Meanwhile Back at the Ranch

Timmy dreamed a lot of dreams that night. He had the kind of dreams that could convince a lesser man that he belonged in the nut patch. The kind of dreams that can get you stoned and driven out of town. Nightmares that could chill you to the marrow in yer bone. Visions of worms turning, flaming wheels revolving in the sky. Blind eyes opened to their first sight of blood, of murder, of transgression. So very deep, deep in sleep. He never would have owned up to these feelings…these revelations…in his waking moments. They were enough to drive a man off the brink of sanity.

He wakes to the grating alarm he’s set in “snooze” mode. Two or three times he’s already used that function, but it’s always the one after the third that’s the real charm.

Terry lay next to him, and it looked like she had just come back from her own dream world…the only difference being that she had to work early that morning. He was just going to sit around the house trying to find new ways of doing nothing. She thought it was a weird fuckin’ thing for him to even bother setting the alarm for, let alone jack around with the Snooze and all…

He rummaged through a pile of clothes that where in a hamper next to the toilet. From said hamper he produced a garment that has already played a relatively significant role in this drama. (Author's note: "Back at the Ranch" was originally written as a chapter in a novel...but, as you might guess, that project was scrapped and put on the shelf along with the other 7365 projects I started but never finished)

It’s not as if the shirt were absolutely so dirty that he couldn’t stand it. The Led Zeppelin shirt. Swan Song label, bro! Fuckin’ tasty, no? Is that Icarus I see between those big monster Swan wings? Fire up that jay, baybay!

It was never, “Yo! Swan Song label, dude! BAD FUCKING COMPANY! Rat on!”

No, no, no. If it’s Swan Song label it’s ALWAYS Led fuckin’ Zeppelin. No questions asked. Leddy Zepper. Led Leppard, sweet young thing. Ted Zeppelin. Dread Zeppelin. Fed Zucking Zeppelino. Do not even try to put Bad suck ass Company in the same league.

But for some reason Terry didn't like it very much.

“Will you take that fuckin’ shirt off and find another one? I am sick and bloody tired of seeing that thing on you. You do realize that it’s about two sizes too small?”

“So that’s the way it’s going to be, eh, sweet mother of love?” he protested. “You spend a single night with me and you think you can tell me what I can and cannot wear? I’m pimping Zeppelin here, can’t you see that?”

“Well that just may be, but you’re also pimping some serious body odor, of which I highly suspect the shirt as being the root cause.”

The conclusion she came to was a logical one. The white armpits were stained with a color similar to the hue of urine. By Timmy’s own admission the thing hadn’t been washed in a week. It would appear that during said week, at one point or another, he had feasted upon a pasta dish or two, as well as some greasy fried food. The t-shirt, no matter how cool the Swan Song label might be, was stained, smelly, and worn out. Why he bothered keeping it at all was an enigma.

“What, baby? You not down wit da Zep? “

“Oh, I’m down with the Led, but I sho nuff ain’t down wit da funk.”

He eventually conceded Terry’s point concerning the usefulness of the ruined t-shirt. He took it off, threw it in the trash can ("Jimmy Page, can you ever forgive me for what I’ve just done? Mr. Plant, surely you recognize that the shirt has long outlasted it’s usefulness? Johnny Paul, I’m sorry, man. I know how valuable the Swan Song merchandise has become. If it hadn’t been worn to death I don’t doubt that it could have pulled $500 on e-Bay, easy. Mr. John “Bonzo” Bonham, may you rest in eternal peace...this is not something I WANT to do"). He reached into the second drawer from the bottom of the chest in his bedroom...

…Chester drawers?...

…and chose from a stack of folded t-shirts, each one a loving advertisement for the classic rock bands he'd seen in concert. On top, neatly, if not properly, folded, was his prized Rush jersey, with it's logo that he thought had something to do with the occult. Beneath that lay a wild, trippy long sleeve baseball shirt emblazoned with the unforgettable skull and roses motif popularized by the Grateful Dead. Further down in the pile he could have chosen the Lynyrd Skynyrd tank top, bought fresh at the last show of the “Gimme Back My Bullets” tour. Or one of the shirts he bought at the three Rolling Stones concerts he had attended, each one sporting the signature “Licking Tongue” logo, which had been strategically placed in surroundings compatible with the name of their most recent tour.


