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THE SCHOOLGIRLS marched through the snow, melted it with their youth, heads haloed in heat. They felt secure within their green coats, silver crosses hanging from white necks. He stood behind a tree and pared his fingernails with a buck knife, wondered if the clippings would root in the soil beneath the snow and burst forth in spring as fingers that would clutch the ankles of those who strayed from the path.

Path, Ian McShane (0:26)

I DON'T KNOW HOW she tracked me from Bismarck. Maybe she followed my scent. Anyway, I was working in Waukesha putting up vinyl siding and I look down and there she is, looking up at me with a hand on the ladder. "Hey." "Hey." I was still a little pissed at that pregnancy bullshit she tried to pull, but there was something about the curve of her neck and that dumbass gap-toothed grin ...

THE ROWBOAT drifted into the cove dragging an oar, scoring wake through the green water. The name
Buttercup
was painted on the prow in bright blue, but the outline of a former name was still visible—
False Wind.
The boat bumped up against the pier and a black lab came running to meet it, wagging its tail until it saw that nothing was aboard but a pocket watch on the seat, hot from the sun.

NOT MUCH TO DO in town, never was, really. Since the plant closed and the Chevy dealer moved to Hadley, May's is only open on weekends and for breakfast, three fat old farmers arguing about the same thing for twenty years over gummy omelets. Jimmy and I covered the water tower with gang signs, dirty words, smoked reefer while we watched town from above. Teen gods. It's time to leave. Hello, Bloomington!

THE HOUSE was tucked into the bottom of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by a high brick wall. One of the bricks was missing and in the cavity lived a tiny man, Ray. He shared the space with a finch, a lovely lady from Indiana, Jill. She often gave Ray rides to the drugstore so he could pick up his medication, and he in turn constructed a nest for Jill out of cotton from his prescription bottles. There was no hanky-panky.

I'M ALONE ON DECK, sharing a smoke with myself. There's no moon but the stars are a city in the sky and I can see for miles. A last puff and I flick the cigarette over the rail and watch it spin in the wake, succumb. I raise my eyes and catch a dimple at the horizon, where the sea tucks itself under the sky. It's home, half a pack away.

Cigarette, Dave Alvin (0:28)

HUEY "PUDGE" WILSON, county sheriff, never met a man he didn't like to handcuff. What he knew about law wouldn't fill a thimble but what he knew about power would overflow the rain barrels between here and the river. Justice was just a tool of power, meted out in back rooms and measured in bruises and broken bones. When he was found slumped over in the cruiser, dead, Happy Hour took on new meaning.

MUD. I pick it from between the hounds' toes, scrape it off Henry's flank. I leave my boots on the porch, go in, sit by the cherry piece. It's got the radio on it, Jesse's picture, and a shot glass Ma got at a casino downstate. She keeps a little blue stone in it that I found in the creek when I was four, gave her a delight when I presented it to her. She puts her finger in there and touches it sometimes.

FROM THE RIDGE, the stand of trees in the valley below looks like a hairbrush, left behind, perhaps, by an itinerant giant on his way to Delaware or Pennsylvania or one of those eastern states, where he'll crush hamlets and scare the populace. Here in The West the only giants are the mountains and the spaces between, enormities that can crush a man who merely beholds them. "Be humble," they moan, "beware, be humble."

THOUSANDS OF STARLINGS pulled the locomotive through the sky swollen, the color of new bruises. Above Lake Erie they faltered and fell, cracked against the frozen gray water. The great black engine listed and plunged headfirst, berserk icebreaker, past startled pike, cowcatcher impaled in silt, underwater obelisk, smoke-filled bubbles rising.

FOR-EV-UH. She had it tattooed in a little arc over her left boob, like a military patch. She'd punch me in the arm, punctuate each syllable, leave a blue mark. Told me that's how long her love would last, shouted it out. After a few months she seemed distant, took off one night for Tulsa with the drummer from a hair band. I went to Skin'N'InK, asked Mooney if he could make me a tattoo of a bruise, put it up on my arm.

I DON'T CARE MUCH FOR PLUCKY HEROINES. I do have a soft spot for hard types and waitresses and divorcées. Which is why I like Reno, I guess. I can hopscotch and hobnob, bourbon in hand, from lounge to coffee shop to poolside. The Rogaine is saying "Harvest time!" and the Viagra fills me with that can-do spirit. I'm on fire, baby!

Reno, Dave Alvin (0:24)

HOOVES clattered and slipped on the rocks. We struggled up the dry wash, climbed past walls of baked mud, fallen trees, until we got to a rise overlooking a valley ringed by mountains. A waterfall plumed into a river that meandered through meadows and sparse woods. You rose high in your stirrups, the wedding gown bunched around your waist. "Oh, it's a cup of Heaven all right," you said and rode whooping down the hill.

I SECURE THE HOUSE, plywood over the doors and windows, cancel the electric and phone, the worthless paper, the heating oil. Last time I shipped out, I had Ronnie and June watch the place, take care of things. But they broke up and neither can be trusted on their own, so now I just board the house up and forget about it until I'm home again. Time goes by onboard ship and when I return the weeds look the same.

