Two biggest kids on the block. Sooner or later, they're gonna fight.
He has a place down the road from my parents. There isn’t a whole lot to do in Floydada. That’s Floy-day-dah, not Floy-dah-dah.
The people in Floydada wouldn’t know Dah-dah if it hogtied and branded them.
I see him a lot at the library. A few people in town are curious about him, but they’re too something–a weird amalgam of politeness and shyness and I’m not going to let on that I give a shit about anything–to come up and say anything to him. I’m guessing more than a few would like to come up, shake his hand, thank him for his portrayal of Lt. Col. Andy Tanner, the downed fighter pilot in Red Dawn.
That was real, they’d say. That was defining.
Sometimes me and Powers Boothe play mancala at the big table in the corner of the library, the one that gets the most light. Neither of us really knows how to play, so we just play it like a condensed version of Chinese checkers. Which, I guess we play African checkers. This is how I think of it, when I do. Playing African checkers with Powers Boothe in the Floydada library.
Powers Boothe brings a water bottle he’s taped up to spit his chew spit into. He’s as discreet as someone can be about something as gross as that.
Nasty habit, he tells me. Don’t ever start.
I wouldn’t worry about that, I say. Not much of a chance of it happening.
Your move, he says, indicating the board with a tilt of his spit bottle and a nod of his chin.
I know that, I say. I’m thinking.
Sometimes Powers Boothe spends a lot of time staring out the window, looking out at the dusty downtown landscape of Floydada. The half-closed storefronts, their windows finger-traced by functional illiterates. Wahsh me, one requests. Eat a sac of shit, suggests another. Cops ar fagets, a third opines. It only devolves from there. Angry jilted lovers’ testimonials about their once-(and still?)beloveds inconstancy. And/or sexual proclivities. And/or contact information.
I used to come here, summers, Powers Boothe tells me, looking out the window. Worked at this youth camp way out in the canyons. We didn’t come to town a whole lot, but they gave us the day off for the rodeo. That was the big thing. Everybody for about a thousand miles around would come. It was as big as the one in Sweetwater back then.
I fidget my African checkers piece, wait for him to move or continue.
I saw this fella one year, Powers Boothe says. Bull bucked him off in about three seconds flat, rushed in on him. I guess I was about fifteen, sixteen years old. Had this girl I was petting heavy with at camp sitting next to me. She had hair like sunshine. I had my arm around her, fingertips brushing the top of her breast. Just enough that we could both pretend it was maybe incidental. This guy, he wobbles up after the bull rushes in on him, and he’s got the world’s biggest grin. What in hell is he smiling about? I said, loud enough for everybody around to hear. That bull just whipped his ass. Everybody gave out a good chuckle when I said it. Made the blood come to my face. In a good way, like coming in to Thanksgiving dinner when there’s a norther blowing outside. Then that fella’s smile disappeared in a gush of blood.
How’s that? I say.
The bull had torn his lip off, Powers Boothe says. That’s how come it looked like he was smiling. He collapsed right after that. From the shock, I guess.
Jesus H. Jellybeans, I say. I guess you felt like an asshole.
You could say that, Powers Boothe says. That girl, she never did let me in her pants. I think it was on account of that.
Could be, I say.
I got the C, Powers Boothe says. Big C of the mouth.
On account of this shit here, Powers Boothe says, indicating the spit bottle. Don’t you ever start.
I double-won’t now, I say. Don’t you worry.
Poetic justice, maybe, Powers Boothe says, shrugging. Always wondered what the rest of that fella’s life was like, going around looking like he’s grinning big as day, miserable as all hell. Guess I’m about to find out.
They probably sewed it back on, I say.
Powers Boothe blinks, nods. I imagine you’re right about that, he says. Never did think of it that way.
Your Doc Holliday was better than Val Kilmer’s, I say. You got screwed.
One way or another, Powers Boothe says, we all do. Sooner or later.