So many to choose from…he closed his eyes and picked one out, much in the same way that a man reaches into a jar for a bingo ball or a pickled egg. He came up with a seldom worn Steely Dan tank top. It was a gift from his mother. She liked Steely Dan a lot more than he did, but he thought they were okay. He’d wear their shirts.

There were many bands whose shirts he would not wear.. It was a matter of principle as well as taste. And there were MANY more bands who didn’t cut the mustard than did. Some were dismissed because he didn’t think they were on the same level as the ones he championed with the t-shirts, although they may well have been some of his favorite bands. Just not in a league worthy of wearing their tour shirt. He would become repulsed at the mere thought of wearing shirt from one of those bullshit crack-smokin’ groups like Smash Mouth…Limp Bizkit…Maroon 5….Hooba-fucking-Stank to high heaven…"No sir. No way I’m wearing those shirts." Even so, he actually liked some of that music. It was a guilty pleasure.

Just before Terry turned to the door she bent down and gave Timmy a kiss, soft against his forehead.

“Are you coming back tonight?” he asked, groggy.

“It all depends…can I bring some furniture, my CDs, books and my entire wardrobe with me? Are you going to feed me? Are you going to please me? Are you just going to tease me? Can you make me feel like a natural woman? Are you gonna give me some R-E-S-P-E-C-T? Cause, bitch, that’s what I needs, git out my grill!”

She freaked him out with this ultimatum. You could tell by the look on his face. But he covered it well by pretending she was really serious. He kept his cool and said “Terry, baby, you know I be at your beck and call. Bring it on. Do you hear me? I said YOU bring it on, BITCH!" With fire in his eyes he barked orders to her. “Terry, I command you to drop yo shit and kick it with me. Scoot it up here, pussy willow, and lets try out the effects of yo magic over the long term. Your gonna let me drive your car, you miserable slut...I'm gonna fuck up the transmission in your little red corvette and change the oil in your pink Cadillac. ”

A small teardrop found it’s way down a path from Terry's eyes, down to her lips where she could taste it’s saltiness. She cried not for the harsh manner in which he had spoken to her. Her tears were not shed on account of the many cruel demands he made…some of them delivered in a most heinous manner and in a debasing fashion. No, those lonely teardrops were squeezed from her dye eyes by love for a good man. And thank ye gods for it, as well. Praise ye lord that her weeping was not for such trivialities as pain or despair. Those wells were emptied of their liquid treasure by a tingle she always felt upon first seeing him enter a room. A tingle that tangled. A tingle that Sasquatchiman tribal chiefs have identified as “Ukunkabunka ”…yes, real and true love. Sounds like something we’ve all heard before, don’t it?


TERRY IS RELATIVELY GOOD AT HER JOB

She sits behind a desk with the words “Newschannel 4, KFOR” painted on top of a spiffy logo attached to the front. The make-up guys in the studio were understanding and didn’t seem to mind the extra work she put them through. They always did a good job. Each one of them were of the same opinion: Terry was one helluva good looker with badonkidonk to die for.

But, beautiful as she was, the task of covering up the bags in her eyes was a difficult chore. They asked her about it and she was not ashamed to say she'd been crying non stop since she met Timmy. They didn't believe her when she said they were tears of joy and delight. They thought he was beating her or something. She tried to explain that tears are tears, they're gonna mess with your eyes one way or the other.

Even so, when the make-up guys finished their work Terry was transformed into a goddess. Nothing more and nothing less. Easily the hottest bitch working the local news. When she first went on, it was within weeks, Channel 4’s ratings began to rise.

