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Patsy Marley blew into Good Water in late May with the silver maple fluff. She landed at the Arm and Leg General Store. Greg Dange, in the store for a six pack, a bag of chips and a bottle of salsa, noticed her straightaway, for Patsy was a babe, more specifically, an earth muffin, with long dark hair, dark eyes, a nice tan, duchess tats and resident armpit hair.

It was Greg’s habit to loiter at the Arm and Leg General Store. He shot the breeze with the clerk or sat on the bench out front always watchful to see what tourist debris the flashfloods of chance left high and dry in Good Water. In other places, lonely single men cast their nets at singles’ bars, but humble Good Water boasted only one bar, the Bridle N Bit, which was not a singles or a fern bar, but rather a lonesome cowboy bar where single unattached women did not tread. No, the place to locate passing-through babes was the Arm and Leg.

Two things always hooked Greg: a passably pretty face and a lithe, athletic build. Patsy Marley possessed both. Greg felt like a purist angler parting willow to see a lunker cutthroat dimpling the surface of a dark pool for a hatch of mayflies.

He did not want to seem too forward, so he grinned as he passed by as she stared into the cooler, then sidled up to the cash register counter, eyes still on Patsy, and joked with the clerk. His voice and posture were intended to say, “I am noticing you, comely turista. I am a local, knowledgeable, and at your service to show you around the town and its environs. In fact, there’s nothing I’d rather do.”

As if tuned into Greg’s vibes, she approached, smiled and said, “Hey.” Her voice was darkly beguiling.

He smiled back and made a friendly remark.

“I never drink beer,” she said touching his Keystone. “But I’d be happy to share an orange and some raisins.” Greg paid for both their groceries.

They sat together on the bench while she slowly peeled it. It was shady and cool beneath the knotty pine veranda. A string of lights, attached to the eaves, flashed come-hithers to passing autos.   

“I could feel your energy in there,” she said. “I can tell you’re basically a good person, not a user.”

“I guess,” he said. “I mean, I try to be.”

“I can always tell an honest person by his face,” she continued. “You have an honest face.”  She grabbed his hand and smiled.

“Hmm,” he said. “I could tell by your face that you’re really attractive.”

She flicked her wrist as if to say, whatever. “It’s best not to objectify beauty.”

“For sure,” he said. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Patsy Marley.”

“Cool.”

“You didn’t have to say that you’re attracted to me.  I know…  Men always like me. I have a lot of different friends.”

Greg gulped as he looked south toward the mountain. “Pretty nice town, Good Water, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Patsy said. “But all this stuff in the air is hard on my allergies. I’m also allergic to meat. There’s meat in this store. It gives me anxiety. Sometimes I break out in hives.”

“May’s always like this,” he said. “You ever been here before?”

“No. I’m from California, San Leandro, and I’m walking cross country.”

“San Leandro? No kidding. Cross country?”

“Uh huh,” Patsy said.

“What for?” Greg said.

“To raise consciousness.”

“Raise consciousness about what?”

Patsy just smiled. “You shouldn’t drink beer. It dries you out.”

“It tastes good after a hard day at work.”

“You need to take better care of yourself,” she said. “You need to beware of certain things…You’re lean and strong. I like that in a man.”

“Gotta have a few vices.”

“There’s good food and bad food, and by good, I mean well-prepared, cooked right and seasoned correctly. There is no death or immolation in my world, that is bad food.”

“Okay,” he said.

They watched a couple get out of a rental RV and jabber in German.

“Where are you staying?” he said.

“I don’t know. It looks like there’s a campground here.”

He saw his chance. “Listen, Patsy. I’m living in this great place, an old ranch—dude ranch, on an awesome hilltop. You have to go all the way through the national park to get to it. It’s outstanding.” 

He watched her rub her leg. “National park?” she said.

“I’m the caretaker, part-time, you know. There’s an old man who lives there, but he isn’t any trouble. He’s the owner, about 80. Really, you ought to come down and see it. Did I say it used to be a dude ranch?”

“Dudes?”

