Marathon Cowboys (10 page)

knows what to do with a prayer. But if I do feel the need to

drop to my knees and pray, I sure hope you’re standing right

in front of me, so I can say a prayer to your pretty brown

cock.” He grinned at the look on my face, slid his hands

down my thigh and squeezed. “You’re so big and strong, zo-

zo.”

“I think you just proved that God isn’t Catholic, or we

would have been struck down dead in the road.”

Jesse shook his head. “No way. We’ve been under the

protection of the Lady all morning. She appreciates boys with

good hearts.”

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It was an hour to Terlingua, and the road was empty,

the land filled with cactus and the strange creosote bush

and a few scrubby plants with thin dry leaves. “You should

see it after it rains,” Jesse said. “It’s like the black and white

version of the movie just got colorized. Everything turns

bright green, and little white and yellow flowers open. The air

smells clean, and those little flowers on the creosote bush

smell… I don’t know how to describe it. Like a lemon

astringent, maybe. Clean, with a little bite. I’ve never smelled

it anywhere else but down here.”

I reached over, tugged him closer. I wished he could

scoot over, snuggle up against me and let me smell his neck.

Nobody could drive like that anymore, though, with their

baby in their arms. Seatbelts and bucket seats. And he

wasn’t my baby. I kept sort of pretending he was, but he was

just visiting here, he had a life back in San Francisco, and

vacation romances didn’t count. Did they? I wasn’t sure I

even knew the rules of this game. Relationships were

different from knocking one off in the showers. But I wanted

to put my arms around him, pull him up close, and let him

be my baby.

“Jesse, you got a boyfriend back in San Francisco?”

He wrapped our hands together until our fingers were

twined. “No. I had somebody, but we broke it off a couple of

months ago. That was Sam. He owns a gallery in the Castro.”

“Was that your gallery?”

“One of them. I never wanted to be a one-trick pony. I

spread the work around. But that’s where the cowboy angels

are going.”

“Were you guys together a long time?”

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“A couple of years. And my dear, don’t you know, two

years in San Francisco is like two light-years anywhere else.”

“How come?”

He was still a moment, thinking. “The whole city is

sexualized, like a big theater stage, and we’re all prancing

around, being beautiful for each other.” He shrugged. “I

mean, I love it, it’s brash, and full of life and beautiful boys,

and people get excited about orange high-top sneakers and

the days are filled with drama and heartbreak and…. But it’s

just a stage, and it took me awhile to realize I had to get out

sometimes, so I could keep a sense of perspective. So I can

still love it for the color and the light and the beautiful boys,

but not confuse it with anything real or lasting.”

I stared out through the windshield. He was so smart.

Did he even realize it? He was so busy playing the pretty gay

artist boy, did he know what it was like for me, to be around

him when he was thinking? He was going to drop to his

knees in front of my brown dick, and I was going to drop to

my knees in front of his beautiful brain.

“It’s not just that I want to bend you over and fuck you

till the cows come home, Jesse, but I also want to eat your

brain raw, with both hands.” He was laughing, brought our

joined fists up to his mouth for a kiss. “You wouldn’t mind

that, would you? If I ate your brain? I bet it tastes sweet.”

“You’ve got to fuck me first, though, and then eat my

brains, because otherwise it’s one of those zombie deals….”

I had the whole cartoon in my mind then, but it was

obscene and disgusting and too funny for publication. I

would have to draw it for Jesse, eyes only, when I got some

time alone in the studio.

“I’m crazy about you.”

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“What about you, my little zo-zo? Did you ever have

somebody special?”

I shook my head. “Too busy working.”

“I’ve heard that excuse before from men who were just

shy, but I actually think it’s true in your case. You joined the

Marines right out of high school?”

“I studied art at Dine College, two years. But I was

itching for some real work. Marine Infantry. Two tours in

Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Training in between.”

“So you’re twenty-five, twenty-six?”

“Just turned twenty-seven. You?”

“I’m twenty-nine,” Jesse said. “I knew you were just a

baby. I’ll have to teach you everything I know. And I’ll make

it as long and slow as I possibly can.”

“I’ll be looking forward to that.”

The third Bathtub Mary was just like Jesse had

described—big and garish, the edges made from colorful tile,

with a little sparkle of gold luster. The ruffle was made of

tulle, glued around the tile, and it was dusty and ragged

from the wind. Mary’s backdrop was fuchsia pink, with a

ring of daisies painted in bright blue and yellow and orange.

Haight-Ashbury Mary. The votive candles were here—most of

them hadn’t been lit—but not as many prayer cards and

photographs, and no handwritten prayers. Mary was big,

nearly two feet high, and she was standing over a fountain

that gurgled. The fountain was tiled, and I could see some

pennies in the bottom.

“Mary, do me a favor, will you?”

“Sure.”

“Let me take your picture? Pull your T-shirt off, put

those big arms up behind your head.”

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“Oh, please.” But he gave me a winning smile, waved his

camera at me, so I peeled my shirt off and did what he

wanted. He backed up, adjusted the lens until he got me and

the shrine in the photo.

“What are those scars on your chest?”

I reached down, rubbed my fingers absently across my

skin. “Shrapnel.”

He lowered the camera, came over to look. “They got

very close to your heart, didn’t they?”

