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  “A heartbreaking portrait of what it means to be a man in a world where violence trumps reason, and bad decisions begin with good intentions. With wit, tenderness and intelligence, Bull Head exposes the raw underbelly of male experience.”

  —Gary Shteyngart, author of Super Sad True Love Story

  “John Vigna’s prose grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go. The characters in Bull Head never give up—they keep trying to fulfill themselves by taking action. Like all of us, their decisions were the best option at the time, but in retrospect often caused more difficulty and damage. Bull Head is a brilliant book by a writer who never flinches.”

  —Chris Offutt, author of Kentucky Straight

  “A remarkable collection of rough-edged stories about the hard lives of men and women living and working in hard places, and John Vigna’s eye for detail, gift for description and unflagging empathy are the keys that unlock these characters’ closely guarded hearts and give us access to their weary, yearning souls.”

  —Richard Lange, author of Dead Boys

  “Bull Head is full of yearning hearts, people living on the edge of trouble and tomorrow. A man mourning his dead wife and daughters takes in a vagabond girl. Two elderly brothers shun the modern world that slouches toward their doorstep. These are keepers of the faith in a hard-scrabble landscape, forever stumbling into urgent embraces. In every story there are gritty, heartfelt truths to be found amid sagebrush and starlight and feathery dustings of snow.”

  —Charlotte Gill, author of Ladykiller and Eating Dirt

  “John Vigna is a rare writer, capable of standing stark brutality alongside complex humanity, adept at showing us the cruelty of the world without making us despair for ourselves within it. The stories in Bull Head are rich, compelling, and sometimes frightening, written in spare honest prose without pretence or posturing. An astonishing debut.”

  —Steven Galloway, author of The Cellist of Sarajevo

  BULL HEAD

  JOHN VIGNA

  Arsenal Pulp Press Vancouver

  BULL HEAD

  Copyright © 2012 by John Vigna

  US edition published 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a license from Access Copyright.

  ARSENAL PULP PRESS

  Suite 101 – 211 East Georgia St.

  Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6

  Canada

  arsenalpulp.com

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada (through the Canada Book Fund) and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program) for its publishing activities.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons either living or deceased is purely coincidental.

  The following stories have appeared in a different form in the following publications: “Fences” (originally appeared as “Two” in The Antigonish Review), “South Country” (originally appeared as “Hops” in subTerrain), “Two-Step” (originally appeared as “The Ballad of Big and Small” in Grain and Cabin Fever: The Best New Canadian Non-Fiction), and “Gas Bar” (The Dalhousie Review). The author would like to thank the editors of each of these publications.

  Cover photograph by Michael Jang for Getty Images

  Author photograph by Nancy Lee

  Book design by Gerilee McBride

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

  Vigna, John, 1965-

  Bull head / John Vigna.

  Short stories.

  Also issued in electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-55152-491-7

  I. Title.

  PS8643.I355B84 2012C813'.6C2012-905202-7

  For Nancy

  ... the man in the violent situation reveals those qualities least dispensable in his personality, those qualities which are all he will have to take into eternity with him ...

  —Flannery O’Connor, “On Her Own Work”

  Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.

  —The Book of Hebrews 12:1

  CONTENTS

  TWO-STEP

  SHORT HAUL

  FENCES

  CUTBLOCK

  GAS BAR

  SOUTH COUNTRY

  BULL HEAD

  PIT BULLS

  TWO-STEP

  I

  ARLENE IS BOTH kinds of music: country and western.

  When she stomps toward Earl, kicking up sawdust across the worn parquet dance floor, faux gold rings curved around her liver-spotted fingers and aquamarine rhinestones hanging around her neck, sweat beaded above her painted lips, eyelashes done just so, he sees his own hurt in her. He turns away and orders a beer.

  “Earl, gawddammit, you’re late.” Arlene slaps his back.

  “Sorry, honey, I’ve been packing.”

  “Packing? Something you forgot to tell me?” She runs her fingers along the marbled snaps on his shirt, tugs on his bolo, stands on her toes to reach his broad neck. “I oughta lynch you for making me wait so long.”

  The first beer of the day is cold and goes down fast. The fiddles and Dobro are loud and bittersweet. They sting like she does.

  “You can’t hang an innocent man.”

  “Baby, you’re anything but innocent.”

  He laughs, pulls her in by the doughy flesh of her hip, presses his weight into her, and rests his chin on her head. Her hair is sticky and stiff but it smells clean. “You oughta know.”

  “I wish I didn’t.”

  He drains his beer and sets it down. Nods for another. “Can’t we have some fun tonight?”

  “Fun seems to be the only thing you know.”

