Black Hole Canyon from THE BISTI BUSINESS

On August 8, 2013 I published a post on this blog called We Meet Jazz Penrod Again, in which the junior detective told our hero, BJ Vinson, he and his brother Henry Secatero had discovered a lead: A car parked out on the Navajo Reservation where it had no business being. Let’s accompany BJ and Jazz as they check out the situation. The following passage comes in Chapter 17 of THE BISTI BUSINESS, beginning on Page 139.

*****

This is not really the red rock part of New Mexico, but the massive, wind-carved sandstone shelves—some the remnants of ancient barrier reefs—glowed red and orange, striated with layers of black and yellow and brown and white. I identified feldspar and hematite, quartz and dark-brown calcite, degraded coal and gypsum embedded in the host rock, all deposited eons ago when the shallow marine sea retreated with the upheaval of mountains in what is now southwestern Colorado. Volcanic eruptions had spewed fire and ash over the entire area. As the water retreated, sand dunes consolidated into cross-bedded Entrada Sandstone. Over the ensuing ages, the ceaseless battle between wind and rock and water had chopped the terrain to pieces, creating the present landscape.

The Shiprock monolith, which lay in the distance ahead of us, was the throat of a volcano that had died long ago. The terrain around it eroded and washed away, leaving a 450-foot pile of black basalt towering over the Navajo Nation.

Long before we reached Shiprock, Jazz had me turn south on a rocky dirt road. As we began climbing. I kept a wary eye on the gas gauge Throwing the car into low gear to make it up and down the steep inclines of the washboard landscape was eating up the fuel. The rental sedan wasn’t made for this kind of country, and I was about to give it up as a bad venture when he pointed left.

“Take that road there.”

“What road?”

He laughed. “It’s a road down into Black Hole Canyon. Or at least a track. The car’s not far now if I understood Henry right. If it’s still there, that is.”

With more than a little trepidation, I followed his directions. My stomach fell along with the road as the earth dropped sharply. To our left, there was nothing but open air. The narrow ledge supporting us hugged the wall of the canyon—and it was a canyon, not a big-assed arroyo as he'd described it earlier. We dropped farther down the uncertain trail while tons of mudstone leaned outward above the car, threatening to shove us into the abyss. My knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

“This is the worst part,” Jazz said. “The trail curves to the right just ahead, and there’s an overhang. That’s where Henry said the car was parked.”

“Like someone wanted to hide it,” I rasped, desperate for the sound of my voice once last time before we ran out of road and pitched over into oblivion.

“Yeah, like that. Me and Henry used to come out here when we were kids and hunt jackrabbits and rattlesnakes.”

I grunted. It was supposed to be a laugh but didn’t come out that way. “I thought you Native Americans were into preserving the environment, not killing anything that moved.”

“I’m half white. I guess that part of me’s a killer.”

The cryptic remark would have earned him a glance if I hadn’t been concentrating on keeping the car on this pitiful excuse of a scree-littered burro trail. “Your brother doesn’t have white blood, does he?”

“No, but the family ate the jackrabbits. Guess they ate a little snake now and then, too.”

We inched around the curve, and I tapped the brake. A car blocked our progress—a brown four-door Ford sedan.

We didn’t need to get out of the car to know what had happened, but we did it anyway. The stench was overpowering. Something—or somebody—was dead. Without touching a thing, I peered through the windows and determined no one was in the passenger compartment. The odor seemed to come from the rear of the vehicle, so the body was in the trunk. Was it a confidential investigator called Hugo Santillanes or a kid named Lando Alfano?

*****

Hope you’ll be motivated to get a copy of the book. Thanks for reading. Be happy to hear from you.

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

Bonehead Rainwater

Let’s try a short story this week. Not really a story, rather a slice out of the life of an angst-ridden sixteen-year-old obsessed with a particular girl.

*****

BONEHEAD RAINWATER

I don’t exactly remember when I got the name “Bonehead,” but I recall how. One day in grade school, Margaret McAllister got fed up with me teasing her and lashed out with what she probably considered a cuss word. Bonehead. Before long, that was my moniker, and the rechristening was so thorough that hardly anyone remembered my real name was Harlsgood Rainwater. Nobody – including me – had ever liked that handle, so I was usually Harlie or Goodie, except to my maternal grandmother. That had been her birth name. All things considered, I preferred Bonehead.

The name had another advantage. Upon meeting someone new, the jasper figured I was thick-headed or stupid. That set low expectations in everyone from teachers to preachers, and I took full advantage of it until they got to know me.

That served me well all through my childhood, but when I grew up and reached sixteen, things began to backslide. That same blonde -- green-eyed Margaret McAllister -- wouldn’t have anything to do with a guy called Bonehead. And I wanted to pester her again … big time. In a totally different way, of course.

“But you’re the one who gave me the name,” I said the afternoon I finally found the courage to talk to her.

“I didn’t give you a name,” she said in a reasonable tone of voice. “I called you a name. There’s a difference.”

