Chapter 24

Tercio de varas.

This, the first stage of a bull fight, is when a matador watches a picador stab a bull in its neck: a move which aims to weaken the bull and provide for its eventual demise.

Mr. Ballman stood watching this interloper introduce himself to Lucy.

He imagined Lucy was a picador.

Her smile stabbed Newbie in the neck, weakening him forever.

Mr. Ballman, very pleased with his eventual victory, suddenly smiled.

Lucy was introducing him to her new acquaintance, having already gone around the circle with the other family members names, at Newbie's request.

Little did Lucy know that Newbie and Mr. Ballman had met before, quite certainly.

And then he mentioned his name.

Chapter 23

"I'd like to stay forever," he said, slowly, softly, kindly. "Please." 

As Lucy's outline rapidly approached the two men locked eyes in a staring battle of will. 

Two bull fighters. Two guardians. Two protectors. 

And then she was upon them.

Chapter 22

Lucy smiled, and bowed, and wiped sweat from her happy forehead.

Suddenly surrounded by dancers for hugs, she momentarily lost sight of her family.

Mr. Ballman's spellbound gaze, broken by African hugs, flickered. He blinked his eyes, turning his head unwillingly away from the direction of his perpetually four year old little girl.

He focused his hot sun eyes on this errant newcomer two chairs away.

He watched his beaming smile, his clapping hands, his dimpling cheeks. He watched this fool stare at his daughter like he was in love with her.

This fool felt eyes flush with his neck, and turned.

They locked, eye to eye, like horns locked tight. Only this young buck wasn't violent, just holding his ground against seniority.

Uppity little twerp.

Mr. Ballman suddenly felt a lightning bolt pinch his pinky finger.

He'd seen this usurper before.

In California.

On a bus.

Same tweedy newsboy cap.

Same dimpled smile.

Same affectionate gaze... directed toward his daughter.

Wrong move, sucker.

Mr. Ballman leaned in close with his hand across this young buck's back, smiling in that way you smile with your jaw clenched so tight you can barely see.

He leaned in close.

"Leave her alone," he hissed, like the word at the end of a death sentence.

Chapter 21

African dance is like a bird song. Polyrhythm is a nest upon which wings beat... a base for taking off.

Lucy, not a dancer, swallowed hard. Her sweaty palms seemed superglued inside her pockets. Her butt felt unexpectedly cumbersome, and her feet like putty.

And yet, the dancers were using their bodies to escort her to stage center.

An entire fair full of people froze to watch her freeze. Big Tex murmured something and then chuckled into a belly laugh.

Lucy glanced up at his cowboy hat, ironically. The beat was chasing her. She glanced at her gleeful family, excited for what dance may come. Her eyes slid over a bus seat full of time into the new guy's eyes.


They looked strong and soft and calm, like he was floating under his favorite tree.

And so, whether it was the rhythm or the crowd or the boy or the incredibly insistent Africans, Lucy slowly began to move her hips.

This dance involved booty shaking. 

She'd never done that before. 

She didn't even hear the music. She heard one of her favorite runnings songs instead: "Crabbuckit" by Good Lovelies.

She began to spin. She began to kick. She began to reach. She began to hop. She began to wiggle. She began to pulse. She began to shimmy.

She began to smile.

And the whole world smiled with her.

Including a boy. 

Chapter 20

Leaving the food court full, satisfied, and slightly comatose, the Ballmans lingered long enough on its steps to find themselves witnessing a spectacle.

African dancers spread three deep and fifty-seven wide circled a small section near Big Tex's rear, attracting quite a crowd.

Apparently this was a scheduled official performance... the Ballmans had somehow missed this event on their Fair guides. Whether out of curiosity or merely postprandial somnolence, they ended up taking seats on the warm drowsy concrete to watch this flock of dark people sweat in the Texas noontime sun.

Drums. Drums and dancing. Dancing and booty shaking. Booty shaking and head swaying. Head swaying and tribal prints. Tribal prints and tribal riffs. Tribal riffs and lots of teeth. Lots of teeth... and guy coming to sit next to Lucy.

