That Cunt Can’t Sing
Jeanie wheeled her pickup expertly down the snake-twisting road. Jeff Beck played from the eight track tape deck. Her sons hadn’t budged from their makeshift bed. They were probably used to tagging along with mom on her gigs. When Nicky climbed into the truck, she’d given him a peck on the cheek. That was all the body contact they had so far. He found it rather refreshing for a change. He knew she was no airhead, this woman was in a class all of her own. “What do you paint?” she asked. “Women, mostly in various states of undress and arousal,” answered Nicky. “Sounds interesting, have you been to Spence Springs yet?” Jeanie asked. “No, not yet,” he replied. “Maybe we can go together?” “I would like that,” Nicky said. She changed the tapes to The Ballad of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid by Bob Dylan. He whined, “There are guns across the river, aiming at you. Billy, they don’t like you to be so free.” It was an appropriate tune for a special New Mexican night.
“What do you do in Gilman Canyon?” “I help run a small store, garden, play music, and raise my boys. I make a little cash playing small gigs around the mountains and when a forest fire breaks out, I go help put it out. Sometimes I cut firewood and Christmas trees, with my neighbor, Buffalo. If times get desperate, we go to the desert and borrow cacti, to sell to landscapers and make fake arrowheads. I also grow a few herbs.” “I like a woman of many talents,” replied Nicky. “You’ve seen nothing yet,” she laughed. They drove down the road, through Jemez Springs. Nicky thought of the Mexican beauty, as they passed her house. Jeanie continued on for about five miles, and then turned west, crossing a small wooden bridge. The Jemez River ran dark and cold over the round rocks, leaving it behind.
They entered a canyon. Nicky could see a barn that had once been painted red, almost lying on the road. Cattle, horses, mule, deer, and elk were spotlighted by the truck’s lights, eyes staring back, waiting, innocent in the starlit night among the small adobe ranchos. The Rio de las Vacas could be heard splashing along the west side of the canyon. The sun inched above the eastern rim, exposing the cliff walls of multicolored strata. Copper, gold, red magenta, opaque quartz layered irregular stone crumbled into the water. An ancient rusted Coca Cola sign, with a faded name, Gilman, marked Jeanie’s house. She rented from an old lady named Quintana, which owned the land from a Spanish land grant, which supposedly dated back to Cortez. Jeanie helped with the store. It had no set hours. A cowbell on a rope was rung by customer’s requiring service.
Nicky helped Jeanie carry her two sons into the house. They tucked them into bed. Jeanie started a fire in the fireplace, to warm the front room. They were both exhausted, they settled on the couch and soon fell asleep in each other’s arms.
He dreamed Jeanie was playing guitar in a small tavern. The crowd thinned out, as the night wore on. She played two sets and started her last around midnight. Two loud-mouthed Chicano dudes had been making stupid remarks, the more they drank, the louder and ruder they became. Jeanie continued to play, but finally they got so obnoxious, she stopped. “That cunt can’t sing,” one of them said. “She could wrap her lips around my chorizo and make better music,” the other replied. “She could fuck us both and sing at the same.” “I bet she has a big loose pussy, like her mouth.”
Nicky was a lover, not a fighter, but sometimes there was no choice. The bigger Mexican finally had enough liquid courage to do something about all his bold bullshit talk. He started staggering toward the stage. Nicky got up and intercepted the drunk. He jumped four times from the balls of his feet to his toes, to get his adrenaline flowing. He slapped the drunk, to turn his attention away from Jeanie. Reaching down to the floor, he brought up a Spanish Harlem haymaker that just about took the punk’s head clean off. His amigo started for the door, but Nicky was on him, like a Tasmanian devil doing a dervish dance. They would both be lucky to be fully functioning for quite some time. He awoke to a set of warm expert lips coaxing him awake. Jeanie had her hair down, flowing over his thighs and stomach. Her perfect pear-like breasts massaged his body. She almost brought him to climax, but eased off, teasing and licking and sucking, then prolonging the pleasure. Finally she lowered herself down on Nicky, incredibly slowing down and speeding up at the most crucial moments. Nicky had never encountered a woman with such muscle control and sexual prowess. Every other woman paled in comparison.
The morning light streamed in. As they heard the roosters crowing, they reached their simultaneous orgasm. Timmy and Joe attacked their mom, as Nicky made it into the bathroom. They were little hell raisers, to put it mildly. Jeanie stirred together a fire in her cast iron kitchen range. She got breakfast ready, as the boys got dressed for school. Nicky dressed and carried in some firewood. He stepped back outside to take a look around. The mountains were steep and awesome. Beyond the river was a hazy azure blue. The landscape was like the Sea of Tranquility. Ruby red oblong-shaped boulders marched down the canyon. Emerald green kaleidoscope juniper, yucca, and sage brush sprouted from the most unlikely fissures. No wonder so many great painters came to New Mexico, thought Nicky, the palette was infinite. Jeanie came outside to call him to breakfast. She could tell how much the canyon affected him, it usually had that magic. They ate huevos rancheros, she sure knew how to dish on the salsa. Taking the boys down to catch the yellow school bus, Jeanie made her way back to the house. Nicky offered to help her clean up, but she told him to go paint. Jeanie could sense his mood.
He got out his easel and canvas and set his studies against a rock. The canyon wall and background blended perfectly with his figures. The paintings came alive under his expertise, the canvas filled and overflowed with a strange life-giving force. A guitar could be heard from up the canyon. It was a country song, one he’d never heard before. The voice was alright, but the guitar work was excellent. Nicky heard a harmonica join in and he cocked an ear to keep listening, as he kept applying colors. A sweet jazz-like gospel voice took over, adding a verse to the song.
“Mojo, you could fuck up a wet dream,” he heard someone say in a New York accent and then crack up laughing. “If you countrified fuckers knew what music was, you’d need a ladder to climb to kiss my sweet molasses black ass,” the soul sister replied. This was more than Nicky could take, he went inside to inquire about the neighbors. “Oh you mean Buffalo,” Jeanie said. “He might have anyone with him. He’s from New York and he know musicians from all over the world.” “Do you ever play with him?” Nicky asked. “If you mean music, the answer is yes. Everyone in Gilman jams together, it’s the unwritten law,” replied Jeanie. “Will we meet him later?” “Sure, anytime you’re ready,” she replied. Nicky finished a couple of paintings and was putting the final touches on a third.
“Not bad, damn the ladies look so real, like they could step right down from the canvas and come alive,” he heard from the shadows. Nicky turned and saw a blonde, clean-shaven, almost baby-faced guy wearing a straw cowboy hat and smiling at him. The guy was shirtless, wearing cutoffs and huaraches and had an Ovation guitar slung across his back from a rainbow-colored strap. “You sure know how to paint naked women,” he said and extended his hand in friendship. “They call me Buffalo, I live up the road a piece.” “I heard your music and asked Jeanie about you, I’m Nicky,” he replied. “Don’t let me interrupt your painting,” Buffalo said. Jeanie brought them coffee. Buffalo played Starry Starry Night about Vincent van Gogh. He said it was the only song he knew about a painter. Jeanie got her guitar and they played for an hour, mostly old rock songs.
“I got to split. Bring Mr. Matisse Picasso down for a little get together this afternoon. I’ve got some twelve-day-old Scotch that came from a young horse near Glasgow, and I only rinsed my socks in it once,” Buffalo said.
“You don’t own any socks,” Jeanie replied.
***
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