On the other side of Brokeback Mountain

On the Other Side of

Brokeback Mountain

By

Cal Stevens

Copyright © 2013 Cal Stevens

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved.

Cover by Robert Magginetti, Hayward, California with Jim Macey of Keeler, California contemplating the mountains.

Table of Contents

Reflections of a Wyoming Cowboy

Hired Help

Episode 1: Sonny

Episode 2: Mother Rachael: The Ranch Detective

Episode 3: The Old Blue Chevy

Internet Bride

REFLECTIONS OF A WYOMING COWBOY

THE ACCIDENT, May 28, 2005

MORNING

Gretchen, May 31, 2005, 7:00 AM

Barney, 1943-1944

Becky, 1947-1948

Cameron, May 20-23, 1948

Earl, 1948-1955

Rosie, 1955

AFTERNOON

Gretchen, May 31, 2005, 1:30 PM

Brendan, 1955-1962

Katherine, 1962

Rob and Patty, 1962-1963

Al Sims, 1963

Raymond, 1963

Rob and Patty, 1963-2005

Jenny, 1966

Rob, 1978

Brendan, 1983-1985

Jeff, 1991-2005

EVENING

Gretchen, May 31, 2005, 6:00 PM

Wayne, May 31, 2005, 7:00 PM

THE ACCIDENT

May 28, 2005

It happened suddenly. I was out in the corral with Wayne, the other hired hand, trying to get some reluctant steers into the loading chute, when he yelled, Watch out, Joe, a big guy is running right at you. Before I could turn around, however, that steer knocked me down and then fell on me.

After the animal got up I lay prostrate face down on a bed of fresh cow pies. Gasping for breath, I called out, Wayne, help me.

Wayne ran across the corral to protect me from all those other steers, which were running and milling around, yelling to Rob, the owner, You better call for an ambulance; I think Joe’s in pretty bad shape.

As I lay there immobile I asked Wayne to help me up, but Rob called out, Don’t touch him Wayne, he might have a back injury. We better let the paramedics take care of him. Just wipe the cow shit off his face.

I wasn’t in pain, but I was frightened. I couldn’t move. All I could see was the muck below my face; all I could hear was the beating of hoofs, some too close for comfort; and all I could smell was the fresh manure.

After what seemed an eternity, an ambulance came and took me to the hospital where I now lie.

MORNING

Gretchen, May 31, 2005, 7:00 AM

I woke up to Gretchen’s voice announcing the beginning of a new day. Wake up Joe, it’s time for breakfast made just for you.

Even though she’s my favorite nurse, I was very annoyed. I’d lain awake all night trying to go to sleep. I’d seen 1:00AM, 2:00AM, 3:00AM and 4:00AM. I could swear I didn’t get a wink of sleep all night, so how the hell could it be morning? Is it possible I slipped off to sleep after 4:00 AM?

Well, I guess it is. Gretchen has already opened the blinds and from my bed I now see that the mountains off to the west are fully illuminated. Shit, yesterday afternoon I’d decided I should observe the sun’s first rays reflecting off those distant peaks where I’d spent so much of my life before I’m moved to a room without a view. Instead, I’d slept until the sun had peaked above the bluffs east of Antelope Creek and brought the little town of Antelope, Wyoming to life.

I’ve been here at the County hospital only three days, but it seems forever. Four days ago I was at the T Bar ranch still working even though I’m approaching seventy-five. Rob Rasch, the owner of the T Bar, had kept me on his payroll all this time, probably because I’d been on the ranch for so many years. However, I know it’s been a long time since I earned my keep, and recently I’d been even less useful because I’d not been feeling well. Maybe that was the reason I’d been so careless and gotten hurt.

The doctors here at the hospital first reported my back was broken so they might put me in a full body cast. Later they discovered I have some awful type of cancer, which I suppose was the reason I’d felt poorly. They now tell me there’s little they can do for me.

News like that I could do without, of course, but I’m grateful to Dr. Tschurgi for his no-nonsense evaluation of my condition. After presenting his diagnosis he said, You don’t have much time left, so you better get your affairs in order.

My affairs? I had to laugh. My only affair is my dog, Jeff, who’s been my only companion and the recipient of my affection for the last fourteen years. Suddenly it hit me, Christ. I have to get somebody to take care of her.

