Stampede Queen

Tonight, a swirl of hay, loosened from its twine, rolls around and around under the orange buzz of a streetlight. The street has been cordoned off and bleachers set up along the curb and it’s empty now except for the valet manning the swinging glass door to the Palliser. The-night-before-the-biggest-day-of-the-year and the valet’s already sporting his Stetson and Wranglers. Big old moon, glinty off newly washed Seventh Avenue.

Then there is a lowing along the sidewalks, a clip-clopping of hooves on asphalt.

Vegaboy’s hunched on the curb, leaning against a stack of straw-bales so as to hide from the valet. Smoking. Hearing the herd, then smelling it, before the shapes lumber their way towards him. When the cows are still a block away, his cell phone buzzes in his chest pocket and he jumps, not quite ready for it. Vegaboy removes his straw hat and covers his phone, flips it open under its shadow.

RU ready LuvBug?

Vegaboy punches in his texty response: This bitch is OURs.

Across the street, the glass door pushes open and Slots-a-Fun’s voice rips through the anxious night like a gunshot. Excuse me. Excuse me Valet-man. I need a hand with my bags. The animals moving up the street start to shove shoulders, a low groaning. The lead cowpoke, broad in the chest and monstrous in the saddle, bears down on the herd, patting their rumps and shush-shushing them. Half a block away now, Vegaboy ducks between the bleachers and jogs the hundred feet to the Palliser’s front steps, and occupies the place of the helpful valet. His phone buzzes again next to his chest, his heart thumping with it.

Vegaboy makes eye contact with the cowpoke, a nod of his hat.   Evenin’. Vegaboy’s voice is strained. He isn’t sure the cowpoke can hear him over the mass of cattle moans and swishing of tails and clopping of hooves on concrete, the animals filling the street now in front of the hotel, packed in between the bleachers set up along the sidewalks. Vegaboy counts six more cowpokes behind him and what could be three hundred cows, marching right through the main artery of downtown. Three hundred? A thousand? The lights at the intersection flip to green; an eerie super-natural glow over the herd. At the end of the mass of cattle, Vegaboy can make out the duet of street cleaners, trailing them. The noise is deafening, bouncing off the glass and iron high-rises along Seventh Avenue, lifting up with the warm, coarse smell of livestock and fresh-stacked hay. Evening–Vegaboy tries again—You got the Queen, there?

Midnight! The cowpoke yells back. He’s turned his whole horse to face Vegaboy, doing the back and forth zigzag her by the mouth thing. The cattle parts around him. Vegaboy hops down the marble stairs onto the sidewalk—The Queen. The Queen! Vegaboy shouts, a little too eagerly, then assumes his tough-n-tumble-kick-some-hide posture at just a few feet from the stream of cows. The cowpoke nods, removing his hat and wiping his face and neck with his sleeve. She’s ridin’ the rear. Vegaboy nods, knowingly.

Just on time, Vegaboy’s phone trills an intentionally piercing riff from his breast-pocket. Vegaboy answers it and says, Just a second. She’ll be there in just a second. The cowpoke is in the middle of reciting a story to Vegaboy, something about the hotel on Parade-Day, how fifty years ago some rowdy cowpoke rode his steed right into the giant marble lobby of the Palliser and—Vegaboy can’t pay attention. He’s scanning the river of cows for the flaxen-haired rodeo royalty herself, flanked by her two Stampede princesses. From this angle all the cowpokes look the same.

We got an important call for the Queen! It’s been ringin’ all night! Vegaboy calls loud enough for the cowpoke and the queen and all the cows to hear. The streetlight above him flicks to orange, then red, and the light covers Vegaboy and the cowpoke and the hundreds upon hundreds of solemn cows in a warm, hellish glow.

Loo-Anne! The cowpoke places his two fingers between his teeth and releases a high, professional whistle. Loo-Anne! You better unhitch darling! They’re lookin for ya!

Finally, up the middle of the river of animals, a loner breaks forward and floats towards Vegaboy. The horse is a neck taller than the cattle, with Indian splotches and a braided mane. Vegaboy waves his cell phone like a flag, Over here Queen! Over here! And after a long red minute, Loo-Anne-the-Stampede-Queen’s silhouette, then profile, then swinging ponytail drift into view. Yessir.

Vegaboy coughs. From under a dirty cowpoke hat, on top of a tough old cowpoke body, is Loo-Anne-the-Stampede-Queen’s perfect heart-shaped candy-box face, complete with a red-bow blowjob hole, smack in the middle. Yes, uh, ma’am. We here at the hotel got a phone-call for you, ma’am. Vegaboy can’t help but stare at her cherry-pop of a mouth.

