María José at Cowboy Jamboree

My story "María José" now out in COWBOY JAMBOREE's new themed anthology, I Feel Just Like A Dogwood Tree, writing inspired by Terry Allen's alt-country album Juarez.

[Note: loyal readers may recognize that this story has appeared previously, and is even on this my very blog]

 

María José—short fiction

"María José" appeared in SOL LITERARY JOURNAL back in 2011, and was chosen for their 'Best of' anthology in 2012. You can buy the anthology here. Note: The SOL website no longer exists.

"María José" is also part of my novel MASKED MAN, the first 20 pages of which you can read here. 

Who am I? You’re just now asking me? Ok, I’ll tell you my story, though you won’t understand me. I’m from Guadalajara, I was born there. My father worked in a panadería, a bread store, and mother worked in a tortillería, where tortillas are made. The real kind that smell good and you can eat them warm and fresh right from the over. My parents had three children. Me, my little sister Marta, and my little brother Arturo. Bueno, when I was twelve, my father left. He was sleeping with another woman and my mother found out. She didn’t tell him to leave, just got angry and called him stupid and a hijo puta, because he was, and then he left with the other girl. She was closer to my age than my mother’s, which is strange. They went to Mexico DF and we never heard from him again. In Mexico, a man doesn’t have to take care of the wife if he leaves. Yes, there are laws but they don’t matter.

You want to know how I learned to shoot a gun? We stayed with my Tío Octavio and his family a lot. The brother of my father. My mother had to take another job. His house was out in the country and he used to be a mili, a soldado, and he had guns. He taught all of us to fire guns, even us girls, because he said one day the people would rise and take back the country from los ricos. And also he said that mexican girls should know how to defend themselves. From who? From mexican men. And he was right.

As soon as I was old enough I quit school and started working at the tortillería, but even then there wasn’t enough lana, enough dinero. Tío Octavio paid for our house. Then his wife, Tía Linda, found out he was sleeping with my mother. Ay ay ay, she even came to the tortillería to scratch out my mother’s eyes!

After that, Tío Octavio never talked to us again and never gave us any more money and my mother had to sell the house. We had no family there, her parents had died before. She had a friend in Puerto Vallarta who could get her a job working at a hotel, she couldn’t take all of us. Or bueno, sí, she could have, but she had another plan. We have family in Phoenix. She wanted to send my sister and me, and later my brother when he got older, to Phoenix, where we could make a lot more money.

The problem was that we didn’t have enough money to get my sister and me to America. We could barely get to Santa Teresa by bus. There are men, even in Guadalajara, who will take people to America, but the majority of them are narcos, los narcotraficantes, the ones who sell drugs, and my mother didn’t want nothing to do with them.

But my mom’s plan was for us to go to Santa Teresa and work at one of the maquiladoras and make enough money to pay a coyote to get us across the border. My mother knew someone who worked here, and called her, one time only, and told her that we were coming. Then she put us on the bus. I just turned sixteen.

When we arrived in Santa Teresa, my mother’s friend wasn’t there. We called the phone number but the person we talked to said she didn’t live there no more and she didn’t know where she went.

In Santa Teresa, there are men who wait at the bus station, looking for girls to work in the maquiladoras. I didn’t know what to do. We didn’t even have a place to stay! A man said he could get us work, but that there was what he called a hiring fee, which was just a bribe. I told him we didn’t have no money and he said, That’s ok, we’ll take it out of your check. So I said yes. What was I supposed to do? And the man took us to an apartment building filled with other girls working at the maquiladoras and found us a room to stay and said he would take the rent out of our check too. I said ok because I’m stupid. But I was only sixteen and had to take care of my sister, you know? We didn’t have almost no money. The guy, he had us sign papers, and told us where to go to work. Then he asked me if we needed money for food. I thought he would just take that out of our checks too, but no, He said he’s give me some if I sucked him! He said it right in front of my sister! Hijo de puta! Of course I said no. He just shrugged like it was no big deal and left and I sat and cried, and my sister cried and there we were, we didn’t know anybody, crying and holding each other.

Our room was the size of closet and we shared a bathroom down the hall. But it was ours, and we started work the next day.

The other girls were nice. They were from all over Mexico. All of us doing the same thing, except some wanted to go to America and some just came because they thought they could make enough right there. I thought so too, until saw our first checks! Thieves! Ladrones! All of them!

What did we do? We sowed shirts. This shirt I’m wearing? My maquiladora probably made it!