Ahh, she smelled just as sweet as she did in California. Maybe a little funnel cake, too. That's what he would call her when they got married.

He slowly realized an entire row of Ballmans was watching him stare at Lucy. Surprisingly, she was actually intrigued by this music, this dance, and so her normal alertness was subpar.

But slowly she realized her nephews were no longer bobbing in her peripheral vision, so she glanced toward her right to make sure they were still alive. Yes, and they were staring at her... or rather, past her.

She felt something was about to change.

Big Tex murmured "Howdy Folks" in the background. Lucy's eyes connected to this man's, and she felt a shiver run from the bottom of her palms, to the bottom of her feet, to the top of her head. She felt fuzzy, lightheaded, calm, and brighter. Everything glowed.

She saw him.

And then her father's hand mysteriously shot into the sky, pointing an index finger down at Lucy. Lucy could still hear African drums, she thought, or maybe a heartbeat. She gazed. And suddenly three large African dancers clad in purple brassieres and tribal print headdresses were plucking her from her chair in heaven.

This was the portion of the program where they recruited one lucky volunteer from the audience to come up and African dance on stage in front of all of Texas.

It was Lucy.

Chapter 19

Behind a tamale booth, in a janitor's alley, a man in a suit peered around a support beam, watched Lucy tire of her potato and pull out her camera to chimp her photos on its back.

He had harsh lines around his mouth and a forehead like Ed Harris.

When he whispered, those nearby understood he was actually barking and hissing commands... just at a lower decibel. He did that now, yanking three men into submission... and hearing distance.

"Go find out what's on that camera," he hissed, in Arabic, to three black-eyed janitors. "If she got you on film, you know what to do. We can't risk any evidence... Or else."

The three dark skinned men swallowed, blinked, and slowly stood back upright. Cowards in lion suits, they slinked off to a nearby men's room with a janitor's cart, locking themselves in a stall. From this cart they pulled blue jeans, mustaches, cowboy hats, boots, plaid shirts, empty chewing tobacco cans, and belts with silver buckles the size of Big Tex.

Fully dressed, they looked like they'd just crossed the border. In all truth, they had... but they'd first taken an Islamist military plane into Monterrey for a training session.

Exiting the men's room, a Hispanic man stopped them to ask directions to a dog show. They listened to his query in Spanish, glanced at each other, and actually considered killing the man before simply shrugging their shoulders and walking away, sweating bullets.

Needing to look inconspicuous required some mega food purchases, so with difficulty they fished leather wallets out of their tight jeans, waiting in separate lines, all with one beady eye tightly fixed on Lucy.

They hardly even noticed what they ordered.

Sitting at a table immediately behind Lucy, they nonchalantly dove into their plates: one Twisted Texas Taco, one Jalapeno burrito with hot chili Chimichurri sauce, and one bowl of fried Sriracha balls with extra sauce.

One bite.

That's all it took.

Their eyes began to water.

Their throats began to close.

They nearly died, trying to stay there long enough to confirm the girl had photos of them planting a bomb in Big Tex's boots.

She did.

They left, combusting into flames, seeking the nearest men's room like a heat seaking missile.

How could lips be on fire?

They dunked their heads into the toilet, trying to cool their intestines.

An hour later, they'd be plunked down on these same seats, jeans around their knees, bleeding from the inside, moaning as the fried sriracha sauce found its new home in the plumbing of the good old State Fair of Texas.

Lucy put her camera away.

Chapter 18

After their ordeal en la Embarcadero, the emotionally drained Ballman clan trekked back up International Boulevard to seek solace (and calories) in the food court.

Lucy found a table, surrounded it with strollers, and sat down to reserve all its seats while her family looked around for food. They would return, as per usual, in about thirteen minutes, at which point Lucy would embark toward her baked potato booth for a plain, no cheese, extra bacon helping.

She sighed, not so much from hunger as from boredom, and waited her turn.

