Hello, page visitors! Thank you for stopping by and engaging with my work. I’m in the process of stocking prints and I will announce when they are available for purchase. If you are interested in commissioning my abilities for a project, please fill out the form on the “Contact” page and I will respond in a timely manner. Thank you, again.
Best,
Luis de la Cruz
1
Fede lay face down in the dust, moved his head to the left, opened his eyes to a red ant wandering towards his hand, then scuttling away. He pinched the insect with his fingers, holding its abdomen, watching its legs kick and struggle, its head swiveling every way possible. It wants to bite him. Bored of the drama, he pops it’s head off with his thumb nail and index fingernail. Another ant made its way down the same path, then another and so on for several moments. A cold gust of wind ran through his hair. The muffled ambient sounds of a desert afternoon reaching his ears as if he were underwater. The taste of iron in his bloodied mouth grew stale, a bruise on the back of his skull was no longer throbbing, he turned his head and went back to sleep.
Well into dusk he heard the hum of tractor trailers from the highway below, then the swooshing sound of feathers fanning his direction.
Recognizing the sound, he sprung to his feet, batting away two buzzards as he backed away, then tripped over a body and landed on his back. Letting out an agonizing huff he lay immobile, struggling to breathe, watching the flock of monsters devour one of the bodies.
Three buzzards flew away towards the boulders above. Another followed suit after a few moments but the ugliest ones continued, ripping flesh, slicing leather belts and boots with their razor sharp beaks, dried blood marking their black feathers, never blinking, never breaking stride, stopping only to see if anything else was dying.
Headlights lit the dark foothills for a moment then disappeared while he lay on his back, sucking wind through a straw, fighting to regain his breath, he pushed off the ground with elbows and forearms, rising to his knees and onto his feet, he stumbled down the bluff puncturing both shins on lechuguillas scattered along the hillside, scrapping past ocotillo thorns, warm blood leaked into his boots.
He reached the bottom of the hill. Walking towards the highway through boulders and yuccas, down one arroyo and up another, stopping momentarily to breath or dust his pants. He could see his breath in the cold air and stars sprouting in the darkening sky. He was cold and hungry. The highway did not appear to be far, the distance in the desert deceiving him, Fede walked another 20 minutes before reaching the road.
He took off his boots when he reached the highway, shaking out rocks, dirt, and dust. His socks were damp with blood. The upper part dried to his legs. Headlights from a vehicle landed on the mesquite branches above him, two sets coming his way, both at equal distance from each other. He gauged them passing in 2 or 3 minutes. Putting on his boots, fixing his shirt, and dusting his pants, he stood on the shoulder’s white line, waving his hand like a buffoon. Both cars zipped by, neither slowing down. The road was quiet again. Their red tail lights disappeared over the horizon.
The night grew colder, Fede kept moving. Another pair of headlights appeared in the distance behind him, moving faster than the previous vehicles, it’s headlights grew brighter by the time he reached the overpass. Fede thought of the car’s warm heater on his feet and nodding off in the passenger seat. He pictured them as good people, driving home from the border, a day visiting family in El Paso. What would he say if they asked questions? Maybe he could just sit in the back seat and not say anything, or answer every question, every specific detail until he goes limp from exhaustion. He wondered if the car smell like wet dog and cigarettes or spilt coffee and cat hair, or the thick smell of leather from a working man’s boots. He turned to face the oncoming vehicle, stuck out his right arm and outstretched his thumb. It’s headlights blinding him for a second then zoomed by and slowed, red brake lights lit the asphalt for a moment. They considered him and then sped away.
Thirst dried Fede, he wanted to fall where he stood, eventually stumbled down an arroyo and landing by a culvert. On his knees, his hands moved efficiently, scooping and tossing sand, making a trench to hide his body from the cold air. Fede dug a little over a foot in depth, and stopped, took a few deep cold breaths, then returned to digging out his burrow only to find wet sand and eventually water pooling at the bottom of the hole. He lay back against the embankment, exhausted. He pulled out his cigarettes and a lighter in his left denim coat pocket. A few clicks of the bic and the first deep drag filled his lungs with hot smoke.
Fede smoked his cigarettes then snuffed it into the embankment. He looked into the hole he dug using the dim light from his lighter, clear water, almost 3 inches deep had pooled. He stuck his face in the hole, put his lips to the cool water and drank.
He built a small fire with sticks and tumbleweeds, stacked them against the entrance of the culvert and lit a nest of dried brush, a warm yellow and red light snapped twigs, squeezing a hissing gasp of grasses from the thin branches of tumble weeds. Fede stacked heftier pieces in top hoping they’d catch, provide at least another 30 minutes of heat. The warmth and light felt good on his face, hands, and nerves. It must be late, he thought. He covered his body with brush and closed his eyes.
2
Sergio loved charming Fede’s elderly mother. She put out a spread of huevos machados, re-fried beans, tortillas, homemade salsa, queso fresco, and a pot of coffee. Dona Florinda fed anyone who came over; stray cats, dogs, the mailman, the home security salesman, and she even fed Mormon missionaries, establishing a safe zone for the young evangelists at her breakfast nook or dinner table. Elder Smith, a familiar visitor, once brought a brown skinned elder, said he was a brother from their islands in Samoa. Dona Florinda had no idea there were brown Mormons. Good for them.
Why don't you come over more often. I haven’t seen you since last summer?
I've been super busy. I bought a house in Cruces, a big one, almost an acre and lots of pecan trees. Claudia says hi, the girls just keep growing. Joleen is already as tall as me….
They continued their chatter. Fede studied them, their gestures and smiles, their polite exchanges. Sergio was a pathological liar with the air of a wealthy light skinned Mexican. He wore a handsome stubble beard and long wavy black hair, the kind of Mexican you’d see at the outlet malls on weekends. Their women flaunt their bodies in tight trendy outfits of expensive jeans, blouses, and jewelry, or a sun dress that would make a priest blush. Their high heels, aviator glasses, and strut take up the sidewalk, rummaging through folded stacks of clothes as if digging through their own laundry, little or no regard for the hourly employees struggling to keep up and clean up their mess.
Dona Florinda was dressed in her bohemian Mexican garb, long skirts and sandals with a modest peasant blouse. She never dressed like this when he was kid, now it was more of a costume. She identified as Mexican and not a U.S. citizen. For years he thought she knew the Mexican national anthem by heart, but it was only the first four verses, she hummed the rest. Her resident alien card saved her from deportation numerous times during the Obama and Trump years. She was a beautiful woman. Fede tired of her. He wished she'd leave the kitchen.
