Marathon Cowboys (5 page)

“I’ve heard young Navajo men have to take the warrior’s

path. Did it feel like that to you? Did you get pressured to go

into the Marines?”

“No, I don’t think so, not pressured.” I thought about it

some more. “It was more an expectation. And I didn’t want to

disappoint those with that expectation. And besides, my

image of myself was as a warrior. And my image was also of

a person who did not disappoint the people depending on

him.”

“Exactly.”

I sat up. “But I wasn’t unhappy with it. It was my

decision.”

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Sarah Black

32

“I’m not passing judgment on it, Mary. I’m not saying

this is good or bad. It’s just our way. Maybe what art does is

to take a picture of reality, in case people aren’t looking

carefully.”

I thought about this awhile. I was gonna have to run

hard to keep up with him. “You make my brain tired.”

“Yeah? You make my dick hard. But I’m gonna just keep

pretending I don’t know you’re gay, as long as you want to

stay tucked up in the closet.”

“Can I take a nap now?”

“Go ahead. I’m not finished decorating the studio. But

don’t worry! I’ll leave your half alone.”

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Sarah Black

33

Chapter Four

“SO WHAT are you really doing back in Marathon?” Jesse

was holding his cousin out at arm’s length. “Should I be

checking you for bruises?” The Original’s head popped up at

that, and he stared across the kitchen at Sadie. She was

tiny, with a pile of glossy red curls on her head and freckles

on her upturned nose.

“JC, you’re such a pest. Don’t get Granddad worried.”

She walked over and kissed the old man on the top of the

head. “Granddad, I think there is too much salt in the Big

Bear Dog for you. How’s your cholesterol? How’s your blood

pressure?”

“It’s always higher when my grandkids visit, but that’s

just from happiness. So, tell me about this hot dog stand

you want to start.”

“There’s a street food revival across the country,” she

said, and The Original snorted.

“Not in Marathon. We only eat food out in the streets

when we don’t have a nice kitchen table to go to, or a café,

both of which we got in abundance.”

“In San Francisco—”

“But you’re not in San Francisco, and that’s what I’m

wondering about.”

I kept my head down over my Javelina Dog. It was good,

if a little busy. I thought a decent pork sausage on the grill,

down in a bun with some mustard, would have been about

perfect. I would have been happy without the capers and

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34

green olives, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. She had a

brittle sort of smile on her face, looked like it was about to

crack. And then the tears would come. I suspected I was in

the way, and The Original and Jesse wanted to give her a

good going-over. I stuffed the last bite into my mouth and

stood up. “Thanks, that was really great.” I pointed out to

the studio. “I’m just gonna go….”

I could hear The Original before I was out the door.

“What the hell do you mean, bruises?”

Out in the studio, I unpacked a few more things,

rearranged my desk, but I felt like there was a huge cavern

open beneath my feet. I’d gone from not enough time,

drawing cartoons in between missions, in my rack at night,

to having all the time in the world. Now I had the time, I

didn’t have a clue where to start. Okay, goals and objectives.

I copied the cartoon from the whiteboard onto my pad of

good hot-pressed watercolor paper, using a black magic

marker, and thought about my goals. The Marine Corps had

taught me about goals. Make it measurable and give it a time

limit. Okay, so I wanted to have
Devil Dog
in a hundred

newspapers in one year. Okay, wait, back up. Was
Devil Dog

ready to go? Was it good enough for a hundred papers?

Maybe, but it wasn’t good as it could be. Okay, getting it into

the papers, that was marketing. Maybe it wasn’t time for

marketing yet.

What was my goal for the cartoon? I thought about Gary

Larsen. Anyone who had ever seen a
Far Side
cartoon could

probably recognize another, because they had a—what was it

Jesse had said? They had a theme. Miscommunication,

which was always funny, upending man’s natural place at

the top of the dog pile, and looking at the consequences.

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35

What did I want to do? I’d started it as a way to tell

jokes about the officers and not get in trouble. Then it

seemed like everything about Marine Corps life, especially

deployed into a war zone, had a funny edge, or at least, that

edge of,
can you believe this shit?
I was talking to the other

grunts. Now my character, Devil Dog, had stepped out of the

corps and was loose in the world. Would he still be able to

look around and say,
can you believe this shit?
I studied the

cartoon I was copying. Yeah, okay. Maybe so. Who was my

audience now? There were plenty of Marines and plenty of

old devil dogs around, like Uncle George up in Alpine and

The Original over in the house. Was the humor too

specialized for the big world?

I needed to go look at some of the old cartoons,

especially the old military cartoons, see how they made the

jump. I finished the sketch and walked back over to the

house. Jesse was sitting out on the porch, a bottle of beer

resting on his knee. “Jesse, you know where your granddad

keeps those big books of cartoons?”

He nodded. “Yeah. He’s got a shelf in his office.”

“You want to go in there and get me one?”

“Why? You afraid somebody’s crying in the house?”

“Maybe.”

He held up the beer. “You want one of these?”

“Sure.”

He came back a few minutes later, handed me a big

book of cartoons and a Shiner Bock.

