Hokey Pokey (14 page)

Dusty’s eyes are bright with excitement. “Saddle up, Jack!” He wheels up an ancient nag.

“Where’d you get this?”

“It was by itself. Nobody was watching. We’ll take it back. C’mon, hop on.” The bike tilts as Dusty releases it. Jack grabs it.

“What’s this about?”

“One last roundup. We just thought it would be fun.”

“What do you mean
one last
?”

“Since you’re going away.”

Jack feels a chill. Somehow it’s OK for him to know—but
them
? “Who says I’m going away?”

Dusty appears startled. He glances at LaJo, back to Jack. “Ain’tcha?”

Jack looks at LaJo. LaJo shrugs. Jack doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know what he thinks. He echoes LaJo’s shrug. “Whatever.” He saddles up. “No rope,” he says.

“LaJo, give him yours,” says Dusty. LaJo unties his own from the crossbar, tosses it. Jack is touched. His Amigos. They never forget him. They’re the best pals a kid could have. They ride off to Great Plains.

They find the herd milling in the shadow of the Plains’ only tree, a black jagged monstrosity clawing at the sky like upchucked evil.

“We’ll circle around this way,” says Dusty. “You go that way. Pick one out and go after him.”

Jack is impressed with Dusty, who’s suddenly become a take-charge guy. He circles around the herd
at a distance so as not to spook them. Though he didn’t have to capture Scramjet, he and the Amigos have spent many happy hours chasing down mustangs, roping them, then letting them go free and wild for another day. He’s glad his pals thought of this. Just like old times.

Usually they would go after a slow-wheeling nag or unsavvy youngster, easier to catch them. But this time—will it really be the last roundup?—he figures he’ll do it right, show the herd the respect it deserves. And right away he spots the prize. A proud stallion—not another Scramjet, of course, but a red-and-gray beauty, that mix of arrogance and can-do that defines the true thoroughbred, tall, wary, protecting its harem of three or four mares. Dusty and LaJo are saddlesitting, watching, letting him have the fun. He approaches at an angle, slowly coasting, not even looking at the stallion, trying to send the message:
Hey, I’m just another easy loper on the open range
. But of course that doesn’t work for long. The beauty’s got his head up now; he’s turning, pawing at the turf. A nicker, a nip at a mare’s flank, a flash of chrome—and they’re off, the whole herd reeling sideways as if smacked by a wind. The chase is on!

The dust is choking him. He’s an expert nostril-tapping
snot-shooter, so he has no booger-need for a hankie. The one in his back pocket is for times like this. He pulls it out. He triangulates it, ties it around his face like a bandito mask and breathes again. His pulse is singing with the chorus of a hundred spinning wheels, the seat untouched beneath his flying butt. “Heeeeee-yah!” he rejoices, and beyond the dust hears his cry rebound:
Heeeeee-yah!
The Amigos ride again!

He shouts: “The red and gray!”

Hears Dusty’s callback: “I see ’im!”

Kids. Bikes. Dust. The eternal whirlwind scores the Plains.

Jack longs for Scramjet. What a cinch this would be then. At least this rattletrap loaner isn’t falling to pieces beneath him.

The red and gray, as if knowing he’s the prize, holds to the middle of the pack. Jack churns on, pulls up beside a straggler, an old mare clattering and spitting rubber and in its panic losing its saddle, which now looks like a cockeyed beret. Jack tilts to the right, slaps his own flank—“Hee-yah!”—forces the mare to veer another way.

One by one he picks up others, peels them off the beeline. To his left Dusty and LaJo are doing likewise,
all three slapping thighs, yelling “Hee-yah!” Within minutes the target is running solo, boring ahead as if to drill a hole in the Mountains. His Amigos pull back. Jack knows Dusty is readying his rope, but it’s just for backup—this is Jack’s party. Guiding the wheels with no more than a fingertip, he lets out a few coils of rope, shakes and widens the loop, pulls up on the left flank of the galloping stallion. He drags the loop behind, feels the windwhipped tremble in the rope, draws a bead on the flashing handlebars, is about to heave when … when … he’s …
roped?
A looped rope falls over his own shoulders, tightens, pins his arms to his sides. Suddenly he’s riding with no hands, something he’s done countless times but always by choice. That stupid moron Dusty has gone and overexcited himself and tried to lasso the bronc and wound up roping Jack instead. As the red and gray pulls away, Jack tries to work his arms free but finds he cannot, the rope is holding tight. “You nitwit!” He screams so forcefully his hankie falls from his nose. “Let me go! He’s getting away!”