I'm proud of you. She put her right hand on his shoulder. You’re making your own life. Make sure you tell your mamma I said hello. Exiting the scene, she gave Fede the same look she’s given him a million times before, a tired attempt at shaming a 34 year old man still living in his mother’s home. The men continued eating. Sergio poured himself more coffee, leaned over to freshen Fede’s cup but he waved him off. I’m good, he said.
What do you want? I haven't seen you in months then you randomly show up… I don't owe you anything, do I?
Nah man, we’re good, but I… I need your help. I've asked a few people, but no ones available, he said, putting the “available” in air quotes.
Memo??
Even Memo.
Guillermo “Memo” Villareal took every risk presented to him, even the ones that paid nothing. He did it out of boredom and namesake, “there goes crazy Memo”.
Y Roman?
Tambien
He scooped up the last of the refried beans with a tortilla, finished his coffee, never taking his eyes off Sergio, trying to catch a lie.
It'll be easy. I promise.
I can't.
Sergio sat back, pulled out a cigarette.
Aqui no, pendejo. Let’s go outside.
He picked up their plates, scraped the remains into a an empty light blue Morrell lard bucket, rinsed off the plates and left them in the sink. Vamos, he motioned to Sergio as he walked out the screen door.
They walked to the far end of the property where his father planted a Mexican Sycamore 20 years ago. It was the lone tree along the irrigation ditch levy that stretched to the Rio Grand. It was over 30 feet tall. It’s large dried crunchy leaves covered the ground around, stacking into the bottom of the ditch, creating a soft bed for laying prone and taking pop shots at the jack rabbits in the desert abutting their neighborhood. Sergio collected pecans along the patchy yellow grass, cracking their shells with his back molars. Two yard dogs followed them, sniffing their pant legs.
Watch out man, I haven't scooped up the dog shit yet. Fede picked up a tennis ball and shot it across the property. The dogs took off in chase. Both men sat on a log under the Sycamore and talked for over an hour. The dogs sat with them. The morning eventually warmed and Sergio left.
Two days later he drove his pick-up truck to the border to pick up Danny, Sergios friend. Danny pulled into a parking lot across the street from the old courthouse. He recognized the older fatter version of Danny from High School. His dirty Dallas Cowboys hat and oversized t-shirt camouflaged him among the people buying Mexican ice pops from the street vendors. Danny looked over at Fede, smiled and waved, paid the young vendor and walked over.
Toma buey, he told him, climbing into the cab of Fede’s pick-up, handing Fede an ice-pop. I knew you'd bring your shiny ass truck, he told him. No worries, we’ll leave it here and take my car.
Yeah, that's fine. Fede took the off plastic wrapper of his coconut treat.
You haven't seen my new car, huh? It's right over there.
Si, pendejo. I saw you pull up. I thought you didn't want to call attention?
They drove Danny's metallic black El Camino with white wall tires, “TX-VATO” personalized license plates, and 5 inch white letter decals commemorating his grandfather’s passing on the rear window. Octavio Perez - Gonzalez, 1932 - 2015. They drove over Puente Tornillo Guadalupe into Mexico and took Carretera Dos, following the border through towns, dirt road colonias, pharmacies, corner markets, wooden pallet shanties and gangs of stray dogs. The desert opened up, the El Camino picked up speed.
We'll be back by tonight?
Simón buey, no te preocupes. Looking out at the desert, both hands on the wheel at ten and two, Danny gave Fede a reassuring nod.
Fede sunk into the warm leather bench seats. He gazed out the window to watch the roadside brush fly by while the distant desert stood still. Fede’s breathing slowed, the car seat molded perfectly around him, his muscles and eyelids grew heavy in the warmth of the mid-day sun, Fede dozed off. He dreamed of a January evening under his father’s sycamore. A rust colored dusk to his left, a buildup of clouds over the Organ mountains to the north where the sky darkened. His dog sat next to him, a handsome black German Shepherd named Geronimo. The dog sipped coffee from an old metal cup and spoke to him in Spanish.
No hay mal que por bien no venga.
Then a long pause. The dry branches of the sycamore tapped scraped on each other.
Lo se. He said.
The cold wind felt good against his cheeks. The weapon felt heavy in his hands. Geronimo’s ears perked up to watch roadrunners scamper in the desert brush below.
Que piensas?
Geronimo looked into his coffee cup, a few ounces of cold coffee left. He swirled them round. Cada dia, el mundo nos rechasa, como el perro que sacude sus pulgas.
Fede broke into laughter. Mocking his dog, You’re a fucking idiot.
3
He woke when they pulled to a roadside cafe.
We're here, Danny said. You ok?
How long was I out?
About 20 minutes.
It felt like an hour.
The cafe was small, packed dirt floor, high ceilings, and heavy timber beams supporting a tin roof. It was warm inside, with the occasional dry breeze coming through the open back door. There were two children watching a small television behind the cash register. An old Tarahumara woman brought them water and dark overcooked greasy tortilla chips. They ordered food and beers. She took their orders and pointed towards a refrigerator by the side door for beverages, a help yourself policy. They each drank two. After ten minutes a squat muscular man walked in and introduced himself. He looked like a suburban gringo, sporting the dad-vacation outfit, khaki cargo shorts, tennis shoes, white socks, and a bright pink LaCoste polo shirt. He spoke perfect Spanish with a foreign accent, not Mexican.
Listos? He asked them.
Vamonos, said Danny, laying down a 20 dollar bill on the table.
They backtracked towards Cd. Juarez on Carretera Dos, following the man onto a dirt road a few miles ahead. The road ended at a rock quarry. It was just past lunch time. Most of the large rock haulers and heavy equipment were shut down except for a few pickup trucks coming up the rim. They pulled up to an office trailer. The man went inside for a few minutes, returned with a set of keys and some papers, motioned them to roll down the window.
Alright, the truck's on the other side of the office. Here's the keys, the bill of lading, weight papers, and log book. You're hauling 3 tons of coarse white granite. You'll go back to Puente Tornillo and you know the rest. You ready? His perfect English threw him off, like listening to a talking dog, he wasn’t expecting it and couldn’t look away.
Yeah, lets go, lets do this. Fede got out of the car. Danny leaned over to the passenger seat, Don't worry man, I’ll be behind you. It's just rocks... I'll see you back at the truck.