“Dude ranch,” he continued. “I mean, there’s a ton of petroglyphs and a really pretty creek. I’ve got an extra room in the trailer.”

“What’s a dude ranch?”

“They used to call tourists dudes,” he said.

“Don’t call me dude.”

“I didn’t. Tourists used to be dudes, now they’re just tourists. They used to run tours out of it, jeep or horse tours of the splendid backcountry. They were ranching dudes.”

“Sure.  Ranching dudes… Okay, but what did they eat?”

“Who?”

“The dudes?”

“Steaks and baked potatoes,” he said. “I mean, nuts and berries… A first-class place, for sure.”

“All right,” she said. “It sounds nice.”   

“It’s outstanding,” he said. He then whispered, “We could burn one on the ride down if you’d like. I’ve got some high-test.”

“I never smoke it,” she said, shaking her head. “But I feel this could be a special occasion.”

Greg loaded her Lowe backpack in the bed of his pickup and they drove through town.

“Look at all these ugly billboards,” Greg said. “Especially that one—advertising a hotel that’s over in freaking Bicknell. One of these days somebody’s going to have to customize it, you know, a little paint at night…”

She nodded. “You’re not afraid to show your feelings. I like that in a man.” He shifted and adjusted his ponytail.  She looked out the window.

From Good Water the road plunged down the long hill to Fruita and the national park. Greg hung a right at the visitor center. Past the Scenic Drive it was still some miles on a dirt road to Floral Ranch. He pointed out some of the highlights of the drive: the partial arches, the eagle’s nests, the box canyons, the buff and orange-mottled cliffs.

“Unbelievable,” she repeated.  “People—. You live all the way out here?”

“Last winter it snowed about a foot, and I was snowed-in for a week.”

“Wow. I’m real visual, Greg. All these colors are really sending me.”

“Your sitting next to me is really sending me.”

“I’m pretty thirsty,” she said. “I never drink water. I get all my liquid from the foods I eat, like a tortoise. Do you have anything to drink, though, like fruit juice?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Just beer. Really, you never drink water?”

She smiled and looked into the distance. “Never.”

His truck was so old it had a cassette player. There was no center console either, just a space around the parking brake in which to drop things. American Beauty made the rounds, as did a thin yet forceful number. Patsy repeated that she never smoked but did.

Greg Dange loved to take new friends to his favorite places, and having spent so many years in the area, he had quite an inventory of favorite places. He felt that in doing so he was sharing something worthwhile, as if he were performing a service, showing part of God’s Country, Greg Dange’s country, Wayne County, Utah; North America. Earth. It was a good Home Planet strategy—how else were comely turistas going to find out these special places off the beaten?  Certainly not in any guidebook. A new friend would sense this and be grateful. Even if all he got was just the right smile and a postcard someday, that was enough. Still, Greg wanted something more with Patsy. He would show her around, and maybe she liked to be shown around.

“We have time for a little jaunt,” he said. “Down canyon. And I’ll show you the petroglyphs.”

“Petroglyphs, what’s that?”

“Rock art,” he said. “Ancient messages.”

“Cool,” she said.

At the hilltop ranch, they unloaded. Greg grabbed a water bottle, two beers, and a snack, and they then walked down the hill and into the colorful, exquisite yawn that was Pleasant Creek. The well-known petroglyph panel below the hilltop dude ranch didn’t evoke the appropriate response. The panel was a marvel, featuring some bighorn sheep, a Kokopelli, goofy stick figures, and something quite large in the sky above, perhaps a comet, maybe a supernova, all of this arranged in an ambiguous yet provocative way, and it was known all around the world to rock art aficionados. 

Patsy didn’t like it. She wanted to know what the rock had done to deserve being defaced like that, like, what gives anyone the right to do it? She wanted to know how it was different from subway graffiti. Greg said it was really old, for one thing. She shook her head.

“If you—or they—really respected nature, they wouldn’t treat it this way. Just leave it alone. Too much cooking spoils the vegetables.”

There was a fence around it, for protection. Real natural! She wondered who built it.