“Yeah. I was scared. I looked down, there were these

pieces of metal sticking out of my chest.”

“Didn’t you guys wear vests?”

“Not when we were asleep in our racks, at night.”

“Jesus.”

“No, just call me Mary.” The laughter bubbled up, like

I’d meant it to, and I flashed him some pumped biceps.

A woman who had been looking at the shrine came over

to us. “Would you like me to take a picture of both of you

together?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jesse said, giving her the camera. “Thanks

very much.”

He came over to me, leaned back against my chest, and

I reached around, held him against me. I thought the women

blushed a little, but she knew how to work the camera and

took a couple of pictures before handing it back over with a

smile.

“I read gay romance, you know. You two look very sweet

together, like the cover of a novel I would like to read.”

I stood there with my mouth open while Jesse chatted

with her, oozing Texas cowboy charm. I thought my role

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should be the strong, silent type, so I just put my shirt back

on and stared off into the distance, like a Navajo warrior

should.

We had lunch in Terlingua, then hit the road for the

long drive into Lajitas. The country was empty, the heat

shimmer rising from the desert for as far as I could see.

Jesse slid his hand up and down my thigh a couple of times,

settled it tucked into my groin, then he scooted his shoulder

harness off and leaned his head on my shoulder. “It’s a

couple of hours’ drive, but it’s worth it, I promise.”

“I’m enjoying the drive,” I admitted. “And your

company.”

We came to a little town that looked like it had been

built to look like an old Western town, one of those movie

sound stages that were all front and nothing behind. I raised

my eyebrows at the kitsch, sure we would find a very tiny

and colorful Bathtub Mary around here somewhere, but

Jesse just grinned and waved me to a boot and saddle-

maker’s shop at the end of the row of shops. After the

saddlemaker, the desert rolled away again, all the long way

to the horizon.

We pushed open the door. It was cool inside, with the

rich smell of leather and mink oil and saddle soap. Marty

Robbins was playing real low, and a big guy with long, curly

black hair was seated at a workbench, a boot upside down in

front of him. He was wearing glasses and some sort of

magnifying glass on a lanyard, and he held a tool that was

burning designs into the leather.

He smiled when he saw Jesse. “JC3, as I live and

breathe.” But his eyes were on me. He stood up, offered his

hand. “Gary O’Brien.”

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“Hi, I’m Lorenzo Maryboy.”

“You’re Devil Dog?”

I stared at him. What? “Yeah, I am.”

“I’m a big fan. I was in the USMC… how long ago was

that? Good God. I got out in ’92.”

“You were in for Desert Storm.”

“Yeah. You boys got that job finished up over there that

we started?”

“Not hardly.” He grinned then, and dropped my hand.

“I like the comic a lot, Maryboy. You gonna keep going

with it?”

“Yes, I am. I’m staying with Jesse’s granddad. He’s

offered to be a mentor, help me get going.”

“I loved his cartoons too.” He pointed behind the

workbench. One of The Original’s comics was back there,

hand drawn and signed. “I was sorry when he decided to

retire. Jesse e-mailed me a copy of the design he had in

mind for your boots. Now I see you, I think it’s gonna be

perfect. You Navajo?”

I nodded.

“I thought so. Here, let me show you.”

He pulled some pieces of black leather out of the

workbench, showed me the design he had impressed in the

leather. Jesse leaned over too, studying it. Two old-fashioned

six-shooters with the barrels crossed, and the rope in a circle

around them. Jesse reached down, ran his fingers across the

design. “Gary, you think we should color the design?”

They both looked at me. I shook my head.

“All right, then.” Gary pulled out a tray of gel, had me

take off my shoes and stand in the gel with both feet until he

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had a good impression. “This is the way they make

orthotics,” he said. “I used to date a podiatrist. When she

criticized my boots, I broke up with her and stole her foot

mold.”

I slid a glance over to Jesse. He was biting his bottom

lip. Gary showed me a couple of pieces of leather, the rough

crocodile and a thick buffalo leather, and the weirdly

patterned rattlesnake. Gary was wearing soft moccasin boots

made out of a beautiful yellow-brown leather, elk, probably.

I looked at Jesse and shrugged, and he pointed to the

crocodile. “Gary, I think, give him a walking heel. When do

you want us back?”

“Week?”

“Sounds good.” We shook hands again, and on the way

out the door I saw a tiny sketch hung behind the

workbench—an angel, curly golden hair, blue robe and white

clouds, ascending into heaven, wearing a pair of brown

cowboy boots. It was signed JC3. “I sure have enjoyed your

comic,” he said. “I’m looking forward to more.”

“Thanks, man. That’s nice to hear.”

“I’ll send you an e-mail with a price quote, okay?”

Out in the truck, Jesse gave me a nudge. “You’ve got a

fan!”

“Did you set that up?”

He shook his head. “I called and told him we were

coming. When I mentioned your name, he said, ‘Maryboy?

You mean Devil Dog?’”

“I’ll make him a cartoon.”

“He likes making boots for artists. He usually gets a

little thank you for his collection.”

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“I wonder if he can make me some moccasins too. Did

you see those ones he was wearing? I’ll see how long it takes

me to get the boots paid off.”

“Would you rather have moccasins? I didn’t even ask