| OCR Text |
Show Will SlherMf IB die Get Mi Wmaini? Zip to Zap wright, 1972 Ltor fmm The Zip to Zap, a novel t'ZSLC. Bodie, the sheriff T County, North Dakota, has taken , nil t off and is heading towards L rck North Vakota, in his '34 Buick. In SSnehoPestofinda9lrl... by Les Stand iford Bodie can hardly hear the road through . ck skin" of the old Buick. Even the Js of the deisel sheep rig that passes seventy are muted. He can smell the ?mals though, piercing as the early days on H ch and he hangs back a bit until the tuck is only the glimmer of red and green linhts ahead of him. He switches on the radio out of habit, but nothing happens. He has tried to get it going Main several times, has even restored light Sng 'happens. He has tried to get it going aaain several times, has even restored light to the dial, but still there is no sound. He i several times, has even restored light to white pointer has clipped past all the numbers num-bers finally gives "P- He hums again, going through Western hits that he remembers only parts of, finally settles on "Tumbling Tumbleweed." The music overrides the though of his old man-irritating man-irritating memories for Bodie. At the same time, he is uneasy with himself his irritation. He tries not to think of him at all. Bodie counts the white stripes in the road until is past one hundred, then tries to figure his speed in terms of feet per minute. He slows to sixty to make his caculations simpler. A new car with a lone man wearing a cowboy hat passes him, then a five-year-old Ford carrying a load of kids. They roar past, and Bodie's first thought is surprise-passing surprise-passing a police car like that until he remembers what he's driving. He checks his clothes in the weak light from the dash, tugging at his pantlegs to smooth out the gathers at his crotch. He doesn't want to look wrinkled when he gets out, and arranges his legs to avoid crumpling the fabric. The seat under him is soft, cloth covered, and he knows the back of his pants will be creased. He shifts a little, and tries to feel comfortable. The lights of the city glow faintly in the sky ahead, and Bodie feels the perspiration form on his palms. He wonders where to go first. At the gas station a man of Bodie's age directs him to a bar in a shopping center that he finds not far south off the freeway. The shops are still open, and Bodie must park a down the row opposite the place. When he gets out, he brushes at the wrinkles and lifts his sport coat from the hook in the back seat. The air is chill over the asphalt and a family comes by, bundled in ski parkas. Bodie fingers the knot of his tie, realizing it is too narrow these days, and thinks briefly of going to buy one. Finally, he jerks it off and flings it toward the back seat. He pulls on the coat and feels the flapping of the shirt collar he has forgotten to button down. The uniform shirts don't have the collar buttons, and it is hard for him to adjust. He stands by the open doors of the car, and fumbles at the tiny holes, his hands clumsy in the cold now. When he feels ready, he moves up the lane, stepping aside for a backing lady who motions him on, stopping outside the door to rub the points of his shining boots on the back of his pants. A man in a suit and a woman in a false leopard coat walk out together, and Bodie goes in. The place is comfortably warm, a smell of beer springing out of the dark. The stale odor is familiar, reassures him, and he walks toward the bar. He has three bourbon and coke, specifying J.W. Danteach time, and he gradually soaks up the feel of the place. It is small, deeply carpeted so as to catch at his boots when he walks, the booths against the L of the wall behind him half full of people, most of them around Bodie's age, a few younger, some fortyish. The jukebox plays rock songs, only a few of them familiar to him that roll over the close conversation and nuzzling in the booths. Bodie decides that there are not very that roll over the close conversation and with their wives. Several of the men, though they are as old as he, wear pastel shirts and pants with flared bottoms. He feels slightly outclassed out-classed and considers going downtown to a cowboy spot he knows, but the station attendant swore with a wink that he'd do all right here, so he sits and orders another drink. He fingers his sideburns. At least they seem to be in style. He nibbles pretzels from a wicker basket on the bar in front of him. He goes to the jukebox and finds two songs to play, but doesn't see anything else he knows. He looks behind him. A girl stands with a quarter between her fingers. He hesitates, clears his throat, then gives up the idea, and turns back to punch two buttons at random. He moves carefully back to the bar, wobbling a little on the thick carpet, and the girl moves to the machine without a glance. At 9:00 the shops close, and by 9:30, the place has filled with store people leaving work. Bodie feels more comfortable now, lost