Hoping to change the mood, Greg led them to his favorite swimming hole, a few hundred yards down the creek. A dam of black volcanic stones backed up Pleasant Creek, and the stream flowed over a sandstone shelf, making a natural Jacuzzi. On one side was a red-brown sand beach, on the other pock-marked dark rocks and some cottonwoods. Greg told her that unlike most streams in the area this one was pretty free of floaters and sediment since it was spring fed and not overrun with freaking cows.

The water seemed oddly out of place. Cows? There couldn’t be any cows around here. What would they eat?

“I have to be honest with you,” she said.  “I sensed in the store that you were someone special.” She kicked off her Birkenstocks. “I love to be near water. It makes me feel real pure. And real, well, horny.”

“Me too.”

She took off the tank top and shorts but kept the sports bra and dental floss undies on. Greg stripped to his loin cloth.

“Come over here—let’s go in together.” He grabbed her hand.

The water was spring-time chilly. There were round rocks on the sandy bottom of the pool. She felt uncomfortable with them. She would have been more at home with just sand.

He wanted her to move in with him immediately. She could do odd jobs for the old man, or maybe just hang out and write poetry or something. Hell with raising consciousness.

Patsy looked at her reflection in the water. “Greg, did you say turbidity a while ago?”

“Well, I did.”

“Tur-bi-di-ty?  What’s that?”

“Sediment. It’s naturally occurring, except the cows increase it.”

“What cows?”

“Upstream. Way upstream.”

“Oh, okay.”

Brief dip finished, they sat on a rock slab in the sun, drying off and kicking back. This place was too much in the open for some steps. Though rare, hikers could walk past at any time. They needed to go back to the trailer.

“You know who you remind me of,” she said. “My friend Marcus. He had about the same build as you. Same kind of face, too. But with blue eyes. I like your eyes, too, Greg…  Greg?  He was a dancer in San Francisco, the San Francisco Ballet—can you believe it?  He started out in Philobolus but then switched over. He’s incredibly talented. He was…An incredible dancer, Greg, and a fantastic lover… Although, he left us way too early.”

Greg Dange felt a kink form in his delivery service. It must have been the cold water. He suddenly wondered if he had a condom back at the ranch, and if so where? He’d have to check a couple of duffels. It wasn’t something he had to use all the time, and that was the root of one of his problems.

“I love women, too. I love all people. Do you know it’s a fact that we’re basically bisexual.  A fact… Men and women, it really doesn’t matter. What’s wrong, Greg?”

“Nothing, as long as you’re liking this.”

“It’s different,” she said. “I like how the water is cold and free.”

“Snow melt and springs,” he said.

“Snow?”

“It falls in the winter and sometimes on Memorial Day.”

“Whoa.”

Patsy ate six apples for dinner. Doug had a bag of Lipton noodles. He then brewed up his customary pot of Kona coffee. Decaf, of course.

“I never drink coffee,” she said. “It’s bad for your kidneys and permanently damages the lining of your stomach, but I do have some bee-pollen and goat’s rue capsules, so I might have half a cup.”

Greg noticed that she drank two.

A desperate search revealed no prophylactics at Floral Ranch. He realized, then, that he had probably left them in a gear case at Bird’s house, after their recent trip on Cataract, where he had needed them, since it was a commercial trip. If he could stall until tomorrow, he could buy some at the Arm and Leg and begin work toward a meaningful relationship later. He told her he had to be at work at eight and wanted to turn in early, but Patsy asked him to say night-night.

“I always sleep almost naked. It helps my skin breathe. It’s pretty hard for me in the city, and I tend to suffer from depression because my skin gets so choked. As well as anxiety. But out here, wow.  I feel so much more open to things. But I must tell you that I am afraid of insects, so I would appreciate it if you let me borrow one of your clean t-shirts.”

“Hell, yes,” he said. He retrieved an oversized one.

“Yeah.”

“Look, why don’t you get into bed with me?”

“Sure.” He did. He felt that old nemesis eagerness again. He also saw danger in her smoky eyes.

