Western Swing Read Free Page A

mountains is waiting to tell you where Buggie is.”
    â€œI’ll force it out of him.”
    â€œOut of who?”
    â€œWhoever’s up there.”
    â€œWave bye-bye, Loren, ’cause I won’t be here when you come back down.”
    Lana Sue’s daddy was a gynecologist and her grandma committed suicide. Her former husband was a country music promoter who used to fake epileptic fits whenever she wouldn’t go down on him, so Lana Sue was well acquainted with insanity before she came to me and she doesn’t care to get involved with purposeful psychosis.
    â€œYou’re getting heavy,” she said.
    â€œDon’t you ever wonder about the purpose of life?”
    â€œI wonder about the price of Tony Lamas or how many calories are in frozen yogurt. The purpose of life doesn’t matter, Loren.”
    â€œDoes to me.”
    As America goes lightweight—light beer, light cigarettes, light margarine—being “heavy” is the last great sin. It replaced saying “fuck” on television.
    Lana Sue sang in one of her hub’s bands before I spirited her away to the Wyoming wilderness. She wasn’t good enough to be in the band without balling somebody, and she knew it, and the husband, Ace, reminded her of this fact every night.
    Ace said, “You could never be in this band if you weren’t screwing me,” which made her resent him, naturally. Ace is the title character in The Yeast Infection. I came, fell into the picture, and told her I wouldn’t give her anything at all if she slept with me, so she did. I lied, though, because after the last book came out, we got our picture in the Casper Star Tribune’s Sunday Supplement. I have the picture in a frame on my desk. Lana Sue and I are standing by the greenhouse, petting our dog, Rocky, who has just ripped the heart out of a marmot that’s not in the picture. Lana Sue is wearing a dark wool shirt and tight jeans. Her hair is the best part of the picture. I love Lana Sue’s hair.
    My face looks like I just woke up with a bad schnapps hangover. The back of my jeans hangs down loose was if my ass has been surgically removed. Even in the grainy newspaper picture, my glasses are noticeably dirty. The caption says Lana Sue and I are a “vibrant young Wyoming couple.” Lana Sue is vibrant. I don’t label well.
    â€¢ • •
    I fell in love with Lana Sue because she fell in love with me. Also, because she sings on the toilet. The morning after our first night, I woke up fuzzy and heard the chorus of “Jambalaya” coming from the bathroom. The song is a list of interesting Louisiana foods. Hank Williams wrote it.
    Figuring it was safe, I did my usual blind morning stumble into the can and there sat a beautiful woman, the beautiful woman, my adolescent fantasy woman, with panties around her ankles.
    â€œNobody sings on the toilet,” I said.
    â€œI do.”
    â€œYou’re supposed to sing in the shower.”
    â€œI sing anywhere I want.”
    â€œMy God.” I backed out, closed the door, and leaned my forehead on the cool paint of the frame. Seven-thirty on a Sunday morning and she’s singing Hank Williams on the crapper. I decided to marry her and have children.
    â€¢ • •
    Lana Sue is the most self-confident person I’ve ever known. She’s so smooth and…adaptable. And cheerful—how many cheerful people do you meet who aren’t unrealistic to the point of retarded?
    More remarkable than that, Lana Sue thinks I’m “hot stuff.” She said so. She said I’m a prize she got for not going nuts or settling for anything less. Isn’t that remarkable, a woman of balance and perspective, not to mention beautiful as the sun rising over the Tetons, swept off her feet by a manic-depressive soul searcher with no ass? There’s no accounting for tastes.
    The only thing that worries me is, Lana Sue seems too