She knew it would happen that way. She knew she was ratings gold. She didn't need to have sex with the station manager to get her job (she'd done that because she'd wanted to).

Intermission. And a word from the author.

In an attempt to provide some context for the last few paragraphs on this story, may I present to you...

OKLAHOMA NEWS ANCHORS AND REPORTERS

A round-up of the most well known personalities in the news broadcasting business. Channel 5 will have no representation here because the author and narrator never watch the Channel 5 news. No real reason. It looks like a decent enough set, with attractive anchors (though none as earth-shatteringly beautiful as Terry). Channel 9 will have slightly more representin’ done. There are times when I don't mind the 9th channel, with it's swank sets and even swankier anchor gals. The 10 o'clock edition, you know? Leading up to Letterman. Right before we go to bed. While we fuckin’ kickin' that shit back, waiting for Dave.

The real deal, I've found, is Terry’s own crew.

~~~Linda Cavanaugh. She’s Terry’s closest rival at NewsChannel 4. Thing look good though, with all the “30 years of Linda Cavanaugh” segments they've recently aired. No doubt the sweet thing has plans for retirement in the very near future. Regardless, when Terry Gaydawn came along the days of the Cavanaugh dynasty were already rapidly approaching their end.

~~~Kevin Ogle. A more self-obsessed fake the likes of which you’ll not often come in contact with. I’d like to meet that big phony in a back alley somewhere. I would stab him in the gut with a bowie knife. I’d listen to him grunt, hear the blood gurgle up into and then out of his mouth.. I’d feel his body jerk and spasm to the rhythms of my thrusting knife. I’d smell the sweat oozing out his pores as surely as fear oozes back in. This Ogle brother will be first to go. The House of Ogle, by trinity bonded, in one fell swoop, reduced to only two. But then again, I don't know. The man is a behemoth. I mean to say he is a GIANT who could work the carnival side shows if he ever lost his news anchoring job. He could probably squash me like a bug.

Uhhmmm…sorry ‘bout that. I guess I let that one get away from me. Love ALL of the Ogle boys. Just joshin’ you, fellers.

~~~Meg Alexander. The general verdict on the level of professionalism displayed by the corn-fed, cotton bread talking head Meg Alexander can be delivered in no more lofty terms than these: Adequate. Never rising to the peaks yet never plunging to the depths.

~~~Lance West. This one’s a mess. Honestly and truthfully West may well be the goofiest motherfucker in all of Oklahoma broadcast news. He earns that accolade on the strength of his outlandish hairstyle alone.

~~~Kent Ogle. For my money, Kent is the real deal, and clearly the heir apparent to Jack Ogle’s legacy. Then again, I am probably in the minority on this one. I imagine most folks would buy into the lie and choose Kevin or Kelly. Kent was, is and always will be King Ogle.

~~~Ed Doney, Ally Myers, Bobbie Miller, Ernie Paulson. These and a few other “weekend anchors” are often more affable and a good deal more professional than their seniors. Some are “rising stars” (Myers), some content to be second-tier (Miller, who is a fine anchorwoman) and at least one who went from being head anchorwoman on Channel 5 to second level reporting and part-time anchoring at the NewsChannel (Cherokee Ballard).

The list at hand does not, at this time, include weathermen, as they will be counted on a completely different list. The sports guys are gonna have to wait, too. That’s sports and weather, bro…we talkin’ news.

And in Channel 9’s corral we find…

~~~Kelly Ogle. Why do I get the feeling that Kelly Ogle firmly believes that he is the superior newscaster of the Ogle Triumvirate? He has somehow convinced the news department to let him do up a short editorial. He calls it “Kelly Ogle’s Two Cents”. Well, he could have saved a lot of money trying to give it to me. I’d rather die a broke man than to have to take chump change from K.O. Two cents more than it's worth.

~~~Lots of kick-ass hot chicks whose names I cannot, for some reason, remember. They are yummy, they are easy on the old peepers. But none of them, fine as they are, hold a candle to Timmy Carver’s newfound love, Terry Gaydawn.