In All The Loveless Places

The pretty cowgirl’s mouth is wild with tameless laughter, and the tassels on her calfskin miniskirt and waistcoat dance to her every move. Standing astride the centre line between four traffic lanes, gun belt and holsters sparkling in the car lights, she aims her pearl-handled pistols high and pow-pows at the fragile moon. When motorists blast their horns and yell abuse at her, she laughs all the wilder and jiggles her hips. Sometimes, she twirls her guns on her trigger fingers, and brings them to bear on faces contorted by frustration. I think she’s the happiest person I’ve ever seen in Cork City, like she’s found just where she belongs in the world.

It’s late evening on the Grand Parade. The Shandon bells curl across the city, syncopated by the more sonorous clangs from nearby Holy Trinity. Over the old stone wall behind me, the River Lee is in full flow, with a bitter wind striking along it. The chill from the steel bench has soaked into me. I should go home. I should wait. On our last call, Peter told me he’d been delayed but promised he wouldn’t be much longer. If I go now and he comes looking for me, he’ll be annoyed. I’m playing mind games, he’ll say, wasting his time. So, I wait, and envy Cowgirl her freedom.

A man walks past me with a burger stuffed into his gaping mouth and a white slime trail of mayo drooling down his chin. My mouth waters at the smell from the chipper down the street, but Peter’s bound to come the minute I go to get something to eat. An old man in a mangy black coat and flaky cap shuffles up to me. An open bottle pokes its head from the brown bag in his left hand. His right snakes towards me, palm up. He mumbles a few words. ‘Any change, love?’ or something like that. I delve into the pocket of my coat, but before I can give him anything, he wanders off, to stand at the edge of the pavement. He’s still for a few moments, watching Cowgirl, then he throws back his head and lets loose a sinister cackle. ‘Look at the mad eejit,’ he roars. ‘Lord, save us,’ then he shakes his head and trudges away.

Cowgirl dances, and the more the pedestrians point and laugh at her, the more the motorists fume, the raunchier her routine becomes. She swings her arms wide, kicks a carefree leg in the air, then the other one, turning, turning. A car narrowly misses her, but she’s undeterred. She cavorts like a lap dancer, hips gyrating, ass wagging. She radiates beauty. She radiates love.

Pow-pow.

Invisible bullets strike cars, buildings, pedestrians.

Pow-pow.

One carves a line straight through my heart.

~~~

Bang. A car glances off Cowgirl. It’s just a tap, but she makes the most of it, clutching her chest and slowly folding to the asphalt. Cars blare. A man gets out and helps her up, then points to the row of benches where I’m sitting. Cowgirl nods. As she limps towards me, he tries to smack her ass, but she twirls and blasts him with her six-shooters.

‘Nerve of that dude,’ she says, as she nears me. ‘Seriously.’ She drops onto the bench beside me and extends a hand. ‘Everyone calls me Sweetie.’

‘Rita,’ I say, taking her hand in mine. Her skin is soft and warmer than I expected.

‘You’ve been sitting here a long time.’

‘You’ve been watching me?’

She nods. ‘Waiting for someone?’

‘Peter. My boyfriend. Are you okay? That car…’

‘I’m fine,’ she says, with a wicked mustang laugh. ‘Why are you waiting for someone who doesn’t want you?’ When I don’t answer, she pats my knee and presses close, to rest her head on my shoulder. ‘You look for what you want in all the loveless places. Believe me, I should know.’

Her words are a bullet-punch in my gut. I want to run, to be away from her unfiltered truth. I want to stay, to savour her unfamiliar warmth. The river gushes past behind us, traffic flows in front. A pub door opens, releasing a violent heartbeat of transient dance fervour. The city rumbles by, ceaseless, uncaring, carrying love and hate and other poisons along its clogged arteries. ‘He’s not coming, is he?’ I say at last.

‘Even if he did, would it be worth it?’

‘Why do you do it? Dance in the traffic?’

She lifts her head, and her amber eyes search mine. ‘Because it must be done.’ And then, she kisses me.

~~~

Someone must’ve called an ambulance because one finds us. The paramedics have no trouble identifying their target. ‘Up to your old tricks, Sweetie?’ one of them asks.

‘Someone has to bring the joy.’

‘No better girl. Come on, we’ll take you in, get you looked over. Off your meds again?’

She stands but ignores the question. ‘Look after my guns for me,’ she says, opening the buckle on her belt. She slips it off and lumps it onto my lap.

‘I’ll get them back to you,’ I promise.

The paramedics support her as she limps to the door of the ambulance. Just before she enters, she turns to me, makes a gun shape with her hands, and fires her last shots. A few moments later, the ambulance strobes blue and pulls away.

I look down at the white of the handles, the cold grey steel, the diamantes on the belt and holsters. When I slip the belt around my waist, it’s heavier than I thought it’d be, but it fits perfectly. I take an uncertain step towards the traffic, then a certain one. The wary moon examines me with its one good eye.

Someone has to bring joy to loveless places.

Pow-pow.

I reckon I’m pretty good at it, too.