They watched Fede through the office window blinds. He did his truck checks and paperwork, then cranked the engine and brought the tractor trailer around the building, dusting up the dirt road and making a left onto Carretera Dos. Within a few hours he’d be at his pick-up and on his way home. He could see Danny’s car trailing at a reasonable distance for the first 10 minutes then disappeared. He scanned both mirrors intently then despairingly, hoping the El Camino would surface over a rise or pop around a curve.
He was alone. He had no way of calling him. He knew this would happen, but this probably meant the load was legitimate, 3 tons of crushed granite gravel for a ranch north of Fort Davis, just rocks, nothing nefarious. He was better off not knowing, making a better lie, grounded in the only truth he knew, willful ignorance with no hesitation in his voice. The officer would side with him for being sincere and forthcoming. They’d both have a good laugh over the circumstances and he’d be able to tell his friends the story over beers one day. It might even make a good story for a first date. Flashing red and blue lights of a patrol car behind brought him back to the dusty cab of the tractor trailer. This can’t happen, he thought. He pulled onto the right shoulder of the highway, calmed his nerves and greeted the officer.
4
They knelt overlooking a desert plain extending towards the silhouettes of distant foothills and their mountains. This was underwater millions of years ago, he thought. This would be a sea bed where millions of life forms swam, crawled, and ate each other. He thought of what came after the sea receded. His legs and knees burned as he told himself to focus on anything besides the pain, thirst, and self pity. They'd been on their knees for hours. The men standing behind warned being shot if they stood or collapsed. They were told those who lasted until sunrise would live.
The patrolman that pulled over Fede eventually collapsed from exhaustion. A man walked up to the sobbing bastard and buried two thuds into his back from his suppressed weapon. Then shot him again to quiet the convulsions. The eastern horizon was outlined by razor thin layer of rust colored orange burning off into a thicker layer of blends of lavender and violet with a thick layer of black and indigo buffering the night from the coming sun. He took a deep breath of cold air holding the scent of damp mesquite and dirt.
The men behind them wore black balaclavas, black uniforms, and carried American weapons. They whispered to each other in Spanish, Mexican accents, one with an American accent. They spoke to their captives when necessary, reminding them to stay still. Unable to move, the captives had pissed or defecated themselves but none of that mattered, it would be over soon. The sky to the east lightened with each passing moment.
The American accent walked up behind Fede and whispered in his ear, “fall on your face, puto”.
Fede tensed up and grit his teeth. A rifle butt struck the back of the head. He fell face first into the dirt. Then a volley of suppressed rifle shots forced the other three to the ground. A taste of blood in his mouth, ringing in his head and ears, Fede was sure he'd been shot. He woke many hours later to the sound of buzzards.
5
Fede smoked his last cigarette at dawn after a cold night in the arroyo, he hadn't eaten in two days. He continued walking the same direction he'd been walking all night. Danny drove the opposite direction, passed him and turned his car around. He pulled the El Camino in front of Fede and ran to meet him.
Holy shit, you look like shit. Lets get you in the car.
Agua, he asked Danny. I’m fucking hungry, bro.
We'll stop up here and get you something.
A few hours later they arrived at the bridge. The Border Patrol agent stuck his head into Danny's El Camino. Both men nailed their lines, “American Citizen” they each responded.
What's your business in Mexico?
We were visiting family... a birthday party.
What’s up with him. The agent pointed his chin at the Fede.
Oh, his old lady made him sleep outside. Danny giggled nervously. He was sleeping with her sister... she found out last night. Too much information, Danny thought. Now it really sounded like a lie. The agent kept sizing up the passenger.
You guys bring any fruit, vegetables, medicine....birds? Another agent and a large German Shepard walked around their car.
No sir, nothing of the sort. My friend and I just had a wild night at our family's. Danny was running out of lies, he thought of details he could manufacture on the spot. The agent pulled his head out and waved them through.
The El Camino rounded the Border Patrol check station and weaved through barricade serpentine course. Fede notice a tractor trailer with similar rock quarry logos as the one he was driving being stripped by a gang of agents.
What the fuck is that? Fede pointed at the dismantling operation at the far end of the port of entry.
What? Danny ignore him.
That! Fede stuck his finger out.
The rock trailer? Hell if I know. They’re probably looking for something. It was clear Danny didn’t want to discuss what happened.
Fede watched agents strip away the tractor and trailer as they drove away. Far behind them, three gravel trucks from the same quarry made their way across the border. After a mediocre meal at a tourist Mexican restaurant, he drove home in his pickup truck. Curious to know how much money they’d left in his glove box, he pulled into a strip mall parking lot, pushed the large button on the drawer. It dropped open, there was nothing there.
It was an early Saturday October evening. Nathaniel sat in his car on a shady residential street in Glendale. Satellite Sports Radio 3 was playing the UCLA football game. Nathaniel parked there from time to time. It was a pretty street with mature magnolia and oak trees, manicured lawns, and bungalows with wide heavy porches and a pumpkin by the door. He was there to listen to the game and enjoy the beautiful and cool evening. The sky was on fire at one end and dark blue on the other. The scent of eucalyptus and magnolia trees sat heavy in the air.
Every evening was like this, the sweet air of citrus trees and magnolia flowers, and the ocean mist that settles over the city eventually becomes an orange fog covering a grid of lights stretching in every direction. Tonight will be a good night to sleep with the windows open. Tomorrow morning he will run 5 miles in Griffith Park. He’ll go to the Ghetty with a close friend, check it off the list of places he wanted to see in LA before the end of the year. Tomorrow they’ll eat mushrooms in the parking lot and avoid being chatty on the tram heading up the hill. They’ll sit on the lawn overlooking Los Angeles just in time to enjoy rest of the evening. His friend wants to eat chili cheese dogs at Tommy’s on Colorado Blvd. The one up the street and across from the 7-11, or down and across the street from Trader Joe’s if you’re coming from Pasadena.
Joggers went by, then folks walking their dogs, and eventually a steady flow of people enjoying their evening, waving and grinning past each other. Black people, white people, a few Asians, lots of strollers and spandex jockeys commanding their fast bikes briskly moved past Nathaniel’s truck. The evening’s light dimmed, covered ones skin and the neighborhood’s stucco homes in varying shades of blue.