Propping her elbows up on the coated red wire picnic table, Lucy looked around and wondered how anyone could ever be excited by this place. It was overstimulating, as usual, and stocked with enough fried food to stop your heart, but after coming here year after year after year for all her life, and every year sitting in the exact same spot with the exact same people eating the exact same thing... she was suddenly tired.

Over there by the entrance was a place where she used to buy chocolate milk, until she became allergic. They also sold funnel cakes, chicken fingers, and hot dogs. This was for State Fair of Texas beginners.

Next, another Fletcher's corn dogs, heavy on the mustard. Then Turkey legs, which made Lucy feel like a cave-woman. She usually ate one about 3 p.m. when constant Ballman indecision left her feeling low on protein.

Next, a slushy bar, and a smoothie window, both heavy on sugar and low on fruit. Then funnel cake fries and sweet potato milk shakes.

Then a pulled pork BBQ stand, where Lucy would buy her baked potato in eleven minutes.

Spaghetti, pizza, hamburgers, and tacos rounded out semi-normal food court faire, and took you around a certain corner deep into the food court where it was difficult to return without feeling very Texan, quite surprised, and slightly adventurous, with the sluggishness of a fried food hangover.

Lucy watched people happily buying baskets of food from these booths and boyish returning to red and blue picnic tables to take their ever important first bites.

Teenagers chewed fried pink bubble gum, washing it down with Dippin' Dots and jumbo Coca Cola.

Moms in search of familiarity chose deep fried spaghetti and meatballs, and then shared with open mouth babies like little tiny birds.

Teenage boys chose deep fried Cool Ranch pizza and Texas chili fries.

Men who wanted to be manly returned with heaping plates of Texas fried fire balls, deep fried Cuban rolls, and Funnel Cake Ale.

Others washed down deep fried breakfast for dinner, fried Gulf shrimp boil, and chicken-fried loaded baked potatoes with super saccharine Fried Sweet Texas and deep-fried Texas Bluebonnets.

Lucy watched people eat these things. She watched their mouths open wide. She watched their eyes even wider. She watched people chug sweet tea to the point of brain freeze. She grinned, giggled, smiled, covering her happy smile with her hand.

Her family returned, loudly, complaining about inevitably long lines, and more than ready to sink their hungry teeth into their delicious treasures.

They all gathered hands, bowed their heads, and listened while first Elvis and then his mother gave a quick blessing, thanking Jesus for precious family time and delicious food.

Lucy watched her father dig into his Jalapeño Texas nachos. She watched her mother eat a pulled pork plate, heavy on the pickles, and then discard the buns. She watched her nephews eat goldfish, french fries, a fruit plate, and sweet potato smoothies.

None of it surprised her.

She disembarked from the picnic table in the dead center of the crowded, bustling room, to go and rustle up some din.

Maybe she'd drink a Bubble boba tea with her baked potato this year. Might as well. Going right by there.

Here's to living on the edge.

Chapter 17

A lonely Cowboy watched this comical scene unfold with bemusement, particularly enthralled with every emotional reaction on Lucy's face.

He didn't even know her name.

Whatever it was, he would say it every day until forever. All she'd have to do is smile, and he would know she was his.

A Mexican in mirrored sunglasses watched from a different vantage point entirely. Hiding inside a $4,000 grandfather clock, he hoped Lucy would smile. He would die to see her smile just one more time.

Sneller watched her too, from underneath a ten gallon hat. His bald head began to sweat, worried her father would spot him. He'd been following Lucy once in his car (actually one of the times he'd been following Lucy in his car), and pulled into a parking lot three spaces from her car, wanting to "spontaneously" happen upon her smiling face as she disembarked from her car with her long sculpted legs.

Lucy's father, alerted to a suspicious follower by Lucy herself via cell phone, sped quickly in front of Sneller, slammed his truck into park basically in Sneller's nose, and hopped out so quickly that Sneller was face down on the truck's hood with his hands behind his back before he could even see who'd accosted him.