I spent an hour looking at cartoons. It looked to me like

the majority had a political agenda—us-versus-them

cartoons. There were some good ones using my
can you

believe this shit
philosophy. Beetle Bailey was a classic, of

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36

course, but it had that something special—it was military, no

question, but with an appeal to everyone. I went back to the

studio, and Jesse trailed after me, picked up his sketchpad

and lay back on his couch. I looked up gay military cartoons

on some of the cartoon stock sites, and most of them

followed the same pattern. The majority were firmly on one

side or the other of the fence, with a strong political slant.

Very few were really funny, with outrage simmering just

under the surface. There was hardly anything that showed

what life was like inside the military with DADT lifted.

I went to my couch, stared up at the ceiling. There was

Jesse, JC3 to his friends, gay down to his pretty bare feet, on

his couch. Here I was, Lorenzo Maryboy, Staff Sergeant,

USMC, on my couch, here in Paris on the Rio Grande. Don’t

Ask being repealed, that had meant something to me. I

wasn’t leaving because I was gay and couldn’t serve, though

the gay comments from the boneheads chapped my ass

regularly. Mostly because they were so fucking dumb. I

hated to depend on anybody that dumb to make sure my

Kevlar was in good working order. What I knew about, that

no other cartoonist did, was what it was like to be gay in the

USMC since the gay ban had been repealed.

But the only way I could make those cartoons funny,

funny for everybody, was to show the rainbow flag tattooed

on my ass. I sighed, put the books down on the floor next to

my couch. The beer was good. I finished the bottle, set it on

the floor, and closed my eyes. I didn’t think I was ready to

drop my BDUs and stand buck naked before the world.

When I woke up, it was dark outside the studio

windows, and Jesse was settling himself across my hips, his

sketchbook and charcoal pencil in his hand. He bent over

and kissed me, took a bit of my bottom lip and sucked it into

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37

his mouth for a nibble. “zo-zo,” he whispered into my mouth.

“You looked so pretty lying here, all spread out and sleepy.

Too much for me to resist.” He wiggled his butt down into my

groin. “Can I sketch you? Pretty please? Just pull your shirt

off.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just an artist, hard at work.” I reached down for the

hem of my T-shirt and pulled it up, but he stopped me when

the fabric was still wrapped around my forearms. “Oh, yeah.

Right there. Now I’ve got you prisoner.” He reached down,

kissed me again, and this time took his time about it, tasting

me, feeling the shape of my mouth, before he touched me

with his tongue, and I opened up to let him in.

His tongue slid into my mouth, and I felt an electric

pulse of heat move down my chest into my cock. He felt it

too, when it rose and knocked against his ass. He wiggled a

little, reminded me of high school, dry-humping between a

couple of pair of Levi’s. He sat up then, rocked a little on my

cock, and I could feel the heat in my belly, a flush of

pleasure in my chest. He pulled his sketch pad over and

turned to a clean page. I raised my eyebrows. “Do you have

any reason to think I want to start something with you?”

He rocked against me again. “This big boy was awake

before you were! I heard him calling to me. I wanted to

sketch you like this. With your mouth wet and your eyes hot

and your cock nestled all impatiently against my ass. But

don’t worry.” His hand was moving over the paper. “I don’t

start anything I don’t finish.”

“Did you call me zo-zo?”

“That’s going to be our secret lovemaking name. Nobody

knows about it but you and me.” He reached over and kissed

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38

me on the chin, then opened to me when I moved my head

and took his mouth in a big sucking bite.

He was sweet tasting, made me so hungry all of a

sudden I was ready to roll him over and get the job done. “I

never had anybody just climb on board and take what they

wanted. Usually there’s a lot of standing around, hands in

pockets, maybe one of us kicks a rock, or a clod of dirt.

Maybe there’s some gazing out to the horizon. Avoid eye

contact at all cost. Then we go into the shower at the same

time and give each other a hand job, quick as we can in case

we’re disturbed.”

“That sounds grim. But don’t worry. You’re not in

Kansas anymore.”

“That’s true, but I think you’re the only boy in this room

who actually lives in Oz.”

“And I’ve got the red shoes to prove it!” Jesse put the

sketch book aside, leaned over, and giggled into my neck, his

breath like little cotton balls touching my skin. “You should

have seen your face in that bar, looking down at my shoes.

But really, zo-zo, fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”

I tossed the T-shirt to the floor and wrapped my arms

around him. “That’s right. And fuck ’em if they don’t like red

shoes. Pansy-ass bastards.”

“You want to fool around?”

“With your granddad right over there in the house? I

don’t know. Why don’t you just stay right where you are,

little cowboy? I’ll enjoy the ride. I’m starting to like your

company. I don’t know why.”

He rocked back and forth, and I could feel his cock

rising to the friction. He hopped off, shimmied out of his

jeans, and had my own unsnapped and unzipped so quick I

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could tell I was dealing with an experienced man. I lifted my

ass, let him tug my boxers down, then he did the strangest

thing. He bent over, rubbed his cheek against my belly,

closed his eyes and moved his face in my pubic hair, let my

cock slide against his lips until he reached the tip. He

reached out with his tongue, tasted me, tasted the sticky

sweet I knew was already on the tip of my cock. “Oh, you

smell so good.”

Jesse slid both hands up, held my hips, then he trailed