The phone breathes in Vegaboy’s hands and Vegaboy waves it at her and skips into the stream of cows and reaches for the girl’s bridle. Well then, I’d better follow you, Loo-Anne-the-Stampede-Queen whispers, batting those enormous, bovine eyes.

Yes ma’am, Vegaboy manages. And with one gracious swing of a hefty thigh, Loo-Anne cascades to Vegaboy’s side.

And Vegaboy is—for the first time in his life—thunderstruck.   Loo-Anne-the-Stampede-Queen, unwitting proprietor of the handsome-ransom, the reason Vegaboy ventured to this outlandish Canadian livestock-filled city—this high royalty of the rodeo who’s very existence promises breathtaking, sobering, career-altering things for Vegaboy, who’s pony is the prettiest he’s ever seen, who’s body beckons for him like a curling finger, Loo-Anne-the-temptress, Loo-Anne-the-renegade, Loo-Anne-the-sexy-sexy-sex-pot, is extremely, alarmingly—   dwarfed.

She’s short.

Scary-short.

Long in the body but—barely-reaching-Vegaboy’s-chest.   Her thick little legs wobble beneath her. Vegaboy stops breathing. Jesus! You’re —

Tall in the saddle. The other cowpoke winks. Best dang barrel racer ever born. Loo-Anne grins and points a finger into Vegaboy’s sinking chest. I could race you around the block.

Vegaboy cops a stallion-sized boner in three seconds flat, and ushering his arm around Loo-Anne, he hisses carefully in her ear, Yer Majesty. She nods. Above them, the traffic-light slips from green to orange, from orange to red. Those hundreds of cows around them, lowing. I come all the way from Vegas fer you.

Vegaboy wakes up coddled by the Stampede Queen, her wide pelvis and little legs cupping his nudge of ass. He needs to pee but her breath is sour in his ear, delicious. Vegaboy’s dreaming about Jesus again.   One-forty-five is blinking on the console clock, the keys are dangling in the ignition, and there is a purple neon glow over the stink of carpet and the captain seats. Loo-Anne-the-Stampede-Queen is still bound with duct tape around her wrists and ankles. Vegaboy feels disgusting about it.

Vegaboy looks around and quickly figures that Slots-a-Fun is inside at the bar with Captain Rick, probably having a few bourbons with vodka chasers. Slots-a-Fun’s also got the pipe, which Vegaboy takes to mean he can do what he wants.

The radio is on. The fucking Talking Heads. Vegaboy feels disgusting about a lot of things, particularly the no-feeling boner busting through his jeans, the same one he’s been battling all night. He goes back to chewing on his lips, stroking Loo-Anne-the-Stampede-Queen’s big fat knees. He’s trying not to wake her out of her drooling, eyes-rolled-back slumber; Vegaboy wishes she could just suck him off in her sleep or something. The idea makes Vegaboy’s eyes water. He visualizes the logistics of rolling over and unzipping and gingerly placing his boner between her parted lips—but he’s too exhausted to move, to switch the fucking music, to let this girl stop spooning the shit out of him, her body against his. The worst he’s ever felt, but horny. Aching with it. The perplexity of it all almost hurts him.

You jackin off on that girl again? Slots-a-Fun’s voice careens through the slit of window and the sound of it makes Vegaboy twitch a little. Loo-Anne remains still. In a second, the interior is lit and Slots-a-fun’s hopping into shotgun, holding a half-drunk cocktail and smoking.

Cigarette, Vegaboy mumbles. His eyes fall closed again as Slots-a-Fun presses a smoke into his mouth and lights it. These are called Players. What the hell kinda brand is that? Player?

Vegaboy feels suddenly thousands of years old, his eyes throbbing in his head, his mouth full of sores, his arms detached from his body, barely able to take the cigarette up and out of his lips so he just clenches it there between his teeth. Dribbling ash on the floor of the van. Here comes Rick—don’t let him see you messing around with that girl. Vegaboy wants nothing more in the entire world than to take another hit off that fucking pipe. He wishes he could think of something more romantic, go back to that blowjob-train-of-thought, but it has escaped him completely, along with his withered hard-on and the smoke from his Players, easing out from his lungs and up and out the crack of window above him.

