Beat

From the time it could waddle out from under the family’s shotgun pier-and-beam home, a dog on our street was terrorized almost daily. His 8 year old sadist would grab its nape, make it squeal until he bored and flung it across the yard where it landed and scrambled to find safety only to be picked by its nape and tossed again.

Years later, when the days were long and humid, the German shepherd, with plump ticks sprouting from its ears and mites burrowing in the pink flesh of his underbelly, sat under the shade of the unkempt hackberry tree behind the house and waited for his sunset meal of table scraps, his kibble at daybreak, the calls of his name, and the occasional pat on his head. 

Tethered to the tree by an eighth-foot chain, the dog had a narrow view of the world beyond the discarded appliances and heaps of scrap metal and wood his captors were saving to use someday. He could see the asphalt and tall weeds that hid the old trailer home across the street. He watched cars and people pass, rousing a deep growl from his belly. A heavy bark warned wandering cats and the children who jumped the fence searching for errant baseballs or frisbees. The chain around his neck tightened the more he moved. The kibble in his food tray was covered with ants and his water dish, a repurposed refrigerator vegetable drawer, was mostly foamy slobber. He waited for the day to end. He listened to distant barks at night of other prisoners and returned their calls when they drew close. A window would open and the sound of his name excited him, Gunnershudup, or Gunnershudafukup.  

He barked more, he loved the sound of his name, but ceased when the back door of the house opened and the screen door slapped against the door frame. A kick to his jaw, ribs, or hind quarters ended the scene. 

In the mornings the boy, now 12, would shake out the dog’s ant-covered metal dish and add a fresh cup of stale store brand kibble. He’d open up the water spigot and drag the dribbling hose to the dog’s water drawer to replace the slobber with the city’s mineral rich hard water. The animal drank from the hose stream then licked the boy's hand. The boy caressed his wide heavy head and mumbled words of approval, apology, and regret.  He ran the dribbling water over the dog's head and washed off the dried crud around his eyes.

The boy's summer was cruel and full of surprises and shame. He discovered his penis could provide enjoyment unparalleled. There were days when he thought of nothing else. There were cold beers he and his friends frequently took from the ice chests of family gatherings when the accordion ballads of narco-traffickers played on repeat and adults were too busy yelling at each other or too drunk to care. They smoked stolen cigarettes and marijuana out of crude tin foil pipes. They blew marijuana exhaust through a cardboard tube secured to the dog’s muzzle by one of the bigger chaps, a freckled faced red-headed bull child with no neck. He held down the canine for a few moments while the smoke worked its way into its lung tissue and its magic softened his muscles, bringing him down to his belly to a place where the chain no longer exists. 

_________________

A cat gave birth to a litter under the porch behind the boy’s home. The boy heard their collective squeals one morning in late June when the previous evening’s rain had not ceased and the puddles of silty and oily water grew to shallow ponds stretching to the main road, further eroding decades old asphalt, covering the carcasses of lawn equipment, seeping under homes and tool sheds, slowly working past the barrier of dense clay inches below the topsoil to reach the ancient water table that provides life to the ignorant and ungrateful inhabitants above. Through the dirty screen door of the kitchen he could see his Gunner sitting on a wood pallet under the hackberry in the suffocating humidity of the dark and miserable morning. 

He stepped out onto the deck and peaked through gaps of the deck boards to locate the crying kittens. He found six in the shallow water of a wet cardboard box by the far end of the deck amongst the boxes of trash and sun bleached yard toys. Two were motionless with their faces hidden beneath the water. Their carcass were tossed into the burn barrel behind the abandoned chicken coop. The others were wiped clean and placed in a dry box with a small bowl of milk and diced hot dog wieners.

The clouds lifted in the late afternoon and the sun began extracting water from everything and everywhere it puddled, creating a sauna, producing condensation on the windows of homes running air conditioning units. The steam suspended the odors of decomposing dog excrement and the broken sewer lines ignored by the city. The world was suffocating and miserable. A third kitten died by evening.

He tossed its carcass in the burn barrel. Screeching saccades deafened his ears and mosquitoes swarmed his legs and arms the moment he stepped out the door into the twilight. The dog watched the boy scamper past him then across the porch light to the side of the house where two other boys were smoking cigarettes in the dark. He lay on the wood pallet between his shelter and the hackberry, staying off the muddy ground and watching the orange pins of light from their cigarettes glowing on their faces. 

The next morning the boy brought the three remaining kittens to his dog. The ground had dried considerably and he set the box a few feet from the semicircle plowed by the dog’s chain. The animal emerged from his dark and musty plywood hovel, jaunting to the perimeter of his cell, stretching his muscular neck, lifting the chain, and pointed his nose toward the box. He smelled urine and fear. 

The kittens made more noise, swiveling their heads about the box. Their open mouths exhaling high pitched squeals and cries. The boy pushed the box closer. The kittens clamored at the sides of the box, reaching for him, crying louder. He pulled one out and cradled its tiny body with both hands, thumbing its forehead. He walked to the dog and held the squealing kitten inches from the dog’s face. The kitten hissed at the dog and dug its sharp claws into the boy’s hand. The boy dropped the kitten. The dog snatched it off the dirt, clamped its jaw, then dropped the limp carcass. The boy’s stomach contracted, chest tightened, face contorted, and his eyes grew beyond their sockets. He was horrified at what he’d accomplished. The dog looked to the boy for approval, a kick to his belly or a pat on its head, or a “good boy”. The boy did neither. He dumped the box on its side and the remaining kittens scampered away under the piles of discarded lumber and scrap metal rotting in the weeds behind the dog’s hovel. The dog watched them run and returned to his shade. 

________________

The boy decided to walk the dog on an evening after independence day when northerly winds blew away their oppressive humidity and the world smelled of fresh cut grass and watermelon. He had walked Gunner before, attempting to imitate the people who lived in the nice houses on the north side of the city's largest park. They looked successful, enjoying walks with their well groomed and well mannered dogs walking beside them. They carried coffee cups and wore expensive exercise clothing, brightly colored and well fitted spandex pants and matching tops. They gave the impression of having returned from yoga or a run, or were about to run or yoga. They stopped to greet each other as if they were old friends. They made dog talk, exchanging dog history and sharing anecdotes, never listening, just waiting to respond. One stuck out their lower lip and feigned a frown, the other would reciprocate. They were non-player characters. Their script was rarely edited. 

One fixture, a slender and elegant gray haired woman with an ugly three legged dog, walked the same trails at the same time every evening. She lived in the yellow bungalow with a heavy timber porch and large picture windows nestled in the hills amongst the dozens of other bungalows with large porches, Victorian style homes, manicured lawns, wide sidewalks, and electric cars. Her neighborhood gave the best Halloween candy. They put up the best Christmas decorations, themed and curated. They had their own town square with red brick buildings, coffee shops, a greasy spoon diner, an organic grocer, an Italian restaurant with sidewalk tables, and a place that made their own ice-cream.  In the winter, snow graced these neighborhoods with a light dusting lingering long enough for building miniature snowmen and donning new scarves for long walks with hot cocoa in hand.

The boy met the three legged dog on a front porch adorned with half a dozen artfully carved jack-o-lanterns where the gray haired woman stood, holding a basket of candy, wearing a Witch costume she’d kept from her community theater production of Wicked. October’s heat had long forced him to remove his plastic mask of Casper the Ghost. He greeted the tiny woman with a sheepish smile while his fat parents waited by the sidewalk at the end of her cobblestone walkway. The dog, wearing devil horns and a red cape, scampered on its three legs to greet the boy. He’d never seen such a hideous animal smile and not cower. He set down his bag and held the dog’s head with his hands while it licked his face. He smiled. It felt good. 

“He’s cute.” 

“Thank you, this is Taj. He loves kisses.”

Another child reached to pet him. “Where did you find him? He’s missing a leg.”

“We rescued him from India. Do you know where that is?”

“It’s in Asia,” said a third child. “It’s one of the seven continents. We talked about them in social studies.” 

“Wow, I'm impressed,” said the green-faced Witch, tossing a chocolate bar into the trivia winner’s bag. 

“We have a German shepherd,” the boy added.

“What’s his name?”

“Gunner,” he remembered lying that his father adopted the dog from Germany, that he was well mannered and well trained, and how he responded to commands in German. 

The boy remembered this interaction while he undid the chain around Gunner’s head, affixed the spiked training collar to his dusty and greasy neck, and concocted what to say if he ran into her in the park; his dad was the only one who knew the German commands but Gunner now understood English. Gunner was also part wolf, he would add, spicing up the conversation, leading it away from the German issue.

An hour before sunset the boy and his beast set off towards the park. The boy held the leash taught while the 100 pound dog dragged him from mailbox to mailbox, bush to tree, marking the route to the park where he barked angrily at other dogs and took an enormous shit by the crowded playground where fit women held their white babies, staring with privileged disapproval at his dilemma, his untrained animal, the barbaric spiked training collar, the yellow plastic utility rope he procured as a leash, his old clothes, his poverty. He pantomimed looking through his pockets for a trash bag to pick up the catcher’s mitt sized turd. There was no bag. A thin man with black framed glasses whined and pointed to a green post by the walking path. He felt their laughter in his chest, burned into his memory.

                                        _______________

The boy and his younger brother walked through their weed covered front yard to the next door neighbor’s to buy eggs. Ms Garcia stepped out from her dark air conditioned cavern into the morning’s heat wearing shiny silver and black basketball shorts, pink flip flop sandals, and an oversized shirt hiding her fat body. They followed her to the back yard. They could see Gunner sitting at his post through the plastic slats of the chain-link fence and the busted refrigerators their father purchased for parts to a refrigerator he never fixed. The boys loved these brown speckled shelled eggs and their dark yellow yolk. They were bigger and tasted better than the shitty white ones from the superstore. Ms Garcia ducked into the large coop, her hens danced around her while she rummaged through their nests to fill the boy’s Styrofoam containers. 

Ms Garcia’s chickens were beautiful, plump, healthy, and strong. She fed them soaked oats mixed with  expensive feed, and all the roaches, worms, grubs, and grasshoppers she could cultivate in the large fenced garden occupying a quarter of her backyard. An occasional crop of cherry tomatoes, jalapenos, ochre, pumpkins, or squash would be enough to share with relatives and neighbors, cultivating a healthy source of bugs was her main intent. Once a week she’d open the garden gate and let the hens wreak havoc on the insects.

Protecting her hens and their eggs was a priority. Catching rats on glue or snap traps was a weekly occurrence, most came from her neighbors' unkempt poverty. She kept live traps around her home and by the back fence to catch and expatriate racoons and opossum, a Remington .233 on an AR platform for the Coyotes pacing her back fence, and a pump action shotgun loaded with birdshot to scare off owls, hawks, buzzards, and neighborhood poachers. 

A raccoon died in one of the live traps on a weekend when Ms Garcia and her boyfriend were out of town and the heat index remained above 100, with or without the sun. He died of madness, the confinement, fear, and thirst and began decomposing by the time they returned from Corpus. Her boyfriend, a bald motorcycle chap with a beard and aviator sunglasses, double bagged the entire trap and tossed it into the community dumpster at the end of their street. Its stench lingered on for days. The boys caught a whiff while waiting for Ms Garcia to fetch their eggs.

                                ________________

That evening their father brought home a new dog, a muscular young white Pitbull with clipped ears and a pink nose. It stared down the boys with its scowl, blue eyes, and alligator snout. It looked more like a weapon than a pet. Their father insisted the boys pet the new inmate. They lay their hands on its wide head, patting it nervously and caressing its bristly short hair. The dog growled low and deep then licked their hands and panted. The boy’s little brother put his thin little arms around its neck, hugging him tightly. The dog’s stubby clipped tail oscillated faster. He stood on his hind legs, threw his torso onto the boy, knocking him down, standing over him and licking his face. Gunner ran to the end of his chain, unleashed a salvo of anger. The father yanked on the Pitbull's leash, pulling it off the child.

“Don’t let him stand over you, he’s showing dominance”

“He’s a puppy”

“We don’t need bad habits.”

