The Mustang Saloon

"The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window."

The candle was mine; I was finally visiting the cabin I inherited from my grandmother. The last time I was there, it had not been a time of pleasure. This night I was there with my daughter and Jake, my 22-year-old grandson. We were to decide: keep the place or stage it for an agent’s caravan and put it up for sale.

My grandson wanted to know why I had avoided the cabin for so many years. He examined every nook and cranny, amazed at how well kept it was, clean, everything ready for occupants to enjoy a few days in the rough. “I have someone clean it frequently, and for a commission, Polly rents it out as an Airbnb. No one ever stays very long. Three days is the record.”

We brought dinner with us, and after eating and a few bottles of wine, I decided to tell him the truth. We stoked up the fire. Even in California it can get cold in the winter, especially in the mountains.

“Are you sure you are up for a long story,” I asked.

“Sure am. I’ve been wondering about this place forever. I remember coming here when I was a kid, but it’s been a long time since we were here.” Jake said.

“Okay. You asked for it.”

And so I began: “It was about twelve years ago. Timmy hangs out then at the Mustang Saloon. Most people leave him alone. Some of the cowboys, the ones off the Reservation, tease him, not mean, friendly, make him feel like one of the guys. He seems to enjoy the recognition, happy when they speak to him.

Timmy’s not quite right, just a little slow. Overweight. By a lot. He wears baggy jeans, crotch slipping nearby his knees, large tent-like plaid shirts. Dark curly hair covers his head, arms and mats into the v-neck of his shirt. His deep black eyes convey little beyond sadness to anyone who cares to look. Few do. His neck sports a galaxy of moles and warts.

He probably likes the local girls, but they all shy away from him, he makes them uncomfortable. They might speak to him, offer a modicum of friendship, but the intuition of women says he might misinterpret any sign of friendship, so they keep their distance.

One cold winter night, temperature sinking into the 20’s like tonight, my friend Polly calls me. She’s tending an empty bar. I’m bored, nothing on television of interest, only seven-thirty and black as pitch outside. I bundled myself into a shearling jacket, drove to the Mustang to gab with Polly. Better than an empty house.

Polly knows what I drink: a diet Coke with Bacardi dark back. A half shot with a large glass of Coke and I get a free soda refill for the second half of the shot and no DUI on the way home.

Timmy sits on the short arm of the bar looking out the window. Polly and I sit across from each other in the middle of the long part. Gossiping. A cold wind slams the door against a table. A short blonde huffs inside, cases the joint, plops herself next to Timmy, ignoring eleven empty barstools.

The blonde’s not a local. Face not familiar. Crisp white blouse under a short mink jacket, black gabardine dress slacks and elegant black boots. Not cowboy boots—but Italian or Spanish, expensive. Polly nudges me, she knows her boots. Leather soft and smooth. Couple a hundred bucks for low. No ranch dirt. Gold earrings, bracelet and watch. Gold Movado. Classy. Visitor…or guest at a dude ranch maybe?

Polly asks what she wants. With a long look towards Timmy, the blonde says, “I’ll have a Slippery Nipple.” Timmy bolts upright, eyes popped open.

Polly raises one eyebrow at me, I’m trying not to giggle studying my rum and coke.

Drink served, Polly and I continue our conversation, ignoring two at the other end of the bar. A half-hour later, scuffling sounds catch our attention. Timmy and blonde move to a table in the corner. Close to each other. The blonde is pretty, a bit windblown, strongly built and country-healthy despite expensive city clothes. She’s leaning into Timmy, her hand tracing across his chest.

Polly and I blink a few times and look away. Fast. We don’t want to see more. Eyebrows raised in question. Was the chick stoned when she came in? Didn’t look that way at first glance. We go back to our conversation, unmindful of the muffled sounds.

A particularly loud moan draws our attention. The blonde is climbing Timmy, one leg across the lower part of his belly, his hand under her bottom holds her in place. Both arms circle his neck, hands running through his hair.

I slap a fiver on the bar. “Well, girlfriend, I’m outta here.” Polly has none of it. “Don’t you dare leave me alone with that!” She hisses. Nods in the direction of the two. “I’ll never speak to you again!” Her face is red. I believe her.

“Shut the place down.” I said. “No one’s around. You won’t miss any business.”

We both glance into the far corner. The woman is licking the warts on Timmy’s neck.

Polly looks at her watch. Almost ten. I can see she figures I’m right, town’s shut down for the night. “Yeah, but how do I ditch the lovebirds?”

“Hand her a tab. You’re closing down and please settle up. Then start putting everything away. I’ll stay until they leave.”

Minutes later, Polly hands the woman the bill, and she pays. No problem. As she climbs off Timmy, his shirt open, black curly hair a soft-looking mat covering the mountain of belly and chest. I look away, afraid something else might be open. Defiantly too much information!

The woman adjusts her blouse, shakes out her hair and takes Timmy’s hand. His black empty eyes ask a question, she nods an answer as she pulls him up. When they walk out, I can see the blonde’s not early twenties as I had thought, maybe even early forties or more. Still…

The door opens, cold air rushes in, the porch lights glittering on the hood of a black Cadillac limousine. The woman opens the passenger door for Timmy and it shuts him inside with a soft thud. Polly has the bar door locked, before the Caddy pulls away.