One of the walkers stood out. He wore a white track-suit with green stripes and the logo of an athletic shoe company. He was a thick fellow with a puffy Elvis pompadour, sideburns, yesterday’s 5 o-clock shadow, amber lens sunglasses, and gold chains. His headset blasting Cindy Lauper’s “Good enough”, the song from the Goonies, a movie made in the 1980’s about a gang of white kids and one Asian who search for pirate treasure. The track suit struts past Nathaniel’s car, like the star football player in those high school movies. It was his world. His outfit was slick and the hair was right.
The song trailed off as he made his way down the street, eventually boarding the passenger side of a car at the end of the block. There was another man in the drivers side. Nathaniel mused about the posibilites. A drug deal is too easy, a private eye delivering the goods on a cheating spouse is predictable, and a man-on-man sexual transaction between two strangers sounds absurd. He couldn’t make out the other person, just silhouettes.
The street lights came on. There were far less people out now, just a few joggers. A short while later he hears a loud thud and a flash of light from the car down the block. A cyclist also notices, slows down, looks back, then decides to continue his route up the street, around to Verdugo Blvd, and up the road to La Canada and a warm shower. Tonight the biker will treat himself to the Warehouse Store frozen pizza his sons left behind when they were over last weekend.
Nathaniel kept his gaze in the direction of the car. After a few minutes the track suit exits the passenger side door, pulls up his pants and fixes himself, closes the door and struts back towards Nathaniel’s car, they catch a glimpse of each other, the young lad enjoying a Saturday evening in his car and a middle aged man strutting a new track-suit, off-white, green stripes, soft, flexible, warm, and not a drop of blood. He nods at Nathaniel and Nathaniel nods back. He disappears around the corner. The game was over, UCLA 34 - Oregon State 14. Post game announcers and the sound of barking dogs down the street punctuated the evening. Nathaniel’s edible was wearing out.
“Three Tennessee whiskeys”, with three fingers up, “Buffalo Trace, it’s shitty, but it’ll do the job. Weller’s, good shit, always worth the price, then there’s Pappy Van Winkle’s, premium top-shelf behind-the-glass stuff, we’re talking $400 per bottle. This is the snobby shit.”
“Same company makes all three?”
“Yep, Pappy Van Winkle’s just sat longer. Buy a Weller’s, open it, let it sit for a year, and you’ll have Pappy Van Winkle’s.”
“No way.”
“Totally. My ex’s girlfriend’s friend works for the state alcohol bureau in Tennessee. She and my ex worked at the Weller’s distillery ‘tasting room’,” pantomiming quotations. “They’re both booze snobs, always talking about the fruit notes in wine, cascade hops vs chinook hops, and the smokiness of an old man’s testicles. The best part was how to get microbrews from other states without having to go there. Apparently, only a few retailers can import them, and in small amounts, a pallet or two, and her office is the one that okays the state to state transaction.”
“Dude, I heard you got stabbed.”
Nelson grinned. “You mean my knife fight in Grant’s Pass?”
“You got stabbed? Knife fight?”
“I was hitchhiking and this black guy picked me up…"
“Wait, why’s he gotta be black?”, someone jabbed from the hallway.
“Dude, the guy was black, I had nothing to do with that”, Nelson continued. “Okay, so this black guy picks me up outside Grant’s Pass. I’d been hitchhiking from Bend for a day or so and I had this shitty pack—you know, one of those Vietnam-era, metal-frame canvas rucksacks you get at army surplus. Probably good for jungle war but fucking useless for hitchhiking.
“What’s funny is, I’d told my dad I was gonna hitchhike back to Tennessee and that I dropped out of school, all in the same phone call and all he said was, ‘I’m jealous, be careful.’ I was expecting to get my ass chewed out. So now I’m hitchhiking to his house in Portland and I get picked up by this guy.
“As soon as I get in this guy’s car, I immediately smell the beer on his breath. The backseat of his shit-bag Sentra was a trash can for fast food wrappers and empty cigarette boxes. The roof of the car had all these black marks where he’s smashed out cigarettes. It smells terrible, but I do too, body odor, ass and smoke, so there, were both dirty.
“He told me his name but I couldn’t pay attention because the blown speaker near my right ear kept buzzing every time the base kicked up on the radio. It was obnoxiously loud, and his smoking didn’t help, but I was so tired from walking it really didn’t matter what he said. At some point, I must’ve brushed my elbow against his 44-ounce soda cup full of beer, because he goes ape-shit on me. ‘Don’t touch my fucking beer!’ Totally throws me off. Now the car is dead silent.
“A while later we stop at a gas station. He doesn’t trust me in the car by myself, so he locks it and makes me wait outside while he gets another Mickey’s and a carton of cigarettes. We get back in his car, he fills up his cup, tosses the bottle into the weeds just past the parking lot, and we pull onto the highway while the fucker steers with both knees and an elbow. Now they guy is opening his carton of Camel Crush with a pair of scissors he must’ve kept on his person.
“I swear this dude’s done this shit before because his driving was smooth, lane changes, acceleration, two car lengths behind other cars, and he’s even signaling! He’s like Denzel in that movie “Flight” where he’s flying drunk. He finishes tearing off the cellophane wrapper on a pack of smokes with his scissors and I catch the white of his bulging eyes I my periphery.
“Somehow the dude thinks I touched his beer again and hollers, ‘I told you not to touch my fucking beer!’ and swings his scissors at me over and over. He hits my left hand, my left wrist, and the seat several times in a matter of seconds and I’m thinking, this asshole is gonna kill me with a pair of scissors. It all happened so fast and I just said to myself, ‘Fuck it, I might as well stab this guy.’
“It was a good thing I’d lost my pocket knife a few days before and had strapped my hunting knife to my belt on my right hip. I pull it with my right hand and drove it between his ribs and gave it a twist. I could feel it scrape bone, and the dude stops swinging his scissors. His eyes turned white and I told him, as calmly as I could “Pull over or now or you’ll get us both killed.”
“Did he die?”
“I don’t know what happened to the guy, but he pulls over, I grabbed my bag and hauled ass into the woods.
“I ran far enough into the woods that I couldn’t hear the highway anymore. I found a wooded drainage and washed off in the stream, sutured my hand and wrist with superglue, put on a compression wrap, and dug a hole and buried my clothes. I ended up hitchhiking the rest of the way in hiking boots, board shorts, a tank top, and a wrapped left hand.”
“Holy shit, you buried your clothes?”
Nelson shrugged. “Would you pick up a hitchhiker with a bloody wrapped hand and a bloodstained T-shirt?”