“I’ll go back to my own name.”

She didn’t actually say, “Ugh,” but her expression did. “You mean Harlsgood?”

“That’s a way better name,” I said.

Margaret's expression clearly read: Not really.

“Harlie,” that’s a good name, right?” I was quick to suggest.

“For a guy or a motorcycle?”

“Well, you can call me Goo …”

“Don’t even go there. I’m not going to call a guy Goodie. All my friends would ask if I’m still going with Goodie-Two-Shoes or Goodie-Goodie, or something.”

“Are you going with me or with your friends?”

She stood up from the park bench. “I’m not going with either one of you. And you better not be telling around that I am.”

I backed off. “Do you even like me?”

She twirled the small yellow parasol she carried to protect her fair skin. “You’re one of the less obnoxious boys around, Bonehead.” She drew in her breath. “But that name!”

I opened my mouth to say she’s the one who gave it to me but reconsidered. “Who do you want me to be? You named me once. Name me again.”

“Fagan. I always liked the name Fagan.”

I felt my eyebrows reach for my hairline. “Fagan! What kinda name is that?”

“Or Osgood. And that’s close to your real name. I could call you Oz.”

“Okay, from now on I’m Oz.”

And I was, but it didn’t come without a cost. I got into three fights and paid with a fat lip, a black eye, and bruised ribs. But those scrapes got my point across. I was serious. Within three months, I was Oz or “The Wizard” to almost everyone except my teachers and relatives. I was Mr. Rainwater and Harlsgood to them. But no more Bonehead. My campaign also chased away a few friends, but at least I was going with Margaret now. That is to say, we dated once in a while, but she insisted it wasn’t a commitment. Not a steady thing. Nonetheless, I had the privilege of taking her to the Junior Prom.

After that magic dance, I sensed things were beginning to go wrong. Maybe not wrong, but different. For one thing, I wasn’t so taken with Margaret once I got beyond the peaches and cream complexion and the startling green eyes and the budding breasts. Fact was, she was sort of bossy.

Her attitude changed, as well. At least in subtle ways. She didn’t sit with me as much in the cafeteria. She walked to class with her girlfriends. Finally, I asked about it.

She brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her sweater sleeve. “Maybe we weren’t supposed to get together. You don’t seem so broken up over it.”

“Over it? Over what?”

“Over our break up.”

“We’re breaking up?”

“I’m thinking of going out with Hershel Marshall. Hershel. That’s a nice name. Has a good strong sound to it.”

I sputtered. “You go out with a name? What about the guy? And what’s the matter with Oz? I thought you liked that name. Isn’t it strong enough for you?”

She flipped her blonde locks. “But everybody calls you Wizard or Wiz, and I don’t like that. So I guess we’re through.”

I had my mouth opened to remind her once again that she’d been the one to change my name, but that would just send us racing around the carousel again. Instead, I shook my head and walked away. I wasn’t about to play that game a second time with Airhead Maggie, boobs or no boobs.

Besides, there were lots of boobs around. Some nicer than Airhead’s.

*****

I think our boy showed some maturity there at the end, don’t you agree? I remember those days, but give thanks that they’re over now. But maybe it would be better if they weren’t so far in the past.

Thanks for reading. Be happy to hear from you.

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

Meet Liver Lips Mortenson from THE CITY OF ROCKS

In my creative writing class, I advise against giving a detailed a description of the major character in order to allow the reader to see the individual as he or she wishes. The artist doing the cover for THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT originally came up with the figure of a bearded man representing BJ Vinson, my series protagonist. I told her he was clean shaven, and she came back with: “How was I to know. You never described him.”

However, as you’ll see in the passage that follows, I often paint some of the minor players in detail to give them life and character. I did that with Emilio Prada in ZOBOBRA and with a character named Richard “Liver Lips” Martinson in THE CITY OF ROCKS.

In the following (abbreviated) scene in Chapter One of ROCKS, BJ has his first meeting with a man suspected of stealing some valuable property from a ranch in New Mexico’s boot heel country. BJ is having trouble taking his job seriously because he can’t wrap his head around the “kidnapping” of a duck. Nonetheless, his client insists he accept the assignment because the bird was insured for a quarter of a million dollars. With only an ill-conceived idea of what’s really happening, BJ rushes to the UNM Emergency Ward where he’s told the thief is being treated.

*****

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. “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. You want to tell me 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.”

“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.”

“Why’d you steal her duck?”

“Who says I did?”

I improvised. “About everybody in the countryside. 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. 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. You give me what I want, and I can take care of the warrant.”

“Like what?”

“Like what have you done with Qua…with the duck?” His eyes slid away as he opened his mouth and licked his lips. I held up a hand. “Don’t bother to deny it. You’re caught flat-out. Man-up and admit it. Where’s the duck?”