He feels a stronger tug, pulling him to a stop. Dusty and LaJo are beside now, each taking a handlebar so he won’t fall. “You idiots! I was just—” He’s spouting words
that even he doesn’t understand, because instead of loosening the rope and letting him get on with the chase, they’re riding circles around him, coiling the rope from shoulders to belt until he’s feeling like some kind of open-range mummy. “What the—” OK, now he gets it. It wasn’t a mistake at all, it’s a joke. And if he’s honest, a pretty good one. “OK, you morons, congratulations on your big funny. Ha-ha. I’m laughing. OK? Now let me go.”

He’s talking to them, he’s looking at them, he’s looking into their eyes, but they’re not looking at him. They’re looking at the rope, at the bike, at the sky, anywhere but into his face. “Hey! Hel-
lo
?” he yells, but they seem not to hear. He’s never seen their faces like this.

They tie the rope end to the bike, pull everything so tight the bike feels like an extra leg. Now they tilt the whole thing over and lower him slowly—he notices the care they take—to the ground. He’s looking up at them now. He’s resting on his left ear. He sees the world sideways. He’s speechless. He’s run out not only of words but of thoughts. He squints in the blinding sun. He’s lost his cap. LaJo fetches it, replaces it carefully on his head, pulls the brim down good and low, shading his eyes.

They stand above him. He has this weird feeling that he’s in a picture looking out at them. He feels a question coming, but it’s Dusty who speaks: “Sorry, Amigo.” The strange look is gone from Dusty’s face now. He seems a little scared, a little sad.

“I told you we shouldna done it,” says LaJo.

“Done what?” says Jack, which is not precisely the word he wants.
“Why?”

“It’s just for now,” says Dusty finally, looking nowhere but deep into his eyes. “We’ll stay here with you the whole time, Amigo. Don’t worry. We’ll sleep with you the whole night. Some kinda trick’s going on. We’ll figure it out. Soon as you’re back to yourself—
bam
—we let you go.”

I
S KEEPING HIS EYES SHUT
. He doesn’t even want to see these nincompoops. He hears LaJo say, “Take his hankie off.”

And Dusty say, “What for?”

“Just do it.”

He feels Dusty’s hands untying the hankie from behind his neck. Now he’s too curious; he has to peek. Sideways, he sees LaJo’s hands fold the hankie. He feels one hand gently lift his head while the other does something. When he lays his head back down, the folded hankie is between himself and the ground. It
feels better. A little. The shadow of his face spills into the dust.

He recloses his eyes, hears Dusty: “Not good enough.” Hears Dusty mount his bike and ride off. He opens his eyes. LaJo is sitting five feet away, elbows propped on knees, staring at him.

“Let me go,” he says.

LaJo puts on his downmouth, shakes his head.

“Why not?”

Shrug.

“You already said you shouldna done it. So undo it. Untie me.”

“No can do.”

“LJ. Amigo.”

LaJo winces.

“Amigo. Amigo. Amigo.”

LaJo gets up, walks off.

“Wait! Don’t go. You can’t leave me.”

LaJo stops, speaks to the Mountains. “I ain’t leaving you. Don’t worry.”

He knows this is true. Whatever crazy thing is going on, they will never leave him here alone. And thinks:
Bad luck, to be stuck with LaJo. Dusty can be talked into anything
.

“LaJo.”

“Huh?”

“What’s this about? Why are you doing this?”

LaJo’s shoulders go up, down.

“Don’t shrug at me, man. Tell me.”

LaJo turns, looks down at him. He can tell LaJo hates seeing him this way, hog-tied, helpless, his old best pal.

“
Tell
me.”

“Ask Dusty.”

“I’m asking
you
. You’re ticking me off now, man. I got rights. You can’t do this to me and not tell me why. Tell me or let me go
—now
.”

LaJo shrugs. “Simple. We keep you here, you can’t go nowhere.”

They know but they don’t know. They don’t understand. Heck, neither do I
.

“You think I’m going somewhere.”

“Yeah.”

“OK, so where do you geniuses think I’m going?”

Shrug. “Away.”

Away. The answer he himself would have given. But
where
? “Away where?” he says, and sees how crazy this is becoming: he’s so starved for answers he’s trying to get them from LaJo.

Of course LaJo’s answer is a shrug.