Mr. Ballman quietly informed Sneller, while Lucy waited in her car, that if he ever caught him following, discussing, or slightly bothering his daughter again, he would make full use of both his machete and his baseball bat.

Sneller quivered. He ducked behind a blanket display as Mr. Ballman's gaze wandered sideways, wishing he'd invested in some of those adult underpants he'd considered while following Lucy on her long car trips. He wanted to see her one more time. He lifted his head. Ballman must have smelled fear, because he'd made a beeline for the blankets. Sneller shot back down faster than a jack in the box, sitting in his own pee. He'd have to wait a little longer.

A security guard watched Lucy, too: a guard with a fake mustache.

Meanwhile, as Lucy and her sister calmly quieted little frozen Elvis, an alternate outfit was fished out of one of the strollers. He gladly stripped off his chilly pink costume and shook lemonade out of his hair and boots before slipping into a pair of blue jeans, a striped t-shirt, and a tiny brown cowboy hat.

Lucy glanced across the madness and realized his outfit matched his cousin's, even down to the boots.

She felt a pang of jealousy. Always a middle child, she watched her little brother and older sister breed with rapidity and ease (with their respective spouses, of course), and yearned--no, longed--no, craved--children and a family of her own. How she wanted her own little cowboy dressed in triplicate.

Alas, no one noticed her. No one loved her except her family, because they had to. She want want wanted someone to love. She want want wanted someone to see her, to really see her.

All the time from its quietest, darkest, most glittery depths, her heart screamed like a little Who in Whoville: We are here!

We are here!

We are here!

Chapter 16

Startled passersby, stunned into statuesque silence, stood with mouths open, staring at a miniature Elvis screaming a curse word.

Before any shock turned to mirth, and people wondered why Elvis would be so dismayed at a flaming caramel apple cart, there was a momentary pause in the established movement pattern of this wing of the Embarcadero. A large group, shocked into silence, suddenly became a massive stumbling block for routine southern shoppers, who generally eye every booth in passing, not turning to look at what's ahead until it's already past.

This unfortunate series of behavior patterns set off a chain of events even Elvis would not have expected.

In one long unchained melody of Chaplin-esque proportions, Texans bumped and butted their way into a Domino effect of fried food smelling, cowboy hat wearing, generous package laden passersby colliding in such a way that Lucy was reminded of a laser light show they once saw in Colorado.

A large man tip toed into the backside of a stick-thin tattooed girl in cut-offs, who spun round so fast to tackle the offender her long braided hair smacked a bearded man in the eyeballs, causing him to reach both arms up to cover his whiplashed eyeballs. His elbows clipped a middle aged woman in the jaw, and when she lurched sideways, a good natured chap tried to catch her, and missed, instead grabbing onto a large woman's breasts. Upon realizing his mistake, he turned to run, still staring at his haphazard (and quite massive) victims, and collided so violently with an old wrinkled woman that her unlit cigarette and false teeth popped out of her mouth, shooting forward approximately three feet, where they landed in the unlidded 48 ounce iced pink lemonade of a germophobe, who immediately released the styrofoam cup into the wild blue yonder, with force.

This lovely cold pink rain landed directly upon both Elvis and the flaming sandwich, which had subsequently been dropped by a stunned fried grilled cheese man who now wielded a fire extinguisher.

And yet the freezing acidic lemon rain rendered the now moot extinguisher quite useless.

Time can do so much.

Chapter 15

The Embarcadero is 27,000 feet of shopping heaven. In Spanish, "a place from which to embark,"it brings along every mysterious, wondrous, overwhelming feeling associated with a street fair chock full of exhibitors.

Luckily for Lucy, this carnival of consumerism contained air conditioning.

She smelled caramel apples.

Lucy and the Ballmans bobbed and weaved from booth to booth. Cowboy hats danced on poles. Scarves swayed in compressed breezes. Indian blankets buffered sounds from Swiffer booths, with skinny men on microphones squeezing mops over spaghetti sauce floors.