Their father tied the dog to a metal post of the chain link fence that separated their property from Ms Garcia’s. The boys brought the dog a wooden pallet from the scrap pile behind their yard, set it down between the two doorless junk refrigerators, and laid an old rug on the pallet. They brought him a blue plastic salad bowl for a water dish and a lidless Tupperware container for food. The father named it Maximus after the main character of a ridiculous movie he watched on nights when he drank cheap beer and gave the history channel a rest. He silenced Gunner’s barking with a kick to his ribs.

                                        _______________

The following morning the boys woke to his father stomping around the house, cursing, talking to himself, looking for his boots. Maximus had chewed through his leash and escaped. The boys followed their father up and down the street, looking for the Pitbull, calling out his name as if the dog had learned its name overnight. They spotted him on the next street walking among a group of Jehovah Witnesses. The youngest among the Christians had fashioned a lanyard around the dog's neck, leading him back to their vehicles. 

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” The father yelled. “That’s our dog!” The group turned and watched the sweaty overweight man in boxer shorts and sandals stomp his way toward them. He gave them words. They made no expression. He cinched down a new rope around his neck and dragged Maximus home. The father tied him to the fence post again and kicked him several times, teaching the dog a lesson. The boy saw Ms Garcia watching through her window. The Pitbull scurried into the narrow space between a refrigerator and Ms Garcia’s fence. Their father looked up, catching her face through the dusty window screen, gave her the middle finger, and went back inside. 

The white dog escaped twice that week. It managed to slip loose of the yellow utility rope and was found rummaging in the dumpster. The boy’s father jumped into the dumpster, tied a rope around its muscular neck, fished out the 60 lb. dog, and dragged him home. A group of teenagers playing basketball on a streetside hoop stopped to watch. One asked him if he was ok, another said “nice dog”, a third shook his head, and another asked if he needed help. He told them to mind their own business. 

By the time they returned home, the dog’s fat owner, depleted of adrenaline and rage, didn’t bother to teach the dog a lesson. He tied him to the fence post and opened the hose to rinse off maggots and dumpster stench from his arms, legs, and cargo shorts. He barked at the boys to feed and water the dogs. 

The second escape was his last. The father, determined to win the battle of dominance over the beaten and confused animal, returned from Home Depot with a utility chain, affixed it to the fence post and told the boys to fetch Gunner’s spiked training collar but the Pitbull’s neck was too thick and the collar couldn’t be adjusted. The fat man engineered the problem by using the chain as a collar. He cinched it down snug enough for his greasy fingers to barely fit between its neck and the chain and twisted a plastic covered electrical wire to tie the links. The chain’s weight eventually brought the dog down to the ground. He rested on the wooden pallet, staring through the fence into Ms Garcia’s green backyard.

By morning, Maximus had dug his way under the fence and was resting on the cool soft dirt between the lemongrass shrubs planted along Ms Garcia’s fence line. The back screen door opened. He listened to her calm voice volley with another calm but deeper voice. She walked out barefoot towards the hen house and released her plump birds. They ran past her towards the fenced perimeter of the garden. Ms Garcia opened the garden gate. The hens thundered into the fertile enclosure, flying over each other, scratching and digging the earth, moving over rotting wood with their beaks, spearing roaches and catching grasshoppers in mid flight. Maximus watched the may lay from his shaded blind.

Within 10 minutes the hens had annihilated the insects and were now roaming the greater yard, digging for grubs, scavenging the thick Bermuda grass for errant insects and lost seed.  Two hens reached the lemongrass stalks by the fence when Maximus lunged from the shade, breaking his makeshift collar and catching one, slamming it to the ground, killing it then sprinting towards another into the eruption of feathers and squawking. Ms Garcia chased after the Pitbull, swinging a wooden dowel, yelling profanities, then striking it on its side before the dog spun and leaped towards her face. She caught the Pitbull’s jaws with her left forearm. Its weight and force knocked her to the ground. Ms Garcia’s boyfriend fired a shotgun into the air. The dog relinquished the fat woman’s arm and sprinted towards the back fence. The man fired another shot into the air, marched toward the fence, and leveled the barrel at the dog.

“Don’t shoot him!!!” Ms Garcia yelled. He stopped short. The dog scanned the man’s face, swiveling his head left and right, weighing his options, deciding where to run, then cowered along the fence, and scurried into the garden. A random hen escaped the pen before the man closed the garden door. The boys watched from the top of one of the doorless refrigerators. Gunner’s barking broke through the dampening commotion of squawks, screams, and gunshots. 

The boy's father ran into Ms Garcia’s backyard through the side gate. The father was angry at the disobedient dog for escaping, angry for being inconvenienced, angry at the boys, angry for being poor, angry for being fat, angry for being unemployed, and angry for letting this happen. His anger turned to shame the moment he locked eyes with his neighbor. He saw feathers, hens scampering about, a dead chicken, his neighbor supporting her bloody forearm, and an enormous muscular man holding a shotgun. He apologized to them. He asked what he could do to fix everything. He encouraged Ms Garcia’s boyfriend to put down the dog, offering the dog’s life to save face. The dog shouldn’t have done this, he repeated. He was drunk and tired of being drunk. 

Within 30 minutes two fat police officers geared-up like soldiers waddled into the crime scene and took statements while animal control removed the dog from the premises. The boy’s father was handed a violation for not having the Pitbull vaccinated and registered. Ms Garcia was transported by EMS to the closest emergency department, her boyfriend followed in his vehicle. 

                                ________________

The boys came down from the refrigerator after the commotion had subsided. The sun was now at its highest in the sky and its heat settled under the shade of everything. The boys walked over to Gunner and the dog sat up. The boys stroked his large head and felt his long sandpaper tongue lick their hands and faces. The older boy sent his brother into the house to fetch a set of tweezers and a mason jar. They spent the next half hour plucking ticks off their friend, dropping them into the jar. They took turns holding him while the other plucked, 

When they finished, the boy sent his younger brother back inside the house for a bottle of shampoo, bath towels, and an old leather belt their father kept in the hallway closet. The boy set down two pallets next to the water spigot on the side of the house, undid Gunner's chain collar, and walked him onto the pallets. He opened the faucet and ran the water down the dog’s head and back. The dog lapped at the cool water whenever the stream hit his face. 

The younger boy returned with the shampoo. Spreading a generous amount on Gunners head and back, the boys lathered up their friend, spreading the froth to his underbelly, legs, and paws. They scrubbed his snout and rubbed his ears clean. They squirted more shampoo onto each paw and kneaded out grime between each digit and under each nail. The boys rinsed the dog’s  head and back, running water down each leg, and spraying his underbelly. The dog smiled at the boys then shook his body, spraying off as much water as possible. The boys laughed and sprayed him with more water. He responded with another shake. They repeated this process until they were thoroughly soaked and Gunner’s coat was clean.

The boys dried him with the old towels. They used the old leather belt to fit a new collar around his neck, cinching it down and scoring it for a proper length and a new prong hole. Once the collar was cut and prepped with a kitchen knife and ice pick, they attached a rope and took Gunner for a walk up and around the neighborhood. 

He peed on every other mailbox and dragged the boys like a bull plowing a field. They’d call his name and he’d stop to wait for them, then continue until they reached the city park where he selected trees to sprinkle his last drops of urine. He took a shit between two large sycamores not far from the children’s playground. A few families braved the mid-afternoon Texas sun to bring their little ones to the colorful plastic covered playscape, no one bothered to look their way and judge. The boy grabbed a shitbag from the shitbag dispenser and handled his responsibility. 

They returned home a few hours later and brought Gunner into the house for the first time in several years. Even when the mid-February freeze dropped below 20 degrees for a week, Gunner spent his time outdoors, where dogs belong, their father evangelized. The boys fed him left-over Kielbasa sausages from a recent cookout and set him a large salad bowl of cool faucet water. He lapped it up, making a mess of slobber and spilt water on the broken kitchen tiles. 

The boys brought him into the living room. They turned on the television and sat on the couch. The dog lay by their feet and dozed on the worn hardwood floors. The younger one hopped off the couch, sat crossed legged by Gunner and ran his right hand over its enormous head, soothing it to sleep. The boys waited for their father to wake or their mother to come home from work.

Tamaracks and Far Away Places

The fire crew grid the gentle south facing slope of their mountain, where the incandescent bones of lost cattle scattered by time and scavengers glow among the downed trees and rotting logs. They ambled downhill in the fading light with 10 yards spacing between each other, scanning the ground below, the ground in front, and the darkening canopy of Douglas fir and ponderosa pine for smoke or embers that might’ve floated over the ridge from the afternoon's blow-up. 

A ground-wind flowed downhill past their legs and into the draws as the humidity slowly rose and the temperature began to drop. They climbed over logs the diameter of refrigerators, trudged through dense weaves of fallen branches, using their hand tools to knock down dry low hanging branches in their path. A crew member hollered out “hold” and everyone stood in place while the area was checked for signs of fire. They continued searching, scanning the floor for smoke, ancient arrowheads, elk sheds, or skulls; trophies of summers walking through smoke, long hikes and hours of swinging tools against dirt and rocks, digging miles of fire-line, felling trees, and cutting thickets of brush with high powered chainsaws. Their depleted bodies fused to the cold ground moments after zipping their sleeping bags. They woke up before dawn to continue the story. They are young and invincible.  

Their summers were punctuated by sightings of black bears, skittish coyotes, cougars, rattlesnake dens, and enormous bull elks with the antlers the width of small cars. Their days were suffocated by the perfume of pine terpenes, smoke, sweat, spilt beer, and gasoline. They relished morning’s bouquet of bacon and eggs in mountain town diners, cans of tobacco for the long days, cigarettes for the evening’s rest, and craft beer in small town breweries on days off.  

The boredom of driving hundreds of miles across the western United States is the price. They become desensitized to vistas of geological theater most humans will never see, awesome and patient hydrology cutting earth and stone for millennia, flower covered meadows surrounded by heavy timber in Colorado, rolling yellowed grasslands of Wyoming, fiery sunsets in the deserts of Nevada, layers upon layers of colored earth in the Dinosaur graveyards of eastern Oregon, and the taste of morning’s first cup of coffee, all suppressed by waves of loneliness, the longing for loved ones, and the simmering irritability of spending every waking moment with the same people for 14 days, 21 if they were lucky. 

The pay was worth the trouble when out on assignment but a trickle when they stayed on forest unless lightning struck within their jurisdiction, a campfire went unchecked in visitor campgrounds, or an unextinguished cigarette flew out a car window, igniting the roadside grasses. One season’s pay carried them through the offseason when the weather was too wet and cold for fire. Most of them returned to their cities until the following summer, others stayed behind to work fuel reduction projects, clearing areas of thick vegetation and burning their piles on cold overcast days when the snow ceased to fall, the wind was absent, and every step felt colder the last. 

  _____________________

In the last days of October, when the end of fire season in eastern Oregon was signaled by mornings of frozen highways and tamaracks changing color, yellow and rust orange, imitating deciduous forests of the northeast, accenting the dark green canopy of dense conifers, the remaining firefighters spent the week prepping fire line for an early winter prescribed burn. They widened the line using hand tools, trimming overgrown brush with chainsaws, removing downed tree limbs, and felling dead trees that could fall across the line and ruin the burn project . They took long lunch breaks under the shaded edge of the treeline. They faced the downhill slope of tall yellow grass that rolled into the creek that lay like a serpent along the valley floor, twisting and turning, filling deep pools at each bend where wild rainbow trout congregated in the shade of the cold water before moving on to the next bend. They busted each other’s balls, discussed resolved and unresolved drama, gossiped about people who’d left, announced plans for their furlow, and enjoyed each other’s company without spoiling the evening with sentiment, understanding that they might not see each other again.

On the last evening, Jeremiah slept on the couch of his Forest Service dorm. He surrendered his keys and fire-line equipment earlier that day, sold his pickup truck to a couple from Mexico who’d moved to town for work at the ski resort, and organized his trekking pack with essentials. In the morning he hitched a ride to the nearest town with Charlie, one of the last firefighters in the dorm. They sat by the window of the diner and ate while the morning sun warmed their faces. They talked about books they read, fires they worked, and women they should’ve been with if it weren’t for braver men. 

“You have my number. I’ll come get you. Whatever you need, you let me know. Don’t hesitate.” 

“I’ll be alright, I’ll make it as far as I can, hitch it, probably get a bus at some point.”

__________________________

Jeremiah walked west along the two-lane highway that brought him down from the mountains, splitting the valley of yellow cow pastures and agricultural fields of squash and potatoes, connecting hamlets in 10 mile intervals. The road lay parallel to a wide shallow river running cold and clear over mosaics of red, orange, green, and blue stones and boulders. His pack took shape, molding over his shoulders and collarbones, fusing to his waist, balancing his steps on loose gravel, over culverts, and mounds of red ants. Friendly vehicles slowed and gave him space while others accelerated, sucking him into vacuums of exhaust and noise, waking him from his trance for a moment until they became a reliable rhythm. 

At dusk he reached a state recreation area along the highway where he set down his pack for the first time since breakfast and bedded down by the river out of sight from travelers and state troopers. In the morning, the first diner he entered asked him to leave. The next diner added “we don’t serve hitchhikers''. He settled for a scorching hot microwave burrito with a frozen center from the gas station with a lime green dinosaur sculpture on its curbside lawn. A mile down the road he saw another backpacker far ahead, by noon he was close enough to see the sweat stained blue hat. The man heard Jerimiah’s footsteps and glanced over. 

“Mind if I keep pace with you?” Jeremiah didn’t want to overtake him or follow too close.

“That’s fine”

“Where are you headed?”

“LA”

“Me too. I’m Jeremiah.”

“Sam, nice to meet you.”

They put one foot in front of the other as the day warmed and their boots softened. The road crossed the river and bore west through cliffs of rectangular purple and black basalt pillars holding back the earth from collapsing onto the road and the shallow stream below. They walked in silence for hours, past the entrance of a state park where the bones of dinosaurs are exhumed and the hills are painted shades of red, orange, and turquoise by the minerals leached from the ancient ground below. They walked uphill and downhill and around blind bends where angry tractor trailers birthed from rock thundered past them, vanishing from sight, dragging their hot exhaust to cities, towns, and suburbs to deliver essential rations and tomorrow’s trash. 

The men found a large culvert where a dry arroyo descending from the mountain crossed under the highway and flowed downhill into the desert valley miles below where the sun dragged the last of its burning light west as evening's cold shadows swallowed boulders, dead volcanoes, arroyos of dark green riparian, stands of juniper trees, prairies of sage, and the dens of hungry coyotes, unleashing the appetite of a million mice and those who eat mice. They settled under the highway, shared dried food, and made small talk. Sam was from Detroit, 54 years old. He’d pulled his retirement to travel west and see by foot the country he’d traversed thousands of times during his trucking career. Jeremiah told him about his summer job, the fires he worked, and the states he’d visited while traffic above them died and the night’s cold air began funneling down the arroyo and into the culvert, forcing the men to move their fireless camp to a flat area above highway where an inversion belt held some of the day’s warmer air.

In the morning they smoked cigarettes and drank freeze dried coffee with water boiled in Jeremiah’s handheld camping stove. A bright rim of white light burned the edges of the eastern horizon, igniting their atmospheric dome, erasing the stars, covering the men the rest of the day as they continued west into another forest.

In the late morning they hitched a ride with a young couple who daringly squeezed the hitchhikers and their foul odors into the back seat of their Subaru. They stopped for lunch in Prineville where conversation became a polite interrogation. Sam focused on the beautiful weather and the small town fare they were enjoying, then left to use the lavatory and picked up the bill without anyone noticing. 

The men thanked the couple for the lift and lumbered west under their packs. The day was bright and warm. Cool breezes brushed the scent of fall across their faces. They stopped at an old motel at the edge of town where they booked separate rooms. Sam showered and slept. Jeremiah collapsed onto the creaky mattress in his filthy clothes and woke up in the dark 10 hours later, it was close to midnight. He pushed open the curtains and looked across the parking lot to Sam’s room, 3rd door from the reception office. The lights were off.  

The following morning he knocked on Sam’s door several times and waited about 10 minutes before walking into the reception office to turn in his keys. 

“Your friend left”, the receptionist announced. 

“I figured.”

Jeremiah continued on 97 towards Bend. His body acclimated to his heavy ruck, cradled comfortably by his shoulders and hips, a fit similar to working the fireline. He reached Bend by late evening, following the highway’s wide shoulders and bike paths that ran parallel. He slept in a thicket of riparian on the shores of the Deschutes for a few hours before a policeman’s boot tapped his back and shoulders.

“You can’t sleep here.”

“Gimme a second”

They asked for his ID and questioned him under bright beams while he stuffed his sleeping bag away and slung his pack. They were doing their job, he told himself. They could’ve robbed and beat him, killed him and urinated on his body, or any combination of horrors that men committed to strangers in the dead of night when no one is watching. They had power and soon they were four. Their voices conferred and one gave back his ID. A voice told him to move on, keep walking, another told him to get a job. He thanked them and continued down the highway to an all-night diner where he ate apple pie and drank bitter coffee until daybreak. 

The next few days were cold with cloudless skies, morning frost, and brilliant light piercing through the pines, warming his body while he trudged along. He shared cigarettes and fast food with bums outside gas stations and traded lies with drunks at a small brewery. He hitched a short ride with college students who disagreed with the smell of his unwashed body. In the long stretches between towns he camped in the woods off the highway where thickets of dried lodgepole pine and the dark canopies of ponderosas hid his tent. He ate well, snacking sparingly on his rations and sampling small town diners that allowed his kind to sit in corners far from the main crowds. There was no shortage of biscuits, bacon, eggs, burnt coffee, and awkward stares from clean people with nice cars. 

On the 7th day of his journey he paid for a camping spot on the shores of a large lake just north of Klamath Falls. He lit a fire. The sun had just dipped behind the mountains across the lake when he noticed two campfires along the shore come to life, one far to his left and the other across the water. Orion and Taurus lit up above him and a fiddle was played. 

That night he dreamt of floating from the ground. He asked those standing nearby if they could see him ascending past their heads, but no one responded or bothered to look. Everything grew smaller as he lifted past the pines and leafless branches of Ash and Poplar trees. He felt a cool wind brush his cheeks and push him away like a balloon. He came back to the ground and asked if anyone saw him, again no one answered.  He pushed off, this time controlling his flight and hovered just above the trees where he could see the roofs of thousands of homes and an intricate net of electric cables suspended by poles at equal distance, vanishing into the horizon where an oasis of metal and glass skyscrapers stood against the bright sky. Behind him were more roofs, thousands. He looked down and the people had gone about their day. He continued upward until everything below was unrecognizable and his vision captured the darkness of space and the billions of stars burning close and far.

_______________________________

On a tree limb above his head, a large bird held the limp body of a squirrel. It scanned the ground below, observing Jeremiah with his left eye, then right eye, then left again, staring intently before spreading its wings and bounding into the air and across the lake without making a sound. Jeremiah reached the town of Klamath Falls just before noon. The manager of the Waffle Hut asked him to leave. She offered to serve him a take-out order. He smiled and took the hint. He went across the road to the motel to shower, shave, change, and returned to take a different booth. A glass of water and cup of coffee placed before him, he waited for his meal and saw the familiar face of a black man with a speckled beard across the restaurant. The man walked over.

“May I?” gesturing to the empty seat.

“Absolutely”, Jeremiah stood up to greet him, they shook hands. 

“Here we are.”

“God it’s good to see you.” He smiled at Sam. “What happened?”

“I went to a hospital.”

“Why?”

“I’m sick, kid.”

“With what?”

“Just sick, don’t have long.”

“What does that mean? Is it like cancer or something? How long you been sick?”

“A while, and yes.”

“Should you even be out here?”

“Sure. It’s not gonna happen anytime soon.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Jeremiah didn’t prod further. The waitress brought Jeremiah’s order and asked if Sam wanted anything else. The men made plans to travel west to the coast and take the Pacific Coast Highway to travel along the ocean. In the morning they trekked west under overcast skies. The days were colder and sporadic rain showers forced them under highway overpasses for hours at a time. On the third night they deployed their tents deep inside the forest when a downpour sealed them in their dark damp stench until morning. Sam groaned in the cold for a few hours before snoring. Thuds of elk scampering through their camp woke them through out the night. Jeremiah lit his stove at daybreak, boiling water for their instant oats and coffee. Sam stepped out of his tent.

“You in pain?” Jeremiah asked.

“Not right now.” 

“I heard you. You take anything?”

“I have some prescriptions, but I like these THC gummies.”

“Are you stoned right now?”

“Damn straight.”

They waded uphill out of a thicket of wet ferns and back onto the highway where an Oregon State Police cruiser was parked on the shoulder about 30 yards away. The men moved behind a large tree before an officer stepped out from the brush, zipping his pants. Sounds of radio chatter mixed with the birds and a lone oncoming tractor trailer moving slowly uphill. The officer stopped at his car door, waved to the tractor’s driver as it passed. The officer turned and looked in their direction, staring intently, scanning the forest. He waited for the sound of the vehicle to disappear around the bend.

“Anyone there?” He hollered.

“He’s telepathic?” Jeremiah whispered to Sam.

“Do you even know what that means?”

“What do we do?”

Sam put a finger to his lips and signaled Jeremiah to quiet. The radio chatter and squelch grew louder. The officer looked frightened.

“I know you’re there.” 

Sam began to sink into the ferns, Jeremiah followed. The officer lit the overhead blue and red lights on his cruiser, talked into his radio, and began walking in their direction, his right hand on his hip, holding a pistol in its holster. He was halfway to their location when three cow elks thundered uphill past the men and across the highway, quickly veering away from the tiny man with a gun and his flashing lights, dodging an oncoming pick-up truck, and disappeared into the forest above. The officer bent over, hands on his knees. He caught his breath, laughed and talked to himself, then mounted his vehicle and continued his morning mountain patrol.

“Why were we hiding?” Jeremiah asked.

“Don’t know. Seemed like the thing to do, worked out.”

___________________

At a highway rest stop the men convinced the driver of a tractor trailer from Mexico to give them a ride to Ashland, $40 dollars each. The driver only spoke spanish. Jeremiah conversed with him for the duration of the ride. They traded jokes and morsels of personal information. He was from central Mexico and lives in Tucson with his wife and American born children. Sam slept until Ashland where they split a motel room. They walked to the nearby Fred Meyers and picked up toiletries and clothing detergent. Sam bought a pair of board shorts. 

“Getting beach ready?”

“Yep. They’re only 5 bucks.”

They did laundry, showered, shaved and put on their best attire. Sam was determined to have a glass of wine and eat pasta at a bougie Italian restaurant in quaint downtown Ashland where he met his wife decades ago during a furlough from a fire assignment in the Siskiyou National Forest. Jeremiah didn’t know Sam worked the fire lines. Sam told him about her frizzy black hair, cinnamon skin, and wide toothy smile. They were the only black people in the restaurant. Probably the only black people in town, he added. She was at the bar waiting for a friend. The friend eventually arrived after they’d finished a glass of wine. They ate pasta and drank more wine. Her friend left and they walked up and down the boulevard, eventually dancing at a wedding reception where drunk patrons were convinced they knew them from somewhere. He remembered the air smelled of jasmine and magnolia flowers. She passed away two years ago. 

___________________________

The interstate to Medford was busy the next morning. They took backroads, hiking through the morning’s cold air past frost covered agricultural fields. On a long uphill stretch Sam struggled to walk and stopped several times before sitting under a large oak at the edge of a field. The day lit vibrant fall colors of their brisk Indian summer..

“Kid, I need to stop for a while.”

“Shit, man. You need to go to a hospital?”

“No, I’m not there, just tired, dizzy.”

Jeremiah reached into Sam’s pack, pulled out a Nalgene bottle of water, and handed it to his friend, “I’ll get us a ride.” 

The young man walked out to the highway.  A few minutes passed before the first car zoomed by, then another a few minutes after. His outstretched thumb louvered a dark blue dust covered Toyota Corolla with a cracked windshield. Jeremiah ran up to the car and spoke with the driver. Sam was waking from his nap.

“Just the two of you?” Asked the driver.

“Yeah, my friend’s over there,” Jeremiah pointed back towards the tree.

“How far?”

“We’re heading to the coast but you can drop us off in Grants Pass, we just need to get out of the sticks”. 

“I just need some gas money. Cool?”

“Yeah man, we got you. Let me get our stuff.”

The driver popped the trunk. Jeremiah helped his friend off the ground and carried both packs to the car. Sam climbed into the back seat amongst the refuse of empty cigarette boxes, fast food containers, empty styrofoam cups, and an old acoustic guitar with a capo above the 3rd fret. Jeremiah took the passenger seat and the car departed with all four windows down into the rolling hills of yellow grass broken up by dark green draws stuffed with riparian, oaks, and juniper. The driver smoked one cigarette after another and kept the hip-hop station at a low volume. 

“You’re a musician?” Jeremiah broke the silence

“Yep.”

“What do you play?”

“Blues mostly.”

“Country?”

“Blues, bro. Blues” 

“Muddy Waters? Mississippi Delta- ” 

The driver’s yellow eyes told Jeremiah to stop asking questions. 

They pulled into a gas station on the outskirts of Medford. The driver gestured to Jeremiah for cash. Jeremiah looked to the back seat at a sleeping Sam then took out his bill fold and gave the driver his only $20. The driver took the note and held out his hand again. A tinge of fear dripped into Jeremiah’s veins. He stepped out of the car, took off his right boot and pulled out another $20. The driver took the bill and held out his hand again. Jeremiah pulled out another $20.

“Good boy”

The driver went into the gas station. Jeremiah looked back at Sam who was wide awake.

“You ok?” Asked Sam. 

Jeremiah stuffed his lower lip with tobacco to calm his nerves. “I’m alright.”

A few minutes later the driver returned to the car with a carton of cigarettes, a fountain drink, and a large beer bottle in a brown paper sack, the breeze pasting his faded blue t-shirt to his tall lean frame. He fueled, stuck his head in the car window, and stared down his hostages. Jeremiah opened his door, “I need to piss”.

“What about you?” The driver addressed Sam. 

“I’m good.” Sam witnessed part of the shakedown when they stopped, understanding the driver would leave them stranded if he stepped out. 

The driver finished fueling, took his seat at the wheel, sucked down half his soda and dumped the rest out the window. He poured his beer into the empty cup, took a swig from the bottle while he waited for the foam to subside, then poured in the rest. He opened his door and set the empty bottle on the concrete. Jeremiah jogged out to the car with a large fountain drink in hand. 

They drove through Jacksonville and headed southwest on Highway 238 through dense pine forests, past wineries, and mountain side eateries, following the clear and shallow waters of Poorman’s Creek until it joined the deeper Applegate River rolling steadily on their left then on their right when the highway crossed over. The highway eventually turned northwest through wide valleys towards Grants Pass. 

Their driver chain smoked his cheap cigarettes. The smoke stung Sam’s eyes momentarily then blew away. The temperature dropping drastically in the shadows, then warming in the sunlight. The car slalomed around bends, zoomed past tractor trailers, narrowly missing cyclists in their expensive bright colored spandex and equally expensive bicycles. Jeremiah squeezed his cup into the cupholder behind the driver’s drink. The driver’s eyes fixed on the cups. 

“Don’t touch my beer.”

Jeremiah put up his hands, “sorry, man”.

The driver took his cup, sucked down half, belched, and put it back. Sam tapped the driver’s shoulder and asked him to pull over. Sam made his way down the roadside embankment and into the brush to relieve himself. The driver also took a piss but wasn’t as discreet. He walked a few feet away from the car and watered a cluster of lodgepole saplings. Jeremiah stayed in the car, finished his drink, and popped open the lid, tossing an ice cubes into his mouth. 

“What did I fucking tell you?” The driver yelled, took his seat. 

“It’s just ice.”

“Don’t gaslight me, motherfucker.” 

Sam came back to the car and handed the driver a $20, told him he forgot to pitch in. The car rolled onto the asphalt and picked up speed, traveling faster than before, then pulled into another gas station. Their driver slammed his door and went inside.

“We need to ditch this guy, kid.” Sam advised.

“Grants Pass is just a half hour up the road. We’ll be alright.” Jeremiah spat out his tobacco and put in a fresh plug.

The man returned with another beer, filled his styrofoam cup, and drank the last ounces before tossing the can into the garbage. They proceeded northwest, moving faster around bends. He changed radio stations. The Grateful Dead came on and he turned up the volume, Ripple played. The car felt colder.

“You’re taking advantage of me.” He spoke into the rear view mirror. “I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m stupid? You think I’m a dumb motherfucker. I went to college, motherfucker”  He glanced over at the kid. “I know you were laughing at me.” 

Jeremiah reached for his cup. The driver dug into his lidless center console, pulled a box cutter and slammed into Jeremiah’s hand. 

“I warned you, motherfucker”. His voice growled, “Don’t,” he stabbed, “Touch,” swinging down again, “My,” the again, “Fucking Beer.” 

The driver abruptly stopped swinging his weapon. Jeremiah’s left hand and thigh were covered in bright red blood, warm, sticky and dripping all over the seat. Jeremiah was dazed. Sam’s face was between them. Sam had plunged his hunting knife into the driver’s rib cage and held it in place.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen”, Sam spoke calmly. “You’re gonna pull over and let us out. You’re gonna drive away and you never saw us.” The driver kept his foot on the gas, increasing speed. Sam twisted the knife, scraping the driver's ribs. “Pull over.” The driver complies, slowing down and putting the car in park, dust blew in through the windows.

“Pop the trunk. Son, go back there, grab our bags.” Sam says while keeping pressure on the knife.

Jeremiah’s adrenaline took hold and he sprinted to the trunk, slung one over his shoulder, carrying the other with his right hand, and ran into the woods. Sam pulled the knife and stepped out. The driver sped off. The men ran down the embankment to the stream below. 

“Take off your clothes, kid.” The young man carefully peeled off his clothes. The dripping of his gored hand slowed and the stains on his jacket and pants darkened and hardened.

“Get in the creek and wash off.” Jeremiah stepped into the cold ankle deep water. He waded to a knee deep eddy a few feet downstream. Crouching, the wounds on his thigh bled a little more. He sank his left hand in the stream, coloring the current pink. The cold water numbed the throbbing. He started to shiver then submerged himself in the pool for a few seconds, his body immediately warmed.

“First Aid kit, you got one?”

“Yeah, top lid.”

Sam pulled out a neoprene sack and emptied out its contents, medical tape, antibacterial ointments, alcohol wipes, hand sanitizer, medicine bottles, a collapsible aluminum splint, triangular bandages, large trauma bandages, emergency blanket, and a tourniquet .

“You take this EMT stuff seriously, huh?” 

Jeremiah nodded and walked his skinny brown body onto the pine needle duff. Sam squirted an  entire tiny bottle of hand sanitizer on the kid’s hand. The kid grit his teeth in pain. Sam smothered the lacerations with antibiotic ointment, covered them with gauze, and wrapped the kids hand with a trauma bandage. Sam went to Jeremiah's pack and pulled out a fresh set of clothes. He brought back everything except pants.

“You got any extra trousers.” Asked Sam.

Jeremiah shook his head. Sam went to his pack and pulled out the bright colored board shorts he bought at the Fred Meyers and tossed them to his friend. Sam dug a hole far above the opposite embankment and buried the knife and the kid’s bloody clothes. A few hours later on the darkened highway, a white Sprinter van picked up a pair of hitchhikers lumbering along the shoulder, an old black guy and a skinny young guy in board shorts with a bandaged left hand, and drove them to the Grants Pass Valley Care Center for all their troubles. 

Organ Mountains

I used to sit on the levee of the small ditch behind my parents two acre property and watch the tall yellow blades of dry grass bend with the cold January wind on evenings where silence demanded more and the day dragged itself west, uncovering purple shadows, mice, and things that eat mice.

Beyond our property was a gated desert where I found decomposing Mexican graphic novels and dirty magazines arranged beside a makeshift bed of cardboard and faded flannel blankets, tucked underneath gnarled mesquite trees at the base of a a wide crater, hidden by nopales and mounds of soft orange dirt. I visited that hideout frequently, mostly to read, daydream, or lay prone on the sandy rim of the crater, waiting for a jackrabbit to cross the sights of my rifle.

Beyond the gated desert was the Rio Grand and past its levee was an old highway, once the main artery to Albuquerque and Santa Fe. A salsa cannery occupied a fraction of the view, its exhaust displaced the clean desert air with the aroma of roasted jalapenos and refried beans. On the northern horizon stood the Organ Mountains of southern New Mexico, painted in purples, blues, magenta, and orange of the day’s last light.

The cold wind burned my cheeks and nostrils while I prayed to the mountains through the tall grass hoping to watch them for a moment longer. I watched clouds build above the mountain range then dissolve into the darkening skies.  

I know this place. I sleep here, where jackrabbits scamper and dogs bark at ghosts. I will spend eternity here, watching the mountains.

La Union Station

Anthony could hear his grandfather talking through the thin walls of their farm home. He was mumbling gibberish for a while until Anthony heard the words “I killed him”. The crickets and frogs paused; the house fell silent. The room was dark and stuffy. It was almost two in the morning, he’d been tossing under and over his sheets for an hour. His grandma had left the window and door to his guest bedroom open. A breeze would pass through his room then disappear, leaving the scent of river willows and fresh cut grass. He slowed and deepened his breaths to improve the silence. His grandfather’s words softened to a low mumble. 

The following day he took a long walk along the levy of a wide irrigation ditch which fed smaller distribution ditches that flooded the onion, jalapeno, corn, pecan groves, and alfalfa fields every other week. He carried a stick and slung it like a rifle, pretending to hunt ducks, doves, jackrabbits, and flocks of turkey vultures circling death in the distance. Then he faced off against the thickets of cattails along the ditch.  Swinging the stick like a samurai sword, he’d hack away their corn dog tops yelling “bonsai!”. He picked up a top from the ground and marveled at the soft suede texture, rolling it across his cheek and nose. 

He listened to the sounds of the brown silty water swirling below the banks. A warm breeze came from the desert beyond the western mesa that hid the valley.  He noticed a turtle sunning on the bank. He thought of running back to his grandparents’ house for a box. He’d take it home and build a habitat for him with sticks and a wide plastic food container for him to swim. He’d give him a name. What if it’s a girl? What do they eat?

He looked back in the direction of the house. He could hardly see it, only making out the stand of cottonwood trees covering the white adobe house halfway between him and his grandparent’s home. It would take him at least an hour to run back, find a box, explain to someone what he was doing, someone was bound to ask, then hurry back.  The turtle would be gone by then, or he could grab it by the sides of its shell and carry it home. It looked to be the size of a small plate. He heard they could bite. He stood there a moment and decided to sling dirt rocks and use it for target practice instead. 

__________

Gloria and Arturo Benavente bought their 5-acre plot of land from Don and Errol Smith in February of 1950. The twin brothers returned from Europe in the fall of 1945 to find ailing parents and an alcoholic older sister about to lose the family ranch, 780 acres along the Rio Grande, straddling the Texas New Mexico border just northwest of El Paso, a sliver of the easternmost territory of the Gadsden Purchase brokered 91 years earlier. The property was prime agricultural land. The Rio Grande cut a wide valley several miles at its widest and over two-hundred feet at its deepest from the foothills of the Dona Ana mountains of Radium Springs, New Mexico, to the bottleneck between the Franklin Mountains of El Paso and Mount Cristo Rey before spilling southeast and splitting the desert into Mexico and the United States.

With their sister Josephine nowhere to be found, a father who could barely speak, and an odious foul-mouthed mother running off anyone who came to offer help, Don and Errol bent to the pressures of time and progress, accepting the wise advice of trusted friends and the family’s attorney.  The boys sold large parcels to local farmers, smaller parcels to land developers, gifted a few to loved ones and loyal family friends, and forfeited too many to the governments for their interstate highways and Farm-to-Market roads dissecting the valley where Spanish Conquistadores once traveled to establish their northern outposts of Espanola and Santa Fe in search of Cibola, the lost city of gold. The boys donated 12 acres to the county for a park that bears their family name. A small public library, swimming pool, and senior center were later added to its infrastructure of baseball fields, softball fields, soccer fields, picnic pavilions, public restrooms, and winding black top roads guiding visitors to their desired location under the expansive shade of old poplars, cottonwoods, and sycamore trees.

Errol Smith met Arturo and his teenage wife at Abel’s Cafe for a lunch of Caldo de Res and Mexican Rice. They followed him down a narrow two-lane paved road on the other side of the river towards the New Mexico border line. After a few miles they turned right onto an unpaved washboard road that vibrated their teeth and their black 1940 half-ton pickup truck every time they sped up or slowed down. Errol’s pickup finally stopped in front of a small single-story pier-and-beam farmhouse well shaded under gigantic pecan and sycamore trees. Errol stepped out of his pickup and signaled the couple to wait in their vehicle. Errol met his twin brother Don by the side of the road. Don rode his horse to the meeting and held her by the reins as they walked and gestured. Arturo and Gloria studied the twins and established that Don smiled more and seemed more relaxed. Both men were younger than Arturo, they had starved and killed in the cold and snow covered forests of Northern Europe while Arturo died many times over on the boiling sands of Peleliu and Okinawa. The families knew each other.  Arturo’s grandmother was the twin’s nanny. She introduced Josephine and the twins to Mexican customs and taught them Spanish, a skill used to the chagrin of their German captors. Arturo’s great grandfather, Emiliano Casares Benavente broke horses the Smiths bought or traded from the Mexican Army or friendly Apache. The three men knew madness only few would understand. The twins and the young couple walked the property together, traded family stories, and agreed on numbers.

________

Anthony rode his single gear bicycle down Nimitz Road to Smith Farms Park. He pulled into the neighborhood a mile before the park and knocked on the door of a shit brown with white trim double wide trailer home. A stocky mulberry tree shaded a small patch of overgrown bermuda grass that stretched to the old and cracked blacktop pavement absorbing the midday sun. A barefoot blond-haired teen with sprouting breasts under a white tank top opened the door, releasing the cool air trapped inside and soothing his sun baked face. 

“Matt’s not home” looking him up and down. 

He continued on to the park without his friend. He rode his bike up the slope to the 6-foot chain link fence of the swimming pool and looked for his friends. One of the lifeguards recognized him and waved. A few adults were sitting on benches and lounge chairs in the shade while kids splashed in the shallow area. Teenage boys were taking turns belly flopping into the deep end.  The blonde lifeguard on the lifeguard chair looked bored and asleep behind her dark sunglasses. The whole place smells of chlorine and sunscreen. His friends were not there. 

He rode down to one of the pavilions, layed on the cool concrete picnic table and stared at the names of couples, bands, and the local high school's football game scores scratched or written with black marker on the ceiling of the pine log roof. He dozed off in the valley’s dry heat and woke when the sun was lower in the sky and the immigrants were arriving to the north end soccer fields for their nightly games. They were there every evening except for religious holidays and weeks when the park supervisors closed certain fields to heal the grass. These were serious people playing a serious sport. They wore team uniforms and carried banners. Their families and friends chanted and cheered from small metal bleachers along the sides of the fields. Anthony marveled at their speed and athleticism, even the older fat ones moved with the alacrity of ballet dancers. The team in sky blue uniforms was his favorite. The team in orange and white had a few anglo players. The team in bright green uniforms had three black men who spoke Spanish with a strange accent. This he knew from the few times he’d stopped to watch them play.

He mounted his bike and began his 4-mile trek north to his grandparents’ house. He rode with traffic. Farm trucks and cars pulled up behind him and carefully maneuvered around him. Most of the traffic was heading towards the park. He passed Matt’s neighborhood. Another mile down, in the stretch barren of trailers and houses, where the levy of the Rio Grande far to his right and the levies of irrigation ditches ahead boxed in a desert habitat of mesquite brush, ocotillo, desert willows, and jackrabbits. He heard the deep heavy bark of a dog in the brush to his right, a warning to speed up. He stood on the pedals and stomped down one, then the other, moving faster. He looked over his right shoulder and saw the animal in a dead run, kicking up the orange dust from the shoulder of the road. He barreled down. A rush of excitement charged his heart and muscles. He peddled hard. He was going to beat this thing or the next moments would be painful. The dog was now a few meters behind him. In a glance he made out its furrowed face and vacant expression. Anthony saw death in moments. He would lose this race. His peddling turned to a violent waddle. He hit a deep pile of dust on the shoulder of the road and his body traveled the distance his bike had relinquished, slamming face first into a deep thicket of dry tumbleweed stacked between a stop sign and the irrigation levy. 

The animal punctured Anthony’s buttocks and lower back then clamped its jaw on his right leg and dragged him out of the weeds. Anthony clawed at the dirt and rocks, swallowing clouds of dust. Then he heard the thunder punch of a shotgun to his left, then another, and the dog let go of his leg.

Anthony rolled over in the dirt and watched a man bury three pistol rounds in quick succession into the dog’s body. It growled, huffed, and collapsed to the ground. The woman with the shotgun was crouched next to him. He looked at her green eyes, wrinkled leather face, and yellow teeth. She smelled of cigarettes and sweat. 

“What 's your name, son. ¿Cómo te llamas?” 

“Anthony”

“Anthony, what?”

“Benavente”

“Do you know where you’re at?”

“On the ground” his lower lip began to quiver as the adrenaline dissipated. The old woman laughed. 

“Yes, you are on the ground. You’re Arturo’s grandson, aren’t ye?” He looked at her and nodded. The bites to his back and leg began to throb. 

                 __________

Corry and Juan rode in the back of Grady’s Silverado, holding the roll bars with one hand and their rifles in the other. Grady kept a slow and steady pace on the levy then rolled down into the brush following a two-track road through groves of tall mesquite, stump sized juniper, and desert willows. They passed an abandoned camp littered with empty beer cans with faded labels, bottles, tires, and a filthy twin sized mattress, probably used for fucking. A large fire ring sat in the center of the clearing. Juan tapped the metal roof of the pick-up. Grady slowed then parked and idled his truck. Juan adjusted the iron sights of this .308 and squeezed off a shot.

When they crossed the cattle guard onto Wayne’s property, the boys had killed a white pitbull, two large shepherd mixed mutts, and a pitiful black labrador mix covered in ticks. When they picked up the labrador’s caracas they followed the sound of yelping puppies coming from under rusted sheets of corrugated metal stacked on rotting scraps of construction lumber. They put the four malnourished puppies in a milkcrate. The boys drove out of the valley and up the mesa to the eastern desert of Southern New Mexico where they dumped the bodies of the dogs into a deep arroyo and drove back to Grady’s. 

Wayne met them at the truck when they parked. He looked over at Juan, “How’s that .308?”

“Clean, got a heat shot on one of them.” 

Grady, “We got 4 of ‘em. What are you smoking?”

“I got some ribs on mesquite chips and your mom’s roasting them hatch chiles we got this morning. Corry, ask Juan if he wants to stay for supper.”

Corry glanced over at Juan and pointed to the house with his chin. Juan smiled and nodded.

Wayne looked into the bed of the pick-up. “What are you gonna do with those?” pointing at the pups.

“We’ll figure something out.” Corry lifted the milk crate out of the back of the pick-up and carried it to the barn. 

         ________

Irene Garcia-Benavente brought her son home and slept with him in the spare bedroom of her in-law’s home. In the morning she bathed him and dressed his wounds while Dona Gloria made huevos rancheros, refried beans, and cafe de olla. Don Arturo left early, returned around noon. 

“Wayne’s boys shot 4 yesterday.” The wood framed screen door slapped the door frame. He greeted his daughter in-law and walked to the counter to pour a cold cup of morning’s coffee. 

Irene exhaled. “There’s more. There’s always more. People keep dumping them out here.”

“Is he still sleeping? Did he eat?”

“He ate a lot. I think his meds made him sleepy. He’s been out for about an hour. I laid him down on the couch. He wanted to watch The Price is Right.”

Don Arturo stretched his wrinkled face into a grin. He walked into the living room and ran his sausage sized fingers through the boy’s thick black hair. The boy opened his eyes, smiled back at his grandfather, and went back to sleep. Television ads for Mutual of Omaha and trial lawyers soliciting mesothelioma victims played on a loop, then a soap opera came on and Irene turned the television off. Dona Gloria was in the kitchen preparing dough for flour tortillas. 

In the mid day sleep, Anthony dreamt of his father, Raphael Benavente, he had been sick for years. The poison sprayed on the jungle canopy of his war had worked its way into his skin, nose, and mouth, and began the process of devouring his organs, killing him over the next 25 years. Anthony saw him in his wheelchair at the back door of their home, looking toward the late afternoon thunderclouds building over the Organ Mountains of Las Cruces, New Mexico. Anthony opened his eyes and remembered the last day of school and his father’s cold and stiff arm, his uncle on the other side of the hospital bed, weeping. 

————————

Anthony found a 3-foot stick of scrap lumber in the pile behind the tool shed. A small garden snake escaped toward the tall weeds by the irrigation ditch. He put three nails through one end and sanded the other. He was going to slam these nails into anything that chased him. He was looking for a fight. He was going to the park. He considered bringing his gas-powered pellet gun. A foolish idea, too weak of a shot and he’d have to stop and reload. His grandfather’s rifles were of limits.

He killed 7 feral cats with his Winchester .22 rifle over Christmas break. The 7th wouldn’t die. It kept hissing at him. He picked it up by the tail and took him to the backside of the property where the land dropped off into the fallow agricultural fields covered in tumbleweeds. He laid it against the irrigation ditch levy behind the property, took a few steps back and flinched a stray bullet tearing off the cat's left ear. It hissed harder. It wanted to live. Anthony reloaded, put the barrel up to its face. He had to shoot. He didn’t want to shoot. He wanted to walk away. It hissed harder. He took a step closer and shot. The dust behind the cat kicked up. The cat hissed pitifully, it looked away. Anthony’s face contorted and his chest burned. He reloaded and silenced the animal. His hands were trembling. His jaw was locked. 

“Nothing wants to die”, a voice carried from his right. 

Anthony caught his grandfather standing by the lone sycamore on the levy, a witness to the murder. Anthony wanted to take it back. He wanted the cat to live. He apologized profusely but words never came out. He lost track of time. It was cold and his shadow was purple. His grandfather walked down to where he was, took the rifle and gave the boy a shovel. 

“Bury him”. Don Arturo’s voice wasn’t angry or disappointed, it was direction, the next step in a process Anthony had forced. Don Arturo walked back to the house. Anthony dug the hole and covered the animal. Anthony’s parents and sisters soon arrived to make tamales. Uncles, aunts, and cousins arrived later. They made an assembly line, Dona Gloria cooking, a dozen brown hands spreading masa on softened corn husks, others filled and wrapped the tamales. They carefully stacked them in deep metal pots where they’d steam on the stove for several hours while the children drank store brand soda, champurrado, and Mexican hot chocolate. They watched a stop-motion movie about a talking deer with a glowing red nose. The adults drank teswin, tequila, and coffee with a splash of Presidente brandy while playing cards and planning summer trips. Outside the temperature dropped into the low 30’s; a smell of chimney fires and a clear moonless night lit by the glowing dust of a billion stars.

__________

Anthony rounded Vinton Road onto Nimitz and looked toward the desert brush to his left where the dog had appeared. His pulse quickened, pumping fear and anger to every cell in his body. He fantasized slapping the nails into the sides of the beast. He practiced swinging the stick to his right, then his left while gaining speed. He peddled hard. Nothing came from the brush on his left or the alfalfa fields to his right. Cumulus clouds started forming high above, an imminent afternoon shower like the one yesterday.

Matt and Caesar waited for him at the park. Anthony showed them his scars and bruises. They complimented his home-made weapon. 

(Continued)

“Were you scared?” Matt studied him.

“Shit, yes. That dog wanted to kill me.”

“Pitbull?” 

“Yeah, big ass brown one, like Adrian’s, but bigger.”

“Did you see any right now?” Cesar sucked the last of his soda through a red straw, ice crackled at the bottom of his foam cup. 

“No. Getzler’s sons killed 4 last week in that same area. Judy’s brother was with them.”

“Juan’s a good shot. He’s going to the Marines.” Cesar nodded in admiration. 

The boys left the park. They rode south on the narrow shoulders of Chisholm Boulevard, a four-lane highway that runs parallel to the Rio Grande, connecting the westside of El Paso to Old Mesilla and Las Cruces, New Mexico. They rode past large plots of undeveloped private land, home owned gas stations with faded window ads for cheap cigarettes, auto salvage lots with tall sheet metal walls, small Mexican cafes, Viramontes Ranch Supply and Feed warehouse, mobile home parks, and small Mexican tire shops painted in bright colors with funny names like “El Llantero Chido”, the “Bad Ass Tireman”.

They reached Angel's Comic Book Shop in northwest El Paso by midafternoon, the air conditioning soothed their skin and the place smelled of new carpet.  They bought copies of the 300th anniversary issue of the Amazing Spider Man with the hologram cover and waited out the brief rain shower. Anthony left his crude weapon outside with the bicycles. They rode back north in the cool afternoon under brisk moving cumulus clouds.  Riding with comic books in one hand and a stick with nails in the other became untenable. Anthony tossed the stick into a weed patch. They stopped at Fernie’s firework stand hoping to get free blackcat firecrackers. The teenage girls said he was out delivering fireworks to vendors in Socorro and San Elizario and wouldn't be back till later in the evening. The boys bought nothing and rode down Nimitz past the park, escorting Anthony back to his grandparents’ home. They stopped at the T-intersection of Nimitz and Vinton where Wayne and Patrcia Getzler shot down the animal that attacked Anthony. They dismounted. He walked through the events as best as he could remember. The distance between the sand mound where he lost control and the levee berm where he landed was much shorter than he remembered. 

“We should see if there’s anymore.” Matt looked towards the brush.

“That’s a terrible idea.” Cesar shot back. Anthony's heart beat faster, aroused. His face changed and the taste of iron came back to his mouth.

“Not right now, tomorrow, with guns.” Matt was determined.

“I can’t tomorrow.” Cesar excused himself. “My mom wants to go to Juarez.” 

Matt looked at Anthony. “Your grandpa has guns. I know he does.”

Anthony remembered the feral cats and the one that wouldn’t die. “I can ask.”

“Ok, ask. I’ll bring my .22 and ammo.”

“What do we do if we kill one?”

“Nothing. Fucking leave’em. Fuck ’em.”

“What time?” Anthony was swayed.

“Close to sunset, don’t you think? Or early morning?”

“Morning. I don’t want to be riding around in the dark.”

“Ok, let's meet here, sunrise.” 

————————

Anthony listened to his grandfather’s bootsteps and clanks of ceramic coffee cups coming from the kitchen. The seeping yellow light under the door vanished when the back door opened, closed, and the wood framed screen door slapped twice. He waited a few minutes and heard the moaning of the shower's ball valves opening inside the walls.  He waited for the restroom door to close before he slid off and put on his dirty sneakers. He’d slept in yesterday’s clothes. He made his bed before he left his room, walking along the wall of the hallway to avoid the creaks of the 90-year-old floorboards that announced the pacing of ghosts and angry fathers. The door to the living room’s coat closet squealed quietly. He pushed away the heavy woolen and leather coats to reach his grandfather’s gun case that kept two shotguns, two rifles, the .22 Winchester his grandfather took from him, and a Smith & Wesson .40 revolver on the ammo shelf above the armory. In the corner of the closet was a sword in a weathered leather scabbard, his grandfather’s souvenir from the war he’d heard stories and watched movies about, the good war, Americans versus Japs and Hitler, an atomic bomb and John Wayne. 

He rode down Sage with the .22 slung across his back, a pocket full of ammo, and the Japanese sword spanning the width of his bike’s handlebars. The cold desert air filled his lungs with the scent of the morning’s dew-soaked mesquite. He made a left on Hickory then a left on Vinton then spotted Matt and Cesar sitting on their bicycles at the “T” intersection of Vinton and Nimitz.

“That’s your grandpa’s sword, huh?” Matt was impressed.

Anthony grinned and handed the weapon to Matt for inspection. Anthony looked over at Cesar, “I’m glad you’re here.” Cesar nodded. 

Matt pulled the sword out of its scabbard and ran his fingers across the etched symbols. “My grandpa had a Luger and a bunch of other Nazi stuff. He had this long dagger that said, ‘Alles fur Deutschland’.”

“What does that mean?” 

“Everything for Germany”

“How do you know that?”

“My mom told me.”

“Where’s it at?”

“My mom’s boyfriend pawned it.”

“All of it?”

“Yeah. Fucking idiot.”

Each carrying a rifle, they patrolled the 30-acre desert habitat adjacent to the Rio Grande where Juan and the Getzler boys killed four dogs and salvaged a milkcrate of their mutts. They stayed on two track dirt roads of hard washboarded earth packed over years of farmers cutting through to access the river, shameless contractors dumping their refuse, or bored locals looking for privacy to drink, fuck, shoot cans, shoot bottles, and light camp fires where they stayed all night until the beer ran out or it was too cold to watch the last of the orange embers consume the scrap lumber littering the area. The boy’s forearms and teeth rattled as they sped over ripples of dirt and rock. Doves fluttered out of the brush; a jackrabbit scampered across the road. The sun climbed higher, drying out the mesquite and desert sage, releasing a perfume imprinted in the senses of all who’ve lived here. They came across an abandoned camp area with a blackened fire ring, a mosaic of broken beer bottles, decomposing fast food containers, empty beer cans strewn about, and a dirty mattress under the shade of a desert willow, no sign of dogs. 

They followed a separate path into the overgrown mesquite woods to another camp area. Here they found similar trash decor and the skulls of deer and their rib cages cleaned of all their flesh glowing white in the morning shade, and the corpses of enormous carp with their brittle decomposed scales exposing long bony spines. Under an uprooted cottonwood they found an abandoned dugout furnished with an old sleeping bag, dirty blankets, three worn paperback novels and a slender stack of porno mags. “I bet those are Mexican pornos,” Matt grinned as Cesar shook one out.

“How do you know?”

“Check out all that bush. I can see it from up here.” Matt stood a good distance away. Their only exposure to adult flesh had been artfully curated photos of naked women in the Playboy’s Matt stole from his mother’s lover. Anthony remembered the supple white breasts and smooth thighs of blond women laying on couches or sunbathing by a pool. He wondered how Matt’s sister looked without clothes. 

Cesar flipped through the pages, giggling, “fuck yes, these are awesome. Full penetration. Full bush. They’re old as shit, probably from the 70’s. They’re in Spanish.”

Each boy took a magazine.  They were amazed at the treasure they’d found, making mental notes of where to locate this precious bounty of water damaged and faded images of large breasted women wearing only lipstick, contorted in various positions, their hairy crotch penetrated by the girth of hairy overweight men resembling average middle aged hombres from Juarez or El Paso. Anthony thought of angry men scowling behind gas station counters or wearing orange vests and hard hats, wielding heavy machinery on the shoulders of roadways while the sun singed their forearms and softened their boots. Anthony felt they were being watched. Matt and Cesar agreed. The magazines were carefully placed in the dugout to appear undisturbed, and they rode out of the woods and onto the levy, riding slowly, scanning the desert area below.  

By midmorning the boys had grown bored of hunting wild dogs. They abandoned the dirt roads and gravel paths for the paved Farm-to-Market roads leading west towards La Union, New Mexico, a small village near the base of the mud cliffs before the land rises above the mesa spreading onto the desert and mountains of southern New Mexico. They were bound for La Union Station, a century old adobe and stucco hacienda turned restaurant where Cesar’s eldest sister waited tables and the owners fed the boys, skimming Marisol’s tips. Sodas and iced tea in translucent red plastic cafe glasses were on the house, one refill was afforded, and they were allowed to eat in a side dining room or the garden courtyard but never the main restaurant. Anthony liked the cool earthen air trapped inside the adobe walls and gazing at the ancient pine trussed ceiling. He wished his future home looked like this.

They crossed into New Mexico where the pavement changed color and consistency from a crumbling gray asphalt to a freshly laid and rust tinted charcoal gray pavement with newly painted white and yellow lines, gravel shoulders, and sturdy concrete ditches framing the two-laned road that led to La Union.  The county road was flanked with pecan groves on the left and newly harvested onion and cabbage fields dotted by abandoned produce along the deep furrows of the plowed earth on their right. The sun extracted a stench from the produce familiar to their summers. The boys rode swiftly. Anthony slowed and stopped to adjust the grip of the sword on his handlebars. The other boys turned around and rode back to their friend.

A lone farmhouse surrounded by cottonwoods stood deep in the distance straddling both onion fields. Anthony switched grips uncomfortably then tucked his shirt and slid the sword inside the back of his shirt, securing it between the rifle and his back, pushing the end into his pants. Matt and Cesar gaze engaged with the farmhouse. 

“We better get going”, Matt spoke dryly.

Cesar’s eyes grew large and white. “What the fuck is that?”

Anthony looked to the farmhouse and saw two trails of dust heading in their direction like zippers opening the earth. The dogs advanced closer by the second and their deep angry barks could now be heard. The boys moved with purpose, swinging around their bikes, gripping handlebars, stomping pedals, kicking up gravel, grinding teeth, lungs sucking and pumping, muscles flexing, arteries pushing, veins pulling, and their vision fixed on the adobe parapet of La Union Station standing above the pecan groves still miles away. 

Anthony and Matt stayed in step, Cesar, the larger and more developed 12-year-old, powered three bike lengths ahead, then four, then five. Matt glanced over and saw the first dog leap across the concrete ditch and continue its stride without pausing. “Fucking Rottweilers, fucking Rottweilers.” Anthony looked behind and saw the snarl and slobber of the muscular animal now 15 yards behind. Further behind them the second dog leaped over the ditch, adjusted its gait and gained speed. Cesar made a sudden right turn onto a dirt road alongside a wide irrigation ditch. The dog closest to the boys broke chase, jumped back across the concrete ditch and cut the corner of the field toward Cesar. The second rottweiler closed the distance behind the other boys. Anthony veered right onto the dirt road after Cesar and into the cloud of dust with Matt close behind. The first dog bounded over the last furrows and shot across their path coming within feet of Cesar’s right heel before Cesar turned left into the thicket of cattails lining the ditch and dove into the water. Still peddling, Anthony reached his right hand behind his head, found the sword, drew and held it outstretched to his right, his wrist adjusted the way he’d practiced with the stick, preparing to hack the neck of the dog who now stood broadside, facing the ditch where Cesar had just escaped. The rottweiler turned its head. Anthony and the dog locked eyes and he realized he could not swing the sword across his body without cutting himself, the sword should've been in his left hand, he should’ve sharpened the sword, he should’ve practiced swinging the sword, the sword weighed more than the stick with nails, his rifle now swung to his left like a messenger bag, it’s butt banging against his left hand, it’s weight affecting his balance, the rifle strap burning into his shoulder, the dog was larger than he’d anticipated, and now it was in front of him. 

The bike knocked over the dog and the collision sent Anthony rolling into the dust. With dirt in his mouth, he patted the ground around him for the sword and attempted to get up but landed back on his face. His left forearm was now perpendicular and of no use. He used his right arm to sit up and sling the rifle over his head. He held the rifle like a pistol, its weight straining the ligaments and tendons of his wrist. He pulled on the trigger. The safety was still engaged. The beast now stood over his feet. 

Anthony attempted thumbing the metal button on the side of the handle to disengage the safety, but the rifle was too heavy for his trembling hand and it dropped between his legs. He laid on his back, covered his face with his forearm and grit his teeth in anticipation of the pain. He felt its weight hovering inches above. Its musty odor filled his nose, and he felt its wet nose sniff his hands. Its tongue licked his hands and then his forehead. It drooled on his face and licked his cheek. Anthony’s shoulders relaxed. His lungs deepend and he started crying. The rottweiler hurriedly licked Anthony’s tears and he started laughing. He reached his right hand to its head and caressed the dog's left cheek. He laughed and breathed and continued laughing while the dog licked his ear and his neck. Then the dog's shoulders buckled with the loud crack of a rifle. 

The rottweiler composed itself, huffed and staggered off Anthony. Another shot rang out, snapping the air between Anthony and the wounded animal. He sat up and saw Matt kneeling on one knee, shouldering his rifle and aiming for another shot. 

“Don’t shoot!” He yelled at Matt. Anthony’s left forearm was pulsating. Matt shot again and missed again. 

“Stop shooting, you stupid motherfucker! Stop shooting!!”

Matt ran up to Anthony with wet and swollen red eyes, his hands trembling. “I thought he was biting you”.

Anthony shook his head and looked towards the swaying and panting dog. It sat for a moment, laid down on his belly and rolled over onto its side, its rib cage and abdomen rising and falling. The other dog trotted over, cowering and glancing at the boys as it approached its wounded friend. 

Anthony kept his gaze on the dying animal. He’d seen this before.  “You’re gonna have to shoot him again.”

“It’s gonna die.”

“Shoot him again. You can’t leave him like this.”

“Ok.” Matt wiped his eyes and took aim.

“No, go up there and shoot him in the head.”

“Ok.” Matt walked up to the dog. The other dog moved away, trotting into the scraped onion field. Matt stood over the dog, took aim and fired. The wounded rottweiler groaned and whimpered. 

“It won’t die.” 

“Shoot him again.”

“I can’t.”

Anthony pushed off the ground and stood up. Cradling his left forearm with his right forearm he searched the immediate area for the sword and found it at the edge of the vegetation by the ditch. He handed the sword to Matt, “Dig this straight down, all the way down,” pointing at an area under the animal’s armpit. “You’ll stop his heart.”  

Matt gave the sword back and kneeled by the dog. “I can’t”.

Cesar, soaking wet, walked up to the boys, took the sword and drove it into the spot Anthony marked with his finger. Anthony kneeled on both knees, cradled his throbbing arm and laid his cheek on the dog's cheek, listening for its breath to cease.

Rick's Place

“I’m going down the street to get a fizzy-drink.”

— Anonymous

I saw my neighbor walk out to the curb and shoot dead the fancy jogger whose dog pissed on his mailbox. My neighbor walked back to his house while the jogger’s body quivered and jerked, the expensive phone watch on his wrist was playing the theme from the 1980’s show “Nightrider”. It was a beautiful morning. A cool breeze had broken the summer’s heat and Halloween was a few short weeks away. The jogger’s German Shepherd was sniffing a bush two houses down. 

I gave the police all the pertinent information. The victim’s family came by in their European cars and held each other tight. He was a local real estate man who lived far up the hill where the oak trees are healthy and the blacktop is new. He ran down our street frequently. 

That evening an ambulance with flashing lights and no sirens rushed down the street followed by two police cars and a fire engine. The following morning I walked to the gas station at the end of my street to pick up a can of long-cut wintergreen and tell Rick a dirty joke I heard at work. Down the street, closer to the gas station, the cars of the old Asian woman’s adult children were parked by the curb of her house. The fat one from Houston was on the porch, smoking. We waved to each other. He was a nice fellow, read comics and worked for NASA, facilities. I can’t remember his name. He knew mine. 

The gas station door chimed when I entered.

“Rick! What’s up buddy?!”

“Luis!”

“I got one for you!”

“Alright! Lemme put these up real quick.

Rick stuffed a handful of Kool’s into their slot, right next to the Camel Crush, whispering some numbers and gibberish to himself. 

“Ok”, he turned around and leaned over the counter. 

“An old couple, super religious, travels to a Baptist convention in some shitty town in the south. They rolled in late so all the hotels and motels were sold out, no vacancy except for an old motel at the end of the main drag. In neon red, under the motel marquee, the sign read ‘Free Unlimited Porn’.”

“Oh no!” responded Rick with a smile, winding up for the punchline.

“Yeah, so the couple turns around and tries all the other places again. No luck.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah, so they go back to the porn motel and park with the engine running. The old man says to the old lady, ‘mother, let's pray about this’. After a while they walk into the front office and ask for the room. ‘It’s the last one in town,’ says the front desk manager. ‘We’ll take it’, says the old man. Then the old lady says ‘Can I make a small request? Can you please make the porn disabled?’ The clerk gets pissed and says, ‘you sick motherfuckers! Get out!!’”

Rick slaps his hands and screams out laughing. 

I walked home. There were more Asians on the porch. They looked sad. I checked my phone when I walked in the house, my ex-wife left a long message. I didn’t bother listening and skimmed the transcript written by the phone. It was nothing important. She’d heard about the neighbor’s incident with the jogger. The rest was inaccurate dictation about buying insurance and some woman named Betty. I text her back.

“U good?”

“Yup, u k? I read bout ur neighbor.”

I text her an abbreviated version of the account. She wanted details, so I called her back, too much to text. We had a good laugh. True crime was in vogue and she missed the show. 

———————

The next morning I waited in line to pay for my glazed donut sticks and a 16 oz coffee. Rick took cash from the customer at the counter, handed him his cigarettes and put the rest on pump 6. He saw me walk in and with one look I knew he had a joke for me. By the smirk on his face, I knew it was a dirty one. We’d have to wait for the tiny store to empty. The next customer was another regular, nice lady, dressed like a teacher, probably a teacher, another order of gas and cigarettes. The door beeped and the short little Mexican who’d asked me to sponsor him a few years back walked in and avoided eye contact. It’s a weekly thing with this guy. Today he said ‘good morning’, then scuttled behind the chip aisle and pretended to look at the sodas through the glass refrigerator door.

“Luis!”

“I know you got one!”

Rick leans over, “A farmer hears a knock and opens his front door. This hippie is standing there with a pail in hand and says, ‘Sir, I noticed you have some honeysuckle growing on your fence by the highway. Do you mind if I get some honey from them?’ The farmer laughs and says, ‘knock yourself out’. A while later he hears a knock and it’s the hippie, holding up a pail full of honey, says to the farmer, ‘got all I need, sir. Thank you!’ The farmer was confused.

“A few weeks go by and the farmer hears a knock on his door, it’s the hippie again. The hippie says, ‘sir, I see you have milkweed growing by your barn..’ The farmer cuts him off, ‘ lemme guess, you’re gonna git’ milk from that milkweed?’ ‘Yessir, you mind,’ asks the hippie. ‘Be my guest,’ says the farmer. A while later the hippie knocks on the door and shows the farmer the pail of fresh milk. ‘Thank you, sir’ says the hippie. The farmer was really confused. 

A few months go by and the farmer sees the hippie’s pickup truck coming down his drive. The hippie pulls up, says, ‘sir I see you got some pussy willow…’ The farmer cuts him off, ‘lemme get my hat, I’m coming with you!”

——————

Rick’s car was still at the store later that day. It was 5 p.m., he’s usually gone by 2. His car hadn’t moved when I passed by at 7. I pulled in at 9:30 p.m. to get a cheap fizzy drink from the multi-flavored dispenser, Gerry’s PT Cruiser was now in Rick’s spot. Gerry called everyone ‘sir’, even those younger than him.

___________

Mario came home from work around 6 a.m. the next morning. He rode his electric powered bicycle 3 miles downhill from the warehouse district on the other side of IH 35. It was 50 degrees outside, he said it felt more like 30. 

“My hands are fucking cold”

“Want some coffee,” I pointed at the French press I’d set to steep.

“I”m good, I”m gonna head to the 7-11 and get a taco and a decaf.”

“Dude I’ll make you some eggs.”

“Nah, I’ve been thinking about those tacos since 4.”

“Alright, let's go. I gotta get something to eat too. They make good tacos. That big white lady loads them up.”

We drove the 3 blocks to the 7-11. My car has heated seats and a heater that still works. I cranked the settings for a few seconds then tapered down to a comfortable 72. At the stoplight I looked to my right to see if Rick was there. Gloria’s dirty white Ford Focus was in his spot. I liked Gloria, she wore dark aviators all day long and called everyone “Babe”.

Mario told me about the temps at his warehouse making his job miserable. This time it was a skinny white stoner and two overweight black women who showed up wearing long press-on fingernails and sneakers. One of them didn’t want to crease her Air Jordan sneakers. Evidently they were classics and rare but suitable for overnight warehouse work. The other one talked too much and too loud, reminded him of the mean overweight black women in Atlanta. I changed the subject.

I got up late on Monday morning and had no time to stop at Rick’s. His primer gray pickup truck was parked by the sidewalk where he kept a clear view, a restored 1970’s Ford F-150 that many had offered large cash sums to buy and one attempted to steal it when it was parked in the side employee parking spaces. The bum broke the driver’s side window but couldn’t get past the shotgun 3 feet from his face when he sat up after hot wiring the engine. 

Rick was an older gentleman about the same age as my dad, with a slender build and a thinning salt and pepper pompadour. His long face, dark brown skin, high cheekbones, and large eyes gave him Indian features, doctor not casino. His thick manicured mustache almost completed the stereotype, but his accent was all Texas with a hint of south side San Antonio. 

The week flew by and work required me to arrive by 6:30. Some mornings closer to 7 but the students didn’t mind.

(Continued)

That week I’d glance to Rick’s place as I was leaving and see his pickup out front or his wife’s sedan on the side employee spot. The store’s exterior lights were off and I could see him through the glass doors stocking tobacco on the wall behind the counter. Turning onto my street Friday evening I saw his pickup parked out front.

“Rick! Dude, what are you still doing here?”

“Luis! You just getting home from work?”

“Yeah, but what are you still doing here?”

He rolled his eyes, pursed his lips and motioned towards the back.  From the backroom I could hear cardboard boxes being cut and broken down. 

“I’m training a new employee.”

“That’s great! You found someone.”

He leaned over and spoke in a lower voice. “She can only be here evenings during the week when Gerry’s not here. No weekends.”

“Why not? And what’s up with Gerry? He’s always here in the evenings. That dude is solid.”

“He’s getting old, Luis.” Something I was aware of but ignored because of his Clint Eastwood-John Wayne demeanor. He was a man of few words. I’d seen him stare down and quiet irate customers. He took no gruff. “He’s got a walker back here. It’s getting harder for him to move around.”

“Is she hot?” I gestured to the stock room.

Rick snickered but didn’t hint either way. He was too professional, a trait I always admired. “She’s a nursing student and has a kid, so she needs the weekends off to be with her son. Right now I’ll take all the help I can get.”

“I told you I could hold down the place while you take a quick nap.”

“I know you would.”

“You got a piece of paper?”

“Let me see.” Rick looked around the counter and handed me receipt paper from the register. 

“... and a pen?” Rick found one in his shirt pocket and handed it to me. 

“Rick, I’m gonna give you my cell number and street address. I live right down this street, here on Passchendaele, 519, the yellow house with two big windows facing the street. They’re huge, storefront size. I know you don’t live close. If you need a place to crash because you’re here all night and need to be back early, I’ve got a couch for you.” He pulls out his cell and punches in the numbers, both of us realizing we could’ve skipped the paper play. He sends me a text with his name. 

“This is Rick”

———————

The Dodgers were up 7 - 2 at the top of the 3rd when I walked in the house. Mario was watching the game from the kitchen table. 

“Kershaw’s killing it tonight.” 

“Dude, I just saw Rick.”

“At the store?”

“Yeah”

“He’s been there all day?”

“Yeah”

“Overtime?”

“He’s training some new chick. Turns out they haven't hired anyone since the black dude quit 3 weeks ago.”

“That guy wasn’t gonna last.” 

We watched the rest of the game with our signature commentary, creating fictional stories about the players, calling balls and strikes, critiquing pitches, lauding tip fouls on full counts that stretched an inning past my bladder’s limit, turning the game into a battle of endurance for the men and the spectators, ultimately ending in walk after 17 pitches.

The THC edible I ate kicked in at the bottom of the 6th, just as Mario finished his 3rd beer.  With the Dodgers locked in 11-2 at the top of the 9th, we went out back and lit a fire in the rockpit I’d built earlier that summer.  My phone buzzed notifying me of a missed call from Rick. 

“Luis! Your offer still good?”

“Always, my friend.”

“I'll be there in a bit. 519?”

“Yep, we’re out back, just come in through the side gate. We’ve got a fire going. You can probably see it from the street.”

Rick came through, squeaking the gate hinges. He brought sea-salt and vinegar potato chips, Japanese peanuts, and cherry flavored diet sodas, all snacks he knew we liked. Mario offered him a beer but he declined. We stood around the fire and quizzed him about the store drama for a bit then ushered him to the living room couch where he quickly fell asleep. He was gone when I woke, folded the linens and blankets I set out, and left a $20 bill on the kitchen table. I stuck it on the side of the refrigerator under a magnet that pinned fast food coupons and an old picture of my son. It was Saturday and I had college football to watch.

The city came by on Monday to power wash the remaining maroon and black stains left by the neighbor’s tantrum over a week ago. We live in a working class neighborhood built in the 1950’s. Single story ranch-style homes with colored brick facades and carports on the side.  It’s a neighborhood where every other house has 4 to 5 cars parked out front. Each block has two homes assigned to mow their lawn once a year. Those who mow their lawn weekly, mostly weeds with patches of actual grass, are not required to trim the edges. Only a few “try-hards” and the carpetbaggers trying to flip a house with cheap upgrades and neutral tone paint jobs go the extra mile to fully manicure the exterior. Most of the oak and pecan trees are overgrown, a few are rotting, dried up and leaning over to die. 

The residents, mostly working class black, Hispanic, Asian, and old white people, proudly wave cheap flags made in China outside their homes on the 4th of July. Christmas lights from mid-November to early February makeup for the lack of street lighting. There are no sidewalks, just curbs and mottled crumbling asphalt with little or no drainage. Heavy rains raise sewage onto the streets at the bottom of the slope closest to the railroad tracks. The Asian woman’s house at the end of the street gets it the worst. A pond of filthy street water, a foot deep, 10 feet at its widest, and 25 feet at its longest, sits at the end of her driveway up to 3 days after the rains pass. The jogger’s stains were camouflaged by the multiple asphalt tar patches and weeds sprouting through the cracks. Someone must’ve complained. 

I walked into Rick’s after the morning rush. No one else was in the shop. He walked around the counter and gave me a hug, a modified high five with a grip and a shoulder bump. 

“I got one for you,” he said.

“Ok, lemme get a coffee and some snuff.”

“Grizzly?”

“Wintergreen”

“Pouches?”

“Yep”

“Ok, so this guy and his wife got into a big accident. The guy is ok but the wife ends up in a coma. The husband starts coming by to sit by her side every day for weeks. He ends up losing his job and eventually his house because he’s always there.

“One of the older doctors, tired of seeing him suffer, pulls him aside and says, ‘There’s an old therapy that has been proven to work in cases like yours. It’s not an endorsed medical practice so I can’t even mention it, but I wanna help you. This is something that you can do on your own’. The husband was desperate, ‘Doc, I promise I won’t say anything.’ The doctor looks around and whispers, ‘You’ll have to give her oral sex.’ 

“The husband looked confused, ‘Are you sure this will work?’ The doctor nodded and sent him into the room. A while later the husband comes out and says, ‘Doc, I’m not sure this is gonna work. She keeps choking.”

THE END

Julio

Julio got a text message requesting his availability for a shift at the Fed-Ex warehouse at 7:30 a.m. He loved this new day-labor app. He could request, accept, or decline warehouse shifts anywhere in the city or surrounding area. The process eventually devolved into a labor auction if no one picks up the shift, pay goes up as employers become impatient and desperate to have anyone load their boxes, sweep their floors, stock their shelves, or any manual labor that decades earlier paid a decent salary with benefits. The price for today’s Fed-Ex shift was $90 for six hours. He waited 20 minutes until it hit $135 and pressed accept before anyone else took the shift. He knew it wouldn’t go any higher, the big companies also played the game. 

It was mid January in Central Texas. The world was gearing up for the coldest part of the year, freezing pipes, salted roads, shitty drivers, and bad weather days relieving commuters and school districts from another day of mandated chaos, illiteracy, mediocrity, and monotony. The weather was overcast in the high 30’s, 20’s by the weekend. Julio put on his gloves, pulled on his bright orange beanie, shoved his housemate's pansy-ass little dog out the back door, made sure the dog had water and unplugged his electric scooter. He's a dog, he’ll be alright. 

Julio made his way through neighborhoods of shotgun pier and beam 1940’s tract homes under canopies of leafless pecan and oak branches swaying and drumming on each other. He passed the high school where his housemate's son attended, reached Rick Perry Blvd and scooted his way uphill in the cold for $135. 

_________________

At the red light exiting the grocery store parking lot, Gilbert kept his eye on traffic coming downhill from his left. He had a lot on his mind. His car was cold. His hands were cold. His gas station coffee stunk the cab. He accelerated and hit a man coming uphill from his right. The man rolled over the hood and landed on the driver's side of the car. The weight of his car crushed the electric scooter. Gilbert put the car in park. “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck”, he told his steering wheel. There were no cars behind him. The man was still on the ground. Gilbert got out of his car while Julio got to his knees and stood up. Traffic coming downhill slowed down as they passed. A gray haired woman driving a red SUV slowed, with an open mouth shook her head in disapproval, bearded bubbas in dark tinted pick-up trucks carried on. 

“Holy shit, man. Are you alright?” Gilbert’s day was fucked. His vehicle tags were expired, he had no car insurance, and now this.

“Yeah, I think so” Julio’s left wrist and right ankle throbbed, then his lower back and his left hip nagged and ached.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Julio looked around. “Can you take me to work?”

“Huh?”

“It’s right up the street. The Fed Ex warehouse. You know where it’s at?”

Gilbert was confused. “Sure.”

“Can you back up? I gotta get my scooter from under your car?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” On his knees, Julio reached under the car and tried to pull out the bent scooter. Gilbert watched. “You want me to back up the car?”

“If you don’t mind”, Julio grunted from under the car then stood back while Gilbert accidentally engaged the car forward, a crunch followed by a pop. Gilbert quickly shifted the car into reverse, another crunch, then pieces of plastic blew out towards the street.

“I’m so sorry man.”

Julio shook his head, the absurdity sucked a deep breath into his lungs and he limped over, picked up the scooter, and forcefully collapsed the stand onto the footboard. “Mind if I put it in the back seat?”

“Sure.” Gilbert opened the back door.

Julio threw the scooter onto the back seat and hobbled over to the passenger's side. A car pulled up behind them and honked. Julio winced, the pain doubling as he sat

“It’s back that way?” Gilbert pointing to his left, confirming with Julio. 

“Yeah, but you’ll have to turn around somewhere down there.” Julio pointed to the right. “Fuck it, just take me home.”

“Home?”

“Yeah, man. Just keep going down all the way to where the high school’s at and make a right turn. I’ll guide you from there.” 

“Are you gonna call the cops?”

“Why? What are they gonna do?” 

Gilbert drove cautiously, scanning the road, using all his signals. He continued shaking and apologizing. “I can take you to the hospital.” 

“Nah, I don’t have insurance,” Two miles down the boulevard an ambulance raced by them with lights and sirens. Gilbert glanced over at Julio. “Keep driving.”

They pulled up to Julio’s home. Gilbert helped him with the scooter.

“You want some coffee, water?”

“Coffee? Water?” Gilbert looked confused.

“Yeah man, you look shook up.”

“Ok. Coffee sounds good.”

They walked into the warm house where the heater was humming and the smell of coffee and toast mixed with the scent of burnt dust pushing from the air ducts. Julio limped to the sliding glass door by the kitchen to let in the dog, a cold gust blew on his face and ears. The dog ran up to the stranger, barked, sniffed his pant legs, then squeezed his fat hairy body under the couch. 

“He’s a pussy, he won’t bite. Sit down, man”

“There’s no more coffee, sorry.” Julio picked up the empty French Press, showing it to his guest. “Want some water?”

“Sure.”

Julio opened the fridge. There were four beers next to the pitcher of filtered water. “Want a beer instead? Might soothe your nerves.”

 “Aren’t you going to work?” Asked Gilbert

“Looks like I’m taking the day off. What about you?” The can hissed. Julio took a sip.

“Fuck it, gimme a beer.”

“Atta boy!”

Gilbert took the cold can from his limping host and downed a heavy slug. Then tipped it back again and took another hearty gulp.

“It’s an IPA, strong and bitter.”

(Continued)

Julio stood over him, sipping his beer. “You were thirsty. You gonna be ok?”

“Yeah, what about you? I hit you with my car.”

“Dude, I know. This shit’s gonna hurt for days.” Julio turned and hobbled down the hall. “I’m gonna get some ibuprofen. My name’s Julio.”

“I’m Gilbert.”

“I know, you told me already.” Julio’s voice carried down the hall. 

“Sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“I’m sorry, man.” The heater shut-off for a few minutes. “Is Wholeo short for anything?” Gilbert asked in his texan accent. The wall-sized flat screen television across the room stared back at Gilbert. He could see his thin scraggly unwashed body in its reflection. He needed to shave. He realized he was wearing the same pearl-snap western shirt from yesterday. His sweaty feet were cold inside his square toed cowboy boots.

“Yeah, it’s short for ‘you owe me a fucking scooter’.”

“I’m sorry man. How much do I owe you?”

Julio limped back to the living room. “I’m fucking with you, don’t worry about it. Want another beer?” The guest belched.

“Yeah. Thanks, man.”

Julio finished his beer on his way to the kitchen and took the last two from the fridge. “Where were you going, anyways?”

“I was going to an AA meeting.” Gilbert popped the top of his 2nd beer.

“Oh shit, man.”

“It’s fine.”

“Well, too late now.” Julio chuckled.  “You should still go. I’m sure you’re not the only one who’s gone in there drunk.” Julio eased himself into his housemate’s recliner, pushed back to engage the foot rest, turned on the television, and scrolled through the streaming options. “You’re not going to cry are you? “

“I’ll be alright. How much was the scooter?”

“Five-hundred something. Don’t worry about it.”

Gilbert took out his billfold, pulled out the cash he withdrew earlier to pay his dad for the car he used to hit Julio, a 2002 Toyota Corolla with 195,800 miles, stained cloth seats, bald tires, and a cracked windshield. He hadn’t paid his dad for almost a year since they bought it for him.

“Can I use your bathroom?” 

Julio pointed to the hall. “First door on your right.”

Gilbert brought down the seat and sat to empty his bladder. He pulled out the cash and counted the money again. He knew he had to give this guy something, but $200 wouldn't be enough to cover the scooter and his injuries. He needed gas. I should buy him some more beer, he thought. He washed his hands, walked back out to the living room, and handed Julio $160. “That’s all I got man, sorry. I can bring you more later.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sit down and watch something while the beer wears off.”

“I was thinking of grabbing some more beer to replace the ones I drank and to thank you for helping me out.” Gilbert realized his words were confusing and meant nothing, but he was sure the gesture of buying his victim beer would strengthen the sentiment, proof that he was a man of his word.

“Seriously? Ok, I'll be here, watching Gilmore Girls.”

Gilbert drove to the gas station at the end of the street and returned with a six-pack of the finest IPA stocked in the tiny store. Julio was asleep in the recliner when he returned. Gilbert went to the kitchen and put the six-pack in the fridge. He stared at the six-pack of bottles and decided to take two, after all, Julio originally had four. This would even out the situation. Then he thought about offering one of the two beers in his hands to Julio.

“Hey man, I brought the beer. It’s in the fridge.”

Julio looked up at him, half asleep. “I’m good, man. Sit down and watch TV.”

“I think I’m gonna take off”.

“Ok”

Gilbert drank one of the IPA’s on the porch and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin on the side of the house. He popped open the second beer and started his car. The cab was depressing, he could smell his own breath. The heater kicked on and barely pushed. He drove to the end of the street, made a right turn onto the main boulevard and disappeared uphill into the mid morning overcast.

____________

Across the 4-lane boulevard from the Gas-n-Go, a modern chain of gas stations equipped with 50 pumps of regular, mid-grade, and premium freedom, a man riding an electric scooter was hit by a car exiting the shopping center. From the center island where two overweight and underpaid employees addressed dozens of needy and impatient customers clamoring to feed their ugly bodies with caffeine, nicotine, fat, sugar, salt, and alcohol, a skinny teenager stocking cans of snuff saw the man across the boulevard roll over the hood of the car. He’s seen similar incidents before at that intersection. He went back to daydreaming and working.

“Holy shit. Someone just got hit by a car,” a customer hollered. Half the store turned to look out the enormous glass windows facing the street. The man on the ground stood up and exchanged words with the driver. The injured man then attempted to pull out something from under the car, then stepped back as the driver drove over a scooter, then reversed and drove over it again. The injured man folded his mangled scooter and tossed it into the back seat of the car and jumped into the passenger seat. The car made a right turn and drove down Rick Perry. Two customers were on the phone with 911 dispatch.

“I think they know each other,” a customer commented.

“Did anyone get the license plate?”