Liver Lip’s shoulders twitched. He did that rapid blinking thing and twisted his neck to loosen it up. A bead of sweat worked its way through thin tendrils of blond hair and trickled down his forehead. It looked muddy by the time it reached the corner of his eye. “I give her to somebody that wanted to play a trick on Mud Hen.”

“Who was this somebody?”

“If I give up his name, he’ll get me in trouble. And he can do it, too.”

“So can I. A world of trouble. You’ve already given me enough to report to the insurance company. You’re the chicken thief, Liver Lips. And they’ll come after you hard. You have any idea how far they’d go to keep from paying out all that money?”

“How much money?” His attitude changed. If Liver Lips had a crafty side, this was it.

“More than you can ever repay in your lifetime.” I built on the fiction I was spinning. “They’ll see you prosecuted for grand theft. What does your record look like? Probably penny-ante, right? Well, you made the big time with this.”

“For stealing a duck?”

I stared at the raunchy-looking man and wondered if this was an act. “Answer my question. Who hired you to steal the duck?”

“Hired?”

Jeez. The guy hadn’t even been paid. He’d done it as a favor, or else someone had leverage on Richard Martinson.

“Who told you to take the duck? Who’d you give it to?”

“Her.”

“Her?”

“It’s a her. The duck, I mean. Quacky—”

“Yeah, I know. Who’d you give her to?”

Liver Lips crossed his arms over his chest and hugged himself tightly. “Oh, shit! I hurt, man. They supposed to be getting me something for the pain. And the infection, too. I gotta go check on it.”

“Okay, we’ll go together. Maybe I can help.”

“I can do it.” It came out as a whine. “I ain’t no kid that needs babysitting.”

Despite his objections, I trod on his heels as he walked toward a counter. They’d made some big-time changes at the UNM Emergency Center since I was here last. It was now housed in a new building called the Pavilion. But I was pretty sure this wasn’t the outpatient pharmacy. Liver Lips was getting ready to make a move. He did, but it wasn’t the one I expected; probably not the one he anticipated, either.

He turned a corner and bumped squarely into a burly Albuquerque cop. Back-pedaling, he held out his hands. “Sir, this here guy won’t leave me alone. Can you make him stop pestering me?”

The six-foot-two officer transferred his irritated look from Liver Lips to me. His shoulder unit belched static, but he ignored it. “What’s going on?”

I took a quick peek at his nametag. “Corporal Hines, my name is Vinson, and I’m a licensed PI. I’m going to reach for my ID, okay”

I whirled as the outside door crashed open. A man and a woman rushed inside with a little girl nursing a bloody hand wrapped in stained towels. Hines brushed by me to see if his help was needed. When I turned back to confront Liver lips, he was nowhere in sight. I made a quick sweep of the hallways, but he had disappeared. Maybe Liver did have a crafty side, after all.

*****

Thanks for reading. Be happy to hear from you.

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

Marshaling the troops in THE BISTI BUSINESS

Time to return to one of the BJ Vinson novels, The Bisti Business, for this week’s post. Our PI is on the hunt for two young men from California who disappeared during a summer trip to New Mexico. His investigation takes him to the Four Corner’s area where he enlists a couple of locals to help in the search. In Chapter 26 of the novel (Page 213) he sees the opportunity to marshal a much larger force when he encounters a group of military veterans while searching homeless camps for one of the missing students. We pick up the story just after he braces the obvious leader of the group and tries to turn suspicion and hostility into a positive force. He’s just offered the men $500 if they locate his missing “nephew.”

*****

“Nephews oughta be worth more’n five hundred. ‘Sides, I ain’t so sure he’s your nephew.”

“Think what you want, but five hundred’s what I’m offering. We have a deal?”

“We got one when I get my twenty.”

After handing the man his money, I gave his two pals ten each. Then I faced the big fellow in the duster and held out my palm.

“I want to shake on it.”

He hesitated a moment, and then engulfed my hand in a big, rough fist. “Name’s Gunner.”

“Good to meet you, Gunner. You picked up that tag in the military, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “Yes sir, the Corps. Copter gunships mostly.”

“Should have recognized it. That was my service, too.”

“Officer material,” he said flatly.

“I had my silver bar.”

Gunner straightened his spine and came to attention. “We’ll find this fella for you, Lieutenant.”

“When you do, protect him, okay? Somebody else may be after him.”

“Official?”

I considered the question for a moment and then answered honestly. A man’s entitled to know what he’s getting into. “The FBI and the County Sheriff are looking for him.”

“Them’s the two guys that was here a few days back. They didn’t learn nothing.”

“And there’s somebody else, too. Don’t know exactly who, but I’m not sure he wants my man in good health.”

So help me, Gunner saluted. I returned it automatically. It was exactly the right thing to do. Semper Fi.