in the hubub, and he eats the rest of the basket of pretzels. He realizes he has had nothing to eat since lunch. He is about to ask for more pretzels when a girl comes in, picks an empty seat between Bodie and a man wearing a bowling shirt, and greets the bartender with a squeeze of her hand, the the top of the cooler back and lifts a bottle of Miller's even though she has asked for nothing. He pours part of the beer into a glass and sets the bottle next to it. "What if I wanted a Schlitz, just once, Ronnie." "That's only for sailors." He winks, moving off down the bar. Bodie feels the cold as she moves out of her coat. He decides that a storm must be moving in. He reaches to hold a sleeve as she struggles. She smiles and says thanks, looking a moment at his face. The bartender comes back and they chat for a while. They exchange questions about work, and he asks about a traffic ticket she got on the way home the night before. Bodie listens carefully. While she is friendly with the bartender, there is no hint of romance. He looks at her face, where the glow from the pink lights of the bar is kind. She wears her hair styled into curls around her neck and ears, but not too many curls. -She seems to be several years younger than Bodie; still her manner with the barman is relaxed, casual. When the bartender is called around to a table, Bodie decides he will chance it. After all, he thinks he saw her smile his way another time. Taking a sip from the last of his glass, he asks where she works. She turns to make sure he is speaking to her before she answers. Finally, she nods Bruin, the market." She shows a few teeth when she smiles this time. "Oh?" Bodie swirls the ice cubes in his drink. "You come here very often?" He combs his mind frantically for some better exchange, sees only a tired bag of words. -What to do? "I like it." She gives him a neutral look. Her eyes are dark, dominate her face. He thinks she has made her eyelashes too long, considering. He checks himself with a gulp, realizing with horror that he was about to mention this fact. He watches her face, seeing that she is waiting for him to continue. con-tinue. Her mouth looks small, the lips thin. "You check out, I guess?" Bodie feels a part of him step down from the oaf on the stool, move toward some safe spot to watch. "No. I'm an assistant in the meat department." Bodie glances at her and decides against a joke. Maybe he was mistaken about the lips; they seem full enough in the profile he gets when she takes a sip from the glass of beer. She turns back to him. "Ifs not bad, if thafs what you're thinking. I get paid quite a bit more than most girls. I could even get to be a butcher if I wanted." She laughs. Bodie nods, caught up in his serious search for conversation. Her smile draws him to her eyes, wide in the dim light. "So what do you do?" He hesitates, then decides to lie. "I'm a farmer." "Sure. What do you farm?" "No, I'm serious. I raise wheat." He clears his throat and looks deadpan at her. He feels more comfortable. "So you left your wife and kids for a night in the big city, huh? Bodie shakes his head. "I'm not married." "Sure." She motions to the bartender and he brings her another beer. Bodie asks for another Bourbon and coke, and points to himself, then to the girl's beer. The bartender nods. When Bodie edges his knee to hers, he feels the hesitation, but determines that she is only being polite. In the parking lot she looks at the Buick parked alone by the light stanchion, and she giggles as Bodie walks her toward it, his arm around her shoulder. He feels the fur of her collar at his wrist. "Wheat didn't come up lately, huh?" They lurch a little at the hump of a speed brake in the lane, and Bodie straightens himself. "It's a goddam good car. Belonged to my old man." "I didn't say anything." As they drive, Bodie puts his arm to the top of the seat and cups her shoulder in his hand. When he applies a slight pressure with his fingers, she scoots across the seat and drops her head on his shoulder. She rests a hand on his thigh, and he moves his leg toward her so that he hand will slide down. She does not draw away. Bodie smiles to himself in the darkness, a great lump of satisfaciton beginning to melt through him, and he watches a white Cadillac sail by the bright vapor lamps of the endless boulevard that leads toward town. Suddenly, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and slams on the brakes. The girl rocks forward, her shoulder bouncing off the dash, and Bodie fights the wheel as they screech down the cinder residue of the street. The kids in the car that has shot from a drive-in fishtail away, oblivious. The girl sits up and rubs her shoulder, then moves toward the floor to recover her purse. When she comes up again, she holds Bodie's nightstick, and revolver, the cartridge belt dangling in the orange light. There is a sober question of her face. He stares, mind whirring like a stripped sprocket. "Wheat rustlers?" She