“I can feel your energy changing…  You seem distant.”

“No, Patsy, I’m just really really tired.”

“I understand, then. A person always needs to look after her own needs first. That’s why people aren’t happy. That doesn’t mean being selfish. It means finding out about your own personal equilibrium and keeping it together in your own personal space.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Maybe he could initiate some hands-on mutual friendliness. Yet as he got closer, he lost momentum.

“Greg, are you sure nothing is wrong?”

“Nothing a little sleep won’t fix. I’m just beat.”

“Sleep,” she said. “I seldom sleep. It seems like such a waste of time. We lose so much when we close our eyes.”

“Sure, but working on remodels, I need it.”

“Do you ever meditate? It might help you sleep.”

“Sometimes.”

“You’d better leave me alone so I can—.”

He stood up to leave as she assumed the lotus position and began ohmning. “That coffee is really sending me. I never drink coffee. It’s sure to take me some extra time to find my, you know…”

Miserable in his bed just a few steps away from a potential amorous partner, Greg had trouble drifting off. Patsy’s racket didn’t help. After an hour she stopped the mantra, but she was clearly restless. He heard her go into the kitchen. He heard the fridge open and a thud on the kitchen table followed by the tinkling of silverware, like the scratching of mice. He heard her chewing something and grunting after each swallow. He had to see what it was.

Patsy was having her way with half a gallon of chocolate nougat ice cream as she sat beside the table, dressed in his t-shirt, with her eyes scrunched. It was thirty-five miles to the grocery store, and a hassle to keep ice cream frozen. Of course, she might have asked. She’d probably eat the whole damned carton, which was okay.  She chewed each bite carefully, moved her shoulders as she swallowed and grunted. Eventually she opened her eyes to look at him.

“Oh, hi Greg. I’ve decided to sacrifice my beta side for some of this. I never eat ice cream.  It’s bad for your intestines and hard on your liver, but I’m planning a garlic purge in the morning.  This is great down here. I think I’ll go outside when I’m finished. You ought to get some sleep—you look really tired. You know, if you didn’t eat meat and drink so much water, it’d be easier for you to sleep.”

Returning to his bed of misery, Greg identified with the old man who owned the ranch.  Burton Lee had grown more eccentric with each year. He was eighty. Greg wondered what he’d be like if he made it to Burton’s age. He felt that old tonight. Maybe older. Maybe it was time for Cialis.

Burton, although somewhat touched, was still able to get around. He did use both lanes of any road, though, and had a tough time putting his outfit into reverse, as he couldn’t recall where it was. In all areas, Burton’s memory was poor, and he often mistook Greg for a variety of television celebrities, including both Anderson Cooper and Rachel Maddow.

Greg sensed that he was headed for the same sad state.

Things had become much harder on Burton since his wife, Melva, had been institutionalized by their no-good son who lived in Maine. Alzheimer’s. Since Melva had gone, Burton had stopped eating regular meals. A friend thought he might try elk (which Burton rightly called wapiti) meat, since it was both low in fat and very tasty. Soon Burton couldn’t get enough of it and ate wapiti three or four times a day, slathered in Heinz 57 or Tiger Sauce. Many of the nimrods of Wayne County lined up to sell him their year-old elk steaks at robustly high prices. Greg wondered what Patsy would have thought about Burton’s diet. “Elk’s bad for your memory and hard on your equilibrium.”

It might have been strange clicks that startled Greg from uneasy sleep, but when the first shot rang out, he found himself wide-awake. Gun shot? He looked out the trailer’s window and saw, by virtue of a motion-detector light, that Burton Lee, dressed in a one-piece polyester jumpsuit open to the waist, a felt fishing hat and slippers, was brandishing an antique Winchester 30-30. “Death to you, roving wapiti,” Burton exclaimed and fired south. Schziiing.

Where was Patsy?  He raced to her room, saw it was empty, then heard her scream. He watched her run across the gravel parking area toward an old tack shed.

“Look out!” Greg shouted.

“I’m over here,” Patsy exclaimed. He couldn’t see her.

