They will see me. The cruiser’s tucked alongside a ridge of blasted granite that borders the inland side of the road. I wear a bug-eyed gunslinger’s mask of thick sunglasses complimented by my hat, dipped forwards ever so slightly. I sit not tense but hunkered down, ready, facing the direction of the Indiana border a little ways ahead.
“So the thing about Cat People,” the stuntman said, talking about the last movie he had worked on in L.A. before coming back to Utah, “is that I didn’t really have much to do. But still got the paycheck.” He laughed. “And that’s the thing with my line of work. It’s hard to get in.
With each palm he holds a bent knee so her limbs splay outwards. Squinting and searching, like Cousteau but on land, the Pirate has never held a map before but her legs still meet at the angle he knows best. Not his girl but his arachnid.
I took care of Johnny’s horses. Johnny cared about them, and so he’d come and watch me, and it wasn’t possible for me not to imagine that he cared for me too. In part, at least, because we shared an object of affection. Perhaps love is always a three way—but the third must be an object. When another subject enters, that’s when the trouble . . . Of course horses are both . . .
Abeba, The African Giantess, stood on the crest of the hill watching The Great Petey Smith Circus carnies, performers, and mob of spectators swarm the square next to the town’s railroad tracks. Rain had pelted her tent in the dark hours, the thunderous hymn waking her up, but she knew then it wasn’t going to be no cleaning rain.
Whenever Rose closed her eyes she saw it. It greeted her when she lay down in bed each night to go to sleep, and at any time during the day when she wanted to rest her eyes. It was very big—hard to say how big because it was never next to anything. It was a rectangle of true black within the more hazy black of closed eyes.