No one said anything for a moment. The story was half party talk, half confession, and part therapy session. Nelson opened another beer.
“What happened to the guy?”
“I don’t know”
“How long before you were able to tell that story to anyone?”
“I’ll be honest, I was pretty shaken. My dad asked me what happened when he saw me a few days later. I told him I stumbled while rock climbing. It was about a year later, when I was hitchhiking again, that someone asked me, ‘What’s the craziest thing that ever happened you while hitchhiking?’ … ‘I got into a knife fight once.’”
The train that took him to her building left 15 minutes after the hour, every hour, from 5 a.m to midnight, three stops, 22 minutes. It would pass 5 dimly lit tunnel access doors, bad poetry, the occasional rats running on the pipes, continuing other parts of the city. He made his way up the station stairs, leaning into the wind sucking into the tunnel, arriving on the street, four blocks up, past the Armenian chicken joint and the Starbucks where he used to work. The scent of sycamore trees and magnolias always grew stronger as he approach the front steps. Her windows were on the second floor, third and fourth from the right.
He thought about it for a long time, going over there tonight. This time he’d knock on her door and tell her everything. Would she invite him in? It was getting late and he had to work tomorrow. It’s not a good thing that he knew where she lived. She should’ve never contacted him. All these years later, Caitlin never told him about her. This grown woman was his daughter. What confusion and shame, everyday a wave of both, and some guilt to go along. Back at his place, looking out his studio window often to see if she’d be braver of the two. He would play out scenes, buying her lunch, walking her down the isle, holding a grandchild. Her birthday was last week, the date engraved in his memory from their first meeting , now 3 months ago. He’ll just mail the card tomorrow, but that’s chicken shit, he can just deliver it himself, he thought. Tomorrow, he’ll try again tomorrow, he’ll see her then.
He'd told us he was tired of living, said he wasn't gonna do anything stupid. We know he spent a few nights with some backpackers on the John Muir just outside the park, on the north end, said he didn't say much, didn't eat much, shaved his mustache every few days, leaving his chin strap beard intact. He disappeared one night after dinner. Evidently he'd had his pack ready and no one noticed. A crew working the trails said they saw him on the other side of the valley sitting on some boulders. Said they saw a man with an orange backpack, couldn't make out any features. They called out to him. He waved back. His skin was dark.
It's been a few months now. Alice is set to sell the house. He'd left her the house in an unofficial will written on a yellow legal pad. His Cuban neighbor notarized it, I've had him notarize a few things for me, only charged me $10 each time.
So he left her the house?
Yeah man, left it Alice and the kids. Said they're welcome to keep it or sell it. She's to humble and good a person to take advantage. She put it on the market yesterday, asking only what's fair. Her family took his German Sheppard, kids kept all his books, paintings, art supplies, and costumes.
Did you know motherfucker'd been a firefighter, something like 8 years.
Yeah, I knew he'd had some mental issues, probably job related, his bi-polar shit, or sometin' else. Spent a week in some hospital with drunks and meth addicts. I knew he was gettin' sobered up, got in some deep trouble at work, threatening to kick some guy's ass, captain or lieutenant I believe. He didn't elaborate much. Had to quit or get fired. Had a chick for a while, seemed like a lovely gal, thick accent, gorgeous. Told me he’d only said them three words to one other woman, I'm assuming he meant his ex-wife. They're fucking friends now, him and his ex-wife, how bout that shit? I can't stand my exes, both of them.
When you seem him last?
First Friday art fair down town, picked up dippin' again, big ass plug in his lower lip. Dude goes out and gets a new tooth to cover up that gap, then goes back to dippin'.
Tough shit to quit I guess.
Yeah, I rarely saw him over the summer last year, always at a meeting, or mowing, or whatever he did for cash. He was still datin' that chick at the time, told me how guilty he felt for not having or making time for that gal, always tired and short on cash, he said. One of the paintings was hers. Alice took it over last week with a few other belongings.
You think he's dead?
Nah, he knew the park, been there numerous times. Some of his fondest memories lived there. He'd go on about the stars, the trails where he'd hardly see people for days, the bald mountain tops, and the boulders piercing above the treeline. Loved tellin' the story of Dan and his avocados, leeche fruit, and condensed milk cans. Evidently Dan never disclosed the contents of his bear canister.
What kind of canister?
Bear canister, you know, those little plastic barrels they make you carry to keep your food away from the bears. Fuckers are heavy. Any case, Dan was struggling to make his way up a set of switchbacks, so they split his load among himself, Nick, and Greg, leaving Daniel with only his extra clothes and water.
Said they stopped an hour later to rest. Fucker opens his pack, pulls out Dan's heavy-ass bear canister, says "what the fuck is in here?". Apparently they all gathered around, witnessed him pull out a can of condensed milk, a multi-spice canister, three avocados, and two cans of leeche fruit!
That shit set hem off, everyone else was only carrying dry food, nuts, and water! Said he made his way to the cliff and threw each one as far as he could.
So he's in Yosemite?
Around there, got a letter from him a few weeks after he left, postmarked from Tuolumne Meadows, that's how I knew where he'd gone. Alice said the park service put a boot on his car then had it towed. Said he'd left me the car but I'd have to go out to California. I called the impound yard in Bishop, said I could pick it up after paying the fees and provide the title or a notarized document saying it was mine. Two thousand aint' a lot for that little car, besides, it would be fun driving back from California. Alice said she found the title earlier this week. I'm flying out next week.
Can I come?
I don't see why not, but you might have to take another flight unless there's still room on mine.
You flying to Oakland?
SFO
So we gonna go lookin' for him too?
Negative, he's a grown man, he'll come down if he want's. He can have his pity party up there, but I've known him for a while, this is no pity thing, told me he'd do this someday, just want's to be alone, sleep under the stars or some shit. He's a grown man.
Think we can stop at the Grand Canyon on the way back? Never been there, it's on the way, right?
Sure.
Manzanita trees look more like bushes, a red and grey mosaic of thick smooth bark with thorns and small leaves, their moisture and color shunted to the center of each leaf, spanning every shade of brown and green. Thousands of them cover the eastern and south facing slopes of hills and mountains, tougher than the ponderosas and junipers on the western and north facing slopes. They take the brunt of the afternoon sun and it's dry air.
Tall yellow grasses in the arroyos bellow start wet each morning, drying every hour until they’re as brittle as paper. The ground bakes by the minute, hot air from valleys, washes, and gullies starts pushing its way upslope.