Lucy looked around, quietly.

Last year she finished an entire year without shopping.

Her nostrils seemed to fill with the acrid smell of smoke. Maybe her brain wanted her to believe shopping was an addiction, and this was a crack tent. Maybe her fashion girl heart wanted her to believe shopping was a soul-soother, and this was a mecca.

Either way, a bone-chilling scream erased her compulsion to purchase.

It was Elvis.

Perhaps it hasn't been mentioned yet, perhaps it's better left unsaid. Speech impediments, after all, are not something polite Texans like to discuss.

Instead they just quietly say, "bless your heart."

But this speech impediment just went public.

It was Elvis.

He spied a fire in the fried grilled cheese booth, and wanted to alert the authorities. He began to scream smoke in a way only a three year old blonde boy dressed as the King can.

His speech impediment eliminated any "s" conjuctions from his vocabulary. School became ool. Skunks became unks. And smoke became...

A four letter word, beginning with the letter F.

He shouted it to the rooftops.

Smoke.

Chapter 14

Once more walking in a slow caravan towards the Embarcadero, Lucy let her mind slowly two-step through sights and sounds of this Fair.

Zac Brown's band warmed up on stage, letting cat calls and good natured slip ups go with a yell.

"There's no dollar sign on peace of mind," they sang...

There were so many food vendors lining this path to the Embarcadero. It was like death row. Oh, FRIED OREOS.

"I thank God for my life."

Turkey legs.

"Sic'em on a chicken."

Fried Snickers. Fried butter. Fried Frito pie.

"I think we lost a chicken."

Fried Jambalaya. Fried beer.

"But you can get another one..."

FUNNEL CAKES.

A perennial favorite--ahem, necessity-- Mr. Ballman bought a couple freshly fried, super powder sugared, awesomely fragrant plates of cakes to split amongst the women and children, who had suddenly lost any ability to proceed in a forward direction.

Lucy wondered if she'd ever have a husband like her father. He loved through action. He spoke almost as rarely as Big Tex, but when he did, you knew he meant every word. But then again her parents met before their 20th birthdays. Lucy wasn't a spring chicken anymore. She was getting older.

"Closes the door before the winter lets the cold in." Who wants an old fried chicken?

Lucy's eyes began to tear up, so she glanced away from her father's smile to look at fat people eat fried food. Her blue eyes landed on an orange and white striped food pavilion. They sold fried Oreos.

At a senior banquet ten years ago,  Lucy's father declared his children were like Oreos. No, DOUBLE STUFFED Oreos. And Lucy was the double stuff in the middle.

"He said I wanna see you again."

Oh man, here come the tears again. Lucy put on her sunglasses, then gazed at her big sister and her little brother. Oh, to be anything but the only unmarried middle child. Unattached. Unloved. Unwanted in the way that all these couples wanted each other. She was only in a family by default.

"When you're in the lost and found..."

She flicked an errant teardrop who'd escaped beneath a purple leopard print rim on her sunglasses.

"I don't want you but I need you."

Zac Brown ended their warm up set with a cacophonous drumroll, making Lucy's mother jump. Her red hair flashed in little rimlets of sun shining between food pavilions.

Lucy looked at them and wondered.

She wondered where she was going.

It seemed like she was always here.

Chapter 13

Lucy watched as her nephew, clad only in a cloth diaper and a Batman t-shirt, plumply rolled onto his forearms.

A year's supply of disposable diapers at stake, and he could care less. His mother didn't care, either: they were diaper hipsters. Dipsters.

But it was a race, and it was a distraction.

She didn't want time to move. Heightened emotions of a 60 second baby crawl meant 60 seconds of not thinking about that departure line at DFW airport's military gate.

Would he come home?

Lucy stared long and hard into her brother's jaw, trying to memorize its strength, its joy. So much like his father's. Lucy looked at her father, behind them, holding a grandkid.

Boy, how his face shined. Shined with happy. Shined with momentary glee.

