Even Cowgirls Get The Blues Page #13

Sissy is delighted.

SISSY:

Road food. How did you know?

MAID:

Well it is a change of our usual

grapefruit and melba toast, I'm sure.

Sissy notices a card. It reads:

Compliments of Bonanza Jellybean

SISSY:

Bonanza Jellybean....

MAID:

She will be up to see you directly.

Sissy devours her meal. Out her window she can see women on

exercycles, women doing jumping jacks and women in beauty

parlors.

A FIST pounds on Sissy's door.

IN SAILS Jelly, a cowgirl so cute she makes Sissy blush just

to look at her. She wears a tan Stetson with an aster pinned

to it, a green satin shirt embroidered with rearing stallions

snorting orange fire from their nostrils.

Her breasts bounce like dinner rolls that have gotten loaded

on helium and, between red tinged cheeks, where more baby

fat is taking its time maturing, she has a little smile that

can cause minerals and plastics to remember their ancient

animate connections.

Jelly grasps Sissy's elbow and sits on the side of the bed.

JELLY:

Welcome, podner. By God, it's great

to have you here. It's an honor.

Sorry I took so long getting to you,

but we've had a mess of hard work

these past few days -- and a heap of

planning to do.

SISSY:

Er, you seem to know who I am, and

maybe even what I am. Thanks for the

breakfast.

JELLY:

Oh, I know about Sissy Hankshaw, all

right. I've done a little hitchhiking

myself. Ah shucks, that's like telling

Annie Oakley you're a sharpshooter

because you once knocked a tomato

can off a stump with a fieldstone.

I'd heard tales about you from people

I'd meet in jail cells and truckstops.

I heard about your, uh, your, ah,

your wonderful thumbs, and I heard

how you were Jack Kerouac's girl

friend...

Sissy sets her tray on the bedside table.

SISSY:

No, I'm afraid that part isn't true.

Jack was in awe of me and tracked me

down. We spent a night talking and

hugging in a corn field, but he was

hardly my lover. Besides, I always

travel alone.

JELLY:

Well, that doesn't matter; that part

never interested me anyway. The

beatnicks were before my time, and I

never got anything outta the hippies

but bad dope, clichés and the clap.

But the example of your life helped

me in my struggle to be a cowgirl.

The guests are huffing and puffing in between the pauses in

conversation, in the background through the window in Sissy's

room.

SISSY:

Tell me about it.

JELLY:

About...

SISSY:

About being a cowgirl. What's it all

about? When you say the word you

make it sound like it was painted in

radium on the side of a pearl.

JELLY:

Cowgirls exist as an image. A fairly

common image. The idea of cowgirls

especially for little girls prevails

in our culture. Therefore, it seems

to me, the existence of cowgirls

should prevail. Otherwise, they're

being fooled. In the Rodeo Hall of

Fame in Oklahoma City there are just

two cowgirls. Two. And both of 'em

are trick-riders. Trick-riding is

what cowgirls have almost always

done in rodeos. Our society sure

likes to see its unconventional women

do tricks. That's what prostitutes

call it, you know: 'tricking.'

Jelly lays her hand atop the oval mound Sissy's thumb makes

under the covers.

SISSY:

You're political, then?

JELLY:

No, ma'am. No way. There's girls on

the Rubber Rose who are political,

but I don't share their views. I got

no cowgirl ideology to expound.

"Politics is for people who have a

passion for changing life but lack a

passion for living it."

There is a moment when the two girls feel something between

each other.

JELLY:

Did that last comment sound too

profound to be coming outta my mouth?

It's not original. It's something I

picked up from the Chink.

SISSY:

Really? The Chink, huh? I've gathered

that you sometimes speak with him.

What else have you learned from the

Chink?

JELLY:

Learned from the Chink? Oh my. Ha

ha. That's hard to say. We mostly....

Uh, a lot of his talk is pretty goofy.

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