”

I held his gaze and said, “Jocelyn, may I speak to you, please?”

Womack said, “Who?”

I said, directly over the barely exposed left shoulder of Womack, “Jocelyn, may I speak to you?”

Womack said, “Pardner, I think you must have the wrong room. Go back and ask the desk clerk to get you a way safer room number. That’s today’s tip.” I was prey to sufficient self-doubt that I had a moment of thinking that I actually had the wrong room and this was not Womack. Somehow an idea penetrated my nausea: “5” was the only room number I was going to need.

Throckmorton said, “My God, are you okay? You look okay. Jesus Christ, I hope you’re okay. I don’t know if you realize this, Mr. I. B. Pickett, but everyone hates you.”

“No doubt. Where’ve you been?” I asked wanly. We were at the threshold of his office and his secretary was staring at me with the same gaze she would have bestowed upon Lazarus. I preceded Throckmorton just to get away from it. We flopped in our respective overstuffed leather chairs, Throckmorton scooting his around the side of his desk to better see me.

“Tahiti.”

“Seriously?”

“Always wanted to go. It was full of surprises. The first thing I saw when I got off the plane was a billboard for Colonel Sanders chicken. Those Tahitian pricks tried to clean me out, but I’m home now, I’m okay.”