Berryman put the rifle under his chin, and looked at the desert through its crystal-clear sight.
There were telephone poles that were connected to nothing. With functionless blue-green cups up and down their sides. There was an ancient highway BUMP sign. Its black lettering stretched high on rusted gold.
There was a puny rabbit peeking out of a hole in the ground. And a bird with a song like electricity. Berryman could see bacteria squirming in the hot air.
He squeezed the trigger. Lightly, like a piano player.
The slender rifle barked. Jerked to the right. The BUMP sign was left intact.
Berryman carefully squeezed again. Nothing.
He took more time. Barely touching the trigger. Knowing
the crotch of the
Missing everything.
Berryman fired and missed. Fired and missed. He began to perspire. His arms and eyes weren?t making sense together. He stopped everything.
He set the rifle against the car for a moment and collected his thoughts. It was his style. Automatic.
He calmly unscrewed the rifle?s sight with his penknife. He fired a single shot without the sight. Gold metal disappeared and the BUMP sign burst open through its back.
Berryman continued until he had shot the sign away. Made it nothing. Then he drove on.
He didn?t recognize the outskirts of Amarillo. There were hundreds of quick-food stops. Supermarkets with corny names. Drive-ins showing quadruple beaver movie features.
He stopped at one of the many taco places. He had a beer, and then he called an old girlfriend named Bobbie Sue Gary, now Bobbie Sue Pederson.
Sitting on the orange tile floor outside the phone booth, Thomas Berryman talked to the girl about old times. He gulped sweat-cold Pearl tallboys. Smoked a half a pack of Picayunes. Ate a taco that was tasty as a fist.
?My husband?s a night shift supervisor for Shell Oil,? Bobbie Sue said.
?There are airplanes and bats flying all over this desert.? Berryman reported on the scene out the Taco Palace window.
?Well, I have three children now. And one in the hopper,? Bobbie Sue reported.
?Well, I don?t give a flying fuck,? Berryman said. ?I want you to get into a party dress. We?re going to party.?
?Tom,? she complained in a lighthearted, giggling voice. ?You?re just trying to get into my panties all over again. I?m married now. No more hotsy-totsies for Bobbie. I have my responsibilities now.?
?Oh, come on Bobbie.? Thomas Berryman was laughing hard, ?Don?t you want to get into my pants??
That said, he told her he was on his way.
Bobbie Sue Gary Pederson had grown slightly rat-faced over the years. The nipples of her breasts were dark brown and showing through her blouse. They looked unattractive.
On account of all this he took her to the dark cocktail lounge at the 7-10 Bowling Alleys. But he was pleased with her looks. Really.
Bobbie Sue wore a red A-line skirt umbrellaed out over seamed stockings. She wore black pumps with blue ribbons over her toes. She drank Singapore Slings, and they both ate the special chicken-fried steaks.
Thomas Berryman got high on Bobbie Sue.
?What?s it like,? he asked, ?kissing old Tommy Pederson? Just tell me that one thing. I?ll go away from here content. I?ll sing in that jet back to New York City.?
She was patting his leg and saying, ?Now, now, now.? It was just like he?d never gone away and they were still high school sweethearts.
?Don?t give me that now, now, now stuff. C?mon, babe.?
?It?s like kissin ? Noooo ??
?C?mon, babe. ?Fess up, Rev?ren Thomas is here ??
?Like a rug on a floor. Kissin it.?
?Ooh, Bobbie Sue!? Berryman howled with delight. ?That?s terrible, babe.? He was laughing, and talking southern, and she thought he was hilarious.
A white moon rode the dark Texas skies as they fornicated in the big cushy Lincoln.
Sergeant Ames found him asleep in the rocker beside his father?s bed. It was morning. The judge?s thing was lying out of his pajamas, large as a king post.
As he revived the judge, Sergeant Ames told Young Tom an old story about falling asleep on a cattle drive. Waking and finding he was being circumcised.
Old Tom Berryman just lay on the bed and looked at the paperback on the floor near the rocker. It was
. After some puckering and smacking his lips, he asked his son if he was reading about Jimmie Horn.
?Well, yes I am,? Berryman said.
?Well, good for you then.? The old man struggled with each word. ?He seems ? He seems ? like a hell of a good