Here’s what they do. They give you a job on first shift, during the day. The maquiladoras are filled with girls. Some guys, but mostly girls. The men are the supervisors, of course. Los jefes. But then there are the jefes of the jefes, the men who come in suits, they walk around, look at everything. They go in the office, they come out of the office. They drive around in their fancy trucks, theirs SUVs, watching, looking. When they see a girl they like, they take her. They ask her jefe, Who’s that? What’s her name? Then they wait outside for the girl, and tell her to get in. This happens a lot. And the girls get in. Why? Because the men have money. The men tell them they’ll take them out, to restaurantes and clubs. To dance and drink. Except, sometimes the girls don’t come back. I didn’t learn this until later.

Mostly it’s just guys. Regular guys. Meaning mexican guys, so cuidado anyways, but yes, girls go out and nothing happens. They drink. They dance. They fuck. The girls come back crying. Or not. They come back smiling. Or not. They get pregnant and have abortions. Or not.

The jefes of the jefes, they want a girl, here’s what they do. They tell the little jefes to change a girl’s schedule. Suddenly she’s not working the day shift any more. Now she’s working the night shift. Now the buses aren’t running. Now there’s not people in the streets. Now she has to maybe walk home in the dark. Now she’s a little scared. Then there’s a rich guy in a fancy SUV asking if she needs a ride. He and his friends will give her a ride. And why doesn’t she ask one of her friends if she wants to come along too. That’s another way. They get one girl, who will invite other girls. Not her friends. One time I had a girl that I didn’t know ask me if I wanted to go out dancing that night. She wasn’t even smiling. She looked scared and desperate and had a bruise on the side of her face. When I said no, she looked like she was going to cry.

So I start to learn what’s going on. Our friends, the other girls, start to talk, tell each other what we heard. Help each other survive. Tell each other about when a girl is found out in the desert, dead. Killed. And more than killed. Tortured. Raped. And then one of the girls was someone I knew. Tatiana. She lived in our building. One day she never came home. Nobody knew what happened to her. We thought she just left. Some people do that, just leave and go home. But then two weeks later we knew what happened to her. Two boys found her out in the desert. It was on the news, but you know what? No police ever came to our buildings to talk to us. No police ever came to our maquiladora. They didn’t ask us anything. Only because her family came to Santa Teresa and asked did they know anything.

And then my sister got moved to night shift. I told her no, don’t do it, but she said it was ok, she would always go with friends, and that it would be better for us to work different shifts so that we weren’t crowding each other in the room all the time. And I said ok, está bien, because you know? That sounded good. I was tired of living in the building and tired of being with my sister all the time. I was egoísta and said, está bien. And then after a week, just one week, she didn’t come home. I knew, but I had to ask anyways. I found some of the girls she was friends with, the ones she said she would always come home with. And you know what they told me? That she got in the car with a man. She said it was ok, she knew him. And then she never came home.

And so...And so I had to be the one to call my mother and tell her. I had to be the one to listen to my mother cry over the phone. I had to be the one to listen to my mother ask why I didn’t take care of her. I had to be the one to listen to my mother get angry with me, yell at me, for letting my sister get killed. It was my fault.

I never went back to the maquiladora. I just never went back inside. But yes, I did go back once, to look for the car. I waited outside for two days looking for a car that fit the description of what my sister’s friends described. And then it appeared. It was parked out front, down the street from the entrance, where they could watch all the girls leaving. There were two men inside. I walked to it and pounded on the window. The driver, he rolled down his window and I started yelling, Where’s my sister! Where’s my sister!

And the man asked me, Who’s your sister, and I said her name and without even thinking about it he said, I don’t know her. Then the hijo puta asked me if I wanted to get in the car so we could go look for her. And they laughed. So I kept yelling, calling them names, insulting them.

Then the driver, he pulled out a pistol and pointed it right at my face and called me a puta and told me to shut up. The other guy kept laughing and I hated them both. The driver said that my sister was a puta and that she got what she deserved and that I was a puta and that I would get what I deserved. Then he told me he would come find me some night and show me where my sister was. And he asked me if anyone would care if he shot me right there in the street.

What could I do? I was so angry, but I backed away. I thought if I turned around he would shoot me in the back, so I backed away, down the sidewalk, and when they stopped looking at me I turned around and started walking.

So what does a girl do to earn enough money to pay a coyote if she doesn’t work at a maquiladora? What does she do when there are thousands of other girls the same age who are coming to Santa Teresa to do the same thing? Well, I’ll tell you. She can’t work at a restaurant and even make enough to survive. Or a supermercado. So, she can become a puta, just like that man said. They call us putas and then make it so that’s all we can do if we don’t want to die. So I become a dancer, because being a dancer is the least bad way of being a puta.