doesn't smile. Why, oh why, he asks silently. Why does he carry the damn things everywhere he goes? He finds himself admitting he is really the Sheriff of Cherkin County. Inside her small apartment, a square living area with a kitchenette and bathroom attached, at-tached, Bodie must produce his badge, identification card, lawmen's association membership, and a snapshot of himself in uniform standing by the cruiser in front of the Zap town hall. "No shitl A sheriff I I swore you were a veternarian or something until I saw that car, and then I said, maybe he really is a farmer." She sits at the small formica table and crosses her legs, propping her chin on her hand. Bodie sees that her face is slightly (continued on page 51 t (continued from page 3) flushed, her eyes carrying a dull glaze. Had he pulled her over, he wonders, would he r have written a ticket? He doubts that she is truly in full control. He stands there in the small kitchen with ' cards strewn on the table, his badge case jl lying open, his own face flushed, feeling the excitement swell inside him. Sitting slowly on the other plastic chair, he gathers up the sheriff and stuffs him deep into a pocket of the sport coat. "I went out with a policeman once." She swings her leg, and he tries to be discreet in his glance up her skirt. "You did?" He wants to change the subject, but is not sure how. "Yes. He was a summer patrolman at the park. He picked me up after a dance in the pavillion, and I had to wait while he went home to change out of his uniform." Bodie nods. "Then I found out he wasn't really a policeman. He was just a kid from college with a summer job." She tilts her head and stares at him. "Well," he pauses, "I'm not really a sheriff either. If thafs what you mean." "I hope you're not." She winks, getting up for the bathroom, and Bodie feels a wave of anticipation. She closes the door and he ooks at his palms, sweat gleaming in the nes. He is startled when he hears her going. His mother always ran the tap, like all the gins he had known who thought anyone might hear. He did that himself once in someone's house. "New woman." She grins as she walks out, tucking her blouse at the band of her skirt. Bodie colors, not knowing what to say. Finally, he nods, trying to smile. She goes to the couch and turns on a lamp, then comes back to the small kitchen and flips off the flourescent lights. Bodie follows her to the couch that seems rather obviously spotlighted now. He wonders if she is aware of this emphasis. The springs groan when he adds his weight, and he feels the perspiration under his arms. He looks for a radio or phongraph, but sees none. There is a wrought iron stand holding a few magazines, a blue pig bank on the top, but no TV, nothing that will make noise. She leans against him and he moves his arm around her shoulder. Here, he can feel the warmth through the silk-like dress, and he is more comfortable. She moves her face to his neck, and Bodie shifts to kiss her. He hears the wrenching of the springs, and cringes, fearing she will pull away. Her tongue goes immediately into his mouth, and she turns so that her legs press the side of his hip. He begins to breathe harder and tries moving his weight against her. When she yields, lying back easily on a cushion, a great pressure springs from his shoulders, and he settles down, his stomach unclenching, reaching out a blind hand for the lamp. Bodie is dozing when she moves him, and he helps pull the couch into a bed, almost in a dream. While she works with the sheets, he shuffles into the bathroom and slides his hands over the walls, his eyes clenched. "Switch is outside," she calls, and Bodie claws at the door jamb until he finds the plastic button. He closes the door again, and opens his eyes slowly to grin at himself in the mirror. He can stand there in front of the sink and hit the bowl, where he tries to avoic splashing at first. Thinking about that effor for a moment, he changes his aim and finds i real pleasure in creating a roar. He watche: his face in the mirror until he sends a burs over the rim and against the tub. Shamed, hi tries to clean up with toilet paper, washes hi: hands carefully, and then goes out to surprisingly soft bed, the picture of a tall thick-chested man with early-thinning black hair, and needing a shave, clear in his mind. He thinks he is not as young as he remembers, and wonders why his own face should startle him. How long has it been since he looked at himself in the morror? He is disturbed at the rounding of his shoulders, the slackness he detected in his arms. Lying there on his side, he moves his hand back to the grip of flesh above his hip and shakes his head in digust. L.C. Bodie is going downhill, he thinks, and he frets over this self-neglect, swearing he will get back home and start on some kind of program. He is working back to the state of nerves he felt earlier when the girl sighs and moves her back against him. She stirs, fitting herself