At 3 o'clock, latent heat kicks in and every living thing has given the air all the water night deposited. A thread of white smoke rises from small slow moving flames in the gully below, eating grass as it slowly moves uphill. A gust of wind pushes it faster, then faster. The flames grow taller than a man. Their scalding heat igniting grasses and rodents 10 - 15 feet ahead, then 20-30 feet ahead.
A blackened animal thundered across a dirt road paying no attention to the men in yellow helmets. Scurrying under the brush it found a utility pole and ran up as fast as it could. It’s singed body collided with the electric transformer at the top, a loud pop and a flash of light. The singed bobcat fell back to the ground. The men continued.
An employer once gave an exhaustive address about something I could care less about. Values or some abstract garbage that has nothing to do with the value of our labor, only the landfill bound bullshit we'll be pumping out every hour, day, week.
Then he asked us if we wanted to be the pig or the chicken. I looked around and most snapped out of whatever daydream they'd been gardening. You see, the chicken provides eggs for breakfast, but the pig gives completely of himself for one meal, bacon, ham, sausage.
I raised my hand
Yes, you in the back. Pedro is it?
I was Pedro to him. Sure, whatever. I stepped up to the mic.
I'd be the chicken. I'm sure it's got a collective bargaining labor contract and benefits providing for its protection and welfare since it will produce far more food and participate in more breakfasts than the pig.
He thanked me for my remarks.
A few weeks later I discovered the plant was closing down, moving to Nicaragua in a few months. Apparently Nicaraguans agreed to be the pigs for breakfast. They'd do what we do for 3/4 less what we get paid.
But the standard of living down there is much less, claimed Jerry, his real name was Gerardo, but he wants to be Jerry. Hell, I could live like a king if I moved down there.
So, Why don't you?
Shit, I can't just pick up and move man... Terry and I just bought the house last year.
It could've been any number of lakes with any name in that wilderness, but this one was on their trail. They sat by the shore, their shoes off, packs still strapped, watching the clouds. They were far from the last person They'd seen, days possibly, and nothing felt better.
It was the last week of July, 2006. None of them had wives, children, ex-wives, PhD's, or mortgages yet. Antonio told himself to remember that moment of complete peace as he watched the ice cold lake breath, lapping his feet with glacier water, clouds above growing then disintegrating, the pines and sequoia's swaying against the enormous blue rocks. He felt small.
The thought of never returning crossed his mind, as I'm sure it crossed theirs.
Dan had been struggling with the hike since they started. He and Greg had bought top of the line packs and filled them with every REI accessory available. Dan convinced himself he was in the early stages of altitude sickness. He and Nick knew he had way too much shit in his pack.
I can't do this. His words just loud enough for them to hear.
What do want to do?
Um... He labored for words. I just wanna take off this pack.
Don't take it off shithead! You won't want to put it back on.
Dan took off his pack anyway, they peeled it off, lightened his load, spreading the excess ballast among them. He took Dan's bear canister. Greg and Nick each took a compression sack.
They continued hiking for several hours under shade of old pines, over million year old granite, and into flowered meadows where the narrow worn trail was two feet deep in places, a slop of mud in certain spots, old footprints and the scent a wildfire some miles away.
The evening soon caught up with them along with the punishing weight they'd taken from Dan's pack. They stopped by a cliff's edge. Antonio took off his pack, stuffed his lip with snuff and pulled out Dan's bear canister from his pack. Why was this motherfucker so heavy?
What the fuck is this?
Nick and Greg walked over as he pulled out two cans leeche fruit, a can of coconut milk, and several avocados.
Holy shit man!?
Greg and Nick broke into laughter. Antonio handed his friends the avocados and walked over to the cliff, hurled the three cans of excess into John Muir's wilderness. Dan just watched, never moved from his spot, no protest. The others went back to their packs, pulled out Dan's extra weight, camera equipment, novels, clothes, a mini spice rack, and other knick-knacks.
They ate the avocados, packed up and started their five mile trek up a stone staircases and switchbacks built generations ago. They made their way into the dusk and eventual darkness, reaching a snow packed saddle. Twenty mile an hour winds and a sign announced their next direction, another lake, 2 miles to the right in complete darkness. It was close to midnight.
Centuries ago
You weren't here
Granite, then powder,
Then nothing
Centuries from now
You wont be here
Good day, sir
Marielena always saw things in her brother's bedroom at night. They stayed away from hers. From time to time she could hear them in his room, making noise, moving things, attempting to wake him. Sometimes one or two, a few times more, then nothing for weeks.
It was always after midnight, usually when the train would pass, 3 a.m. She could hear its haunting horn approaching miles away, getting louder and louder, now passing, then the clacking rhythm of train cars, a single cascading horn, now distant, softer and softer until the sound returned to the night, then silence.
She'd open her eyes and listen. They'd bump things, move things around, wake him for a second, take part in his dream, scare him. Then everything would stop and he'd continue dreaming, talking in his sleep.
She heard them one summer night when she was 6. Tired of hearing Noah's nightly 3 a.m. sobbing, she opened his door. A long strip of light split the darkness, centered his room. They looked at her, shadows darker than night, then scattered. She ran back to her room, covered herself, waited a few seconds and screamed.
Dad ran to her room, sat on the side of the bed and ran his hands through her hair, soothed her back to sleep. He checked on Noah, his soft 10 yr old cheeks rising as he mumbled in his sleep. He crossed his forehead, "lord, make me an instrument of your peace... ", the prayer just loud enough for both. The air conditioner clicked on. His freckles now larger, peaceful.
A few nights later, after a furlough at their moms, she heard them again. She heard Noah sniffle and cry, she was paralyzed, it was them. They went on forever. She could only count to 10, so she counted, very fast at first, then slower, then again and again until she fell asleep.
That next morning she told her dad. He'd heard her counting through the thin walls of their old home. I heard you counting last night, he said.
She started to remember. Daddy, I'm sorry. An apology for being up late, then the things in Noah's room. The more she talked, she began to see the entire room, all at once, not just her father. The cookie jar over the fridge beyond her fathers shoulder, their height markings on the dirty door jam, a dog bowl to the left, the droplet of water under the faucet, everything was in focus at once. Then she noticed a faint purple light behind his fathers head. It would grow and shrink.
She stopped, blinked and glanced around the room, blinked several more times, no change. She looked left, then right, her father was still in focus and so was everything else. When she looked left it was the window, the salt shaker, the chain link fence across the street and the water tower in the far distance, to the right was the sink, back door, the dust on the screen, the window and the two flies hopscotching on it's glass.