  On the dance floor, Earl holds Arlene tight, her hand damp in his, the tips of his fingers firm on her spine. He smiles as he leads her; they slide in swirls of sawdust, float in and out of other couples, counterclockwise around the room to the twang of Don Williams. He twirls her like a tiny doll, her eyes wide, boots gliding and stepping, thighs and calves brushing in long strides. Their silver belt buckles click when they come together. He is not a religious man, nor does he carry a great deal of faith in himself unless a woman puts it there. An ache of sadness tugs at him when he brings her in close again and whispers that he’s leaving in the morning, that he’ll be gone for a few days to see his brother. And when she pulls away and stops dancing, he’s certain he has already lived the best part of his life.

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” She studies his face. “The lone wolf rides again. Well, suit yourself. But don’t come crawling back to me again. I can’t take a man whose favourite topic is himself.” She spins around and leaves him standing alone while the other couples twirl close, sawdust rising and falling around him, lost in the dark lights of the tavern.

  II

  Earl gears down the ’72 Ford pickup he borrowed from his used-car lot to read the sign: “You are entering a Correctional Services Reserve. Any vehicle or person on this site is subject to a search. No loitering or photographs.”

  Crisp autumn air rises over the gin-clear river, the valley laid out before him like a dark green bottle. He inhales deeply before he unlatches the glove box, pulls out a flask of bourbon, snaps the cap, and takes a long drink. Whitetails and mule deer dot the open patches; a stand of birch and alder gives way to pine, spruce, and fir. He prefers the meadows that appear sud
denly in the dense swathes of forest, cattle lowing on land cleared by generations of hardworking folks. But it’s getting more difficult to recognize true pastures from the greened-over slag heaps that pass for hillsides. Geese honk above him in a melancholy song.

  In the prison parking lot, he takes another swig before he stuffs the flask in his chest pocket. He slings a duffle bag over his shoulder and carries three plastic sacks of groceries toward the main entrance. A large German shepherd paces back and forth in a fenced pen. Behind, neatly manicured lawns; two white gazebos stand placidly outside of the barbed wire fences. He enters the waiting room and sits down.

  The week before his visit, he had asked Hammy if there was anything he could bring, just say the word, anything at all. Hammy requested two rollerball pens, nothing else.

  “Why?”

  “To write.”

  “Write what?”

  “Stories.”

  “What the hell kinds of stories?”

  “I dunno. Stuff. Social worker says it’s to get in touch with who I am.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Hell if I know.” Hammy sniffed on the other end of the phone. “But the ink makes good tats.”

  They talked once a week; Hammy called collect punctually at seven p.m. on Sunday nights. Earl made a point of being home alone before he went to the Northerner for a night of dancing and drinking. He looked forward to the calls even though they didn’t talk about much. It was better than the smashed and incoherent calls at all hours of the night before Hammy was arrested. What shook Earl were the phone calls when Hammy would be coming down from a high, his voice raw, a whisper on the other end of the line. “Maybe it’d be better for everyone if I just disappeared.” And then he’d hang up. Once Earl asked the operator to see if the call could be reversed; she replied that it could, and the phone rang unanswered. He tried the line again and again throughout the night even though he knew it was a payphone he was calling. He imagined a solitary booth on the edge of a parking lot near a gas bar, the phone’s ring echoing across the gravel like a death rattle mocking him. He finally gave up, lay in his bed listening to the birds chatter as first light appeared, reached for a nitroglycerin tablet, placed his hand on his chest, and prayed for his breathing to slow. The phone rang and Hammy was on the other end, his voice brighter than before. Earl asked him if he had found a fix; Hammy shouted, called him a fat bastard who only thought of himself, then hung up. Earl poured himself a generous shot of bourbon, yanked the phone line out of the wall, and rested the glass on his belly, studying the popcorn ceiling until it was time to get up.

  Staring at a soft-drink machine in the waiting area, Earl feels the weight of his flask against his chest. He glances at the glass case on the wall jammed with trophies and banners and pictures of prison staff, smiling in softball uniforms, and considers turning around, getting a motel room for the night, checking out the local action in the bars, kicking up his heels.

  “You waiting on someone?” From a booth lined with tinted windows, a guard with grape-coloured lips and a mouth packed with misshapen teeth emerges, blinking in the daylight.

  “Here to see my little brother.” Earl spells out Hammy’s name.

  The guard flips through pages on his clipboard. He picks up a phone, murmurs into it, hangs up, returns to the booth. A pretty, heavyset woman enters wordlessly, snaps on a pair of latex gloves, rummages through Earl’s duffle bag. Her breasts push at the buttons of her uniform. Handcuffs jingle on her hip. She pulls out his nitroglycerin pills, pens, and flask. She digs through his clothes, yanks out shirts and briefs, shakes and leaves them on the counter in a heap.

  “And this?” She holds up a crumpled naked woman, a deflated life-sized plastic doll.

  “What else should a guy bring for his brother in jail?”

  “All gifts must be registered.”

  “Let’s register it then.” He looks around, shifts from foot to foot, grateful no one else is in the room.

  She drops the doll on the counter, makes a note on her clipboard. “Flask. Car keys. Wallet.” She glances at his belt. “That, too.”

