drink what’s in front of me.
A while later, I see a flash go off behind Raylan’s head. I don’t think anything of it for a moment, until I realize that also behind Raylan is a blond head.
Then I sit up and lean forward, elbows on knees.
“What,” says Raylan. He’s got an arm around a girl, both of them pretty drunk.
I’m getting there, too.
“Is that Mae behind you?” I ask.
He twists his head and looks, then turns back to me, both eyebrows raised.
“I thought you had a restraining order,” he says, a wide smile plastered onto his face.
The girl on my left looks up at me. There’s no girl on my right. I guess she’s found something else to do.
“It ain’t an order, it’s a suggestion,” I say. “I’m gonna go be civil.”
I walk up behind Mae, but she’s taking a picture of two ropers, both of them grinning, thumbs tucked into belts. I’m a good head taller than her, so I just watch what she’s doing from over her as she snaps a few shots, changes something, takes a few more.
“Those ain’t really candid,” I say.
She jumps. The two cowboys laugh, and she turns to me with an exasperated look on her face.
“Don’t just sneak up on people, Jackson,” she says.
“Sorry, darlin’,” I say.
“Please don’t call me that,” she says, looking at the camera. The two other cowboys drift off to go drink something else.
“Sorry, Mae ,” I say. “Let me buy you a drink to make it up to you.”
“No thanks,” she says. “I’m working, you know.”
“Just one,” I say. “It’ll loosen you up.”
“What good is that gonna do for taking pictures?” she asks, but there’s laughter in her voice.
I shrug.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe invite the muse in or some artistic shit.”
“My muse is a teetotaler,” Mae says, looking around the bar.
“Your muse is no fun,” I say. “Aren’t they supposed to get a little wild so you can make great stuff?”
She laughs.
“Is that how it works?” she asks. “The muse comes, gets buck wild, and then you make art?”
“That’s how mine works,” I say. “She’s a cowgirl, though. Drinks like a fish. Swears like a sailor. Tons of fun. But all she ever tells me to do is ride animals that try to throw me off.”
I take a long swig of beer, and try to ignore the voice telling me to put a hand on Mae’s shoulder while we talk. I don’t think it’s a muse, though.
“Maybe I ought to audition new ones,” I say. “I bet I’d make a great cowboy poet.”
Her flash goes off, and she looks down at the screen.
“Whoops, sorry,” she says.
“You afraid I was going to start writing poetry right now?”
The flash goes off again, and this time Mae grins.
“I can take a hint,” I say, humoring her. “No drinks, no poems, no fun. Come on, I’ll introduce you around to the people whose pictures you’re taking.”
Mae shakes a good twenty or thirty hands: cowboys, wanna-be cowboys, buckle bunnies, the guys who handle the animals, even the veterinarian on call for the rodeo. The girl who was sitting next to me before is sitting next to Raylan now, but I don’t really care. It’s not like I knew her name.
Soon enough, a synthesizer starts up over the speakers and then Raylan’s doing a drunk Johnny Cash impression, singing Ring of Fire and getting almost all the words wrong, even though he knows this song cold.
“Don’t quit your day job!” someone shouts during a break in the song.
“I want my money back!” someone else shouts.
Raylan grins and flips them both off, and then Clay, another cowboy, jumps onto the stage and throws one arm around Raylan.
“We got this, y’all,” he says into the microphone they’re now sharing.
They don’t got it. The singing gets worse, but the crowd loves it. Mae’s sitting on one couch where Raylan was, laughing along and snapping photos. There’s yet another girl sitting next to me, right across from Mae, and she’s got her hand on my shoulder, her body up
A while later, I see a flash go off behind Raylan’s head. I don’t think anything of it for a moment, until I realize that also behind Raylan is a blond head.
Then I sit up and lean forward, elbows on knees.
“What,” says Raylan. He’s got an arm around a girl, both of them pretty drunk.
I’m getting there, too.
“Is that Mae behind you?” I ask.
He twists his head and looks, then turns back to me, both eyebrows raised.
“I thought you had a restraining order,” he says, a wide smile plastered onto his face.
The girl on my left looks up at me. There’s no girl on my right. I guess she’s found something else to do.
“It ain’t an order, it’s a suggestion,” I say. “I’m gonna go be civil.”
I walk up behind Mae, but she’s taking a picture of two ropers, both of them grinning, thumbs tucked into belts. I’m a good head taller than her, so I just watch what she’s doing from over her as she snaps a few shots, changes something, takes a few more.
“Those ain’t really candid,” I say.
She jumps. The two cowboys laugh, and she turns to me with an exasperated look on her face.
“Don’t just sneak up on people, Jackson,” she says.
“Sorry, darlin’,” I say.
“Please don’t call me that,” she says, looking at the camera. The two other cowboys drift off to go drink something else.
“Sorry, Mae ,” I say. “Let me buy you a drink to make it up to you.”
“No thanks,” she says. “I’m working, you know.”
“Just one,” I say. “It’ll loosen you up.”
“What good is that gonna do for taking pictures?” she asks, but there’s laughter in her voice.
I shrug.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe invite the muse in or some artistic shit.”
“My muse is a teetotaler,” Mae says, looking around the bar.
“Your muse is no fun,” I say. “Aren’t they supposed to get a little wild so you can make great stuff?”
She laughs.
“Is that how it works?” she asks. “The muse comes, gets buck wild, and then you make art?”
“That’s how mine works,” I say. “She’s a cowgirl, though. Drinks like a fish. Swears like a sailor. Tons of fun. But all she ever tells me to do is ride animals that try to throw me off.”
I take a long swig of beer, and try to ignore the voice telling me to put a hand on Mae’s shoulder while we talk. I don’t think it’s a muse, though.
“Maybe I ought to audition new ones,” I say. “I bet I’d make a great cowboy poet.”
Her flash goes off, and she looks down at the screen.
“Whoops, sorry,” she says.
“You afraid I was going to start writing poetry right now?”
The flash goes off again, and this time Mae grins.
“I can take a hint,” I say, humoring her. “No drinks, no poems, no fun. Come on, I’ll introduce you around to the people whose pictures you’re taking.”
Mae shakes a good twenty or thirty hands: cowboys, wanna-be cowboys, buckle bunnies, the guys who handle the animals, even the veterinarian on call for the rodeo. The girl who was sitting next to me before is sitting next to Raylan now, but I don’t really care. It’s not like I knew her name.
Soon enough, a synthesizer starts up over the speakers and then Raylan’s doing a drunk Johnny Cash impression, singing Ring of Fire and getting almost all the words wrong, even though he knows this song cold.
“Don’t quit your day job!” someone shouts during a break in the song.
“I want my money back!” someone else shouts.
Raylan grins and flips them both off, and then Clay, another cowboy, jumps onto the stage and throws one arm around Raylan.
“We got this, y’all,” he says into the microphone they’re now sharing.
They don’t got it. The singing gets worse, but the crowd loves it. Mae’s sitting on one couch where Raylan was, laughing along and snapping photos. There’s yet another girl sitting next to me, right across from Mae, and she’s got her hand on my shoulder, her body up
Similar Books