Her slender little brown body started shaking and he reached for her, held her as close to his chest as he could, his arms a warm blanket as she sobbed and shook. He sat there with her for over an hour, her body relaxed, her sobbing now a soft little snore. Her cereal now soggy.
Is she ok? Noah asked as he came into the kitchen.
She's tired, mijo. Are you done cleaning your room.
Yeah... What happened?
She's just tired, buddy. Noah walked over and ran his hands through her hair and kissed her warm forehead, joined the embrace.
You wanna watch something?
Dad, I thought we were going to the library.
Not now buddy, she needs a good nap.
They made their way to the dirty old grey couch. He lay her next to him, covered her with a throw blanket, pulled his son next to him. Karl Marx joined them at the end of the couch, continued gnawing on his foot-long rawhide bone. He never left their side.
Outside a warm breeze pushed away the morning chill. A lawnmower, several birds, neighborhood dogs, kids walking to the pool, and the rest of the world continued about their business.
Mari wants to go to Paris. She's six and infatuated with all things French and all things unicorn. I explained to her that unicorns are hard to find these days. The best place she could probably find one is in Paris or somewhere in the French countryside, probably on the northern coast standing gallantly with that cold breeze whipping up their mane and rainbows sprouting all around.
When I dreamed of my little girl many many years ago, she looked just like you. She was an artist.
I told her this, she smiled. Her cheeks turned red, then continued with her rant.
I like more stuff than Noah. I like purple, and butterflies, and Audrey Hepburn in Paris.
She has on an Audrey Hepburn t-shirt her momma bought her. She's a perfect blend of my ex-wife and I, my dark features, olive skin, my nose, my tarahumara cheekbones with mom's almond eyes, button chin, and slender little physique. I should put her in a convent as soon as possible but I'm not gonna deprive some moron 20 years from now from the misery of her tantrums and fiery stubbornness.
My first dance with her was in Ms. Gordy's house many years ago, a sweet woman with a big heart, Mari was only weeks old. I was married then, I was love with my daughter, and my new life. Many years from now I won't regret a moment I spend with little Mari. I'll discinegrate into an inevitable eternity dreaming of my little girl, an artist.
I used to sit on the levy of the small ditch behind my parents two acre property and watch the tall blades of dry grass bend with the cold January wind on cold evenings when silence was a premium. Beyond the property was a gated desert where I once found partially decomposed Mexican pulp fiction novels in a large crater in the sand. I visited that hideout dozens of times, mostly to read, daydream, or to lay on the soft sandy rim, waiting for a jackrabbit to cross the sights of my .22 .
Beyond the desert was the larger levy of the Rio Grande, then the old highway that once led to Albuquerque. Further off in the distance was the warehouse and factory plant of a salsa company claiming its fame to being from El Paso. It was neither in El Paso or Texas. Beyond all of that, directly to the north stood the Organ Mountains, purple, blue, magenta, and various shades of orange in the daylight's last minutes.
The cold air and wind burned my cheeks and nostrils as I stared at the mountains through the tall yellow grass. I could see everything all at once. Nothing entered my mind. Clouds built above the mountain range, dissipated, then dissolved into the dark skies of space.
I know this place. I sleep here, where jackrabbits scamper and dogs bark at ghosts.
Joe never cared for holidays while he was married, they were a pain in the ass, more money spent for posterity's sake, money he didn't have. Awww you shouldn't have, she says. Thanks for thinking of us, they say, I can't accept this, they'd wince while unwrapping.
Bullshit, take the god-damn garbage!
It cost me the price of owning a new pair of shoes or paying my cable bill. He gave because he had to, she wanted him to, and because that's what everyone did, and that fucking $200 birthday cake for a 4 year old, what was that all about?
None of that mattered anymore, not here, not at the Shadybrook nursing home of Farm Road 971. Here he could crap his pants, smile, and know some semi-illiterate with a GED and 4 months of technical school was gonna wipe his ass and change his diaper. He was a mean son-of-a-bitch to them, all except for one, Norma.
Norma Gutierrez had been working here far longer than he'd been involuntarily sequestered by his son and his short-haired-pixie-cut bitch. His son was a doctor, paid Joe's room and board at the Geriatric Inn, but useless to him otherwise, more concerned about saving his marriage to that woman and her affinity for the nightlife with other men. They're just friends she'd tell him. She convinced him to have an open marriage. His son bored him with his complaints.
Joe saw her sucking off someone, another doctor probably, or maybe that Hobbit looking fellow, a friend of hers who'd come over while her son was at work. She was deep-throating this fella' in the back seat of an Audi behind Halcyon coffee bar. He saw her, she saw him. She sat up. Put on his coat, kept walking, drove to the hospital, his son's pick-up truck still in the parking lot, confirmation.
Norma was good to him, didn't bullshit him. When his sister died, she held his hand for over an hour while he cried himself to sleep. She kept unwanted visitors away, uploaded his favorite liberal-pinko podcasts, always fixed the mistakes the young attendants made, like that wacky time one of them accidentally clogged his catheter with a soiled tampon and yanked out his Foley bag. She changed his channel to Fox News in the day room. He belittled her nit-wit narrow minded small town ideology. She played a joke oh him, but what's an old bed-ridden man to do when hearing the same honky bullshit he's heard for decades?
Norma wheeled him back to the television lounge after he'd promised to be nice to old redneck Steve Hillard. He was an Iraq War Veteran, you know?
He referred to any brown skinned person without a Mexican accent as Haji, even Dr. Sidhu, who was clearly Indian.
His fat family of hunting-camouflage-dressed buffoons came every other Sunday. His son and daughter-in-law would pretend to engage while the fat children would clumsily pound their sausage fingers on tiny cell phone screens and occasionally look up in disgust at the rest of us.
Embarrassing to watch, it ended in 15 minutes, then they'd waddle out, climb into their enormous pick-up truck tattooed with various conservative stickers hating one racial group or another and head to the slop trough at the Golden Corral or some other vestige of "Texas" charm, license plates and hubcaps on the wall, the smell of Wal-Mart and bacon.
Joe promised to be be nice, after all it was almost Thanksgiving. He could tell by the plastic cornucopias and the fake orange and yellow leaves. He hadn't been outside in months. He liked the sweet smell of gardenias in the spring, the cedar trees outside his window in the summer, and remembers the smell of wet mesquite in the desert dawns of his youth.