After a little thought I concluded it’ll have to be Patty, Rob’s wife. She’s the only person who ever seemed to care a thing about Jeff and I’m sure she will at least feed her.

While I was thinking about Jeff, Gretchen came in.

With a great flourish she said, Perk up, somebody from the T Bar called and will be coming to see you today.

Who, I asked, a man or a woman?

Sorry, I don’t know, she said. I didn’t answer the phone myself, but I’ll see if I can find out for you.

Hmm, I muttered to myself, I hope it’s Patty so I can ask her to look out after Jeff.

After breakfast, with nothing else to do, I stared out of the window. I’d always enjoyed taking in the mountain grandeur any time of day, and now I have plenty of time to look and think about all those years spent in the shadows of those peaks. Of course I don’t really have to even have my eyes open. I can trace the outline of those mountains against the sky from memory, and I can see in my mind all the canyons, ridges, tree-covered slopes, and crags that have reflected the morning sun for eons.

Before lunch, while I was still reminiscing, Gretchen came into my room again and this time sat down. The last few days I’d enjoyed just seeing her, a very Germanic-appearing gal of perhaps twenty-five years with light blue eyes, light brown hair, and a large frame, walking in and out of my room. This, however, was the first time she hadn’t just hurried off, so I figured she wanted to talk.

I started the conversation with, What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?

Gretchen laughed. Very funny. Where have I heard that one before? Besides, somebody’s got to keep guys like you under control.

Guess so, I responded, but doesn’t it bother you to be surrounded by all us sickos all day?

Oh no, you guys are more fun than most people on the outside.

Yeah? Tell me another one. But anyway, how come you became a nurse instead of an astronaut?

Well, I have to admit being an astronaut sounds like fun, but when I was a little girl I played with dolls a lot and pretended to take care of them when they were sick. I guess I just never changed.

But being a nurse is a pretty hard job isn’t it?

Not really, I don’t have to lift heavy patients or mop the floor, and I have great hours. I get here at seven in the morning and I’m off at three-thirty.

Three-thirty? So what do you do then?

Usually I go straight home and later meet up with Vino, my boyfriend, when he gets off work. We all call him Vino, but his real name is Viano. I think that’s a Finnish name. Anyway he always comes to see me as soon as he’s free. He says he loves me and I think he’s going to propose any day now.

Hmm, does that mean you’ll be leaving us?

Oh no, not for a while at least. What I’m hoping is that we’ll get married soon and in a year or so I’ll have a baby and then two or three more. Of course, I’ll take off from nursing for a few years, but when the kids are old enough to take care of themselves, I’m sure I’ll come back to the hospital.

Sounds good, but does Vino know about all these babies?

"Oh, I think he pretty much knows what I want and I really think he wants to make me happy. Anyway I love him and he’s such a nice guy. And he’s talented too. In his spare time he makes fancy leather belts he sells over the Internet. I guess his work is beginning to be successful because just the other day when I saw him after work he was jumping up and down with excitement. He’d gotten an e-mail from a woman in L. A. who’d ordered a very special belt for her husband as a birthday present. Vino said that in the e-mail she said she and her husband were so impressed with the belt she just had to thank him. Then he said she went on to write, ‘I never heard of Antelope, Wyoming. Is it anywhere close to Riverton in Fremont County?’

"Vino then said, ‘I laughed. And in answering her, I wrote that if she knew about Riverton and Fremont County, she must have read Annie Proulx’s story about a couple of gay cowboys, but that Antelope is actually on the other side of Brokeback Mountain.’

But enough about me. What about you? What did you do before you came here?

All I replied was, I was working as a cowboy at the T Bar ranch. Can you believe it? I worked on that ranch for more than forty years.

Wow. That must be some sort of record. But tell me about your family?

Actually I don’t have a family of my own. However, I’ve been with Rob and Patty so long I consider them to be almost family. The children even call me Uncle Joe.

Well, I am glad to hear that; everybody needs other people to be close to. But tell me, what was your job at the ranch? Did you mostly ride and take care of cattle or did you do all kinds of other things?

As you might guess, I did whatever Rob, my boss, asked me to do; that was almost anything that needs to be done on a ranch. It included lots of riding, mostly checking on or moving cattle, but there were lots of other things that kept me busy. You know, things like fixing fence or helping repair machinery. Of course, I also helped with the calving in the spring, haying in the summer, and feeding the stock in the winter.

