Free Some Can Whistle by Larry McMurtry

In fact, I’d be home now if it wasn’t for you.”
    “You can’t be much of a world traveler,” he said. “Look at you. You’re not even able to find your way out of Arlington.”
    Godwin and I had never complemented one another that well. His fervor only seemed to activate my passivity. The minute he came around, my hands slipped right off the steering wheel of my own fate, to put it grandly.
    It happened that night, too. I did finally find my way out ofArlington, but instead of driving straight home to Los Dolores I let myself be talked into stopping at a honky-tonk in the stockyards area of Fort Worth.
    Actually, I had a dark motive in stopping at the honky-tonk. So far, Godwin had tried to seduce virtually everyone we’d met since leaving the airport. Undoubtedly he would continue to try, and maybe he would actually succeed. Maybe he’d find a horny barmaid or a gay cowboy—anyone to take him off my hands. He did, apparently, manage to seduce a good many people; possibly he’d get lucky in north Fort Worth.
    Nothing of the sort happened, of course. The cowboys in the honky-tonk interested Godwin more than the barmaids, but the cowboys, most of whom were probably carpet salesmen or drywallers anyway, seemed not to be gay. None of them appreciated Godwin’s forthright suggestions, and one or two seemed inclined to give him a thorough stomping. As he got drunker and drunker, his suggestions became more and more forthright.
    Finally I gave up. Much as I didn’t want to take him home, even less did I want to get into a fight, and a fight was looming. Godwin had never won a fight in his life, and neither had I. In a literary bar we might have stood some chance, but Peppy Lou’s Lounge in north Fort Worth was not exactly Elaine’s. When you got stomped in north Fort Worth you knew you’d been stomped.
    “Godwin, let’s go,” I said.
    “Why?” he asked. “I’m not even very drunk.”
    “I don’t like the ambiance here,” I said. “It’s a violent ambiance, if you ask me.”
    “But that’s the fun of it,” Godwin said, his eyes shining. “I’ve been knocked about in far worse places than this, I assure you. It might be stimulating.”
    “Also it might be fatal,” I said. “I just flew home from Egypt. I’m really not in the mood for any more emergency rooms.”
    “Oh, stop harping on Egypt and enjoy yourself,” he said. “Are these real cowboys or are they the pharmacy variety?”
    “Drugstore, not pharmacy,” I said. “Listen, I’m serious. I’mgetting out of here. I don’t feel like getting beaten up. I’m not a masochist.”
    “Possibly not,” he said, looking at me coolly. “You don’t seem to be anything, really—just fat.”
    “Let me point out that I’m not responsible for you, sir,” I said formally. “It’s not my fault your car’s in Alaska. I’m willing to put you up for a few days, though it’s against my better judgment. But the offer expires in three minutes. I’m leaving, and if you don’t come I may never see you again.”
    Godwin fell silent. He looked wistfully at one of the carpet salesmen, two or three of whom were glaring at him.
    “Oh, well, they’re probably only pharmacy cowboys anyway,” he said, draining his Scotch.
    We arrived at Los Dolores two hours later. Since Cairo, I had been awake for twenty-four hours, but it was Godwin who was asleep—so soundly that I had to leave him in the car. The next morning I heard the unfamiliar sound of whistling from the kitchen and came in to find him scrambling eggs. Gladys was squeezing oranges. She seemed to take Godwin’s presence for granted, and she might as well have—that was five years ago, and he had been with us ever since.

18
    The drive to Houston did little to awaken the nascent travel writer that I hoped was slumbering within me. The Decatur courthouse was the last sight on the whole trip that could fairly be described as picturesque.
    Once the Fort Worth courthouse had also been