Markwildyr.com,
Post #159
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I received some nice comments on part one of “Gabacho.” The perceptive will notice that this is the second of three parts, not two. As I told you last week, I hadn’t finished the story. I have now, and it took two more “tellings.” At any rate, here’s part two. Hope you enjoy it.
* * * * *
GABACHO
I usually wear a short vest
without a shirt during the workday. It keeps the sun off my back, but exposes
my chest and allows for a little air to circulate… even though as often as not,
it was hot air. But when Carlos was around, he spent so much time studying my exposed
flesh, I got the feeling I ought to cover up or else do something about it. And
the temptation to do something about it was growing stronger by the day.
One late afternoon, he caught
me in a remote pasture doctoring a cut on a half-grown steer. Wished he’d
showed up a little earlier, he could have helped me bring the ornery critter
down. As it was, he applied a healing salve on a trembling leg while I held the
steer immobile. When we were finished, I let the calf go, and he rose with the
wounded air of a British earl who’d just been insulted. Then he put as much
distance as he could between himself and us.
Carlos handed me the medicine
to put in my saddle bag, a lazy grin curling his patrician lips. “I wanna paint
you, Gabacho.” He put a hand to his chin and let his eyes wander. “But I dunno
if I want you in that little vest that covers a little and shows a lot, or if I
want you desnudo.”
“Nekked?” I said, adding a
snort for good measure. “Good luck with that.”
His smile grew wider. “But you
forget. I’ve already seen you. And I remember every detail. I could paint you
right now without you shedding nothing.”
“Is that a threat?”
Carlos dry-washed his face.
“Nah. Just talking. But it’s a temptation.”
“Resist it,” I said in a low
voice.
“Okay, if you’ll sit for me.
Vest on or off, your choice.”
“We are talking about with my
britches on, aren’t we?”
He laughed. “Yeah, if you
insist. This evening?”
“Where?”
“In my studio. Right after
chow.”
“Okay… I guess.”
I’d not seen any of Carlos’s
work, so I didn’t know if I’d come out looking like a clown or a monster, but I
was pretty sure I wouldn’t come out looking like me. After he reclaimed his
black and rode away, I finished scouting the pasture and headed for
headquarters.
After that first day, I’d
eaten with the other vaqueros, slept with them in the bunkhouse too, and learned
they were a decent bunch of men. Their card games tended to get a bit wild
sometimes, but I didn’t often risk my money on the turn of a card. I was pretty
good at poker, but the best way I know to get on the wrong side of a man is to
take his money in a card game when he doesn’t really know how handy you are
with the double shuffle. I was more a checkers man where everything’s right
there on the board. Juego de damas, they call it down here.
After the meal, I showered and
changed to clean clothes, remembering at the last moment to pull on my vest.
Carlos opened the door almost before I knocked. He smiled… and then his face
fell.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re wearing a shirt.”
“I usually wear a shirt,
except when I’m working in the sun.”
“No, no! Take it off.”
“Jeez, let me get inside
first, okay?”
He was ready for me. He had a
blank canvas on the easel and a graphite stick lying on the table beside it. He
got me out of my shirt and in my vest in short order and seated me on a stool
at a slight angle from the easel, one boot on a rung, the other one on the
floor. Then he posed me with my hat in hand, but was careful to position my arm
so it didn’t block a view of my crotch. I thought it funny but indulged him
anyway. After he arranged the lighting the way he wanted it, he retreated to
the easel and picked up the graphite stick, his handsome face taut with
concentration.
“Do I have to stay completely
still?” I asked.
“No, you can move to relieve
muscle strain, but stay in that general position.”
“How long is this going to
take.”
“Only about thirty minutes or
so tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m just doing the
sketch tonight. You gotta sit for me when I start doing the painting.”
“Damn,” I muttered.
“Can I get you a cerveza or something?” he asked, his eyes shifting rapidly back and forth between me
and the canvas.
“Nah. Don’t want a beer. Not
right now, anyway.”
A little while later, the door
opened, and I glanced up to see Carla enter. I caught Carlos’s pained look, but
he said nothing. She walked up beside him and gave both me and the drawing a
good once-over.
An impish grin claimed her
lips, making me wonder what I really looked like in the sketch. “Looking
good there, Gabacho.”
“Carla,” Carlos said, ‘you
know better’n to barge into my studio. What if I was doing a nude painting of
him?”
She smirked. “Even better.”
“Go on, get out. You’re
disturbing my concentration.”
She ignored him. “Gabacho,
when he lets you go, come to the house and have a drink with me.”
“Sorry, he’s having some
drinks with me. Might make an evening of it. Or go to town to la Cerveceria.”
Carla took exception to that,
and a little dustup occurred in the local lingo far too fast for me to keep up.
But it was clear that I was the subject of discussion.
Oh crap!
The plot
stiffens… uh, deepens. Wonder what happens next posting?
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
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See you later.
Mark
I still think you need to begin a book or two anthologies of your short stories! I know you have a bunch of them and many authors seem to be doing that lately. You just have a way of covering lots of territory with few descriptive words. Good job as always!
ReplyDeleteOkay, Unknown, I know who you are. But I can't argue with you. Probably should do just that. When I finish my current project, might give it a try.
ReplyDelete