I left the area and set about finding the “loony-toons” camp along the Animas River Gunner had told me about. It was after midnight by this time, so most of the camp inhabitants were already wrapped in blankets, newspapers, cardboard, or whatever else they could find to conserve body heat against the brisk night air. Some of them didn’t stir when I flashed a light in their direction; too drunk or stoned to react. The remainder cursed or fled into the brush. I made a complete round of the small camp without coming up with Lando or anyone who remotely resembled him. Discouraged, I returned to the motel.

I felt good about having Jazz and Henry on the lookout for Lando, and now the rather rowdy-looking homeless vets were also on the prowl for him—more of the local assets. If they happened to find him, I just hoped they wouldn’t rough him up too much. Maybe I should have made more of a point of that.

*****

Thanks for reading. Be happy to hear from you.

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

It Wasn’t Me!

See if you can figure out what's going on in the short-short that follows before you get to the explanation at the bottom.

*****

IT WASN’T ME

"Let's go do something. I don’t want to sit around and do nothing all day.”

That was Sarah. She didn’t hang with us all the time, but she was here now. She wasn’t as pretty as she ought to be, but she was okay looking.

“Whadda ya wanna do?” Bart was always here. If he wasn’t right in my face, he was lurking in the background. I didn’t like him much and privately called him Black Bart after that old highwayman. Besides, he constantly tried to take over the group and get me into trouble.

“Let’s go window shopping.”

“Nah,” Bart came back at her. “Let’s go shopping! Leave out the window part. Bet they’ve got some great new games down at Best Buy.”

“Don’t have any money,” I said. “Besides, I’ve got all the computer games I need.”

“Cain’t never have enough of them. More’s better. More’n that’s even more better.”

“You sound like a dipstick when you talk like that.” A new voice. Mitch was a pretty cool guy who didn’t show up nearly as much as I’d like. Funny thing, Bart sounded like my father when he was talking to me. Mitch was like him talking to someone else.

Sarah ignored them both. She did that sometimes. “Let’s go to Dillards.”

“They don’t have windows,” Mitch pointed out.

“Then we can walk around inside. That’s better. You can touch things. You can tell a lot about a dress by just feeling the material.”

“Yeah, let’s go inside. I need a new belt. Bet I can snatch one so’s they won’t even know,” Bart bragged.

“You’d steal it?” Sarah’s voice dripped with scorn. “That’s dishonest.”

“Nah, that’s practical when you don’t have no money.”

“Not practical at all when you consider the chances of being caught. You’re sixteen now, so they won’t just call mommy and daddy. They’ll throw your fanny in a cell.” Sarah reminded me of my mother when she talked like that.

“Gotta catch me first.”

“Sonny, wouldn’t approve,” Sarah said.

“Sonny? Who’s Sonny?” Bart asked.

“He’s the new kid. Seems okay … even if he is different.”

“How come I ain’t seen him?”

“You don’t know everyone in the neighborhood,” Sarah said.

“Whadda ya mean different?”

Mitch handled that question. “Well, he looks like us, but sometimes he sounds like Sarah.”

“Oh, one a them, huh? Better not hang around me. I’ll mash his nose in.”

“You’re such a barbarian, Bart. Nothing but a bigot.”

That sounded like Sarah, but not quite. I took a look around, but didn’t see anyone else. Then I made my mind up. “Okay, we’ll go window shopping, but not at Dillard’s. Let’ go to Wal-Mart.”

“Yeah, they have a bunch of games there,” Bart said.

“Okay, but if you go with us, you better keep your hands to yourself.”

“Just try keeping me away.” Bart’s tone held a threat.

“No stealing,” Sarah said.

Wal-Mart was okay. Lots of things to see, but there were always too many people for the narrow aisles. The place had a smell and a sound all its own. People. It was people sounds and people odors.

Sarah was disappointed because the women’s clothing wasn’t up to her standards. Mitch liked the automotive department, but I don’t know why. He didn’t even own a car. If Sonny had come along, he was quiet and off by himself somewhere. But I felt his presence.

Bart kept leading us back to the computer games section even though I resolutely walked on past. Finally, he was so insistent that I stood at the rack and scanned the games for something I didn’t already have. I spotted one: “Army Rangers in Fallujah.”

“Yeah. That looks neat.” Bart centered in on the one I was looking at.

Then just as I suspected he would, he snatched the game and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. After he smoothed his polo shirt over it, the bulge was hardly noticeable.

“Don’t do that,” Mitch said. “You’ll get us in trouble.”

“You don’t like it, pantywaist, get outa here.”

“That’s what I’m going to do.” He disappeared.

“Me, too. You’re disgusting.” And Sarah went away.

No sign of Sonny, so I don’t know if he’d ever been there. At any rate, it was just Bart and me who sauntered toward the exit. We didn’t even make it halfway through the door before a man stepped in front of us.

“Hold on there, son.”

“What is it, sir?” I asked.

“We take a dim view of shoplifting at this store.” With that, he lifted my shirt and plucked the Army Rangers game from my waistband.

I looked around, but Bart was nowhere in sight. I regarded the security man through half-dollar-sized eyes. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t take it.”