to his angles, and settles back into a deep breathing. Her shoulder is at his chin now, and Bodie moves his mouth to the warm skin, tasting her salt. Her bottom is solid against his legs, and he moves his arm carefully, placing his palm against the loose skin of her stomach. His mind drifts slowly up, watches them from above the bed, and his eyes are closing. He thinks he smells a touch of butcher's sawdust, or is it dust from Cherkin County, something lodged in his nose that he just now notices, or is it only his imagination? Soon enough he falls asleep. At the first gathering of light, Bodie is awake, listening to the breathing of the girl beside him. It is cooler now, and he pulls the sheet above her bare shoulder. In the dim light Bodie sees his clothes have been folded neatly and piled on top of the stand, the blue pig now on the floor. He looks back to the calm face of the girl, fuller with sleep, her lips round and parted. He thinks of lying back himself, but fights the urge. When he drops the sheet to his waist, the air strikes him, and the skin dots around the hair on his arms. He hesitates once again, then bites his lip. Easing out of the bed, he goes to wash. Edging carefully out of the bathroom, he is surprised to see her moving about the kitchen, kit-chen, her hand at the neck of a long robe while she fills a coffee maker with water. He had hoped to slip out before she woke, and now is uneasy. She will make it uncomfortable, un-comfortable, he feels. She spoons coffee into the metal basket and turns to smile groggily at him. "You sheriff's get up awfully early." e "Well, you know how it is." He holds the k towel in front of him and moves toward his d clothes. t "I'm afraid I don't. I work the noon to nine a most of the time." is He hurries at the coffee, burning his t tongue, the roof of his mouth. The silence e grows. He avoids looking directly at his eyes, is Despite what he expected, she does not look a half-bad this morning, and he tries to catch I, another look at her face as she bends to pick k a toenail. I. "Stubbed this on a cart yesterday," she 3 says to the floor. 3 Bodie stares at her chest where the robe i has fallen away, surprised at the catch in his 3 breathing. He swallows, thinking that he , would maybe like this girl to count on him, 3 that he would like to come back here himself, J yet some musty caution keeps him still. She looks unexpectedly at him, before he , has a chance to alter his gaze. He forces a , grin. "Hey, I don't even know your last i name," he tells her. "Well, I'll tell you, but you have to write it down so you don't forget, OK?" i Bodie nods and she draws a pad and f gnawed pencil from the napkin holder. He takes them and copies her whole name, the , address, and her phone number. "Same area i code, I guess." His concern nags at the I center of his attention, i "The whole state, last time I checked." i She leans forward, adopting an exaggerated concern. "How about my driver's license. Want tojee that, sheriff?" She wants Bodie to laugh too, but he is still frowning at the pad. She thinks her joke has irritated him somehow. "Oh, I forgot," she says quickly. Blinking his eyes, Bodie rouses from his worry. "Whaf s that?" "I mean, you're not really a sheriff, are you?" Bodie shrugs with a little smile, and stands to go. He feels called upon to say something reassuring, but he doesn't know what it would be. At the door, he bends to kiss her briefly, tasting coffee, and she holds his waist for a moment before he goes into the hall. He walks with his head bent to the car, forgetting his resolution to stand straighter, and he drives quickly back to the boulevard that will take him to the freeway. The yellow of the sun is strong where it shafts through the houses on his right, and when he stifles a yawn, he trembles. He is almost to the interchange in-terchange before he gives in. Outside the phone booth the Buick idles smoothly, its nose close by the chicken wired glass, and Bodie dials the number. "Say, I meant to and didn't. . .say thanks, that is." She lets out her breath in a kind of a laugh, "Well, thank you too." The Dine' Speeding across the Arizona desert in an old Chevy truck drinking Coors beer bought in Cortez, letting it trickle cold and slow down the throat in the fading heat of sunset. Great God, the blinding flashes of silver roadway and huge red landfroms, mesas, buttes, fumeroles, monoliths and desert varnish and hogans cached close in the arroyos with smoking hearths. Mop-headed children and border collies herding the sheep across the road and home, shouting arrrrrrrriba, arrrrrrrrrrriba, letting those r's trill off the tongue under the tucked ends of sheep And I am shouting Arrrrrrrriba too in drunken oneness with them. More Coors to cool the throat, and push it to the floor Come on the gallup you old Chevy lady, for like the Dine we are God's own children and made in entwine with sunrays, braid the sunset into golden ropes. Bill Marling |
