‘All Is True: The Naked Girl in the Treehouse’

By Mark Howell

Laramie Serenade

Chapter 12

The car that overtook us just bristled with insults, mostly from the driver whose eye caught mine as he flashed by within touching distance of our open passenger window.

David at the wheel took chase until I spat, “Stop it!”

“What’s the matter, Thom One,” he yelled, pulling back. “Scared of a bit of action?”

“I don’t see how someone else’s problem is our problem,” I murmured.”

“What the hell kind of priest would you be?” he said. “What on earth do you really believe in this damned life of ours?”

The boys’ car had outraced us. The crisis was presumably over. I leaned back in relief and considered a response to this working-class pal of mine. I hated it when we yelled at each other. Which we only ever did it when we talked about things spawned of anything that had to do with England. So I guess this did, to use the American idiom.

“I believe you should pay rent just once and never have to again,” I declared. “I believe that one razor should last a lifetime. I believe women should solve their own problems and not ask me.”

This, naturally, made everything much worse.

“Oh my God,” swore David, “you are so unbelievably entitled. Have you ever done a day’s work in your life?”

“I helped buy this car from my elevator job.”

“So you had your ups and downs.”

There was a pause before we groaned at this. And then I saw them. Hadi and Winona, both with their Stetsons pulled back, just ahead on the sidewalk, signaling to us to stop, their truck parked just ahead of them. A sweet sight, critically timed.

David pulled over behind their pickup and we jumped out to join them. I pecked Hadi on the cheek. David kissed Winona on the lips.

“We know those boys,” they said, both of them.

“You gotta steer clear of that garbage,” muttered Winona.

“They can’t help it, Win,” said Hadi.

“Would you sing to us?” they said, suddenly.

“’Course we will,” said David. “Let’s go.”

Suddenly we were a two-vehicle convoy headed down a narrow alley off Main Street in downtown Laramie. This could be fun. This would definitely be a change of mood.

Within minutes we were in an abandoned lot at the end of a most Kerouackian side street imaginable. “How did you ever find this place?” I asked, the minute David and I plus his guitar had reassembled on the front seat of their pickup, a tight little group for some loud pop n’ roll.

“We’d come here after school,” said Hadi. “Those boys did, too. They never hated Indians then.” “Yes, they did,” said Winona.

“What’s to hate?” said David.

“Well, you have to find your people,” intoned Hadi, at which

David magically struck a couple of chords on the guitar and announced, “Ladies and ladies, presenting the Rolling Stones!”

In the fading light the girls squealed, which was when I made a private prophecy in my mind: Fifty years from now, two Lakota beauties will still believe they were once serenaded by two of the Rolling Stones.

The problem in present time, of course, remained. We knew no Rolling Stones songs! But neither did just about anyone else in America at this point.

So we launched into “Can’t buy Me Love” by the Beatles, followed by “I Feel Fine,” and then of course “A Hard Day’s Night,” all big hits for John and Paul in a great year for their songs. And finally my favorite, “If I Fell,” a sweet and subdued harmony for two at which David and I mysteriously excelled.

Just as we took a breath for an encore there came an accelerating noise up the alleyway and then the unwelcome snout of a ’64 Chevy Impala, car of the year, driven by one of the three boys who’d bumped into our ass on Main Street earlier that evening. One of them must have taken his daddy’s new car for a spin.

Next Week: Only one way to spell it:

T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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