*****

Note to Readers: Someone whom I know well was diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) some years ago. The psychiatric community now calls the condition Dissociative
 Identity Disorder (DID). From what I read (and can comprehend) it is a condition not terribly well understood and very difficult to treat. It apparently has its roots in childhood abuse and involves either mistreatment by or disassociation from a parent (usually of the same sex). In laymen’s terms, the sufferer cannot cope in a normal way with his environment and develops other “personalities” to help him. As an illustration of how difficult this field is, the definition of personality is not universally agreed.

In the case of the individual I know, his earlier doctors attempted to “meld” the personalities, but even when that difficult and time-consuming effort was successful, previously unknown “identities” emerged to fill the void.

At any rate, the intent of this story was not to engage in a knowledgeable treatise (something I am not capable of doing), but to try – with my imperfect understanding of the process – to imagine what goes on in the head of someone afflicted with this debilitating disorder.

Thanks for reading. Be happy to hear from you.

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

To Amy with OOOs & XXXes, Forever

Last week’s short, short story started me down memory lane and helped me realize what a dweeb I was (back before there were dweebs). This week, we’ll try another slice of life showcasing a guy who was equally shy and inept at social relationships. Hope you get a chuckle or two out of it. Or maybe it’ll raise some memories in you.

******

TO AMY WITH OOOs & XXXes, FOREVER

I’d been in love with Amy Schulenmacher ever since she banged me on the head with a tin shovel in our kindergarten’s sand box. After enduring a lecture from the teacher for stubbornly refusing to tell her why I was bleeding, it seemed as though Amy began to respond.

In the third grade, I cemented our relationship when I took on Harold Hardcastle, a big kid a year ahead of us who delighted in yanking her golden tresses. I ended up with a split lip and a black eye and a trip to the principal’s office, but none of that mattered when she thanked me for being her white knight. Then she took a bit wind out of my sails by saying she could have handled Harold better. But that was just her cute way of bonding.

We were inseparable. Went everywhere together. She’d punch me on the shoulder and pinch me and call me Geeky Gene just like one of the guys, but I knew that was her being intimate. Funny how that word still makes me blush.

Even though we saw one another every day, we constantly sent text messages flying back and forth. When we were in the seventh grade, I started adding OOs and XXes to mine, but I’d always delete them before punching the send button. Until just recently, that is. I finally screwed up the courage to put three Os and Xes at the end of one text. She came back with a single X and O.

That was the clincher. She loved me just like I loved her. I frowned and screeched to a mental halt. Or maybe she loved me a third as much as I loved her. But that was enough.

The point was, she loved me. I was sure of that because we’d done it once … just last week. By done it, I mean we kissed. It happened when I mentioned I was a sixteen-year-old sophomore who’d never kissed a girl. She puckered up and planted one squarely on my lips before flouncing away, leaving me sprawled on a park bench tingling all over and absolutely boneless. Well almost, anyway. She loved me! No doubt about it.

Then Harold Hardcastle showed up again. Actually, he’d been here all the time, but I ignored him as much as anyone can ignore the school’s football quarterback and basketball guard. And tennis champ. But he couldn’t calculate the square-foot area of a turnip patch.

Then today came along. Today comes along all the time, so what was so special about this one? It’s the day my world fell apart. My life ended … aside from continuing to breathe, that is. It all started in the park near the school after classes.

“What time should I pick you up for the prom?” I admired the way a long tress fell over her left eye just like some old movie star. Veronica Lake, I think. Amy might be having trouble seeing through that cascade of blond hair because the other eye seemed to work harder when she looked at me.

“What do you mean? You didn’t ask me to the prom.”

I held out my hands in supplication. “We always go to the prom together. Ever since there’ve been proms.”

She sniffed and looked away. “Well, not this year. Harold asked me to go with him.”

“Harold Hardcastle? He pulled your hair. I had to fight him to make him stop.”

She sighed one of my mother’s sighs. One that dripped with exasperation. “That was in the third grade. Grow up.”

“But we’ve X’d and O’d our texts. That means I love you.”

“No, dummy. That means hugs and kisses. And I love you, too. Just like I love my other brother.”

Other brother! She only had one. A stuck up doofus named Peter who was away at college. “B-but we kissed!”

“That wasn’t a kiss. It was a peck. And a sympathy peck, at that. Anyway, I’m going to the prom with Harold.”

With that, she turned and stomped away, leaving me sitting on yet another park bench, boneless again. Completely boneless, this time.

I don’t know how long I sat there feeling my world was at an end. No reason to live. Maybe I’d have a heart attack. She’d see the ambulance whisking me away and come to her senses. She’d rush to my side and beg me to get better. Come back to her. We’d marry and have loads of kids, and she’d be mine forever.

Movement interrupted my misery. I sensed rather than saw someone take a seat at my side.

“What’s the matter, Gene? You look like you lost your last friend.”

