In the City of Shy Hunters by Tom Spanbauer Read Free Book Online

tree, I stood looking at my wallet in my hands.
    You stole my wallet? I said. Why did you steal my wallet?
    Dumb question, Ruby said. For the five hundred and ninety-three dollars, for the traveler’s checks, for the cashier’s check.
    In my wallet: five hundred-dollar bills, the other bills, the traveler’s checks, the cashier’s check.
    It is this way, True Shot said. Ruby stole your wallet because you asked him to.
    But that’s the last thing, I said, I wanted!
    Ruby’s eyes were looking right at me, but they were more like looking through me. No smile, his lip curled up, and his nostrils went in and out.
    New York drop-dead fuck-you.
    Ruby winked.
    When you don’t want something as much as you didn’t want your wallet to get stole that means only one thing, Ruby said.
    Your worst fears, True Shot said.
    That’s what’s important about Wolf Swamp and why you’ve come here, Ruby said. You can’t want anything or not want anything that much.
    Now that you’re in Wolf Swamp, True Shot said, Now that you’ve come because you were afraid to come—
    You’re in a whole new ball game, Ruby said. Crossed over. You got to be careful in a whole ’nother way of what you want and what you don’t want. What you fear.
    Before, you were afraid of your fears happening and you spent all your time making sure they didn’t happen, True Shot said. Now that you’ve crossed over, you’re spending all your time making sure they do.
    Hell of a fix, Ruby said.
    Up Shit Creek, True Shot said.
    In a world of hurt, Ruby said.
    If you go around checking your wallet every goddamn minute like a goddamn fool, Ruby said, Then you, William of Heaven, are destined for New York Fucking City fucking roadkill.
    Then: Did you lock yourself out? Ruby asked.
    My hands went quick all over all my pockets, and my keys were in my right side pocket. I held my keys up and showed them to Ruby and True Shot.
    I’ll bet you left your apartment door open, Ruby said. Never leave your apartment door open!
    All Dodges sound the same when you start them up. Blue smoke everywhere. True Shot shifted into first.
    Adios, amigo! Ruby said. Don’t let the motherfuckers get you down!
    It’s the Puritan undertow, Ruby said, What we got to look out for.
    The van took off, True Shot shifting into second.
    Ruby was singing, True Shot was singing:
    Fools rush in where wise men never go,
    But wise men never fall in love,
    So how are they to know?
    When we met I felt my life begin was what I was singing this time, standing on East Fifth Street, somewhere between Second and Third—in the rectangle of dirt where I’d plant the cherry tree, my wallet in my hands, holding on to my wallet.
    * * *
    ELLEN WAS A New Yorker and a Jew, a counselor with Outward Bound who came to Jackson Holeewood with kids who’d never been out of the city. I walked into Cowboy Bar and there was Ellen straddling a saddle at the bar. Big bush of black hair with combs and scarves and chopsticks in it. Her heart-shaped butt in designer jeans snug in the saddle.
    As soon as Ellen saw my dog, she fell in love. More women fell in love with Crummy Dog than I can tell you. So it wasn’t long before Ellen and I were bellied up to the bar, sitting on the saddles, Crummy Dog on the saddle in between, Ellen and I doing what she called Boilermakers and what I called In the Ditch, which was shots of Crown Royal backed by Heineken for her, Coors for me, Coors not for her politically, she said.
    Somewhere in there, I took the Bull Durham from my shirt pocket and, with one hand like I can, started rolling a cigarette. Ellen asked me to roll her a cigarette too, so I rolled her a cigarette, then lit the cigarette for her. Ellen inhaled, then spit tobacco.
    I suppose if I asked you to wrestle down a steer for me, you could do that too, Ellen said.
    Fuckin’ A, I said.
    What is this shit? Ellen said. I mean, where does this