In a few weeks it'll be Christmas again, new plastic decorations, lights, and shitty music.
His mom bought a yellow head parrot from field workers one summer morning. Most of the men were illegals, migrant workers from Mexico. They were a small uniformed outfit of long sleeve plaid shirts, dirty jeans, boots, and sweat. They were part of the rotating groups working the cotton and jalapeno fields behind their house during summers.
That same day a grass-fire had consumed a large portion of the nearby desert and had worked its way into the fields behind the government housing neighborhood where Guicho and his family lived. It was a small community of single story identical homes filled with characters like the next Mexican heroine addict who'd sun tan nude on his front lawn until police would wake him. Dona Guadalupe and her fat middle-aged daughters who sold Mexican candy and snow cones from their kitchen, Guillermo and his two middle aged brothers who still lived with they're aging mother and owned several well polished loud motorcycles, and the Whites, the only African-American family in town, beautiful black cars and suits on Sunday, government housing.
Guicho was friends with Jeremy White, their only son. Jeremy's large breasted older sister was in high school. She would later become an object of obsession for the local teenagers. When he was five Guicho used to ask Jeremy lots of questions, why is your skin so dark, why do your sister's chi-chis keep getting bigger, are you good at basketball?
One June morning Guicho's mom kept the kids and Jeremy in the house, locked all the windows and turned off the A/C , keeping the wildfire's smoke from coming inside. After a marathon of The Price is Right and shitty Mexican soap opera's the smoke cleared enough for mom to start up the A/C and a knock came from the front door.
It was the hombres who'd been working the fields behind their house. Guicho recognized one of the younger men from Dona Guadalupe's house. They were all smiles and chattered in Spanish with his mom. It wasn't the typical slowly enunciated slang filled border Spanish, it was fast, almost a song. They had a bird with them. They were drunk.
His mom closed the door, ran to her bedroom and returned with some money. She gave them a 20, everyone smiled. She closed the door and jogged over to them cradling a badly burned one eyed yellow head parrot. They crowded her and fell in love. It tried biting the kids.
Guicho's mom named it "periquito curro", they figured the "curro" was after the catlike purr he'd do after he'd say the first part of his name. They just called him "periquito culo", which translates to "Little Ass-hole Bird".
Realizing their mistake, the men returned the following day to ask for more money. It's a yellow head bird, they said. It's worth a lot more. They wanted $80. Guicho's mom closed the door. Guicho's dad opened the door. They must've missed his beat up 1985 Ford Ranger in the driveway or realized what time it was. They left without $80.
The years rolled by in cliche montages of 90's music with the little fucker causing all sorts of mischief, learning new words and earning its name as "Little Ass-hole Bird". When it wasn't in it's cage or on it's tree, a beautiful six-foot perch cemented Mexican ceramic pot, it claimed the 3 foot space in front of the hallway bathroom, trying to perforate the feet of anyone who approached. Periquito Curro died while Guicho and his sisters were back-to-school shopping 15 years later.
They found him on the cage floor. Their mom ran whaling to his palace sized cage and picked up the stiff bird. They crowded her, embraced her tiny frame.
Let me take him to Mr Letbetter! He'll mount him for you and you can keep him forever, Guicho sniffled trying to sooth her.
Skeptical at first, she agreed, and resumed crying, rocking her baby. The girls rolled their eyes. Guicho dumped out Sophia's new shoes out of their box, placed the bird in the box and stuck it in the freezer.
The next morning, after dropping his sisters off at school, Guicho went across the highway to the wooded neighborhood to Mr Ledbetter's home, an artsy red-neck friend of their dad's who'd retired from the University where Guicho went part-time. Mr. Ledbetter had 5 acres, 24 enormous pecan trees, a rickety 1920's pier and beam house with a rusty metal roof, 3 large German Sheppards, 12 strange metal sculptures randomly scattered on the property, an enormous rat infested workshop, and no kids.
Guicho had been mowing his lawn and doing random yard work for him since his father left 8 years ago. The week his dad left Mr. Ledbetter came over with a generous gesture. I'm not gonna give you a hand-out, I'm gonna give you a hand-up. How's 100 bucks a month sound?
Yes, sir.
Mr. Ledbetter dabbled in everything from raising Emu's for meat and eggs, making homemade moonshine, and selling hand-made Mexican metal lawn decor and Mexican-Indian crafts at the local flea market, but the pecan trees he'd planted 25 years ago were the only thing that brought him any reliable extra income. Guicho knew he hunted and had done some taxidermy in the past.
How much you got? He asked Guicho.
30 bucks
I'll need at least 50 just to get all the stuff, but i'll do it for 30 to help you out.
Thanks Gary, I really appre...
You can mow my lawn to pay off the rest.
Mr. Letbetter cocked his chin at the bermuda and crab grass jungle behind him. What a dick.
I'll do it this weekend.
Mr. Ledbetter took the shoe box and closed the door. Titus, the older dog, growled at him, the other two escorted Guicho off the property.
Two weeks later the animal Guicho's mom had been grieving returned mounted on an ultra varnished piece of driftwood with wall hooks. The one eyed yellow-head parrot had his neck extended upward, tongue hanging out, with the left wing extended downward.
What's he pointing at? They asked. Why's his neck twisted? It looks like someone's choking him. How much did you pay him? Their mom started crying at the absurd animal, ridiculously posed and stuffed. Her cries slowly built into hysteria, laughter. Everyone joined in, she went back to her TV show.
Guicho mounted the bird over the trashcan. Covered in soot, Little ass-hole bird survived a fire that destroyed their home 5 years later. He found it in a box in the garage of his mom's new house while helping his sister prep for a garage sale.
You remember this thing? He asked her. She laughed.
Night before last someone's son, or brother, passed away in a fire. He was 39. We found him in the back bedroom by the window, supine, legs curled beneath him, head tilted back, empty eye sockets staring at a ceiling that's no longer there, mouth open, swallowing a 1,000 degree concoction of carbon monoxide and cyanide, telling his brain to release enough adrenaline and endorphin to endure the last few seconds of his skin boiling.
10:30 am a cadaver dog helps us locate the remains.
A breeze replaces the smoke with a scent of sweet grass and fresh cut hay. It was a gorgeous morning, just hot enough to feel like summer, deer in the pasture behind his house, longhorn cattle grazing, birds chasing off a grackle, I whistle a tune by The Rascals, "it's a beautiful morning... "