I turned my head and saw Margaret Ann Mandalay – the girl the kids called MAM on account of her initials – perched on the bench beside me. Her black hair shone in the spring sun so much it nearly blinded me. Her green eyes spoke of care and concern. I swallowed hard and stared at her.

“Everyone wondered when you’d see Amy for what she is. But don’t worry, there are plenty of other fish in the sea.” She giggled, a bright, tinkling sound. “I might even be persuaded to be a minnow, myself.”

And just like that, my spine returned. My formless body filled up with bones. I sat straighter. Felt the breeze on my face, tasted pollen in the air, heard birds tweet and kids laugh. The hair on my arms stood up as if they’d received a shock. I smelled honeysuckle and wondered if it came from Margaret or the bush across the park.

“Hi, MAM. Do you have a date for the prom, yet?”

*****

Were we ever so young and innocent … and dumb? As always, thanks for reading. I’d appreciate hearing from you.

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

Turn Around, Look at Me

Like many teenagers back in the day, I was a misfit in the world I inhabited. As such, one of the pop songs of the era expressed my longings, my wants, my hopes almost perfectly. Jerry Capehart wrote Turn Around, Look at Me in 1961. It was a popular hit back then and apparently remains so today. I wove a little tale around it. Hope it tickles your fancy.

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TURN AROUND, LOOK AT ME

What was the matter with me? Why wasn’t I like other guys? Well, I was. Yet I wasn’t, either. I could talk my way around the National Football League or the basketball circuit as adroitly as anyone. I got my quota of invitations for beer with the boys, but something was missing.

What was missing was thirty feet in front of me walking down the stairs and out the apartment building. Her name was Gilda, which she pronounced Jillda, and I was desperately in lonely with her. I say “in lonely” because I’m not sure what love felt like. But that pitiful term fit when my heart reached out to her. And it seemed appropriate when I sat alone at my cramped kitchen's tiny fold-up table holding imaginary conversations with her. Or lying in bed at night throbbing for her. Or losing the ability to draw a breath at the first sight of her every day. It was a lovely, miserable condition.

I started leaving my apartment thirty minutes early in order to avoid her on the way to CNM, the Albuquerque community college we both attended. That worked okay, but then I missed seeing her so much that I went back to trailing her down the stairs, silently begging her to turn around and look at me. That’s what I meant about being different. Anybody else would have struck up a conversation. Not me. Not tongue-tied, bashful Louis Pastoria. She might tell me to go take a hike. What would I do then? Bray like a jackass? Shrivel up and die?

Right in the midst of this heartache … bellyache … headache … whatever it was, I was sitting at my  table munching tasteless cold cereal when I heard something on the radio that nearly tore the heart right out of my chest. It was a song. An oldie from the '60s that expressed exactly what I was feeling.

“There is someone walking behind you.

“Turn around, look at me.”

Oh, my Lord! My plaintive cry word-for-word.

“There is someone watching your footsteps.

“Turn around, look at me.”

Thank God I was alone at the time because before the Vogues finished singing that love song, my mouth went dry while my eyes went wet. I swallowed hard and struggled with emotions I couldn’t even name.

Later that morning, I trailed Gilda and her roommate down the steps again, this time with the Lettermen crooning those wonderful lyrics through ear buds from my big brother's ancient Walkman. Surely, she would sense this storm of emotional turmoil behind her and … well, turn around and look at me. But she didn’t.

For the next week, I followed the object of my adoration with that song ringing in my ears. Sometimes it was the Bachelors singing away. At other times, Glen Campbell’s solo made it hauntingly personal. That said, I preferred the final refrain by the Lettermen. It left me breathless. Like she did.

I walked out of my apartment one day just as Gilda was passing, so I ended up closer behind her than usual. She was alone – as was I. Of course, I was always alone. On the top step of the stairway, a book slipped from my fingers. While performing a juggling act to keep from dropping the thing, I accidentally jerked the ear plugs out of the Walkman. Immediately, the plaintive notes of that beautiful song rang pure and clear in the stairway.

Gilda halted in her tracks. Then she turned around and looked at me. She wrinkled a pert nose finely sprinkled with freckles. My heart dropped into my sneakers … both of them, so it must have broken in half.

“Oh, that’s my favorite song,” she said. Her voice was soft and silky and exciting.

“M-m-me, too. Favorite.” Had I developed a stammer?

“It’s a beautiful song, but I prefer the Bee Gees rendition.”

“M-me, too.” Dumb ass! Say something besides “me, too.” I drew a shuddering breath and delivered. “Like the way they open with strings … I do.” My God! Now I was Yoda.

She laughed, a sound like a sterling silver bell struck with a tuning fork encrusted with diamonds and rubies and pearls. “Exactly. Violins are more romantic than drums and brass.”

Was she mocking me? I guess not because she went on.

“They’re mellower, more intimate. At least that’s the way I feel. You’re Louis from 23B, aren’t you? I’ve seen you around.” Her eyes were so green they were spots of colored light suspended in the air before me. She smelled like lilacs, which instantly became my favorite flower. Provided I could remember what they looked like, that is.

