Our Trailways pulled off the macadam. I was squirming. Sitting for so long made my butt itch, so I followed the bus driver off. While he was kicking the wheel I was doing hip gyrations.

“I have my bag?”

He gave me one hell of a pained look.

I said, “I didn’t ask you to rotate the tires. I just want my bag.”

He flipped open the storage bin and said, “Well.”

“That one.” He flung it into my chest and I was a hair from throwing it back. The guy next to me on the bus two seconds before was telling me how all these drivers are constipated to hell.

I stood by my bag and watched until the bus, flatass driver and all, was way up the highway.

The road sign said Route 20. It was mid-July, in a town I had never heard of, Floral City, and it felt like a blister. Nothing moved and I was in no hurry. My ma was further south in Opa-Locka, where I had to eventually end up.

I got a Coke, found a phone, and dialed home. Grandma in her squirrely voice said, “Where are you?”

“Flower City something. I forget.”

“You better get home.”

“What for?” I was rolling the can on my forehead.

“Cause you ma wants you to, that’s what for.”

A deposit recording came on. “Gran, I’m out of quarters.”

“The hell. You coming?” Her voice faded out.

“Yeah.” But I’m sure not going to break a leg.

In Abe’s Hardware I talked to the old guy behind the register. His muscles were so shrunk and hard the veins squiggled on top. And on top of that he had a couple tattoos, one a faded Jesus crying and one a nudie. I couldn’t help but look at the wrinkled tits on the thing like they were real. I asked the guy, “Any work around?”

He said, “Want something steady?”

“Yeah, for a week.”

He said, “Sweet’s,” clearing his throat and spitting an oyster on the floor. He griped about crooked politicians in Florida and he talked me into some steel-toed boots he pulled out of a bargain barrel. Ringing it up he snuck in an extra dollar, which I happened to catch.

“Sorry about that.”

I asked him, “How do I sign up for Sweet’s?”

“You apply. I’ll give you a ride.”

On his lunch hour he gave me a ride ten minutes out of town and dropped me off at the Sweet Ranch. While grinding his stick into gear he said,” Follow that there sand road. Be sure to tell them I’m Jug.”

It wasn’t far. At the office I signed in, mentioned Jug, and a girl holding her fresh nails to a fan pointed at the door saying, “Go on, wait out there.” She yelled to a black guy, “We got us another hand, Biggie. Get Billy.”

Just out the door I put my bag down, sat on it and pulled out my transistor. The static was crazy. I goosed a lizard with my boot. The left one was killing me. Sure enough, it was smaller than the right one. I wanted to shoot that goddam Jug.

Sun glared off a rattling Ford pickup as it sprayed dust and slid to a stop. Scratched-up letters said Sweet Ranch. The guy driving flattened his biceps over the door and tapped his palm, like he had a Coupe de Ville. That was Billy Roy Sweet and this was his, at least his pa’s ranch. As the dust blew by, he wiggled a toothpick in his teeth and said, ”You new?”

I saw my reflection in his sunglasses and answered, "Sort of. Gerald Tipps."

He looked down and said, "You're embarrassing me with them boots. You know you're a cowboy, Gerald, not a plumber."

I looked down at my feet and up at him.

His eyes squinted tight as he pulled the toothpick out and said, "Gerald. Jesus, that sounds Yankee. You been around horses?"

"Some."

"Some? You know you're now in charge of wrangling."

"Wrangling?" That's the first I heard of that. "Yeah, so what's to know?"

Billy lifted his sunglasses and said, "Shoveling." He looked at Ed next to him and the two of them shared this snorty laugh.

Billy winked, pointed his thumb back and said, "Hop on. Let's go get some crap on them boots."

I went behind and grabbed for the tailgate but just an inch away from the thing Billy spun out. I got a mouth full of dirt and a glimpse of "Eat Shit" on the bumper. The truck fishtailed and they jabbed their fingers on the rear window pointing back at me, red-faced from laughing. They skidded to a stop and both of them stuck their arms out the windows waving me on. I was ready for them to do it again but they let me hop on.

On the flatbed, hanging on by the cabin was a stocky girl who had pretty little blond hairs and sweat rings under her arms. I nodded at her while she rolled her eyes and told me her name. "I'm Cammie. They're jerks."

I said, "You got that one." We hung on.

At the barn they mentioned Big Man a couple times and I followed them out to a pasture that was mostly sand and dried bush. The heat hit like opening an oven door. On the ground was a bony old gray, built like a Holstein with his legs curled up under him. He tried to get up but couldn't get the leverage. Billy put his forehead right on the horse's blaze, whispering, "Last chance Big Man."

Billy, I got to admit, was matinee-idol handsome and had sun-baked cheeks, patches of hard stubble, and a jagged got-the-world-by-the-balls smile. He had on Lee's, worn in the crotch, a plaid shirt with sleeves ripped off showing his T-shirt tan lines. He always tugged at the front of his curled straw hat. Everyone around copied Billy.

Ed, head bobbing, dick picking, stuck by Billy. He was a redhead and had a thick, gristle build. He looked to be a flamer, like any other loser you'd see all over the south, pumping gas or whatever. His neck had lines like a dried riverbed and he had Elvis sideburns. His head tapered so quickly up top you expected his eyes to cross.

Just as I was thinking I didn't much like Ed, he kicked the old gelding in the ribs. The horse opened his eyes and jerked his head. Then we all grabbed his mane and tail and hauled him up. He wobbled on those long piano legs, looking as if he'd go down any second. We led him to a spot where there was fresh sand and a hole in the ground. The big guy, at least sixteen hands, stood still in that beating sun with his vertebrae poking the skin up, head drooped to his knees, and flies sitting all over him.

Then Billy took out a syringe and jammed it in a big vein in his foreleg. He didn't budge. But his eyes turned to glass.

Billy grunted, "Bottoms up," and he and Ed dug in, heaved against the swollen belly. Big Man whinnied and flopped into the hole. I felt the thud in my legs. He blew some sand, puff, and that was it.

Billy stuck a shovel in my hand and said, "Dust to dust. See you at the barn, Gerald."

Ed stood a second, cut a good one, and then booted a couple pebbles on the horse. "Look at him." I did. "You lookin'?" I said I was. He said, "This place will break your balls." He sniffed and said, "Hear me?" which I ignored. Then he slapped my back and hustled to catch up to Billy.

I leaned on the shovel for a minute, whispered, "No it won't." I filled the hole. God, it was hot. I peeled off my shirt. Flies were buzzing. I found two sticks, crouched down, and stuck them on top like a sideways cross.

***

When I got up I laughed. I mean out loud--I could see my pa, that hard-spined old bastard, laying the flat end of my shovel on the side of Ed's head. Thwop!

"Get home quick, you hear?" I could still hear ma nagging me. "He's your pa!" And me whining, but her going, "Don't matter. He's your pa."

Too late now.

He's pretty much gone for good. Mr. Big and Tough, just like Big Man here. His day is done. Wants to be buried in Lauderdale when he goes. Like Lauderdale wants him. Now ma wants me to talk to him. What would I say? The guy never said two words to me. Wasn't even sure if he was my dad.

But I'll say this; he didn't take nothing from nobody.

***

"Good god, you still bereavin' over some plug horse?"

I startled and turned to see no more than two feet behind me, big as life, Ed.

We stared a second and I thought of one thing: flying shovel, metal on bone, a big crunch sound. I waited for him to say one more thing, which he didn't. I smiled, handed him the shovel and said, "Here."

"Here what?

"Take it. I just did you a favor." I kicked some sand on the mound and walked away.