“So you’re just gonna keep me here?” says Jack.

“For now.”

“Now.”

“Yeah.”

“And what comes after now?”

LaJo looks at him, looks away. He’s too bewildered to even shrug.

Jack ponders. A question comes. He’s afraid to ask it. But does: “LJ … what if I
do
go … away? What’re you afraid of? What do you think’s gonna happen then?”

He’s never seen LaJo flustered like this before. LaJo looks like he’s just kicked over a rock and out comes crawling this word he’s never seen before: “Then? … 
Then?
 …”

Jack feels pity, almost smiles, thinks:
It’s in The Story, LJ. It’s called tomorrow
.

Back to square one. “LaJo. Let me go.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Dusty.”

“Dusty?”

“Dusty said.”

“Since when do you do what Dusty says?”

“Since now.”

This is the true—and scary—measure of LaJo’s desperation: he’s taking orders from Dusty.

“So when are you gonna let me go? When
Boss Dusty
says?”

LaJo’s stare burns through his shirt to his bare stomach. “When you’re back to yourself.”

The Kid was not himself
.

Jack knows that, despite his Amigos’ fears and gallant efforts, the current cannot be stopped. All day long Jack—not just his tattoo but Jack’s whole self, bit by bit—has been disappearing into The Story. He can’t imagine how things will happen from this moment on, but happen they will. The Story cannot be untold.

And yet … his fingernails rake the motherdust of Hokey Pokey … he is still
here
, it is still what it has always been:
today
.

“So I’m going away, huh?”

LaJo shrugs. “Not if we can help it.”

How he loves these guys.

He doesn’t want to do it, but he has to. He’s become The Story. “LaJo. Look at me.”

LaJo sends him one glance and turns his back. But
not before Jack caught the terror in LaJo’s eyes. Confused as he is, he senses what Jack is going to say. He thinks words cannot penetrate a turned back. But they can, and Jack cannot stop them. He’s not quoting now, he’s saying:
“I am going away.”

He waits for a reaction, but the shoulders are unmoved. He speaks now with great gentleness. “So … LaJo … c’mon. Give it up. Let me go. It’s time.”

Now he sees LaJo’s shoulders stiffen. And now LaJo is charging, screaming: “Shut up! Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” LaJo stomps around behind him and kicks him in the butt. “You’re gonna be OK! We’re all gonna be OK! We’re gonna wake up and do our Tarzan yells and ride our bikes and chase the herd and mess around and everything’s gonna be the way it’s s’pose to be! So shut up or I swear I’m gonna gag ya!”

If he wasn’t so shell-shocked, Jack might break out laughing. And he’s thinking about laughing anyway when he sees Dusty heading this way in the distant heatshimmer. Except now he sees it’s not just Dusty biking this way. Another black dot appears on the horizon. Someone is following Dusty.

I
T
’
S THE GIRL
.

Dumb Dusty of course doesn’t even know he’s being followed. He pulls up with a catcher’s mitt in one hand, beaming. “Your pillow, Amigo!” He removes the hankie and slips the mitt beneath Jack’s left ear. “Presto! You’ll sleep like a baby.”

He’s right, it feels great, but Jack is not about to admit it. “Where’d you get it?” he says.

“I borrowed it.” All proud of himself. “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back.”

It strikes Jack that they keep saying
Don’t worry
. It strikes him that for the second time today Dusty has
become a thief for him. It strikes him that, despite his ridiculous predicament, he might say thank you. But he doesn’t. He says, “Maybe you should borrow something from
her
.”

Dusty, slow as always, frowns in confusion. And practically electrifies when he hears the voice behind him: “What are you doing to him?”

LaJo chuckles.

“They’re holding me hostage,” says Jack.

The girl smirks. “Do tell.” She turns to LaJo. “Why?”

LaJo nods at Dusty. “Ask him.”

She doesn’t bother to ask again. Obviously she doesn’t care why. She’s just delighted to see him this way. She parks the yellow bike, once his Scramjet. She kneels before him. She checks the ropes, mutters to herself, “No joke.” The more she looks, the wider her grin gets. He hears tiny giggles. He has the impression this is the happiest moment of her life. She presses his nose with her fingertip, peeps: “Boop!”

And now she’s going through his pockets. She pulls out the yellow ribbon. “Did you really think you could steal this from me?” She sneers out the next word: “A-
meee
-go?” She turns her back on him so he can watch her tie the ribbon to her hair, repony the tail.