Chapter 43

Karen

Traipsing; to amble on foot ... but it’s more than that. We were having a look-see, a stroll, a promenade without the strut ... not yet a lumber or a plod or even a trudge ... we were roaming ... spring in our step. Not necessarily marching, parading or prancing, we were taking a tour ... traipsing.

We were gussied up. A guaranteed, warranted, and authorized pair of teenagers. The elders said we passed our authenticity test. We were pre 1823 and looked it. Slightly smudged, a little dusty but in period. Couldn’t call our outfits costumes because there was no attempt at fakery. We wore leather, cotton, feathers and wool as appropriate. Belted knives and dangles, tin cones and hair pipes.

We drew the eye of every male between the ages of 13 and 80.

We jingled quietly as we walked.

A man with a camera stepped up.

“I need a picture of you two,” John Baird said. “Oh ... Hi, Karen.”

“Hello, Mr. Baird ... drumming up subscribers?”

“Every chance I get. Who’s your friend?”

“Angie, John Baird. John, Angie. John is the proprietor of The Buckskin Report. Angie is part and parcel of the Pickle Barrel Sandwich Shop in Bozeman. I tore her away from her occupation last week. We are here for fun and frolic.”

“Mom gave me a week off ... I have no idea why...” Angie said. “That’s a lie ... she gave me a week off to catch my boyfriend cheating on me.”

That last little bit accelerated in volume and pitch as she spied her other half ... with an arm around a blonde floozie.

Oh Shit!

“William Alan Porter! You son of a bitch!”

OOH ... all three names! Deep Shit!

“Umh ... Angie ... umh ... what are you doing here?” said the designated asshole.

“Breaking up with a worthless piece of shit.” Angie shifted targets, “Hello Dot. Got your hooks in ‘im, I see.”

Dot was dressed as a New York tenement corner tap ... or beer hall ... waitress. Low cut blouse with a flouncy skirt and button boots. She carried off the low cut extremely well. Plush is the word ... very plush. Bouncy plush.

“Hi, Angie ... love your outfit,” said Dot, in an attempt to defuse a tense moment.

She gave a withering look at Mr. Porter, “Billy ... you told me you had dumped Angie two weeks ago.”

Of all the things that could be said guaranteed to escalate a situation, Dot picked the best one.

The younger Mr. Porter ... he of the three names ... said, “Umh ... did I? I mean, I did?” He turned back to Angie, “Help me out here.”

“No Dot, he had not dumped me ... we HAD a pending date for dinner and a movie for next Wednesday ... HAD being the operative word ... it’ll be icicles in Hell before that happens.”

Dot shrugged her shoulder, setting up a tidal wave of fleshy ripples that drew every male eye, and rid her person of Mr. Porter’s arm. “Angie ... honest ... I wouldn’t poach on occupied territory. Mr. Slimeball,” she nodded in Bill’s direction, “Told me he had broken up with you. Evidently ... that didn’t happen. Can I get a ride with you?”

She took Angie by the arm and walked away. I stood grinning. “William Alan Porter ... I believe you have lost two girls in two minutes ... some sort of a record?” I kicked dust on his boots as I walked after the girls.

“Great pictures!” said Mr. Baird. He waved a paper and pen in Billy’s face, “Can I get a release? Umh ... Porter is it?”

Bill signed, unaware he had just accepted the praise as ‘Sufficient Remuneration’ to allow his photograph to be published ... and circulated among editors and publishers of other rags and slanderous publications, a use generally worth a couple of grand.