Three weeks ago it shone for a different reason. Slick with tears, it still looked strong, but awash in joy she could stand to stare at her father's face forever.

And that's what it was, forever.

Every year.

The fair.

Lucy heard music in her head, tuning out cheering, tuning out organs from adjacent tents, tuning out Big Tex bellowing in background hums. For a minute, it was all right to be back here, to be doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over again.

It was all right for it not to change.

And then, like an organ grinder halting his pedals, the music stopped. Lucy came back into focus. Oh how she wanted it to change. Oh how she wanted to be able to make her father's face light up like that with a grandchild of her own. Oh how she yearned to be the one standing near a duct tape finish line at a baby crawling race with her cell phone, screaming at her child to come and get it. Oh how she wanted to be loved, to be loved in the way all these other twosomes became two and then three and then us.

Oh how she wanted.

Lucy watched her sister-in-law hoist her child up into the air, victorious, giant smiles captured on television cameras for evening news segments. She watched reporters take her name. She watched her brother head over to furl her up into a hug, in his shoulder, on his arm.

She turned away, fighting tears.

Someone was watching her from behind the tent poles, but she didn't know.

She had never felt more alone in all her life.

Chapter 12

At last Lucy Ballman and her family mustered strength to decide on a stroll through the Embarcadero to buy more fudge and look for a new flag pole topper. Afterwards they would check out quilts and cooking demonstrations in an adjacent Creative Arts building.

They made this decision as if it were a lighting bolt: magical, time-defining, imagistic, anachronistic, sudden, sure, elemental.

Lucy helped gather pacifiers and discarded napkins, keeping her head down, trying not to look both surprised and shocked at another sameness.

Every year. Every year. And as usual, the lightning bolt decision had been like pulling teeth.

What do you want to do?

I don't know. What do you want to do?

Well, I don't know. What do you want to do?

I want to scream.

I do.

I want to run away.

Lucy smiled at Elvis and followed his happy hops away from those dark windows. With a glance over her shoulder to ensure her mother hadn't forgotten her cell phone or sunglasses this year, Lucy bit her tongue. She could see eyes staring at her through the windows.

Oh. Well it was an office after all. They had the right to stare at loud people who'd probably entertained/interrupted Friday morning task lists for three quarters of an hour.

Still, Lucy, unnerved, practically walked backwards, trying to ascertain why she still felt eyes upon her back, even at this end of International Boulevard, with fountains all around, and food carts blocking every sightline.

A band warmed up on the Chevrolet Main Stage beside them, and Lucy measured her steps with drum beats. One last look behind her... and blam.

She knocked over a giant billboard. Righting the errant sign, she read: "Welcome Walker and the Texas Rangers to the Chevrolet Main Stage: Friday at 4 and 8 pm."

Well then. More country music, apparently. Not for her.

Eyes watched her from the stage, interested. Eyes watch her from behind, interested.

Her clan had unexpectedly stopped at Oak Farms Children's Activity Center, so Lucy disappeared into a red and white striped circus tent, following familiar infant bellows.

Television cameras blocked her path.

Her sister-in-law was leaning over a short plastic barrier, placing her crawling babe on a white line of duct tape.

As a whistle blew, Lucy heard a television reporter beside her announce a live shot from a baby crawling contest at the State Fair of Texas.

Oh. Live.

Lucy ducked out of their shot.

Crawl, baby, crawl.

Chapter 11

Meanwhile, Lucy's family grew tired of shiny cars and flawless leather smiles. Delightfully chilled to their bones, their air conditioned heads felt ready to face October heat, and they departed, collecting Lucy beside her door.

Baby Ballmans rode shoulders and strollers across an empty service street and an early morning International Boulevard to an equally deserted patch of green grass.

This grass, outside heavily tinted windows of administrative offices in the Tower Building, offered three desirable factors: one, partial shade; two, proximity to delicious smells floating out from the food court; and three, easy access from gate 5, where Laney's husband had just parked his truck.

