Hoyt
Icame awake slow the following morning.
Peeking at the sun through the hazy glass of my trailer—which still had the slight smell of my red roan gelding Adobe—I rubbed at my sticky eyes.
With the addition of an electric cord run from the barn under the trailer doors I had an alarm clock.
Which either never went off or I had turned it off when it did.
When I moved to my side my shoulder reminded me not to be rough with it by delivering a sharp poke of pain that robbed my breath.
“Fucker,” I spat, moving carefully to sit up on my cot.
The trailer was chilly. I’d turned off the small electric heater I’d run for a few hours last night before conking out.
Just as a precaution against setting my shit on fire.
I didn’t have much to my name but what I did possess was important to me.
The sun was up high so I knew I’d missed breakfast in the bunkhouse.
Which was fine. I’d meet all the new faces at lunch.
Right now getting a pain pill into me, followed by some coffee even if it was instant, was the most important thing.
Kicking off the sleeping bag I used as a covering I sat up with care, my arm hugged tight to my chest, as I reached for the bottle of pills I’d gotten at the hospital in Texas.
Taking note of the fact that once they were gone there would be no more I decided to cut back some.
The bottle of water on the floor was cold as I picked it up to wash down the tablet.
Working my arm into the sling would come after I took a piss.
Rising but definitely not shining I made my way to the doors, threw one side open, and looked out at Snow Creek Ranch.
The sky was bright blue, the clouds large puffy things floating over the spread, spreading shade as they moseyed along.
Stepping out onto the cold metal ramp, my foot bumped something.
The tiny box rolled down the ramp, landing in the new spring grass.
“You little shit,” I murmured then walked down to lift the box of blueberry Pop Tarts from the ground.
My gut reminded me I had only eaten a cold hamburger from a fast food place I’d stopped at yesterday.
Nothing sits in the belly as well as cold burgers and fries but when you’re hungry you’ll eat anything.
I recalled Walt Barrett had a saying about being so ravenous he could eat the asshole out of a possum.
It never made much sense to me why the good ones always went before they should while the shitty people lingered.
Maybe that was why I’d never taken to religion.
That and the fact most churches reviled us queers.
The sound of contented horses floated by as did the smell of hay.
Nothing smelled as good as hay in my humble opinion.
Tucking my toaster pastries tenderly under my left arm I used my right to fish my cock out of my boxers to relieve myself.
Once done I stepped back into my mobile home, as I liked to jokingly call it, to wash up.
Splashing around in a bucket of cold water atop an old trunk was invigorating.
As was stuffing some cold blueberry tarts into my mouth as the water for my electric kettle came to a fast boil.
I dumped a spoonful of instant coffee into the boiling water, stirred, and sipped gingerly.
I sorely needed a shower. Washing in a bucket was better than nothing but a hot shower sure would feel good.
The waterproof dressing would be fine. Maybe I could sneak into the bunkhouse and grab one after I broke my fast. I could ask Jesse but I’d already imposed on my brother enough for one lifetime.
Besides, if I went into the house Lucas owned I might not want to come back to my horse-scented digs.
Luxury softened a man as Abel liked to say as an explanation for being a dick to two little boys who wanted whatever it was we might want.
Shaking that off, I finished my breakfast, rubbed some deodorant under my right arm with my right hand—not an easy thing—then began the process of slinging it up after dressing.
It sucked. You never realized how often you had to move your damned arm until you couldn’t move your damned arm.
Stupid fucking bull. I paused, winded, after easing into a fucking T-shirt, and felt the anger at Satan’s Cyclone ebb away.
It wasn’t the bull’s fault I fucked myself up.
Sure, it was his fault he’d run over to pulverize me but even that wasn’t wholly his doing.
He’d been bred to buck like a madman. Mad bull I guess fit better.
His natural aggression and the flank strap made him want to not just get the strap off but the asshole on his back as well.
Once I’d hit the ground he could have just left the ring but he’d wanted to show me who was boss.
And he had. To be fair he was doing what bulls do.
And I’d been off my game. So hats off to you, Satan’s Cyclone, long may you buck.