I LOOKED down at the spots on the pavement where kids waiting for the bus had dropped wads of gum for years. The sun had seared them black, fried them flat. This concrete constellation held a secret that I knew could be unlocked. I went home and returned with a jar of paint and brush, connected the dots. A pattern emerged. I will share it with you. Be on the no. 12 bus at midnight, corner of Wrigley & Hubba Bubba.

HE SPLASHED bourbon into the coffee in his cup, went out to retrieve the morning paper. It lay in the grass, soggy, the sun still too sleepy to lap up the dew. Tire tracks embroidered the edge of the lawn. On the porch, in the old rocker, he tried to recall what he'd done the night before, whom he'd seen, how he got home. Someone flushed the toilet inside and he panicked, spilled his drink. "What a waste," he said.

I KISS your neck, the sweet spot behind the jaw where your ear lays its shadow. A curl of your hair catches in my mouth and I sputter and cough. You laugh, push me away and continue dusting the room, ask me to get a fresh bag for the vacuum cleaner. I go to the hall closet, return to find you sitting on the couch, naked. You look up at me, smile. You are pinning back your hair. "I don't want you to choke," you say.

HE FOLLOWED HER around the store, attracted by a certain rumpity thing, the gap between her two front teeth, her colors. He passed her quickly, hoped the movement of air would fetch him a scent, then returned, slow, gave her the shy guy smile. She smiled back, held his gaze until he turned away, nervous, made as if to read the label on a can of beans, put stuff in his cart, hurried to the checkout and out to the Kia.

"DON'T take the road with the ruts," says Santos. He flicks the safety, puts the gun back in the desk. The barrel is hot from all the shooting, and I imagine the papers in the drawer—the phone bill, the market coupons, the report card—catching fire, the desk and Santos going up in flames, the pens in his shirt pocket melting into his chest. And I'd be off the hook. "Get going," he says and throws me the keys.

DANNY AND I stand outside the church, fidget in our muted plaid sport coats. Maybe not muted enough. An old guy in a tuxedo walks up to Danny and hands him some car keys. "What's this?" says Danny. "Aren't you the parking valet?" says the guy. "No, I'm the best man." The guy walks away and we see him later inside. He's the father of the bride. "Oh, it's going to be a fun reception," Danny says, taking out the flask.

THE BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WOMAN waves at me across the plaza. I wave back and approach her, realize too late that she was waving at the man behind me. I open my mouth to speak as they embrace, kiss, and look deep into each other's eyes. I stand alone, surrounded by the festive crowd, feel old and foolish. I buy a postcard to send to my wife and children in Ohio. "Having a great time. Wish you were her."

Postcard, Jeff Bridges (0:32)

THE DOG eyed us from the doorway. We passed quickly, my uncle covered in dust from the explosion. I held his hand, the same one that showed me how to repair a fishing net, that put a sweet in my pocket. The other hand held a cell phone that kept ringing. We passed through the market, into alleys that lead to the wilds, never looked at anyone. At the river, he glanced at the phone, shrugged, threw it into the water.

I'VE NEVER SEEN who lives across the street in the house with the peeling paint, broken steps. The shades are always down and the mailman rarely stops there, no paper is delivered. Only in winter is there any sign of activity. Every day the snow behind the chainlink fence is peppered with birdseed and the yard is alive with sparrows and finches, chickadees and dark-eyed juncos.

CHEAP AND GAUDY as jellybeans, hard as a jawbreaker, Candy Nelson sat on the bench in front of Jessops Hardware, filing her nails. Discomfited by yet another yeast infection, she crossed and uncrossed her legs, finally just opened them like a book, displaying to the illiterate Luther Choate, driving by, a page from heaven, causing him to lose control of his pickup and run over a red hound that was crossing the road.

I KEEP MY FRIENDS IN A BOX under the bed, categorized and separated, secured by blue rubber bands that originally held broccoli. One day I removed the lid and saw that they had all turned into little bones. I strung them together into a long strand that I looped around and around my neck.

THEY ARE CLOSING THE MINE in two weeks, they say. Six days a week bumping down in the gondola, pecking out the rocks and hauling them back up, doing it again the next day for twenty-seven years, one cave-in, three thin raises, and a failed strike. Where am I going to go every day, what am I going to do with all that sunshine?

SHOT BY A MONKEY, Elsa leaned against the banyan, held a bandage to the wound. They'd entered camp just before dawn, made off with a pistol, some candy bars, and a Desmond Morris book. We counted as six shots rang out, one of them finding poor Elsa's arm. Relieved that the simian was out of ammunition, we packed up. On the way out of camp we noticed a monkey on the riverbank, hammering at a snake with the gun.

THE NORWOOD, a shoebox strip-mall bar out in the West Valley, open 6
A.M.
-2
A.M.
, no Happy Hour. I park the rig out back and go in. It's dark and moist, walls bent, the floor slippery, like being inside the body of a slow-moving animal. I have my lunch of shooters and short beers and wait for Celia to bring the cartons of cigarettes that I sell back at the plant. I don't smoke.

HIS CHUTE FAILED TO OPEN and as he fell he struck a pigeon, pinning it against his chest as they rushed toward the ground in tandem. He felt the pigeon's heart beating against his own. He closed his eyes and imagined he had two hearts, one outside his body and one inside, beating like a train.