Marathon Cowboys (3 page)

you take ideas and flesh them out.”

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Sarah Black

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“So it would be okay with you if we share the studio

space?”

“If it’s okay with you.” Through the windshield, a bright

spark of light arced across the sky, leaving a trail of silver

behind it. “Hey, did you see that?”

“A shooting star. I’ve seen them down here before. Never

anyplace else. It’s like they belong to this little corner of

Texas.”

“That was my first. Jesse, if you want to go to sleep, I’ll

wake you up when we get to town. It’s a straight shot, right?”

“Pretty much.” He stuffed the sketchbook into the top of

his backpack. “Maybe I will go to sleep.” He sighed, closed

his eyes. “You think JC sounds too much like Jesus Christ?

That just gives me more gas for the fire, you know? American

icons, The Marlboro Man, Jesus Christ, and Geronimo, all

rolled into one. But I’d have to make it truthful. Those three

are pretty much legend.”

“You could put some pretty angel wings on your cowboy.

Everybody likes angels.”

Jesse sat up, scrambled for his notebook again.

“I was kidding, right?”

“A cowboy angel, wearing a crown of thorns, eyes raised

to heaven, holding an M27 IAR. How fucking awesome would

that be?”

“You’re nuts.”

“First artist lesson for you, my friend. Don’t think about

what your mother would say. You need to be free of

censorship before you can do any work that isn’t crap, and

your own internal censor is the worst.”

I drove on for a while, listening to his pencil on the

paper. “Thanks. I’ll have to think on that for a bit.”

That got me a sweet smile.

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Sarah Black

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WE ROLLED into a little West Texas town that looked so

quiet and still I wanted to get out of the truck and take a

picture. There were train tracks going through town, a little

grocery store, and a decent-sized bookshop, and the houses

were small and battered with wide, deep Texas porches. A

tiny ball of tumbleweed rolled down the street, and a yellow

dog that had a bit of golden retriever in him came out from

between a couple of houses, stood watching the truck, his

tail wagging just a bit. I gave Jesse a nudge.

“Where do we go from here?”

“Well, that’s always the big existential question, isn’t it?”

I sighed, stared up at the stars, and thought about

kicking his ass. He blinked awake, yawning and looking

around.

“Okay, sorry. Go down there to Seventh Street and turn

left. We’re at the end of the road.”

The houses got farther apart, and after about a quarter

mile, stopped all together. “Keep going,” Jesse said. “You’ll

see the windmill.”

I pulled into the driveway of an old Texas spread.

Nowhere else in the world, I thought. The house had a metal

roof and rainwater collection tanks under the wide eaves,

and a porch that wrapped around the house. There was a

light on somewhere in the house, kitchen, probably. There

was an old windmill, like the West Texas farmers had used

to pump their well water, and a big metal stock tank sitting

at the base.

“Texas hot tub,” Jesse said, pointing to it.

“Where should I put the truck?”

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“Pull around back. You’ll see where The Original has his

parked. You can just pull in next to him.”

Home thirty seconds already, and I thought Jesse was

getting a bit of a soft Texas drawl back in his voice. I pulled

the truck around back of the house, parked it, and pulled

the backpacks and my duffel bag from behind the seats.

When I got back around the front of the house, the porch

light was on and Jesse was wrapped up in his grandfather’s

arms.

The Original was whip thin, with a leathery face and

neck. He was up and dressed in jeans and a snap-front

shirt, and he came down the porch steps and took my duffel

bag. “Come on in the house, son.” And his voice was a slow

old-Texas drawl. “I bet you’re tired, that long drive.”

“I’m okay. Jesse kept me company.”

“Well, in that case, let me fix you some coffee and eggs,

and we can talk a bit. You have a good trip out here?”

Jesse took the backpacks. “I’ll go put these in our

rooms, Mary.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Mr. Clayton looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “That boy

hasn’t been a pest, has he?”

I shook my head. “No, not at all. We had a bit of

negotiation about names, that’s all. We’re settled, now.”

“You sign your cartoons ‘Maryboy.’ Is that your family

name?”

“Yes, sir.” I pulled up a chair at the kitchen table. It was

a battered pine table, with mismatched chairs. There was a

blue-speckled enamel coffeepot on the stove, just like in my

grandmother’s hogan. There was a newspaper on the table

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Sarah Black

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and a cup of coffee where Mr. Clayton had been sitting. I felt

a sudden burn of tears in my eyes, it felt so much like home.

He set a mug of coffee next to me. “You take anything in

it?” I shook my head. He walked over to the kitchen door,

called down the hall. “Jesse, get in here and make us some

eggs, son.”

Mr. Clayton sat down next to me at the table, held out

his hand. “How do you do. I’m Jesse Clayton, and I’m

pleased to meet you.”

I shook his hand. “Lorenzo Maryboy, sir, and I

appreciate your hospitality. I’ve been really looking forward

to coming down here. Getting started.”

“Well, that’s fine, then.” He had the same blue eyes as

Jesse, with deep wrinkles near them that made me think he

spent a lot of time smiling and looking into the sun.

Jesse had a small towel to his face. It looked like he’d

splashed some water on his cheeks to wake himself up. He

gave a brisk scrub and slung the towel over his shoulder.

“So, I’m taking orders. Granddad, you want some bacon?

Sunny side up?”