It’s not so bad. You get used to it. You separate yourself from it. You separate yourself from your body. You act they way you know you’ll get the most money. And men don’t care. They don’t care if you are pretending. I don’t know if that’s because they’re stupid or because that’s they way they really want girls to act. Which is stupid also. So either way men are stupid. Or that’s how it is in Mexico.

In America men must not be like that. Both of you are caballeros. That’s a joke. You are caballeros, but you are also crazy. That’s ok, está bien. I’m crazy too.

So why did that pendejo hate me so much? Well, because when I left the maquiladora, I just left. I didn’t go back to my apartment. There wasn’t anything there anyway, just clothes. I left. Vanished. Everyone probably thought I was another dead girl they’d never see again. That’s what I wanted. I didn’t want to have anything to do with that place or those people.

But there was another reason. Before I started saving my money to pay a coyote, I started saving my money to buy a gun. And dancing at El Torre gave me plenty of chances to buy one. I never did some things, like drogas, neither sell them or do them, or prostitue myself like most girls do. Never. But I did buy a gun. I made sure it was from a guy who wasn’t a regular.

And then I went back to the maquiladora and waited for that car. Three days waiting. Then it was there. I walked by it to see who was inside, and it was the same two men. I would never forget them. They didn’t even recognize me the first time I went by. They just whistled and asked me if I needed a ride. I walked past them. I was scared. I wasn’t sure if I would do it. Then I heard one of them laugh and call me a puta. That did it. I walked down the street and back, and when I got to the car I walked up, raised the gun and shot the driver twice. Then before the other guy could get out his gun I shot him twice. Then I kept shooting until the gun was empty and I left.

It was easy to disappear. People saw me do it, but I just walked away and no one said anything. I walked a couple blocks, took a bus into the city and got off after a couple blocks and took another bus. No one knew where I was, or where I lived. Just another girl. Just another puta. But I was a ghost, come back from the dead for vengeance.

So now you know why I want to go to America. Not because of my mother, not because it’s what she wants, but for me. To leave. To leave Mexico forever and never come back and all the mexican men can go to hell and die.

La Chingada—short story

The website where "La Chingada" originally appeared, connu.co, no longer exists (Q.D.E.P.). Enjoy!
 

A dust storm from the south came in earlier that afternoon: The changing light, the red wall of grit covering Albuquerque. Into any open window or door. Into eyes and mouths if caught outside. Then gone by night, leaving a dirty layer. But the sky had cleared. Even the smog. Stars glowing.

After brushing off the dust from the front steps of his family’s trailer, Roberto sat drinking a Coke, watching the littler boys play soccer out in the street under the lights. His mother inside, clapping from a game show on Univisión coming through the door, mixed with his sister’s new Shakira cd, in English, from her bedroom.

His friend Antonio came running up, smiling. Hey cabrón! Qué onda?

Roberto shook his head, almost laughing. Nada, chitolín.

Gripping wrists and knocking fists. Antonio sat down next to him. Hey man, you want to get laid finally?

Roberto laughed. What?

Serious man. Finally get it over with. Be a man. Un hombre!

En serio?

Sí en serio. I know this guy, Nesto, one of the other bussers at La Señorita. He knows this guy who’s got a girl over there. She putting out for anyone man. He said we could come over.

Roberto laughed again. How much?

Antonio shrugged. Nothing I don’t think. I don’t know.

No way.

Cabrón. It’s time. How you gonna have any confidence with the ladies if you don’t get it over with? They can tell you haven’t done it yet.

Me?

Pues, yo también, claro. The ladies like a guy who knows what he’s doing. This is our chance!

Roberto thought about it. Hold on.

He went inside and to his room for his wallet. His sister’s music louder, with her singing along. He went back out to the living room, pausing at the door. Mamá, me voy.

She looked at him quickly, then back at the television. Adónde vas?

Out.

Con quien?

Antonio.

Bueno. Not late.

No. Como no.

They crossed under I-40, car and trucks rumbling over the cement. Antonio pointed at a fence, and slipped through a hole. Roberto followed, into a trailer park. A gust of wind. Plastic bags and scraps of paper blowing down the street. Antonio laughed. Woo!

He pointed to the trailer at the end of the cul-de-sac, with an old pickup in the driveway and two cars parked out front. The boys ran up the front step and Antonio pounded on the door. Abré!

The door opened and a man in a dirty white t-shirt opened. Short black hair, un-shaven, black jeans, and boots. Old green tattoos on his arms and chest. Skulls. Knives. Qué? Quienes son?

Antonio stopped smiling. Amigos de Nesto.