Not your fault humans are soft and easily broken.
Meanwhile I still had a coat to get pulled on and no one to help.
It was at times like this I wished I had a man in my life to share things with, the good and the bad, like assisting me into a damn coat so I could go do something to earn my keep.
Ten minutes and a whole lot of cussing later, I sat down to pull my boots on.
Also fun with only one good arm. When my ass met my cot the new notebook I’d bought at Aubrey’s shop slid out from under my pillow.
I’d taken a pill before bed last night to help me sleep but did not recall opening the ledger at all.
I flipped the stained-glass motif cover open. There on the first page were words. Scribbled out like chicken scratch but definitely mine.
They weren’t on the lines but that was okay.
They were words. Verses even. Just two. Two lines of poetry.
I’d not written for ages. That was also a thing to hide from the other guys on the circuit.
Only women and fags wrote poetry for Chrissake.
Man, I hated that shit so much. The strict gender roles felt like a garrote so often.
I glanced up at the reins still dangling from their hook, felt the pang of loss over Adobe clutch at me, and wondered why I’d not allowed myself to cry when I’d sold my best friend in the world. Maybe I should do that someday.
Clearing my throat my sight fell back to the slanted words written in bold purple marker…
Red roans drift where the windy plains run,
Dust on their hides, backs lit by sun,
Wow that was…not bad. I mean sure it wasn’t Badger Clark or Curley Fletcher but it wasn’t terrible.
Guess I should write my poems with purple Sharpies while high on codeine all the time.
Huh. Now I just needed to finish it. A sharp rap on the door had me snapping the journal shut then stuffing it under my pillow as if it were a smutty gay romance novel I was hiding from my father.
Jesus, the shit we haul from our childhoods sure do linger.
“Yeah,” I shouted, rose from the cot, and took the ten steps from my bed to the door to fling it open.
There stood Jesse, all combed and spit-polished, looking up at me with a hundred thousand questions in those dark eyes of his.
“Hey. I didn’t make it to breakfast. I think I was more exhausted than I realized. I’m heading to the tack barn now.”
“No rush, I just wanted to stop by to see if you’d be interested in coming to dinner at the house sometime. We need to talk about shit.”
I rubbed my whiskery chin. “Shit like you getting twenty-five percent of the ranch?”
He was surprised. “You know about that?”
“People talk, I listen.”
“Well, yeah, that and other shit. Also, and not to be rude, but you need a shower.” He tipped his cowboy hat back to see me better. “No offense.”
“None taken. I can only deodorize one side so…” I shrugged the good shoulder.
“Gotcha. Well, the other side needs help.”
“Noted.” I stepped down the ramp, coat in my hand, and closed the door with a hard shove. “Latch sticks.” There was no need to lock it up. I had nothing to worth stealing.
“Well, Lucas wanted me to offer the invite to dinner.”
“Oh, Lucas. Not you?” I eased my coat up over my bad shoulder, fuck getting my arm into the sleeve, and gave Jesse a look.
He seemed oddly confused. “Sure me. I just…” He blew out a breath that fogged just a bit before the spring sun warmed it. “I’m trying to not barge into your space. I know you always had this invisible barrier around you that you hated people stepping into.”
“I never minded you stepping through it,” I confessed then ambled off towards the tack barn as the wind carried the song of the morning bird song to me.
Jesse didn’t try to catch up, which was probably good.
I wouldn’t have known what to say after that so best to leave it sit and see if it rose.
Like bread dough. That was what emotions reminded me of.
They started out small then slowly—as they warmed—they expanded.
Then they got sticky. Jesse and me were at the sticky phase of things.
Perhaps we just needed a little dusting of reacquaintance flour to ease us out of the pan of awkwardness.
I paused about a hundred yards from my trailer then turned to face him. “Thanks for the tarts. I owe you a box.”
Jesse smiled. I returned to my trek to the tack barn, mulling over where to go with my poem and if a certain bookstore poetry lover would like to hear it someday.
On the plus side, after a day in the tack barn I now smelled like neat’s-foot oil and not unwashed-on-the-one-side man.