The Talking Heads finish their stupid song and the night-time radio voice starts up about Parade Day! and Get There Early! and Vegaboy wants to wither up and die, right there on the floor of the van, Loo-Anne’s sweating body beside him, coiled around him forever and ever. What must be going through that girl’s messed up little mind, Slots-a-Fun says as she kicks at Loo-Anne’s foot. Then Captain Rick shoves open the driver’s door and lights the interior of the van, Y’all ready for take-off? and this time Vegaboy hoists himself onto his elbow and motions to Captain Rick about the pipe, the pipe, at first mouthing the word then whispering, then saying it, the pipe, the pipe. And Slots-a-Fun kneels beside him, and wraps her arms around his neck, and Captain Rick reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out the little rock wrapped in torn tinfoil and all three of them can’t tear their eyes off it until the whole of it is smoked. The bubble of the stuff makes Vegaboy shudder, despite his sweating, despite the heat of Loo-Anne against him.

Then, there is a long long quiet.

Vegaboy back on the floor. Slots-a-Fun beside him, taking in more of her Players on every inhale.

This is supposed to be funny. Slots-a-Fun whispers.

It was funny for a second, says Vegaboy.

Then Captain Rick is driving, the van rumbling along, getting somewhere, and Slots-a-Fun and Loo-Anne and Vegaboy tossing with every turn, bumping into each other. Vegaboy has his hand on Loo-Anne’s perfect neck, noticing she’s breathing shallow, sputtering a little. What the hell is wrong with that girl? With her body? And then everything is raucously comic again, Vegaboy can tell, because Slots-a-Fun has her top off and she’s roaring, her head tossed back, and she’s got Vegaboy’s cock in her hands and she’s tugging on it and it feels incredible, and they’re lurching into each other and slamming against the walls of the van and Captain Rick has turned up the fucking terrible late-night-fm-radio and the two of them keep collapsing on top of Loo-Anne and finally, Slots-a-Fun picks up Loo-Anne-the-Stampede-Queen’s feet and starts bicycling her dwarfed legs around and around, and the truth is, it looks insane, miraculous, hysterical and Vegaboy’s laughter peels around the van like an animal howl.

And then, there they are—in Bosscat’s living room with Loo-Anne-the Stampede-Queen still taped up around her thick wrists and tossed on the couch, and Slots-a-Fun’s scanning all the horse and tittie magazines littered across the stained carpet while Bosscat’s brother and Captain Rick scrape their chairs across the linoleum of the kitchen, loudly negotiating the handsome-ransom with Rodeo Drive. Vegaboy is still in his straw hat and sweat-through shirt. He still can’t help but stroke Loo-Anne’s fat feet.

You think this girl will make us rich? Slots-a-Fun’s neck is twisted at a funny angle, looking at him, and her hands twitch from her tittie magazine to the near-empty pack of cigarettes on the floor beside her. Her jaw, set. Vegaboy can’t answer. Instead, he digs through his duffle-bag and finds his ticket for the flight home tomorrow. Eleven am. Hour long stop-over in Salt Lake. Vegaboy can’t wait to get back, the stink of the cattle still on him. Why the hell they march all those cows downtown like that. What the hell kinda city is this?

I wanna know what the fuck that girl is thinking. Slots-a-Fun blows smoke into Loo-Anne’s face, but Loo-Anne doesn’t even shudder. Some queen. The smell of bile sails through the room with the smoke, followed by the sound of retching and they can tell from where they are that Captain Rick is splattering all those cocktails into the kitchen sink. Bosscat’s quiet now, just waiting for it to be over. Vegaboy moves towards Loo-Anne, pulls her head up off the couch and puts it on his lap, then pushes it off again and stands up and lights a smoke and spreads himself out on the soiled carpet, his straw hat flipping off behind him.

It was funny for a second.

In the kitchen, Rodeo Drive and Captain Rick are back to the handsome-ransom, Slots-a-Fun is back to pitching magazines around. Vegaboy is back to his lips. He takes a long pull on his smoke and closes his eyes and tries to summon a comforting vision of craps tables or lap dances, something to get his mind far from Calgary, that miserable livestock-loving two-horse town—

And then, he’s gone. He can see into the future, the RCMP bombing down the door and the courts and the jail cells and ten miserable years learning to knit from a cell-councilor named Big Dave.

Unless, in this moment, he could just get off the floor and ride away. He can almost feel it, squeezed next to the sweet stampede queen on the back of that pretty Indian pony, bareback, clinging to her as they storm up the steps into the lobby of the Palliser Hotel, right through the swinging glass door, past the valet and the guests, the horse’s hooves skidding out on the marble and everyone shouting and something smashing and the horse rising up on its massive haunches, and Loo-Anne-the-Stampede-Queen and Vegaboy-of-the-Desert reaching up and up and up for the crystal chandelier, dripping off the hotel’s ceiling'”