  He grins, slides the Leatherman and pouch off, and hands it to her.

  “The belt, too.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  She dumps the contents into a small Rubbermaid bin and drops it in a locker, locks it, and hands him the key. “They’ll be here for you in three days.”

  “I’m looking forward to that.” Earl stuffs the clothes in his duffle bag without folding them.

  He walks through a metal detector. The guard pushes his bags through an X-ray machine, hands him a clip-on badge with a large “V” for “Visitor,” buzzes him through two separate doors leading outside. The woman escorts him to a miniature house, a dreary slap-it-up-quick covered in the grey siding that characterized much of the company town he drove through to get here. A neatly clipped lawn and a waist-high chainlink fence surround unit B202, usually reserved for conjugal visits. A concrete picnic table sits bolted to the ground. Beneath it, a plastic pail is filled with sand and cigarette butts, a shovel jabbed upright in it.

  “My tax dollars hard at work,” Earl says.

  “Don’t make yourself too comfortable.”

  “How about a tour?”

  She unlocks the front door and leaves.

  He had expected bars on the windows, cots for sleeping, cold cement floors, metal toilets without seats, and bad-ass dudes at every turn. Instead Earl finds wall-to-wall broadloom, a large-screen TV and a boombox, a queen-sized bed, and a night table filled with packages of condoms. In the smaller bedroom there are two single beds with Bugs Bunny comic book sheets, a chalkboard, and broken sticks of coloured chalk. Nothing bolted down. It’s a nicer house than he owns. He looks out the window; cameras pointed at all angles.

  Another stocky woman, nothing to look at, strides toward the house. Hammy limps behind her carrying a small mesh sack. His hair hangs, stringy, receding; there’s a triangular patch of fuzz beneath his lower lip. Despite the oversized T-shirt, Earl can make out his well-defined, muscular arms.

  Earl offers a hand. “Hey, little man.”

  “Well, ain’t this something? You showed up.”

  They embrace with one arm. The bones in Hammy’s back and shoulder are sharp and feel brittle. Earl lets go and glances at his brothers face, pasty white, pockmarked with small scars, not clear and tanned as Earl remembered. Hammy’s eyes jitter back and forth, marbled with red lines.

  “You make sure you clean up after yourself and leave the house in the same shape you got it,” the guard says. “You hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hammy keeps his head down as she walks out of the house.

  “What’s up with the women here?”

  “To begin with, there ain’t many, if that’s what you want to call them.” Hammy wanders through the house and stops at the children’s room. “I’ll take this one.”

  “No way, little man. Take the master.”

  “Nah, looks like you could use the space.” Hammy chuckles, nods at Earl’s stomach. “Hell, it’ll just make it harder to go back inside, anyways.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m beat from the drive.”

  “Sleeping one off? That’s all right. I’ll be out here. I ain’t going anywhere.”

  III

  For dinner, Earl minces a head of garlic, sautés it in olive oil, and adds a can of tomato sauce. He simmers it for a few minutes, adds a pat of butter and a tablespoon of sugar, tosses in a pinch of chili flakes and serves it over a mound of rigatoni. His signature dish—Hammy’s favourite. Earl watches him pick at his food. “Something wrong?”

  “Nah, it’s real good, Earl. I just can’t eat spicy food anymore. Stomach can’t take it.”

  “What’s wrong with your stomach?”

  “Nothing serious. Just these ulcers I got. The food’s good. Nice to taste something with flavour compared to the tasteless crap they serve in there.” Hammy flips his thumb toward the main building
of the prison and pushes his plate aside.

  “What’s it like?”

  “What’s what like?”

  “In there. What’s it like in there?”

  “What do you think it’s like?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “You’re the smart one. You tell me.”

  “Must be tough, having to watch your back all the time, not knowing who you can trust.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.” Hammy shakes his head. “That some lame-ass attempt to show you know something about what I’m going through?” Hammy stands and spreads his arms across the width of the table, checks to see if it’s sturdy, then climbs on top.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Hammy pops the shade off the light, unscrews the bulb with his sleeve. “Just as I thought.” He hands it to Earl. The bulb is hot.

  “Huh?

  “How many watts?”

  “Forty.”

  Hammy lifts his eyebrows. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

  “No.”

  “Not sixty or a hundred?”

  “No.” Earl looks around the room. Even though all the lights are on, the room is dim.

  “Try again.”

  “So guys won’t electrocute themselves? So the prison can save money on their power bill? How the hell should I know?”

  Hammy laughs. “When you start spending time alone, when your world is stripped down to its bare essentials, you get to see more clearly. It’s the one thing I’ve gained in here. Clarity.” Hammy screws the light bulb back in and hops off the table.

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Least you ain’t lying.”

  “Does that make you feel good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the deal with the light bulbs?”

  Hammy laughs again. “So we can’t cook speed.” He limps toward the kitchen, searches the cutlery drawer, pulls out a couple of jagged steak knives and holds them out. “Here, this might be something you can relate to.”