She seemed to be waiting, so I lunged down the steps and walked out the front door with her.

She continued talking like this was any common, ordinary day. “I have the Bee Gees’ recording of the song. Would you like to come over tonight and listen to it together?”

My knees failed, nearly dumping me on my face. But I recovered and cleared my throat.

“That would be way cool.”

*****

As always, thanks for reading. A little different from last week’s quirky post, wasn’t it?

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

Circumcidere

It’s a Latin word, so I likely cannot pronounce it properly. But I can translate it. It means “to cut around,” and from this comes our word, “Circumcision.”

This is a very unlikely topic for a blog post that does not even pretend to be medical or religious in nature. And if anyone asks why I selected it, I can only say that I’m not entirely sure. Nonetheless, it’s what I woke up thinking about, and the idea would not quit pestering me. Ergo, I will subject my readers to a discussion of this sensitive subject. (Is that an unintended double entendre?)

There are entire books on the  practice, so my pitiful efforts here will in no way be considered a scholarly treatise on the ritual. And in some cases, it is exactly that … a ritual. One performed for a religious purpose or to bind a specific cultural group together. And for the Jews, it was a physical sign of their covenant with God. In other cases, circumcision was performed for purposes of hygiene and health. For instance, to reduce the probability of HIV transmission during heterosexual activities. (It performs no such service for insertive homosexual engagements.) Wow, I’m way out on a limb I didn’t intend to climb.

According to the sources I read, the World Health Organization estimates about one-third of the world’s male population has undergone the operation of removing all or most of the prepuce from the  penis. This practice is most prevalent in the Muslim world, Israel, South Korea, the United States, and parts of Southeast Asia and Africa. However, it is relatively rare in Europe, Latin America, most of Asia, parts of Southern Africa, and Oceania. It is near-universal in the Middle East and Central Asia.

Historians estimate the practice to be over 15,000 years old with the first recorded evidence found in Ancient Egypt. It is mentioned in the Bible. While not explicitly cited in the Quran, it is considered essential to Islam.

That’s enough of that stuff. By now, I’ve figured out the real purpose of this post. To wit, the following exchange by two curious pre-teens.

*****

Billy and Tommy, lifelong friends, were tired of playing, so they claimed swings on a play set and started talking. Billy, the more daring of the two, originated a round of jokes. After snickering over a half dozen exchanges, Billy told Tommy a new one he’d heard from his older brother. He sort of thought this would become one of his all-time favorites.

“Moses was standing there on the mountain leaning on his staff and looking up at the sky. He was talking to God, you see. So he says, ‘Let me get this straight. The Arabs get the oil, and we get to cut off the end of our what?’”

Tommy’s reaction wasn’t what his friend expected. His eyes went wide. “Oh, my gosh! I must be Jewish!”

*****

As always, thanks for reading. Let me know what you think of this quirky post.

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

I wish I Could Buy a Car This Way!

I’ve been thinking about buying a new Ford Fusion lately. Don’t misunderstand. I don’t need a new car and don’t intend to buy one. But, heck, who doesn’t dream about it from time to time?

If I were going to purchase a new automobile, I wish I could do it the way BJ Vinson, does it in my book, THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT. The following scene takes place near the beginning of Chapter 20 on page 196.

******

I dressed and drove to a Chevrolet dealership on Lomas Boulevard NE. I’m a creature of habit. My first car had been a Chevy Impala, as had been my last. Unless the new ones had a serious defect, my next one would be, as well. With the insurance company check for my wrecked car in my pocket, I parked the rental Ford and went inside. Fred, the friend who had sold me the last two cars, was no longer with the agency, so I dealt with a total stranger. That might be a good thing. Fred and I knew each other’s tricks so well there wasn’t much to our negotiations. So instead of being disappointed, I considered dealing with a new salesman as an opportunity.

I walked straight to a silver Impala with gray trim. The man, who had introduced himself as George Uttley, trailed along in my wake. “I want this one.”

He took another look at the business card I’d handed him when we introduced ourselves. “No you don’t. Come with me.”

I followed him to the back lot where he stopped before a white, four-door clone of my wrecked Impala—except, of course, the new 2007s had undergone a major redesign.

“I see you’re a PI, so this is the baby you need. This Impala SS is powered by a new 303-horsepower 5.3 liter V8 engine, but it’s got what we call Active Fuel Management technology. That regulates between eight-cylinder and four-cylinder operation for improved fuel economy. She’s got the power when you need it and has pretty efficient gas consumption when you don’t.”

Uttley might prove a worthy opponent after all. He’d zeroed in on my needs with one look at my card. Point for him.

“The ‘07s have a tire-pressure monitor, a new 7.0 Generation OnStar system offering Turn-by-Turn navigation, 16-inch 5-spoke cast aluminum wheels, XM Satellite Radio, and leather-appointed seats as standard equipment.”

