Yolky at the Warhol Museum Part 1. Paxson and G us hey parked at the bridge with a stolen Honda motorcycle in the truck bed. T hey bore the motorcycle up and cast it over the edge and waited for the noise but the noise was not the craved clank and echo. They looked over the edge down at the tracks. The coal cars were gone. The motorcycle lay in snow,covered trail and ties; the front wheel spun. Lawnmowers, college textbooks, wheelchairs, soiled casts and mildewed flags, and, once, a month before, a Christmas,treat tin with two human toes in it-Paxson and Gus had always thrown things off the Muleshoe Bridge and those things had always clanked in coal cars. "Train's gone today for once and all, I bet," Paxson said. He was thirty, five. He'd played varsity football at Windfall High, tight end. Gus tried to scale the ledge, his boot tips scraping the in, lain ancient stonework. He weighed nearly three, hundred pounds. "Screw it," Gus said, having given up. He stood leaning and panting. "I was planning to go down and get some of that stuff back we tossed." "Like what?" "Pictures of she whose name means nothing to me now." The woman whose pictures Gus referred to was someone Paxson knew. She'd written to Gus and told him that she had a husband, and a baby, and she hated Gus, hated everything and everybody in Windfall. Gus kicked some snow at Paxson. "Say, Dumbass. Was there anything you were planning to get back?" "I could have fixed that lawnmower." Tht>re were other things Paxson had tossed over from plastic bins: in, formational brochures from art schools he'd wanted to attend. And letters of rejection from those schools. And notebooks filled with his miserable sketches. He'd spent hundreds of dollars in application fees. He didn't tell any of this to Gus. "Would you sleep with her if she came back?" "Would you?" He believed Gus's girl was probably dead. Her name was Melanie G rass, mier. She had a smalltown stripper's body. Her small face was ugly, her head full of dreams. Paxson himself had run around with her in his time. Gus drew a cigarette, then looked at his lighter and Paxson. "Oops," he said. "Forgetful." "Don't worry," Paxson said. He touched the rough sleeve at his upper arm. He was still getting used to the nicotine patch. Gus tucked the pack in his shirt pocket. "You going to call him?"
Summer â€˘ Fall 2006
The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho