Return to THE CITY OF ROCKS

I’d like to return to The City of Rocks for this week’s post. In the scene that follows, which takes place in Chapter 1, BJ Vinson, our intrepid PI, heads  to The University of New Mexico Medical Center to find a man named Richard Martinson – nicknamed Liver Lips. The man is being treated for scratches on his arm which have become infected.  BJ is tasked to question the man about the “kidnapping” of a valuable duck taken from a ranch down in the Boot Heel Country of southern New Mexico. Our PI is half-irritated and half-amused at being drawn into something he has trouble taking seriously.

#####

I do not like walking into a situation I don’t understand, and I damned well didn’t understand this one. But I had no trouble locating Martinson in the waiting room at the hospital. Liver Lips. The young man's nickname described him perfectly. His thick, purple-hued, oral projections drew my eye like a magnet. It was only later I noticed he was skinny, seedy, and carried a generally disreputable air. Gray eyes darted here and there as if he were constantly searching for a bolt hole. The man’s scalp glistened through thin strands of frizzy blond hair. Whether talking or listening or simply idle, his dark tongue periodically snaked out to wash those heavy lips. Seldom had I been so thoroughly repulsed by another’s physical appearance.

He looked at me blankly after I handed over my card and introduced myself. “Who’d you say you are?”

I tapped the card he held in his hand. “I’m B. J. Vinson.”

“A private eye, huh. What you want with me?”

“I need to ask you a few questions.” I nodded at the bandages covering his forearms. “What happened?”

“Had a fight with a thorn bush. Frigging bush won.” He went for humor, glancing up through thin, colorless lashes to see if it had worked.

I pointed to the red veins snaking up out of the white bandages just short of his elbows. “Thorn bushes didn’t give you that infection. That’s blood poisoning. How’d you get it?”

“Tangled with the wrong bush, I guess. Then didn’t get it treated. Turned bad on me, I guess.”

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride down to my office where we can talk in private.”

“Ain’t got time. Gotta get outa here. I been here six frigging hours.”

“Okay, I’ll call Lt. Eugene Enriquez down at APD, and we’ll have this talk in his office.”

He blinked rapidly three times. “No cops, man. Don’t need no cops. I ain’t done nothing, so leave me alone.”

“What are you doing up here? You live down in Deming, don’t you?” I drew on the thin biography Del had provided.

“Ain’t no law against a man visiting the city. I guess that’s why they do all that advertising on TV for. You know, to get me to come up here and spend my money.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“About what?” He seemed genuinely perplexed by my question.

“About stealing a valuable…bird.” If I’d said “duck” I’d have burst out laughing.

“Don’t guess I know what you’re talking about.”

“You do a lot of guessing, Richard. But I don’t think the Sheriff of Luna County would have sicced me on you if he was just guessing.”

“Hidalgo,” he blurted.

“What?”

“Sheriff of Hidalgo County.”

“Okay, now that you’ve admitted you know all about the theft, tell me about it.”

“Didn’t admit nothing.”

“You know where the abduction…uh, theft took place. Stop wasting my time. What did you want with a prize duck named….” I stopped, unable to call a bird by that ridiculous name.

“Quacky Quack, the Second,” he said. “That’s what old Mud Hen calls her. Ain’t that a hoot?”

“Mud Hen?”

“Millicent Muldren. Everbody calls her Mud Hen.”

“She’s the duck’s owner?”

“Yeah. She’s run the Lazy M Ranch since her old man died.”

“Why’d you steal her duck?”

“Who says I did?”

“About everybody in the countryside,” I improvised. “Police chief, sheriff, Ms. Muldren. There’s a warrant out for your arrest. Talk to me, and maybe I can do something about that.”

Old Liver Lips wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Those blood-suffused appendages quivered a couple of times before he squared his thin shoulders. “Ain’t nobody gonna arrest me for nothing, I guess. Who’d press charges on something like that?”

“Well, Mud Hen for one, and the insurance company for another.”

“Insurance company?”

“You didn’t know the owner had insured her property.”

“Shoot, I guess there ain’t no insurance company in the world that’d insure a frigging duck.”

I didn’t know much more than he did, but I couldn’t let up on him now. “Then you’d guess wrong. They’ll insure soap bubbles if you pay the premiums.”

Liver Lips wiggled in his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Uh…you said something about a warrant?”

#####

BJ starts taking the “ducknapping” seriously when people begin turning up dead.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Sometimes Things Turn Out All Right

How about a little short fiction again this week.

###

SOMETIMES THINGS TURN OUT ALL RIGHT

     I thought I’d die when she walked up to me. Guys aren’t supposed to admit things like that, but, man, that’s the way I felt. Part of it was surprise, and part of it was pure excitement.

     Graciela (I never called her Gracie like everyone else) and I had a history that stretched back to grade school. We’d started out yanking hair and kicking shins, but that switched to lipping off to one another as we got older. But I went virtually mute the first time I noticed she had breasts. One day she was built pretty much like me and the next, these knobby little things popped out on her chest. Kinda hard holding a casual conversation while sneaking glances at those awkward protrusions.

     The real transformation took place our freshman year in high school. Those knobs became balloons. Her rounded hips made my throat go dry. Imp-face became Pixie-face. Right about then, Graciela discovered boys. Not this boy. Not the schmuck next door, but guys older than me. Guys with shoulders and biceps and pecs and Adam’s apples.

     I used to hang around hoping she’d notice me. I’d head for school at the same time she did. I went to school dances … which I loathed … just to see her dressed up like a movie star. And in the privacy of my bedroom at night, I did my best to render myself blind while holding onto a mental image of her. And felt unclean afterward.

     My senior year I used some of my hard-earned savings and bought an old Ford, a jalopy like you saw in the Archie cartoons but without the rumble seat. Guys that hadn’t given me the time of day got to be buddies, but Graciela didn’t give me a second glance.

     One warm, pleasant Saturday afternoon about one-thirty, I breezed out of the house heading for my car in the driveway. As I reached for the door handle, Graciela materialized beside me. Surprised me. Scared the crap out of me, actually.

     “Johnny,” she cooed. Only person I knew who could speak and coo at the same time.

     “Uh … oh, hi. Didn’t see you there.”

     “I need a favor. Please.”

     She had the prettiest “pleases” of anyone in town. “What’s that?”

     “I need a ride to the mall.”

     Our only mall, The Eastside Mall, was – guess what – on the east side of town. I’d intended to head in the opposite direction to meet a couple of the guys at the municipal swimming pool. But screw the guys.

     As she settled in the front seat beside me, my mind’s eye saw us holding hands and exchanging glances as I drove down Henderson Drive. Me, a man in control of his powerful automobile, and she, the woman at my side. My starter ground, shattering the image. Nonetheless, I got the old jalopy started and backed out of the drive, almost clipping the mailman as I did so. Anxious for something to say in the face of near disaster, I cleared my throat as I followed her directions and parked as close to Dillard’s as possible.

     “I can hang around and bring you back home, if you want.”

     “That’s sweet. But I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said.

     “I don’t mind. I can just … you know, hang.”

     “I’m meeting someone.”

     “Who? Marcy?” She and Marcy were as different as night and day, but they were tight. “I wouldn’t mind having a pretty woman hanging off each arm.” Did I really say that out loud? My cheeks felt like they were on fire. They actually burned. I didn’t dare glance at her.

     “Not Marcy. Well, thanks loads.” She tossed the words at me as she flounced out of the car and slammed the door.

     By the time I got my voice-box to working she was walking down the sidewalk toward a dork named Freddy Fleisher. Last year’s fullback … this year’s freshman at the community college. All shoulders, biceps, thighs, and a real Adam’s apple. With hair on his legs, to boot.

     When they hugged, I felt like something tore loose inside me. He planted a kiss on her lips before opening the car door for her.

     I’d driven her to her date? Why didn’t he pick her up? My blood pressure dropped twenty points. I felt used. Like a taxi driver who got stiffed for the fare. I sat there like dog doo on the bottom of a shoe, my eyes watching the two-year-old Olds convertible fire up. Freddie revved the engine before throwing the transmission into Reverse.

     Movement caught my eye. A vehicle motoring down the lane was invisible to the couple in the Olds because of an SUV parked on their right. Mr. Flannery, the same postman I’d almost nailed, was headed to the mall’s substation. I could probably have honked a warning, but I didn’t.

     I expected a big crash when Freddie came roaring backwards out of the parking space but it was more of a thud and a crunch. Freddie must have been flustered – decidedly uncool – because he slammed the Olds in Drive and shot forward, smashing his front end into the Chevy parked on his left.

Graciela and Freddie piled out of the car, both talking a blue streak. What I got out of the rush of words was that Freddie was wrapped up in the wreck of his dad’s wheels, while she was bitching about being late for an appointment.

     I took a deep breath, eased my jalopy in gear and rolled past the scene of the accident. As Gracie tried frantically to wave me to a stop, I gave her a casual salute and went on by. A swim with a couple of buddies – boring though they might be – seemed like a good idea right about then.

#####

 That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Pursued by the Beast!

She is there ... among my earliest memories. Although I didn’t know exactly what she was. A friend? Ally? Fellow conspirator? All of those at one time or the other. I sought her companionship, but it was elusive. She was always there, dancing ahead of me … ephemeral … just out of reach. Tempting, taunting, giving, denying. Such a tease. She often withheld things I was impatient to have. But she usually delivered them in her own good time. She was extraordinarily important to me in my childhood and youth – perhaps even my early adulthood … leading the way to the future.

I’m not sure when she changed. Looking back on it, I think the conversion must have been gradual, subtle. She picked up her pace, forcing me to rush after her. Things seemed to speed up as the years tolled. I didn’t mind. Life was happening. “Real” life, not “Preparation” life, like waiting to be old enough to go to school, itching for classes to end, hungering for graduation, eager for the first career job. No, I mean the real life of going to work, seeking promotion, finding the right life-mate, building a family, and settling in for the long haul. Somehow, my childhood muse no longer seemed so immediate … and let’s be frank … so important. Maybe that was what changed her.

Now, I sense her once again drawing near. Yet, there is a difference. I perceive not the laughing, amiable countenance of yesteryear, but a threatening scowl and grasping fingers. Claws, really. She grows menacing. Instead of leading, she pursues me from behind. Uncomfortable. Frightening, even. Enough so that I pick up the pace to stay free of her clutches.

When did she become a beast, an ogre, a fearsome creature to inspire terror? I don’t know. Will I ever seek her embrace again? Same answer … I don’t know.

Perhaps you do. If so, please tell me.

You see, the beast’s name is Time.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday

Talk about Ghost Towns

Cliff Ruins and Bandelier
National Monument, NMex 

Last week’s post on E-Town, one of New Mexico’s ghost towns, ended with the photo at the left of a cliff dwelling at Bandelier National Monument. This and the many other along-abandoned aboriginal settlements are truly the state’s “ghost towns.” Many are a thousand years old and housed a hardy and enterprising population of Anasazi and Pueblo Native Americans for hundreds of years. After perusing a List of Ancient Dwellings of Pueblo People in New Mexico, I quit counting at 100 with many yet to toll. Some sources estimate there are 15,000 known archaeological sites in San Juan County alone, and that’s likely only a small fraction of what actually exists.

To say that our state is rich in ancient history is an understatement. We are awash in it.

Most of us know about the better known, more famous places like Chaco Canyon and Aztec Ruins and Coronado State Monument. Maybe even Abó and Gran Quivira…or Bandolier and Pueblo Bonita (the biggest house at Chaco Canyon). But how about Kua-Kay (Arroyo Honda) or Burnt Corn near Galisteo, Kin Yaa (Tall House Ruins) near Crownpoint? I could go on, but you get the point.

 

Aztec Ruins, Aztec, NMex

So what’s the big deal? Why make a blog out of a list of old ruins where no one has lived for hundreds of years? It’s the history, folks. The history of ten thousand years of human occupation of the area. Some of the identifiable ruins where an individual can sit and absorb the “echoing silence” actually date to circa 1500 BCE. Think of the stories lived out in these places. Tales of great good and tremendous evil. Of love and hate. Of life and death. Of rearing babies and building families. Of greed and generosity. Of salvation and murder. Sit among the ancient ruins and absorb them. Let them infect your mind.

 

Gran Quivera Pueblo & Mission
Ruins, NM

Unchain yourself from the “now” and whirl backward in time to identify with these aboriginal peoples and gain some understanding of them. Then go write what the wraiths of these “ghost towns” share with you. Write beautiful stories, horrible stories, but give voice to what you feel.

Share that understanding with others by giving these long-vanished people flesh and blood through your writing. You’ll likely find much of what you’re sensing will be remarkably similar to the current events of today. That thought is both reassuring … and devastating.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A Challenge to All Those Creative Writers Out There

When I decided to post a blog about New Mexico’s ghost towns, I didn’t realize just how involved that would be. There are dozens of ghost towns or nearly ghost towns scattered throughout the state. On sober reflection, this is not surprising. I imagine every state in the Union has its dead towns around which local myths (and perhaps eerie spirits) swirl.

There are a number of good websites dedicated to the subject of New Mexico’s towns, one of which is www.vivanewmexico.com/ghosts. In fact, I would like to open the subject with a rather poignant epitaph cited by Viva. It was taken from a gravestone in a cemetery in Alma, New Mexico:

Elsworth H. Tipton

B. 1926, D. 1932, 5 yrs. 7 mos. 22 days

Our little treasure

Budded on Earth

To Bloom in Heaven

That could be the story of every dead and dying community in our great state. Of course, some of them likely bloomed in some place other than Heaven. Take for instance, Elizabethtown, New Mexico, or as it is commonly known, E-Town.

Elizabethtown, New Mexico

The following is what Wickipedia has to say about the little community:

"Elizabethtown is a small unincorporated community in Colfax County, New Mexico, United States. It is located just off New Mexico State Road 38, between the communities of Eagle Nest and Red River. It is just east of the Carson National Forest. The community is a former mining town, and lies northeast of Scully Mountain, and west of Baldy Mountain.

History

"Mostly a ghost town now, Elizabethtown began in 1866 with the founding of area gold mines and the Mystic Copper Mine. It was New Mexico's first incorporated town. Founded by the commander of Fort Union (north of Las Vegas, New Mexico), Captain William H. Moore, and named for his daughter, Elizabeth Catherine Moore. Nicknamed E-Town, the town grew to over 7000 residents at its height of prosperity in 1870, and it was designated the first seat of the newly formed Colfax County. In 1872 there were only about 100 residents left as the mines dwindled, and the county seat was moved to Cimarron. The town revived somewhat when the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad passed nearby in the early 1890s, making mining feasible once again. The village was also part of the Colfax County War. A fire took most of the town in 1903, and the town mostly died out by 1917 with the decline in the mines.

"Serial killer Charles Kennedy lived between Elizabethtown and Taos, luring weary travelers to dine and stay with him at his cabin; he may have killed 14 or more people. Kennedy was killed by a group of angry vigilantes, led by the notorious Clay Allison."

Cold, impersonal facts, right? The article hints at flesh and blood, mayhem and murder, the passions of seven thousand beating hearts, but it is merely a recitation of dry data. But think of how many stories are hidden there. VivaNewMexico.com breathes some life into the subject with the following opening:

“A funny thing happened to travelers between Elizabethtown and Taos - they never returned. At least not those who stayed at Charles Kennedy's resting place between the two cities. It wasn't until Mrs. Kennedy arrived in Elizabethtown one day and announced that her husband had killed their baby, that officials began searching Kennedy's house. They found bones and later unearthed skeletal remains under the floorboards.”

Definitely a story there for a writer. Go ahead, guys and gals. I challenge you to glean exciting story lines from the above and the details that follow, and turn them into flash fiction (500 words or less) to be posted on your own sites (you have one don't you?). Let me know when you've accepted the challenge so I can direct our readers to them.

Elizabethtown facts: 

·       First incorporated town in New Mexico

·       Set in beautiful Moreno Valley with Mount Baldy in the distance

·       Began as a tent city in the 1860s during Mount Baldy gold rush

·       At its height, boasted 7 saloons and three dance halls

·       Once county seat of Colfax County

·       Mining operations began to fail and a fire in 1903 sealed the doom of the town

·       A museum run by descendants of one of E-Town’s citizens survives today

Take up the challenge, guys and gals...and write! 

Before we close, I’d like to show you a picture of a real New Mexico ghost town where the silence resounds today, as it has for centuries. Photo credits to Pixabay.com, a great source of free photos on a wide variety of subjects.

Cliff Dwelling at Bandelier National Monument
New Mexico

By the way, can anyone hazard a guess about what appears to be an old Roman chariot in the foreground of the photo of Elizabethtown?

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

A Little More from THE BISTI BUSINESS

Today, we’ll take a look at some of the action in THE BISTI BUSINESS. In the following scene, our intrepid PI, BJ Vinson, accompanies the authorities from Farmington on the trail of things owned by BJ’s client’s son pawned in the little town of Shiprock by Crispido Hernandez and One-Eye Begay, both elderly Navajos living on the reservation.

The other players in the scene beside BJ are Gaines, the FBI agent, Plainer, a BLM agent, and a man named Atcitty, a Navajo translator. The scene starts in Chapter 21, page 175.

###

Gaines, who apparently knew nothing about Navajo etiquette, parked, got out of the vehicle, and marched up to the hogan. If he’d read Tony Hillerman’s popular Leaphorn-Chee mystery series, he would have known to wait in the vehicle until the occupant signaled he was ready to receive visitors. The agent banged on the door aggressively, announcing in a loud voice he was a representative of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Hernandez demonstrated his opinion of the mighty FBI by taking his own sweet time answering the call.

A stocky, mahogany-hued man who must have been in his sixties, yet looked in the prime of life, eventually stepped outside. His broad, heavy-featured face showed neither surprise nor curiosity. The small, sharp eyes moved restlessly over the three of us and settled on our Navajo guide.

“Yah-ta-heh,” Hernandez said in a deep voice.

“Heh.” Our guide was considerably younger and less formal than his elder. After an awkward pause, Atcitty spoke to Hernandez a full minute in his native tongue. By the end of the monologue, I suspected Hernandez had known our mission all along. Then Atcitty turned to Gaines. “Okay. You ask, and I’ll put it to him.”

Plainer frowned. “He doesn’t speak English?”

“Not much. Better if you ask me.”

Under these circumstances, the interview was something less than ideal. The old man eventually invited us inside to search for other articles that might have belonged to Lando Alfano. We found nothing. Hernandez agreed to take us to where he had picked up the leather kit, but he refused to get into the car. Instead, the old man threw a blanket over a bony pinto in a brush corral at the side of the hogan and set off horseback across the desert hardpan. Atcitty elected to remain in the brush shelter as the rest of us piled into the SUV. It wasn’t long before we came to a long, narrow ditch which rendered the SUV incapable of proceeding any further—as I suspected both this old curmudgeon and Atcitty had known would happen. Reluctantly, we got out and plodded along in the heat. The sun had an extra bite in the high plateau country.

Hernandez, who had pulled up while we got out of the car, wheeled his mount, leaving us to scramble along afoot in his wake, dodging fist-sized rocks and the pinto’s horse apples. He led us over the lip of an arroyo that ran in a generally east-west direction and turned his pony up the sandy bottom. After about a mile, he halted and dismounted.

“Here,” he announced. I was pretty sure a smile hid behind those dark eyes as he watched the three of us struggle up the bottom of the dry wash.

“Was there any sign of whoever left it?” Gaines asked.

The old man paused but finally admitted he understood English by answering. “No. No sign. Nobody. Wasn’t no man.”

Plainer had had his fill of the games. “If it wasn’t a man, what was it?”

I am absolutely certain the corners of the man’s thick lips curled as he answered. “Witch. They was green lightning night before.” The thick shoulders rose and fell. “Witch.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Plainer demanded.

“How long have you been out here in the Four Corners area, agent?” I asked.

“About six months.”

“Let me guess. Your last assignment was back east somewhere.”

“New Jersey.”

“That figures. There’s a Southwestern phenomenon known as green ball lightning. Nobody’s quite sure what it is, but the best guess is it’s a small meteorite containing copper, which burns green. Some of the Native Americans believe that’s not the case at all. They figure it’s the way witches travel around.”

The old man grunted at my explanation.

“Mr. Hernandez, were there any footprints? Anything at all?” Gaines asked.

“Here,” he stopped before a scraggly piñon, “maybe where somebody set down to rest.”

         “Did you look for anything else he…uh….” Gaines tripped over his tongue in an effort to avoid offending the old man again. “I mean anything it might have left behind?”

The Indian hesitated a minute before waving a broad hand up and down the wash. “Nothing else. Look maybe a mile.”

I was unable to remain on the sidelines as an observer any longer. “Have any strangers been hanging around, Mr. Hernandez?” Gaines gave me a look, but didn’t say anything.

“Old One-Eye’s shape-shifter.”

“Did you see him, too?” I asked.

“Uh-uh.”

There was little more to see, although we split up and walked the arroyo for a distance in either direction. All Plainer and I turned up was a cranky little sidewinder, which we gave a wide berth. They are aggressive little creatures; more so than the larger rattlers.

As we reassembled to begin the trek back to the hogan, Plainer looked at the steep sides of the arroyo and groaned aloud. I knew how he felt; my knees were already complaining. The old gunshot wound in my right thigh throbbed from the exertion. Street shoes are not made for soft sand or loose rocks or steep, crumbling clay walls. The pinto, with Hernandez aboard, had little trouble getting out of the gulch and was almost out of sight by the time we topped the gully. Sweat-drenched, we recovered the car and paused at the hogan long enough to pick up our guide. Gaines cranked up the air conditioning, and we were all thoroughly chilled by the time we arrived at the Begay hogan.

That interview was a virtual rerun of the previous, except One-Eye spoke not a word of English and dwelt a great deal more on shape-shifters—talk that made Atcitty noticeably nervous—without coming up with a good reason why a witch would have any use for a costly nylon bag with dirty laundry—albeit expensive dirty laundry.

        The only real surprise was that One-Eye wasn’t one-eyed at all. He merely talked with a habitual squint, which made his right eye virtually disappear behind folds of chestnut colored flesh.

###

It seems to me that the Navajos were getting a little payback for their years of suffering under the white man’s thumb. What do you think?

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

The Guardian – Short Fiction

How about a little short fiction this week. Let me know what you think.

###

THE GUARDIAN

     I regained my independence the day Bony came into my life. Bony—or more properly Bonaparte—was a black and tan German shepherd with a long, wet, inquisitive nose and sharply pointed, upright ears. Bony, you see, is my guide dog, my eyes.

     Let me explain. My name is Russell Gorden, and for twenty-two years I was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, garden variety hunk, a golden-haired, violet-eyed, buffed, woman-chasing, over-achieving WASP. I had life by the stones and was squeezing hard when life got tired of it and squeezed back. Shoved me off the board, in fact.

     I came down with a rare exotic fever and damned near died. I recovered…except for my eyesight. Blind as the proverbial bat. Well, not quite. I see shades of gray with mysterious amorphous shapes now and then. But blind, all right, although nobody can tell until I blunder into a chair or something.

     My eyes, they tell me, look normal. I should probably wear dark glasses and carry a white cane so I won’t shock strangers when they tumble to my affliction. I can always tell the moment it happens because everything changes…speech, attitude, everything in an instant. And I hate it. I’m the same guy I always was, so dammit, don’t treat me differently!

     For two years I hid out in my house, a small adobe in the university neighborhood of Albuquerque, eating, sleeping, sulking, and constantly working out on my exercise machine, awaiting the day the middle tissues behind the sclera straightened up and gave me my sight back. When that happened, I didn't intend to return to society a flabby weakling. I would re-enter the sighted world the way I left it, a vital, vibrant, fit human being.

     The doctors warned me against such high expectations, but I stubbornly refused to accept reality. After twenty-four months, I ventured outside with a cane…and experienced a paralyzing mortification. The cane was a symbol of helplessness, at least to my eyes…no pun intended. I put the damned thing aside for good when one solid citizen—after apparently glaring into my perfect, sightless eyes-- admonished me for mimicking a blind man.

     Finally acknowledging my handicap, I contacted the Association for the Blind, who helped bring me out of denial into acceptance and sent me to New Jersey where Bony entered my life. When he was eighteen months old, the shepherd underwent sixteen weeks of rigorous training. After we were carefully paired by the Seeing Eye staff, we spent another twenty days training as a team. Those folks did a whale of a job on both of us. We were a perfect match.

     Within six months after returning home to New Mexico, I’d learned to trust his judgment and accept his friendship. No, his love and devotion. For some odd reason, venturing out into the real world with a guide dog is less humiliating than relying on a white cane. Not only do I have someone to guide me, I also have a constant, agreeable companion.

     This morning, as we got off the bus four blocks from my house on the way home from the library with some new audio books, I headed down my usual shortcut through the alley. But this time, Bony balked in his first act of “intelligent disobedience,” although I didn’t understand it at the moment. When I urged him on, he blocked me with his seventy-pound bulk.

     Unaccustomed to being thwarted by my new friend, I groused a little and stepped around him. He stubbornly held his ground, growling low in his throat. Impatiently, I tugged on his harness and ordered him forward. My friend accompanied me down that alley, albeit unwillingly. Within twenty-five steps, I caught the odor of marijuana and understood his reluctance.

     “Hey, bro!” a voice came from somewhere in front of me. “Neat dog. How come he’s got that harness thing on? You steal him from some poor, blind slob?”

     Giggles from the left and right. A growl from Bony.

     “Ought not rob our blind brothers,” a throaty rasp came from the left.

Bony snarled and shifted. I perceived a faint shadow step back hastily.

     “No, he’s mine,” I said. “I have this problem. I can’t see.”

     “You don’t look like no blind dude. Eyes look okay to me. Kinda pretty, ya know. Ain’t he got pretty eyes, fellas?”

     “Real purty,” someone agreed. “Say, purty boy, how about you loan us a few bills. We getting low on Mary Jane.”

     “Sorry, don’t carry money on me.” That much was true; it was safely zippered in one of Bony’s saddlebags.

     “You don’t mind if we check it out for ourselves. You know, you being blind and all, might be some on you that you don’t know about.”

     A hand fell on my pocket; I flinched. Bony snapped; the hand went away.

    “Better get that dog under control, else I’m gonna have to cut him,” a third voice threatened.

     I had no idea how my guardian would react in a physical situation, but I put up a front. “Better get yourself under control, or you’ll be the one needing stitches.”

     Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Bony lunged, jerking his halter from my grip. Someone cried out in pain. A hand grasped my waist and fumbled on my hip for a wallet. Blindly, I loosed a roundhouse at a shadow…and connected. Years of frustration and months of over-compensating physical exercise sent the thug sprawling on his butt. In moments, there was the sound of headlong, panicked flight with Bony hard on their heels. I yelled a command, and he abandoned the chase to return to my side, panting slightly.

     My heart skittering like a covey of frightened quail, I knelt and pulled him to me, singing his praises. I held him against my chest until my nerves settled. Bony took advantage of the moment to wash my face lavishly with wet kisses.

     We made it home safely, and I grabbed a beer for me and a Popsicle for Bony before collapsing into my recliner to analyze what happened. Prepared for new doubts about venturing into the sighted world again, I was surprised to find my confidence growing; I could hardly wait to try it again. Bony and I made a formidable pair. Bony was awesome. He loved me; he would fight for me.

     He was my guardian.

###

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Albuquerque’s Far Northeast Heights

Whenever I visit my friend B in Albuquerque’s Far Northeast Heights, I am reminded of a passage in The Zozobra Incident where our hero, BJ Vinson, hauls Emilio Prada, the supposed bad-boy in the novel, to the extreme northeast heights area in search of someone who might have stolen the negatives of a group of explicit snapshots that show BJ’s client in several compromising poses. For those of you who have not yet reached a certain age…yes, there was a time when  you obtained photographs by developing and printing a roll of celluloid film impregnated with images you were interested in seeing. Take a look at the following partial scene:

###

     I glanced at Emilio sitting silently beside me in the Impala. He was leading us down a meandering road in the remote Far Northeast Heights. Lampposts were infrequent. My headlights were the only bright spot in the deep night. Sandia Peak with its corona of blinking, red-tipped TV antennas and the Cibola National Forest crowded us on the east. The Sandia Indian Reservation blocked the way north.

     This was one of the ritzy sections well outside of the city limits where front yards were left desert-wild, except for cement driveways snaking across the hardpan to anchor the buildings to the roadway. Most of the landscape was vacant, but an occasional rambling house hunkered down beside some dusty road with a name like Black Bear Lane or Calle del Oso. Albuquerqueans were big on bears.

     Although it occurred to me that the good-looking creep might be planning something, it was more likely he was simply lost. It was hard enough finding an address out here in the daytime, much less at midnight.

     “Crap,” he mumbled. “It all looks different.”

     “You leading me around by the nose?”

     “Naw, I swear man. I figured I could find the guy any time I wanted.” His teeth gleamed in the faint moonlight as he smiled weakly. “He give me a hundred-dollar tip. But this don’t look familiar.”

     “Okay, you’re coming home with me for the night. I’m going to lock you in the basement. We’ll try it again tomorrow.”

     “You can’t do that. That’s kidnapping or something.”

     “Maybe so, but that’s the way it is.”

     “Go on down the road. Let’s try some more. I got a woman waiting for me, man.”

     “She’s long gone by now. But we’ll give it another few minutes.”

     As we plowed on through the darkness, the first car we’d seen in an hour of wandering the foothills came roaring up on us from the rear. Its sudden appearance made me nervous, but the massive Caddy Escalade roared by in a cloud of dust as I pulled to the side of the road.

     “That’s him!” Emilio threw a wiry arm toward the windshield. “That’s the dude’s big tank.”

     “You sure?”

     “Yeah. That’s him, I tell you.”

     “Emilio, if you’re lying—”

     “I ain’t. I swear. Follow the Caddy.”

     Half a mile farther down the dusty road, the vehicle turned left at an intersection that was invisible until you were practically through it.

     “That rock. I remember that rock.” Emilio jabbed a finger at a huge boulder on the far side of the roadway. “Yeah, remember that rock.” The excitement in his voice convinced me he was on the up and up—at least for now.

###

B’s locale no longer resembles the neighborhood described above. She lives on a paved street with a signpost clearly identifying it by name. She has neighbors on all sides of her. Indeed, the only similarity that remains is many of the yards are left “desert-wild.” Cacti proliferate.

However, B lives west of Tramway Boulevard (which is mentioned later in the same scene). The fictional address in the book lies east of the four-lane artery. So I meandered to the other side of Tramway when I returned home the other day. There are changes there, as well, but I found a section that is still pretty well represented by those descriptions in Zozobra.

Those of you who can should take a drive through the area sometime soon before that part of Albuquerque’s history is left behind in the dust of progress.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

BEYOND

     The highway, rendered indistinct by rising heat waves, dropped on its undulating descent from the Continental Divide into the Middle Rio Grande Valley of New Mexico. Ron Godwin shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun and felt as if he could see forever. And forever was blue. At least the mountains on the eastern horizon took on a robin’s egg wash. The biggest one was likely Sandia Peak, which made the smudge rising from its base his destination—Albuquerque. Where a new job awaited his arrival.

     This part of the world seemed to be pretty much made of rock and sand and sage and cacti and sunflowers. But for some reason he failed to understand, he liked it. Maybe it was the thin air, which smelled fresh despite dust a light wind kicked up. Or perhaps it was the silence. The eerie quiet that rang in his ears while he stood leaning on the open door of his Mazda as if he were the last man left on the planet in a sci-fi doomsday movie. It should have frightened him. Instead, he felt liberated. A man standing where God could see him instead of hiding in a mob. This was the first time he could ever remember being alone…truly alone. It was almost as if he could see into the Beyond. Certainly nothing like LA where people and noise and urban odors clogged the landscape.

     A stream of speeding semis and cars trapped behind them rushed past, shattering the illusion. He got back into his Miata and eased onto Interstate-40 East. He was reaching to turn on the radio when he noticed a figure walking at the side of the highway about a mile ahead of him. He didn’t usually pick up hitchhikers, but this was a new world with new people and new customs. Maybe it would be an Indian who could expose him to a culture he knew nothing about. Or a Mexican up from Chihuahua seeking to reunite with his family.

     He swallowed his disappointment when the hiker turned out to be a young white guy about his own age. Still, maybe he could learn something about this land he intended to make his new home. The stranger accepted the offer of a ride and settled into the passenger’s seat before extending his hand and offering his name in a clear baritone.

     “Zack Jansing. Nice wheels.”

     Ron offered his thanks, his hand, and his name before throwing the car into gear and pulling back onto the highway. Within half a mile, he was convinced he’d made a good choice. Zack was a talker, a fount of useful information. Twenty miles down the road, Ron knew as much about Albuquerque as any Chamber of Commerce brochure would have revealed. The companionship was good and easy.

     Before long, an overpass loomed ahead of them. Ron blinked when Zack told him to take the exit ramp. Instinctively, his foot hit the brake pedal, slowing the Mazda.

     “Hey, man, I don’t mind hauling you to Albuquerque, but I’m not up for a side trip. I’ve been driving since early this morning."

     “Just do it,” Zack said.

     Something in the other man’s voice caused him to glance over. Zack was holding a small semi-automatic pistol leveled at Ron’s chest. The hitcher’s flat gray eyes told Ron all he needed to know. He tromped on the accelerator. The powerful motor responded, pressing them both against the seats.

     “No way,” Ron shouted. “If you’re gonna shoot me, you’ll have to do it while we’re doing a hundred.”

     “Don’t be an idiot. I just want your money and your wheels. Pull over.”

     “Uh-uh,”

     Zack shoved the pistol into Ron’s ribs, causing him to flinch. The speeding car veered, but he regained control.

     Ron gave the other man’s arm a sharp jab with his elbow. “Get that thing outa my side!”

     That’s when things went wrong. A pop little louder than a cap pistol filled the cabin. Something punched him in the side. He had time to smell cordite and feel the pain in his chest before he lost control of his arms.

     The raspberry-colored Miata meandered left across a lane of traffic, plunged into the median, and bounced into the westbound traffic before losing to the laws of physics, rolling over…and over and over.

###

     Ron sat quietly in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel in downtown Albuquerque watching people go about their business. They were all strangers, of course. He knew no one here. But there was something different about them. Or maybe it was him. No one paid him any attention. Not one person glanced his way. Not one eye met his. In fact, for a moment, he thought a woman was going to sit on his lap before a man called for her attention.

     He glanced at his watch. Odd. He didn’t have one. His diamond signet ring was gone, as well. He realized he had no personal possessions at all. Something else. The noises people made as they passed seemed oddly hollow. Eerie. Other-worldly.

     His eyes fixed on a clock on the far wall. At 4:52 p.m. on Thursday, June 26, Ron Godwin understood something profound. He was dead. Then why was he here? Alone like this, observing the world he had been born into from the Beyond.

     Suddenly, he heard a deep, commanding voice. “Ah, here you are, Ron. You eluded us there for a moment.”

     Instantly, he was swept up in a blinding white vortex.

###

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

How Do You Spell Trouble? C-o-n-d-o-m

First, an apology. I have been amazingly (for me) faithful to publishing on this blog in a prompt and timely manner. This morning, I failed…for reasons that might make a decent post. So with a shame-faced grin, I ask you to please forgive me and read my short fiction piece that follows:

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THE CONDOM

     Kenny stared through ten-year-old eyes at the flat, round object lying in the dirt while his ten-year-old brain made certain connections. He knew what it was, of course. He’d seen one of Byran’s. Bryan was his older brother. It was a rubber. An unused rubber. The realization sent tingly sensations into his “parts” as he snatched the pack from the dirt. This stand of trees at the edge of the farm was a make-out place for kids old enough to drive cars and to…well, do it. His dad always complained the place needed a traffic cop.

     Had some guy’s girl refused to cooperate after he lost his protection? Kenny imagined a worked-up dude’s frustration at his own carelessness. Oh, well, that fellow’s loss was his gain. The package holding the thing was kinda pretty, like a big, extra thick gold coin glistening in the afternoon sun.

     His chores for the day finished, he’d been headed over to the Morrison farm to meet Thomas. He could hardly wait to see what his best friend would say about his lucky find. Kenny halted mid-stride. Maybe he oughta hike back and hide out in the hayloft to think about things first. He shoved the gold clad rubber deep in his overalls pocket and reversed course.

     After settling down behind a bale of hay in the loft to examine the profile of the helmeted warrior embossed on the pack, he remembered him and Tommy looking up “Condoms” on the Morrison family computer. They’d snickered over claims like extra stimulation, ultra thin, lubricated, spermicide. But the one that had got to them was “Flavored.” Why would somebody want a flavored rubber? Then they went red-faced at graphic drawings demonstrating the proper way to don a “love sleeve.” Tommy’d paid a price for that when his old man discovered where he’d been searching.

     Now, as he lay in the hay examining the thing, Kenny considered trying it on. But it was too neat to break open. He’d hang onto it, and the next time the gang did a coin toss to decide something or the other, he’d flick the pack into the air with his thumb and catch it in his outstretched palm. He tried the maneuver and called tails. Oops, there wasn’t a tail. That majestic-looking warrior adorned both sides. Great, a two-headed coin. Nah, that wouldn’t work. They’d catch on too fast.

     Involved in clearing up that point he missed the last toss, and the pack bounced on the bale and disappeared over the edge into some loose hay. While he was scrambling around trying to find it, something crunched beneath his boot.

     The thing didn’t look so pretty now. It was squashed flat. The gleaming yellow surface, now crumpled and smudged, had lost its luster…and attraction. He peeled away the top and looked at the rolled-up condom. Wasn’t anything pretty about it. Gray and kinda loathsome, really. He held it up to the light to inspect for damage. Looked okay. Since it was out, he might as well try it on. He was disappointed…and kind of bothered…when the blessed thing fell right off.

     Kenny’s mind flew in less erotic directions. Some of the older boys at school last year had filled rubbers with water and dropped them on students from the roof of the building. Thinking of nothing better to do with the ugly, penis-shaped thing, he scrambled down the ladder and peeked out into the yard. No one in sight. He slipped around the corner of the barn and shoved the condom beneath the spout of the hand pump they sometimes used to fill jerry-cans with water to take to the fields.

     He started pumping and pumping…and pumping. The blessed thing grew enormous, stretching and stretching without bursting. He overfilled it and had to let a little water escape in order to tie the ends. Once that was done, he held the big balloon in his hand while his mind proceeded to the goal it had been pursuing all along. In a few minutes, Bryan would be coming to the barn to pitch fodder for the animals. The temptation was too great. It took some doing to get the heavy, sloshing rubber—now in the shape of an elongated balloon—up the ladder without popping it, but Kenny managed.

     Once in the loft, he waited at the big double hay doors, easing them open when he heard the pump at the side of the barn. His brother was getting a drink before coming inside the barn. Kenny grinned. He’d closed the door down below, so Bryan would pause right beneath him for just a second. And a second was all he needed.

     Positioned now, he hardly dared breathe as he waited. Then there was movement. A brown hat cleared the corner of the barn. One…two…three…go!

     A fraction of a second after he released the bloated rubber, he recalled something about Bryan going into town this afternoon to check out a job at the hardware store.

     Plop. Splash.

     “What the hell! KENNY!” his father roared

###

Well, there it is. Sorry for missing my deadline. Thanks for reading.

Don

Next week: I’m concentrating on not being late again, not the subject matter.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.