“I will eat you, wapiti, majestic monarch of the forest.” Another shot. Crack—wheeeeew.

Hoping for a diversion, Greg stepped out. “Burton. Burton. It’s me, Greg. Greg Dange.  Don’t shoot. Please, there aren’t any elk around here.” The old man wheeled, cocked mechanically, and fired.

Greg heard the tinny sound of a slug penetrating aluminum siding just a few feet from where he stood.

Patsy piped up with, “Hey man, put the evil gun down.”

“I hear you, my quarry. Death to you, roving wapiti.”  Another bullet ricocheted into the night.

Burton then checked the rifle, whistled, and returned to his digs.

Greg ran to find her.

“Patsy?”

“Over here,” she shouted.

“Whew,” he said. “Glad I—.”

“What’s wrong with HIM?”

“He’s never done anything like this before,” he said. “Sure, he sleepwalks, he talks to himself.  But he’s never been into this night hunting, until—.”

“This place is totally crazy,” she shivered. “It shows you what’s wrong with eating meat!”

Greg tried to lead Patsy back into the trailer to get some proper clothes, but he heard a rustle and a crash. The motion detector light then revealed Burton carrying a 700 magnum rifle with scope—a real big boy elk slaughter weapon.

“Get me out of here before it’s too late—he’s going to freaking kill us.”

“I can’t. My truck is right in front of him. We’ll have to hide.”

Behind the tack shed, there was an old rock and mortar foundation wall. The next shot rang out, much louder than before. The echoes sounded like spirits in the night. Greg muttered “Oh no,” and tried to apologize.

Patsy told him to shove it and said that she’d walk to civilization if she had to.   

Still more shots split the peaceful night.

“Don’t shoot any more, you complete moron!” Patsy shouted. “Put the evil gun down.”

“I can hear you, my wapiti, my delectable quarry. This one’s for your heart.”

The slug that then sailed into Greg’s pickup’s windshield and back window shattered them into a thousand pieces. Patsy dug her fingernails into his arm. He groaned.

Miraculously, soon thereafter, a park service Explorer rattled up Floral Ranch Hill. Greg told Patsy to stay put, ran over to intercept the rig, but put his right foot into a large clump of claret cup cactus on the way. Between fervent oaths, he explained the situation to the park cop who immediately radioed for a backup.

“Mr. Lee. Mr. Lee put your weapon down,” the park cop then said on the p.a. after turning his spotlight on the culprit.

Burton Lee did as he was told. He approached the vehicle. “Hi Rachel. What in heck’s sakes are you doing here at Floral Ranch? Say, that’s a nice number you’re wearing tonight. Where did you get that sweater? Now, where’s Andy?”

Another park rig pulled up and the two officers duly subdued Burton Lee, who would be transported to the ranger station to receive a warning citation.

As dawn broke over the red rock escarpment, Greg Dange continued to pull and pluck cactus spines from his foot. He then spent some time whisking and bagging the broken glass, while there ensued a seminar about the history of male aggression. He began to understand that this run might be over.

Despite his broken windshield, Greg drove Patsy away from Floral Ranch. The ride was cool and dusty. He soon tired of her discussion of carnivores and karma and begged her politely to change the topic. He knew that arguing would accomplish nothing. He was different. He respected women and didn’t shoot guns. He loosened his ponytail.

The road was empty and they made good time through the scenic wastes to the tiny town of Caineville where he said again that he was so, so sorry and offered to at least buy her breakfast.

Patsy got out of the truck and slammed the door, loosening the last shards of glass. “I never eat breakfast,” she spat. “Never, never, never!” She opened the door and slammed it again. “You and your old man friend can go to hell.”

She grabbed her backpack, gave Greg the finger, and started walking east down the road, turning around once to shake her head, mutter something and glare.

Greg Dange closed then rubbed his eyes. When his vision returned, he saw a gray-black stretch of highway, a pair of lonesome cottonwoods by the roadside, gray badlands all around, and Patsy Marley’s heart-shaped ass receding into the distance.

She knew there had to be another town around here somewhere.