The man nodded and stepped back. Ah. Bueno. Come in. Pásale.

The boys stepped into the living room. Six other young men sat on the floor and couches, smoking cigarettes. Some norteño cranked on the stereo, and a lucha libre match on the tv with the sound off.

Antonio smiled and went over to one of them and banged fists. Vato!

Tonio, cabrón, you made it.

Yeah man, I brought Roberto.

Roberto nodded as Ernesto introduced everyone. The older guy, Rufi, handed them both a beer. You got money?

The boys stared at each other. Antonio shrugged. Cuánto?

Rufi looked at them, smiling. How old are you?

Antonio looked at Roberto quickly. Fifteen.

Rufi stared at him. Fifteen, huh? Ok, for you, twenty, hombrecito.

The boys both nodded and got out their wallets. The other guys laughed, as Rufi took the money. He motioned to the back of the trailer. She’s back there.

Antonio and Roberto looked at each other. Antonio shrugged and pointed to himself, smiling. I’ll go first, ok?

Roberto nodded. Ok.

A couple of the guys yelled anda! and órale! after Antonio as he left the room. Roberto sat on the floor next to Ernesto, who was texting someone. Ernesto saw him looking and grinned. La novia. Wants to know where I’m at!

Roberto nodded smiled and someone said, ay cabrón. Someone passed him a one-hitter and a lighter, and he took a hit. No one really watching the wrestling, talking in groups, arguing, laughing. Lots of cabróns and a la chingadas.

After a while Antonio came back out. A couple of the guys knocked fists with him, but when he sat down on the other side of Roberto he wasn’t smiling, and wouldn’t look at him.

Rufi pointed at Roberto. Próximo caballero.

The guys laughed. Roberto got up and walked down the hall. He opened the last door and went in.

She was naked, face down on the bed, wrists tied to the headboard. Not moving, face turned to the right, covered by her hair.

He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it. At the sound of the door shutting she groaned and moved slightly.

He took a step towards her. Hello?

Nothing.

Hey.

She groaned again softly.

He walked to the right side of the bed and reached down and touched her on the shoulder. Hey. You ok?

She lifted her head, her hair sticking to her face. She looked up at him, eyes glazed, whispering. Dónde...está...mi novio?

He stepped back, staring at her. Her eyelids closed and she turned her face the other direction.

He backed up to the door, looking at her, reaching for the knob. He opened the door and left, closing it behind him.

The guys cheered him when he came out. He sat back down next to Antonio and stared at the floor. Rufi came over and handed him the one-hitter and lighter. Ahora te has hecho un hombre! Don’t worry. She won’t remember shit. He smiled and went into the kitchen.

Roberto took a hit, coughed, and passed it to Antonio.

Ernesto checked his phone. Bueno, me voy. Gotta see the old lady!

He stood up and Antonio and Roberto stood too.

Rufi came back holding a can of Tecate and saluted them. Órale vatos. Luego!

They said goodbye and left. Outside the air cool and the stars still glowing. Ernest asked Antonio if they needed a ride, but he said no.

Ernesto winked. Ok mano, see you at work!

He got in his car and drove off. The two boys started walking, hands deep in their pockets. They walked without saying anything for a few minutes. Then Antonio laughed. So you fuck her man?

Roberto looked at him, then nodded. Yeah.

You use a condom?

No.

Ay cabrón, I did. I’m not gonna catch anything off of that.

They walked the rest of the way back to the trailer park in silence. At his trailer Roberto gave a wave goodbye. Antonio grinned. Bueno, compa!

Inside, his mother was still watching tv, a telenovela, sitting in her recliner and shaking her head at the women onscreen. Mira. Look at those skirts. Que putas!

She smiled at him. M’ijo, food is in the oven. Did you have fun with Antonio?

Sí Mamá.

He’s a nice boy. Un buen chico.

Roberto nodded.

The door to his sister’s room opened and Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” poured out. She walked out in her underwear and a t-shirt. She saw him and smiled, raising her arms and dancing over to him. Hey guapo!

He scowled and turned away. Vete!

His mother looked over, frowning. Susana, baja la música! And put on some clothes!

Susana danced up to him, singing and shaking her hips. Come on! Baila, Roberto!

He spun and pushed her, hard. Leave me alone!

She slammed against the refrigerator and fell to the floor. They stared at each other for a moment. Her eyes watered and she sobbed.

His mother came up out of her chair and across the room, slapping him. Roberto! Pero, qué haces?

His face darkened and he pushed her back, though not as strong. Mamá! Leave me alone! She can’t act like a puta! You can’t let her!

