Wild west hijinks continue in the eighth installment of the hysterical and historical adventures of an unlikely hero.
Wilde stood tall, six-feet and two inches tall by my estimation, looking even taller because of the crown of his floppy hat. His tawny hair hung down to his shoulders, framing an elongated face that would clabber fresh milk. Wilde’s deep-set blue-gray eyes looked down at me over an angular nose that pointed to ladylike lips parted just enough for me to see a pair yellow-stained, protruding choppers that were the worst teeth I’d seen since Mandy Mae Minter in Buffalo Gap. His flamboyant attire muted his homeliness as he wore a red bow tie big enough to top a funeral wreath, a brown shirt, light green corduroy knee britches, brown stockings, and black patent leather shoes that made me ashamed of my footwear. Butt-thorn stood in front of me, his right hand flying to his lips.
“You owe my sister a thousand dollars,” I announced. Behind him I saw Vale reach inside his coat—for a gun, I feared—but Locke grabbed his wrist and yanked it away.
“Oh, gracious me,” Wilde said. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Your lecture bumped my sister’s theatrical troupe out of the theater they had reserved for weeks,” I explained.
“It’s really him,” Wilde cried, dropping his hand and stepping fearlessly toward me.
Uncertain of his motive, I cocked the pistol’s hammer, but that didn’t slow him. He stepped to me, shoved my gun aside with his left hand and reached with his right to lift my chin. He moved my jaw first to one side, then to the other, next retreating a step and clapping his hands softly like a little girl. Bewildered, I released the hammer of my revolver and stuck the weapon back in the holster.
“The money,” I said. “Pay up.”
Wilde lifted his right index finger to his pursed lips for me to remain silent before inspecting me from my hat to my feet. “It’s providential,” he announced. “I have found him in Salt Lake City, no less.”
“Who, Massa Wilde?”
“The True American! I have been seeking him ever since I landed in North America, a man shaped by the continent, a roughhewn frontiersman who’s carved civilization out of a wilderness without the thought of art, and yet is a man who appreciates beauty as reflected by his patent leather shoes, which he prefers for their artistry rather than their practicality on the trail.” He grabbed my empty gun hand and shook it. By the softness of his fingers and palm, I determined he had never worked hard in his life. It seemed the only thing that was hardened was his mind, which was callused with nonsense.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“H.H. Lomax,” I answered. “Now, about that thousand dollars.”
He touched his finger to my lips. “Such a strong, powerful, alliterative name, H-H. It reminds me of H-R-H, his royal highness. You, sir, are but one letter—the letter R—away from royalty.”
And he was about one drip away from insanity, I thought. I looked behind him at Traquair, who raised his arms palms up to show he was as bewildered as me.
“Where are you from, H.H.?”
“Arkansas, originally.”
“Ah, Arkansas,” Wilde mused, removing his hat and flinging it on the tiger end of the sofa, “the Athens of the Western Hemisphere, the intellectual, and cultural center of the North American Continent.”
Behind him, Vale and Locke snickered, lifting their fists to their mouths to stifle their chuckles.
“Now about the money?”
Wilde waved his finger at me, “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Your patience and your silence are what I desire.” He grabbed my shoulders and stood at arm’s length, studying me like he would the menu in a fancy restaurant. “This is indeed a providential day, me finding the True American. I have heard that Mark Twain claimed to be the True American, but he is a humorist. You, H.H. Lomax, are a realist, the genuine True American.”
“Is it worth a thousand dollars?” I asked.
He shook my shoulders. “With your every word, you prove you are the True American, always looking to the West, an American metaphor for riches and wealth, the desire of all but the destination of few. And you, H.H., are on that journey to prosperity, a man with beauty in his soul, art in his dreams and patent leather shoes on his feet. You are a patron of beauty, H.H., and everyone else is a mere philistine.”
I had no idea who Phyllis Steen was, but by that point I was befuddled whether Wilde was serious or merely mocking me for his own entertainment, like a kitten playing with a wounded mouse before the kill. Maybe I should have shot the lecturer and been done with the negotiations, sacrificing Lissa’s reimbursement for my own sanity.
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5/2/23 |
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5/2/23 |
BONUS Stop |
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5/3/23 |
Guest Post |
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5/3/23 |
BONUS Stop |
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5/4/23 |
Review |
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5/5/23 |
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5/6/23 |
Excerpt |
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5/7/23 |
Character Spotlights |
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5/8/23 |
Author Interview |
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5/9/23 |
Review |
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5/10/23 |
Excerpt |
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5/11/23 |
Review |
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5/11/23 |
Review |
Boys' Mom Reads! 
HA! I can so perfectly hear/imagine this scene! Love it. Thanks for sharing – I can’t wait to read this book.