“That sounds good, Jesse.”

“Mary, you want an omelet? Some French toast?”

I shook my head. “I’ll just have what your granddad’s

having.”

“Very well.”

Mr. Clayton studied me. “So, do you prefer Maryboy?

That’s your name as an artist, your Marine Corps name.

What do your people call you?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Well, that would be fine with me.”

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“I thought zo-zo sounded cute. No capitals.”

We both turned to Jesse at the stove. “No,” I said, and

he sighed and went back to cracking eggs into a bowl. “You

and I have already had our discussion regarding names.”

“Names are important,” Mr. Clayton said, studying my

face. His eyebrows were raised, his eyes amused. “Names are

identity, and it’s not a bad idea to have a way to keep your

work identity separate from you as a person. You don’t want

to get sucked down the rabbit hole, and that can happen to

artists. Suddenly people are calling you zo-zo and you’re

answering.”

Bacon was frying in an iron skillet, and between the

smell of the coffee under my nose and the bacon, I felt like

swooning. “In my family, my grandmother decided what we

were to be called and no one thought to argue with her.

Same with the USMC. I’m not used to having all these

choices.”

“Well, how about this. You boys look exhausted, and it

looks to me like those bruises and cuts on your face are

hurting. So let’s eat some eggs, and then you take some

aspirin and go on to sleep. Everything else can wait until

later.”

I was so grateful I was ready to weep. “Yes, sir.”

“Not you,” the old man said to his grandson. “You and I

need to have a little talk.”

Jesse gave him a big-eyed look, scooped some eggs onto

a plate. “Yes, sir.”

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Sarah Black

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Chapter Three

I WOKE with bright sunshine coming through the bedroom

window. The walls were beaded board, painted the color of

eggnog, and the iron bed I was sleeping on was covered by a

light patchwork quilt. There was a small dresser and a tiny

closet, nothing else. The room immediately appealed to my

frugal Navajo-USMC soul.

I made up the bed, pulled on some running shorts and a

T-shirt, and carried my shoes and socks down the hall. I sat

down at the kitchen table to put them on, drank a big glass

of water, then let myself out of the house. Mr. Clayton was

sitting on the porch in a rocker, a big book of cartoons open

on his lap. He looked up when I sat down to put on my

shoes. “Morning, son.”

“Good morning, sir. Anyplace in town I shouldn’t run?”

“I don’t believe so. If any dogs come running out the

back of the house to bark at you, they’re probably just

saying hello. You’ll know otherwise when you feel their teeth

sink into your ass.”

“Understood.”

I made a perimeter sweep and was able to circle the

entire town in fifteen minutes. It lived up to what it looked

like in the middle of the night: a quiet, dusty town bisected

by a railroad track, with porches on the houses and the

occasional adobe, friendly dogs. A couple of people passed

me, all driving pickups, and they each raised their fingers

from the steering wheel in a friendly salute. I moved out onto

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the highway going out of town, and when I’d run another

thirty minutes and was starting to feel the parch in my

throat, turned back around and headed back to 7th Street.

I’d gone about a mile when I noticed my pickup truck

heading my way, going real slow. Jesse was behind the

wheel. He handed me a bottle of water out the window, made

a three-point turn in the road, and went past me, going back

to his granddad’s house.

That boy was a piece of work. He made me smile,

thinking about his smart mouth.
That’s the big existential

question.
Was he just saving that up for when somebody

asked him,
where do we go from here?
Or did it come to him

that quick? What had he said up in that bar? He didn’t like

the hostility he was feeling? I had an idea for a cartoon: one

of my devil dogs, surrounded on all sides by an enemy squad

with their weapons raised, saying,
I don’t like the hostility I’m

feeling here!
When I got back to the house, I ducked into a

quick shower, grabbed an oatmeal cookie from the plate on

the kitchen table, and joined Jesse and Mr. Clayton on the

front porch. The quiet was peaceful, too peaceful, and Jesse

had to fill up the silence with chatter. “Hey, did you see that

hot dog cart downtown? Umami Dogs? That’s my cousin’s

food cart. I talked to her this morning. She says she wants to

bring street-food culture to Marathon.”

“Something’s wrong with that girl,” Mr. Clayton said

from behind the paper. He had a pair of reading glasses

perched on his nose. “She tried to give me a hot dog made

out of tuna fish.”

“That must have been the Wasabi Dog. Sadie said that

was the best, but no one in Marathon would try it.”

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“If the tuna fish dog is the best she’s got, then mumami

isn’t long for the streets of Marathon.”

“Umami, Granddad. The fifth taste.”

“Whatever. Okay, boys. We need to have a frank

discussion about what we’re going to do. My agreement with

Staff Sergeant Maryboy, a gentleman’s agreement, was that

he could use the studio out back to set up a workspace for

his cartooning. I would give him a place to stay, some bacon

and eggs, and studio space, and I’d pass on whatever little

bit I have learned over the years as a cartoonist. Jesse, you

know you’re always welcome here, son, but you weren’t

expected. What is it you need?”

“I need a tall studio space. High ceilings and good light.

I want to start a new series of paintings, and I wanted to

spend some time down here with you.”

“I think Jesse has priority in this situation,” I said. The

Original was too honorable to back out of his deal with me,

but naturally Jesse had first call on his resources, his time,

his heart. “He’s your grandson, for one thing, and for