July, 1978 Jordanville, New York
Saturday - William and Sally Huxtens farm
William (Buddy to his small circle of friends) spent the whole day coddling an old Holstein cow that got herself stuck in the shallow pond behind the barn. She had done this several times in the years that she had been on the farm, and, frankly, Buddy was getting a little tired of having to fuss with her. One more time, he thinks to himself as he places the rope he used to get the bovine out of the swamp on the nail, one more time, and Im goin to sell that old battleaxe at the cattle auction over in Vernon, with or without Sallys permission.
Buddy walks through the front door of the house and heads straight for his car keys that are on the table. His wife, Sally, is taking the Cornish hen out of the oven; its aroma floats through the bright kitchen and mixes with the biscuits and carrots already on the table. Buddys stomach growls with anticipation, but he has no time to eat; he has things to do.
Buddy, where are you going? Aint you tired? Sally asks. Youve been working with that down cow all day. Dont you want any food? Sally puts the chicken on the counter and wipes her hands on the front of her worn green shirt; she looks tired. Her once-dark blue, brilliant eyes have now faded to a pale baby blue from too much sun; her skin looks like tough leather, beaten by the elements. Although she looks a little older than her age, time has not washed away all her fine features.
Sally, Im not hungry. I jus gonna go down to Ole Joes to have a beer. I need to relax. Ill be back later tonight. Dont wait up for me, okay? Before she can even protest, Buddy gives his wife a kiss on the cheek, and walks out the door. He climbs into his old 68 Chevy and heads down the driveway.
The ride there is a quiet one: a small paved road, lined with trees, and eight or ten houses scattered here and there, their paint chipped and their wood weather-worn. All of these houses have old barns, too, barns that are filled with rows of lights and cows in their stanchions patiently waiting to be milked. The smells of cow, silage and manure are everywhere. These scents mix, mingle, and drift through the summer air; Buddy catches a whiff and wrinkles his nose. What a hell of a place to call home, Buddy says to the steering wheel, and sighs. No people in sight; no cars, either. Nothing new. To Buddy, all of this scenery reminds him of his life: quiet and dull. Same shit, different day. Buddy pulls into the gravel parking lot in front of Ole Joes and cuts the engine. He is having an off day.
Ole Joes is nothing more than a hole in the wall: dirty, reeking of sweat, smoke, and cow manure. Its a miniscule little pub where locals hang out to smoke or drink. Occasionally, a new person passes through Ole Joes, but thats what they always are: a person passing through.
Not many women pass through the doors, either; maybe the occasional worn-out old barfly, or a wife whos angry that her husband has stayed out too long, but other than that, nothing--except, well, except for tonight.
Everyone notices her; who couldnt? She is sexy, and exotic. An Indian woman? Perhaps; Mulatto? Both? Doesnt matter. At least five of the men hit on her as soon as she walked in; Buddy cant help but stare: he had never seen a woman as beautiful as she was. With great effort, she managed to make her way through all the rough men: she is drunk. She staggers over to a chair and plops down.
Hey there, he calls out to her,aint yous a pretty thing? Whys dont ya come on over here, and sit on my lap. He pats his lap; dust flies into the air. He smiles; his teeth are stained from tobacco juice. He is balding and in dire need of a bath.
The young woman smiles at him and laboriously pulls herself up out of her chair. She stumbles her way through the tired crowd. As she draws closer, he is amazed at how beautiful she really is: long, black hair; dark, smooth skin. She is wearing a pink dress, that falls just below the knee. It outlines her hips, her thin waist, her large breasts; the man licks his lips. He wants her. She makes her way to him and sits down on his lap.
So, sweetie, what are ya? Indian? Nigra? I think youre Indian. Yous looks like a Mohawk. Aint ya? He puts his arms around her waist; he then slowly moves them up to her voluptuous chest. She stiffens for just a moment, but for only just a moment. His arms feel good around her; she relaxes.
Wha? Yessss, Im MMMMohawk. You know that; I live on the ressservation in Utica. Her speech is very slurred. She closes her eyes and leans back into his chest.
Can yyyou take me to the ressservation? I nnneeed to go home. I dont have a ride.
Sure, sweet thing. My cars right outside. He lifts her up off of him and helps her to the door. They make their way outside, and he opens the passenger side door of his car and glides her in. He closes it and walks around the front to the drivers side and gets in himself.
He drives onto Mixter road; he knows no one will be traveling on it any time soon. At this time of night, Jordanville and all of its inhabitants are all tucked into their homes, watching TV or fast asleep.
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