Cow Creek-Tradesmen-Business Dealings with Women-Deep Water Saloons.

"Jesus Christ, Solheim, ain't you ever slaked lime? Make a hole." Kemmerle shouldered in and went to work. Solheim stood aside, secretly satisfied. It was rope a dope with Kemmerle. Be inept and he would come running. That suited him fine. He hated the work. The trolley would come down and he could practically smell the leather, the hot wool, the sour perfume of the ladies come down to see the country. He came from Deep Water, where he came so close, but could not quite make the rent there. The saloons were the nonpareil. The ragtime he had heard was not fast but slow and elegant, the way it ought to be, no clog dance, as these shit kickers would have it.

"Look, Solheim. See the way I'm doing?" Kemmerle was huffing and puffing. He knew how to do it. Kemmerle had even showed him last week. But Kemmerle couldn't stand to watch a man work; he had to do everything himself. "You want those sacks Kemmerle?" Solheim said, all ears. Of course he was ready to help now, now that Kemmerle was doing the hard part. "Yeah, come on," Kemmerle grunted. Solheim fetched the sacks and brought them across the hardpan.

These were all to be housing for the gandy dancers, section gangs and laborers that would in turn lay the steel tongue of the trolley to bring more wool-suited, pink-faced workers from Deep River and their corseted wives deeper into the country, with their fried chicken, lemonade and flat soda. The trolley would spit these folk into the country like Solheim spit out watermelon seeds on his off days.

Sometimes he even saw beyond the oak gulches and hollow-stomached country stores and into the purple and pink desert, the badlands beyond the mountains, and sometimes past even those mesas and clear into the future: he had dreamed of horseless carriages with boat's wheels that you steered, and some devil inside whipped the carriage into a frenzy. These contraptions could fly twice, three times as fast as the fastest quarter horse he'd ever seen. And he'd seen many: his daddy used to take him to the races on Montauk Point when he was a boy in New York.

He never gave much thought to his own future; things worked themselves out in time and he preferred to work when it was required and rest when it was not required. It was stupid to fuss over the architecture of the tiny, insignificant niche of one man in the vast cathedral that was the world. He would watch the edifice rise while people like Kemmerle toiled red-faced in the sun.

"Say, you Solheim," Kemmerle began. "What do you make of this?" Solheim looked at the mix. "Why, it looks rather poor, Kemmerle," he said. Kemmerle smiled, gently, Solheim was surprised to see. "No, Solheim, you mule, let me finish. I say what do you think of this: a Ms. Symons I met at the grandstand entered into a deal for a carriage and requested my assistance." Solheim smiled, his hands on his knees. "Ah, a seduction." Kemmerle grinned and tapped the top of a brick with the butt of his trowel. Jos. Thorstein 1905, said the manufacturer's stamp. By God, the man could sweat, Solheim thought as he watched the dark spots covered by Kemmerle's expert buttering.

"Look sharp with those tongs," the older man muttered. Solheim brought another pair of tongs full of brick and laid them near. "She discovered a bent axle and some dunderheaded repairs in the chassis, but she told me merely that the thing required some repair and asked if the sale was honorable. 'Well,' I said to her, 'If the repairs are minor I would say you may accept without fear of embarrassment.' What does she do but accept without showing me the carriage? The next day we take a ride to her place and I give it to her straight. 'This is a jonah,' I tell her. 'It will take some doing. You paid too much.' Why, Solheim, she was outraged! Threatened me with the law! Me, as had never been anything but open and fair with her." Solheim nodded while Kemmerle assumed his 'business tone' and repeated the whole transaction as if it were a legal document. The poor man, he thought. So clever and so stupid at the same time. "Kemmerle, she has eyes for you. That's why she was so angry. Fix her wagon and take her as your wife." Kemmerle gave the brick a sharp tap and turned, one big hand gripping his knee. "Didn' you hear what I just said? She threatened me, Solheim!" Solheim smiled. "Yes." Kemmerle stared at him. "It's God's truth, Solheim," he said, shaking his head and turning back to his bricklaying. "I can't understand how you can be so clever and so stupid at the same time." Solheim only laughed cheerfully.

Solheim went up to Deep Water because it was too late for the little saloon in Cow Creek. He went to the source: a saloon that covered a whole block and whose bar ran the whole length of that space, manned by bartenders in white linen and pink carnations. When you ordered they would carefully lay out a linen napkin, reverently, as if they were covering a corpse. The drink would be mixed quickly and expertly, with a minimum of chatter. He had seen a man released for making conversation with a customer, though the customer had started it, a crusty navvy at that. There was a sloe gin cocktail he favored. It was especially welcome these days, when the sweat seethed through your clothes and the stink of the gutters was overpowering.

Kemmerle came in. "Ain't that a little high for you, Solheim?" he said, grinning. He put his foot up on the rail. "Whiskey," he said over the bar. They shook hands. "How are you today, Solheim? Taking your day off in the saloon?" Solheim nodded to the piano. "He's the best I've heard. A good rag is the equal or superior of any symphony." Kemmerle listened. He shrugged. "I'd as lief hear a good fiddle." Solheim saw to his drink. "What brings you, sir? I thought you would be courting Ms. Symons." Kemmerle snorted. "Ain't that some pumpkins? We met again at the grandstand and she apologized, said she had no right to be cross and told me she would be more than pleased if I would give her my honest opinion on a peach pie she was fixing up for the county fair." Solheim turned and held out his hand. "Why that's a cause for celebration, man!" Kemmerle took his hand but looked glum. "I congratulate you, Solheim. You divined the truth. But it seems a steep price to me. Give me a wall, with straight sides and square corners and no surprises." Kemmerle shook his head. "Whiskey," he called. "Another." He turned to Solheim with a grim look. "I'm going back there. I'm gonna taste her damn pie." Solheim smiled.

The man played "The Easy Winners." Solheim thought it was the best thing he ever heard.