“I don’t need a sales pitch.” I needed to take him down a notch or two. “I’m going to buy a car. An Impala, in fact. Driven them for years, and I’m comfortable with them. It all boils down to the deal, Mr. Uttley.”

“Is there a trade-in?”

“Only in the form of an insurance check. Some joker totaled my car.”

“Are you financing with us, or do you bring your own?”

“My options are open.”

“So you want us to place the financing for you.”

“Possibly.” I glanced at the sticker, took in the optional equipment—this one was loaded—and started the dance. “I’d guess this was a custom order that fell through.”

Aha. He had a “give.” A wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows as he suppressed a frown. “Whatever the reason, it’s available. And it won’t stay around for long. Not a beauty like this.”

I took in the total at the bottom of the invoice and named a figure.

“But that’s below our costs,” he objected.

“It’s got some luxuries I don’t need. I’m willing to pay for them, but only at a discount. As far as the invoice price, you’ll more than recoup what I’m offering with your year-end bonus package from the manufacturer. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll have to consult with my manager.”

            “Why don’t we both talk to him?”

******

Neat approach, huh? I hope you enjoyed the by-play between BJ and the car salesman. The next time I buy a car (providing there is a next time), I intend to use this approach. Given my past performance, I’d probably fumble the pitch and ask the Ford dealership salesman for a Chevrolet product.

As always, thanks for reading. Let me know what you think of the post.

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

New Mexico ... What a Gorgeous State! Come visit us.

Anyone who has read my blogs knows I am in love with New Mexico. My books, the BJ Vinson series, extol the beauties of the land almost as much as they concentrate on the mysteries that occupy the protagonist. The Zozobra Incident describes Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and points between. The Bisti Business takes us to Taos and across the state to the Four Corners area around Farmington and Shiprock and the Bisti Wilderness area. The City of Rocks explores the southern and Boot Heel sections of the state. And that leaves so much not yet covered.

The purpose of this post is to reinforce the image of a fascinating state by showcasing only three of the state’s National Monuments. This is not a scholarly discussion of the sites, in fact there is amazingly little prose appended. I’ll depend upon the spectacular photographs to do the job. All are courtesy of Wikipedia Creative Commons. The brief descriptions are provided by Wikipedia, as well.

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WHITE SANDS NATIONAL MONUMENT

White Sands from Space

White Sands National Monument

This is a US National Monument located about 16 miles southwest of Alamogordo, covering a part of both Otero and Doña Ana Counties. We have all seen photos similar to the one on the left, but I suspect few of us have viewed the monument from space, as seen on the right. The area is in the Tularosa Basin, covering part of a 275 square-mile field of gypsum dunes … the largest in the world. Because gypsum is water-soluble, it is normally dissolved by rain and carried to the sea. The Tularosa Basin is mountain-ringed and has no outlet to the sea, so the dissolved gypsum is trapped. As water either sinks into the ground or evaporates from shallow pools, gypsum in a crystalline form called selenite is deposited on the surface. Well worth a visit!

THE RIO GRANDE DEL NORTE NATIONAL MONUMENT

Ute Mountain rising above the
Rio Grande del Norte

A roughly 240,000-acre area of public lands in Taos County was proclaimed a National Monument on March 25, 2013. It contains the Rio Grande Gorge (visited in The Bisti Business and in prior blog posts) and surrounding lands. The monument includes two BLM recreation areas: a portion of the Rio Grande which has been designated as a Wild and Scenic River, and the Red River Wild and Scenic River. The city of Taos is a logical starting point for a rewarding visit. Heck, Taos, itself, which is a noted Art Center, is worth the trip alone.

KASHA-KATUWE TENT ROCKS NATION MONUMENT

Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument

This Bureau of Land Management supervised site is located 40 miles southwest of Santa Fe, near Cochiti. One passes the Santo Domingo Pueblo (recently renamed Kewa Pueblo) on the way to Tent Rocks, as it is commonly called. The area was created from layers of volcanic rock and ash deposited by a volcanic explosion within the Jemez Volcanic Field (also a subject of a previous blog post on the Valles Caldera) some 6 to 7 million years ago. The weathering and erosion of soft pumice and tuff from caprocks over the years has formed cones called Tent Rocks as high as 90 feet in height. There is a 1.2-mile trail leading through Slot Canyon to a lookout point where the rocks can be viewed from above. The park is located on the Pajarito Plateau between 5,700 and 6,400 feet above sea level. This site is open only in the day and does not permit dogs. The monument may be closed by order of the Governor of Cochiti Pueblo during tribal holy days when the pueblo does not permit the presence of outsiders.

Again, the photographs are courtesy of Wikipedia Commons (3).

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I hope this whetted the appetite for all of you to visit us and experience our natural wonders and get a taste of the three dominant cultures of our state: Native American, Hispanic, and Anglo.

As always, thanks for reading. Let me know what you think of the post.

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