I see. So what did you do in the evening when you were free?

Usually I sat with my dog Jeff in my lap watching TV or working at my hobby, carving models, mostly of animals, out of wood.

Really? I had no idea you were an artist. Will you show me some of your work one day?

Sure, but all my models are back at the ranch. I’ll tell whoever comes in later today I need a few pieces just for you.

She seemed delighted with that prospect, but added, You fascinate me. I really would like to know more about you, like what you did before going to work at the T Bar.

So I told her. I grew up dirt poor in Texas and came to Wyoming to be a cowboy. First I worked as a ranch hand and later as a cowboy on several different ranches before finally taking the permanent job at the T Bar.

But you never did get married though, did you?

No. Along the way I came close to it, but things just never worked out. I often wished they had.

When I finished Gretchen said, Well, I’m sure your life must have been much more interesting than what you’ve told me. Don’t you have some big fish stories you could tell me?

I laughed. Well yeah, maybe. But there are a lot of things that are just too personal to talk about.

She accepted that explanation and then got up and left to attend to other patients.

After having talked with Gretchen I felt more serene. How refreshing to an old man like me to hear the optimism of youth, a reminder of the unfulfilled dreams I’d had so long ago. I also now realize Gretchen’s genuinely concerned about me and the other patients, and it’s obvious she’s trying very hard to keep our spirits up.

Even though I hate being in the hospital, I guess I’m lucky. Not only do I have a room with a great view, but I’m also waited on hand and foot. I’ve experienced some discomfort, but I’m not in pain, although Gretchen and the other nurses apparently think I should be.

Whenever one of them passes the room she asks, Do you need a pain pill or an injection?

So far I haven’t really needed anything, so I generally try to shake them up a little by saying, Hell no, I’m tough. Try somebody else.

I guess they can’t accept that in my life simple physical pain was a fact of life. Black eyes, cut lips, scrapes, bruises, broken bones, they all come with being a cowboy. Yes, at this point I think I can handle the physical pain. The mental anguish associated with remembrances of terrible mistakes I’d made over the years and opportunities I’d missed, knowledge of which I can’t share with another living person, however, is another matter. So here I lie. What else can I do? Not much except to close my eyes and think about the past or look out at the mountains and recall how they shaped my life.

Either brings back floods of memories, some too painful to relive.

Barney, 1943-1944

Growing up was hard. My Dad was uneducated, unhappy, and very impatient with everybody in the family: Mom, my sisters, Emily and Katy, and especially me. I learned early on that when he was drunk, which was often, it was best to keep out of his way. Fortunately, it was easy to elude him as long as I kept out of his reach because he was grossly overweight, the reason he hadn’t been drafted into the Army, and slow. When he was angry with me I generally hid outside the house often missing a meal. That didn’t really matter much though, because if I just waited until he left the dinner table and passed out, I almost always could find leftovers.

Mom wasn’t particularly sympathetic with me, probably the result of having been worn down by her abusive husband. So when I complained about Dad she usually said, You’re part of the problem yourself, you know. If you’d just agree with your dad on everything you’d be OK.

I would then reply, But I can’t when I know he’s wrong.

With that Mom would just walk away.

In spite of everything, Dad was good at making household repairs. So at that time when so many men were away at war, he should have been able to pick up lots of jobs. However, he pretty much shunned hard work and took on odd jobs only when he felt like it. As a result he never seemed to have money for anything except the simple diet we lived on and the illegal rot-gut hooch he loved so much.

Rent was always a problem, but Dad had worked out a system that always seemed to work. Whenever we moved to a new town, he’d put down a month’s rent and continue to pay until money ran low. Then he would quit making payments and string the owner along, sometimes for many months, until we finally got evicted. However, he was smart enough to have saved enough money during those months to make the first month’s rent on a new place at the next town. So, over the years we must have lived in every small town in the Texas panhandle.

The constant moving was especially hard on us kids because we never stayed anywhere long enough to make friends. Wherever we went the local kids had already formed their own cliques from which we were excluded. Emily and Katy had each other, but I generally had to make do by connecting with the neighbors’ outdoor pets. Most of those animals were pretty much ignored or abused by their owners, so they were thrilled by the attention I gave them, and most would play with me and allow me to cuddle them.