I notice Timmy left his jacket, a black lump no one noticed. As I move to try and catch them. Polly puts her hand out. “Don’t bother, I think he’ll be warm enough tonight. He’ll get it tomorrow.”

I’m unquiet about the evening events. As Polly runs a rag down the length of the bar, I voice what’s bothering me. “Do you think he’s going to be all right? I mean, that was really strange. That woman was . . . after all? . . . what did she want with him?”

“Don’t worry about Timmy. He’s a big strong guy, he can take care of himself.”

“Still…do you think we should call his family? Someone? Let them know where he is?”

“We don’t know where he is. He lives on the Reservation with his mother, he’s well over thirty and should be able to take care of himself. Let’s close the place and go home. Please.”

Polly turns off the lights, puts on the alarm and locks the door.

I sees a few flakes of snow in the street lights overhead as I pull away from the parking lot. The scene is tranquil, like Christmas. Unusual for California, I feel disoriented, as if I’m someplace unknown.

All night I toss in bed. Conflicted. I keep seeing Timmy with the blonde. Different scenes, different places.

First, they’re in the woods; the woman on her knees, her face buried in a thatch of black fur at his groin, his belly bouncing over her head. He’s against a tree, his arms twisted back, tied around the trunk. He’s screaming without making a sound.

Next, a dank, shadowed place like a castle dungeon, the woman on top riding him like a Brahma bull, flicking a whip across his arms and her own buttocks as she urges him on.

Then, he’s in a room, dark, seedy, paint peeling off the wall. His life slips away into a dark pool from a wound across his throat, the woman in shadows, face partially hidden; watching his life stain the grubby sheets while her hand furiously works her pubic region.

I wake up with a start, sweat drying on my neck. Go to the bathroom. Splash water on my face, go back to bed, still antsy. Flashes of more strange dreams flicker across my subconscious, moving from sensual to bloody—some only a flash of light into a pit of darkness. The dreams carry a sense of unknowing, a probing into something deep inside that doesn’t want uncovering. The places where unquiet lives.

As I drink my coffee the next morning, I realize I’m exhausted. Too many questions won’t let go. Did the woman take Timmy’s virginity? What did she want from him? I know nothing about the sex lives of men like him. Would the guys on the Res have fixed him up with a hooker as a joke? As a gift?

There always seemed something naive about Timmy. He sat on the outside, a spectator, never part of the action. Could she have wanted his innocence? There was nothing sexually appealing about him in my eyes. But what do other people look for? Had they left him in the clutches of a succubus, of a ghost, a vampire? I shiver remembering the woman went directly to Timmy. An immediate target, straight trajectory. I shake myself. Heebie-jeebies. It had been a dark night, cold. Spooky. I push the odd thoughts away and get on with my day.

Polly calls with news. Her shift started at noon, when she arrived, the owner, who opens at six AM, said Timmy stopped by to pick up his jacket. I soon forgot the incident; at least he’s still alive.

A few days later, Timmy’s mother calls the bar looking for him, worried. No one has seen him and he doesn’t go off without telling her.

“Do you think he could have run away with that woman?” Polly asks me.

“I still can’t see a nice looking woman in a Caddy limo stealing Timmy. Can you?”

Polly laughs. “He sure wouldn’t be my first choice if I could afford that car. I’d find me some hottie with a nice six-pack!”

I laugh. Polly has been with the same man for years and never looked twice at any cowboys who came into the bar.

Days pass. Neither one of us mentions our strange night at the Mustang. Neither of us saw the woman again. We’re reluctant to tell the story, ask around if anyone knows her.

I go back to Los Angeles for my job. Vacation at the cabin over for several months.

***

Some kids laying a trap line in the mountains went by my cabin, saw the door was open and decide to look inside. They find Timmy, or what’s left of him, sitting propped against a kitchen cabinet, shotgun alongside, pointing at what was left of his face. The scene didn’t add up. Suspicious, said the local gossip. Odd placement for the shotgun if he’d shot himself. How did he get in my cabin?

Police ruled it suicide. Didn’t bother about some Indian from the Res who did himself in. Plenty of that goin’ round, ‘specially a fat guy without all his marbles. End of story.

Polly called me and told me what had happened. She made arrangements to have the mess in the cabin cleaned up so next time I came it would be spotless.

By the time Timmy’s in the ground, the gossip was as cold as he was.

I still wake sometimes with cold sweats, even when I’m in L.A..

But when I come to the cabin, it’s different. I see Timmy in the kitchen, gun on his lap, and his empty eyes look at me as if asking a question. Queasy, apprehensive, my stomach is full of acid and dread, in fear of the thing with no name…waiting, watching…

I try to chalk it up as one of those odd mysteries life leaves unsolved. The ones rattling around in your brain at night while the fathomless eyes of the savage within rake across your soul to bring…unquiet.”

My grandson has his mouth open as if to ask a question. My daughter has heard the story before and I know wants to sell the cabin.

“So guys, what do you think? Keep or sell? It’s late, we can sleep on it. Hope you have sweet dreams.”

I couldn’t help smirking as I turned off the lights and headed to the bed I knew I’d get no sleep in.

Timmy always waits to keep me company at night when I’m here.