Lucy followed her father over to Fletcher's hot dog stand to help him carry a couple dogs back for Elvis and his cowboy cousin. She bit into a perfectly crisp beige tip while it was a little too fresh, and used mustard to quench her burning tongue.

Wisely, the mothers cut their dogs into rapidly cooling, bite sized chunks for littles to nibble on. Lucy lounged in the hidden nook of a perfectly placed wall, watching bees buzz between marigolds and yellow rose bushes to her left. To her right, beyond her perfect little pink bow flats crossed at the ankles, she watched state fair goers go about their business.

How strange life was.

Three weeks ago they'd buried her father's mother. Three weeks, and the first time she ever saw her father cry. In three days her brother would return to Afghanistan. In three weeks both her sister and her sister in law would have brand new baby girls. Three. Three. Three. Three. Three...

She looked at the back of Big Tex's waving hand as he bellowed another recorded welcome message. She could see only three of his fingers. She could see three belt loops on his jeans. She could see three Mexicans coming out of the service door at the bottom of his boots. She could see three looks on their faces. She could see...

THREE FINGERS IN HER EYEBALLS.

"Max!!!!" she shouted, and she giggled her way into a dogpile of nephews and mustard stains and used napkins.

Rolling herself onto her knees, she crawled a few feet over to a stroller, strategically jammed between two rose bushes so it wouldn't melt.

As she worked to dig her camera bag from its bottom shelf, Lucy stared at her reflection in the black window before her face, wondering who worked on its inside, and whether they were watching her, too. What they must think.

Lucy unzipped the waterproof bag, given to her as a gift on her 25th birthday by the photographer who photographed Donald Trump's wedding. She pulled her camera out to snap some candids of her family, particularly the children.

Children have no self-defining fear of being photographed, no smile-altering pride, no self-esteem-crippling age to detract from their pure emotions, written all over every toothy grin and goofy smile. Even the sadness was real.

Lucy saw them play, and captured their frolicking realness with Big Tex frozen sweetly in the background.

Elvis picked a marigold for her, and she couldn't take her eyes off his dimpled grin long enough to notice that her press badge had fallen into a rose bush.

Beady, greedy eyes watched her from the other side of the window.

"Get me that badge," the eyes said.

They weren't smiling.

Chapter 10

He watched her.

Oh, he watched her.

Remember how she smelled in California? When other cars made it difficult for their bus driver to turn, gravity pulled her body into his, and his heart soared.

She smelled like syrup. Like syrup on cupcakes. Like vanilla creme. Cream puffs.

Cream puffs. That's what they would call each other. They would get married. They would have pet names. They would sit on buses and not wait for gravity to bring them back together.

He watched her.

He breathed, looking for courage to approach.

He opened his mouth to form pretty vowels, wanting his first hello to be as perfect as her face. Her face. Her face turned, feeling sunlight, and he was on his way.

Two steps later and his heart broke into pieces. Someone else plopped down upon his spot beside her on the lucky lucky bench. He froze.

The thin Indian woman was Bindi. Lucy hadn't seen her since high school. Cowboy stood in his place, listening to Lucy's voice curve into beautiful bell curves and drift over his eyes like vanilla cream.

He reached out his hand to touch her, feeling fuzzy electricity on his fingers, and he froze, two paces away. After a time he realized other passersby flew in and out.

A door slammed. He heard a toilet flush. He came back to life as if out of a dream, placing the hand that reached firmly into his pocket and the other brushed the invisible dust off the back of his neck. He turned, broken heart leaning like a dizzy bus on two wheels, turning corners into madness.

He found himself in a men's bathroom, and closed the door.

Three dark skinned men spoke another language in hushed tones beside him.

Was is Arabic? African? He didn't know. He didn't care. He watched a fake mustache fall to the floor beside his left foot. A dark skinned hand hurriedly reached out to rescue the accidental fur, with an Arabic/African expletive. Indian. Maybe Indian. Maybe these were Bindi's people. Whoever they were, he didn't like them.

They had stolen his girl.