One day I found a stray puppy on my way home from school. She was dirty and apparently hungry, but so cute with her light brown coat contrasting with her white face, chest, and paws. When I bent down, she rushed over to me to be picked up. She licked my hands and face while I tried to brush off some of the dirt. I thought of trying to sneak her into my room when I got home. But she yelped and barked all the way home, so I knew I’d have to face my parents right away.

Of course Dad immediately yelled, No way; I’m not going to waste food on a mongrel bitch. I work hard and even so we barely get by.

Mostly drink hard, I thought. Oh well, one day when I get away from here I’ll have a dog of my own.

I especially remember that awful sixth grade in the little town of Hetrone. My spotty education had left me behind in most subjects. I was OK in mathematics, but I knew little about history, and I couldn’t either read or write at grade level.

Our teacher, Miss Stradell, who was very strict, told us time and again that her job was to make sure we learned proper English. She was a tall, thin, middle-aged woman with dark brown hair drawn back into a bun. Her face was neither friendly nor unfriendly, but all in all she was a commanding figure who made it clear she was not one to be toyed with. Her rules were strict and her control absolute.

One of Miss Stradell’s favorite weekly exercises required all students to write a paragraph about some episode in their lives, which the authors then had to read aloud in front of the class. If any sentence lacked a verb or if the wrong tense or pronoun had been used, Miss Stradell would hang her head and sadly comment, No matter how hard I try, every year you students keep getting worse.

When it was my turn to read, the other kids immediately started to hoot and laugh. Miss Stradell always quickly put a lid on that, but it hurt a lot anyway. Also, in the time-honored tradition of that school, I was kept after classes most days working on grammar while Miss Stradell corrected homework. Although I silently cursed her, I did have to acknowledge she actually helped me a lot.

I was allowed to go out for recess, but that wasn’t any great treat. Most of the kids wouldn’t play with me because they said I was dumb and poor white trash. Barney, a tall, blond, beefy boy, who was considered the toughest, meanest kid in school and always seemed to have a chip on his shoulder, took an instant dislike to me.

Whenever he apparently had nothing else to do, he’d come up to me and say something like, Take that smile off your face or I’ll take it off for you, or One of these days I’m going to beat the shit out of you.

Fortunately, since I was almost always kept after school by Miss Stradell, I could easily keep out of Barney’s way. One day when I was going home, however, I ran into him and his gang going the opposite direction. When Barney saw me he separated from his followers, came up to me, grabbed me by my collar and said, Why are you walking on my sidewalk?

I replied, Gee I didn’t know it was your sidewalk.

With that he beat me up as he’d often threatened. Just for fun, I guess.

I went home, bursting into tears as I walked into the house. Mom was sprawled out on the sofa looking like a walrus, listening to the radio while holding a beer in one hand and a jar of peanuts spilling onto the floor in the other. She was still in her bathrobe and obviously hadn’t bothered to comb her hair. The house, as usual, was in shambles.

Mom took one look at me and growled, Quit sniffling, followed by, What the hell happened to your clothes?

I tried to explain the other kids called me white trash and Barney beat me up.

Then, lacking any sympathy whatsoever, Mom said, For God sake, stop crying; just go back there and beat the shit out of all those bastards.

Emily, my older sister, put her arms around me and tried to comfort me, but that didn’t help much.

When Dad got home he whipped me with his belt for getting my clothes all torn up and letting the other kids call our family white trash. Then he started his nightly ritual of drinking until he passed out. My whole body hurt for a couple of days, but I guess what hurt the most was that I knew we were indeed white trash.

After that run-in with Barney and his buddies, I kept as quiet as possible around school and made sure I wasn’t caught alone with them again. Finally, just before school got out for the summer, we moved again.

Thank God; as far as I was concerned, Barney was history.

Becky, 1947-1948

I was sixteen when we moved to Wetherland, a little community on U.S. Highway 87. It didn’t seem like a bad town, but it was nothing special either, except that it lay on that major north-south highway. Like most small towns the highway was lined on both sides by one- and two-story business buildings. Some offices and less prestigious businesses spilled over onto the nearby streets where they merged into residential areas dominated by simple, mostly two- and three-bedroom houses. In the older parts of town