I smiled up at him. He was larger than life; a more vibrant, healthier man I’ve yet to meet. His tan Stetson showed off his sunburned face to best advan­tage. He wore a brown corduroy jacket over a blue-­plaid shirt with jeans and plain-­toed boots. He was big, with wide shoulders, and he had deep-­set green eyes, a large, open, honest face, and a scent like the forest in the spring. He smiled back at me, and I felt the ignition.

“You a friend of Kyle’s?”

I shook my head. “I’m just early.”

“New in town?”

I nodded. My breath was caught in my throat.

“I’m Boyd Turner. This is my brother Bill.” Bill smiled, then blew on his hands again.

“Angelina Watson.”

“Want to help?”

I shrugged, feeling a blush rise in my cheeks.

“You can sell tickets. There’s always too much work for Bill and me. Kyle helps out with the cleaning and stuff, but”—he checked his watch—“the band will arrive soon, and—” A van pulled into the park­ing lot. We smiled at each other. His teeth were clean and white. “See? Help us out for a half hour? Work off your admission fee?”

He was pleading with me in a flirtatious way. He was irresistible, with his boyish charm and his won­derful eyes. I took my hands out of my pockets and stood up, ready to be directed.

In no time, activity was everywhere. The band began to set up, and as they did, volunteers arrived to work in the snack shop. Boyd recognized them, and I stamped their hands and let them pass for free. All others were to pay one dollar for a bit of black ink on their hands that said, “For Deposit Only—Wiley’s Feed and Livestock.”

Early arrivals began to trickle in, mostly young boys who had spent the better portion of the day deciding what to wear and preparing for this evening of meeting young girls. They paid their entrance fee, then grouped together around the doors to the rest­rooms. When the groups got large enough, they would all leave to go sit in cars, trade lies and plot strate­gies, be fortified by a beer and a smoke, and be ad­mitted again, later, showing the stamped back of their hands.

My job was to be of service, and it brought up interesting feelings. I felt proud every time Boyd came by to pick up the receipts, when he gave me that special smile of gratitude. I felt debased when the young girls—my age, older, younger—came by and threw their dollar bills at me, or wouldn’t show me their stamped hands upon reentry.