His mother stared at him, crossing her arms, as his sister stood up, sniffling. Roberto, qué te pasa? She frowned and pointed to the door. Fuera. Get out. You do not hit your sister.

He glared at her, opened his mouth to say something, but turned and walked outside, slamming the door.

He stood on the porch, staring up through the brown haze at the few visible stars, clenching his fists. The hiss of traffic on the freeway. His mother’s television and the program voices. His mother talking and sister crying. The wind. He breathed in, deeply. And held it.

MASKED MAN—novel excerpt

The first 20 pages of my (as yet unpublished) novel, MASKED MAN. Enjoy.

Crow circles over South Mountain, in Phoenix, early morning, cawing occasionally, flying lower and lower until it lands on the branch of a palo verde tree outside a ranch house in Ahwatukee, side-stepping until he can see through the window, at the old man laying on the black pleather couch in the middle of the room, asleep with an empty bottle of scotch on the floor. Long-sleeved green shirt untucked, fly on his Wranglers unzipped, and snakeskin cowboy boots.

On the wall behind the couch, with the door on one corner, hangs a college diploma, a doctorate in literature from Wayne State University. Also pictures: The man a little younger, but not too much, smiling, with a thin woman his age next to him, a bit tired looking, though also smiling, wearing a bandanna, because she has no hair.

More: The man and woman, at different points in their younger lives, with a young woman/girl with them, hugging them. The young woman in graduation robes and hat standing on the University of Arizona campus. The three them standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon. The man and woman looking like frazzled graduate student parents, the man with dark hair and a beard, the woman with long brown hair, holding their baby.

Shelves of books on the next wall: Russian and American anarchists like Bakunin, Kropotkin, Goldman, Thoreau, Abbey, as well as novelists like Tolstoy, Cervantes, Hugo. One whole section filled with Louis L’amour and Zane Grey. A large screen tv against the third wall, with rows of DVDs on each side. The television on, sound down low, a woman on the screen. The bodies of two more young women were found buried in the desert on the mexican side of the border this weekend, yet more victims of drug-related violence that has been building for years in the city of Santa Teresa, in the state of Sonora.

Crow inches himself closer to the window, cawing again, the branch dipping down under his weight. He caws again, and lightly taps its beak against the glass. The old man inside moves slightly, putting his arm over his eyes. Crow tilts his head, waiting, then caws and again taps on the glass, harder this time.

The man snores once, loudly, jerks, and opens his eyes, looking around, not moving, then slowly closes his eyes again. A Taco Bell commercial. Head to the border!

Crow moves his head, looking at the man with its other eye, and caws again.

The man opens his eyes again, sighing. He sits up and rubs his face. Goddamn crow. Goddamn everything.

He looks out the window and sighs again. He stands up, accidentally knocking over the bottle. Looks at it. Leaves it. Walks around the couch to the pictures on the wall, looking at the newest one, the latest one. He kisses his pointing finger, then puts the finger against her mouth. Hello Jenny.

He leaves his Man Room, goes into the kitchen and starts a pot of coffee, leaning against the counter, staring out the window at the corral next to the house. The horses up and out and walking around. When the coffee is ready he pours a big cup, straight, and walks outside.

The air still cool. The old man holds the coffee cup in both hands walking out to the corral. The horses see him and trot over to the fence, lifting their heads. Morning Silver. Morning Sunshine. Morning Lady.

He strokes their snouts. Are we ready?

He goes into the barn and pours their oats. The horses come in and dip their heads in, munching while he runs some fresh water into their tank.

Back inside, he goes into the bathroom with a pair of scissors, looking at himself in the mirror as he trims his beard. With a razor, he shaves the rest off, splashing aftershave on and wincing.

He showers, puts on his Wranglers and boots, then a fresh, light-blue long-sleeve shirt that he buttons up all the way. In the bedroom, he finds his white hat and puts it on, looking at himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

He packs a travel bag with two extra shirts, some underwear, and toiletries. Back outside, he goes into the barn and saddles up Silver and Sunshine, with saddle-bags, and puts a packsaddle with bags on Lady, filled with oats. All three of the horses stand and wait patiently while he does this, excited. He ties a lead line between them and leads all three out into the driveway next to the house, tying Silver’s rein to the doorknob.

Back inside to get his travel bag. In the hallway he stops and looks down at the Navaho rug. You need a blanket Ed.

He stoops down and rolls up the rug, then takes it and his bag out, putting them on Silver.

For the next hour he goes in and out of the house, bringing food items, bread, almond butter, Grape-Nuts, raisins, some chocolate bars, coffee, along with a pan, a coffee pot, and some cups, all of which he tries to put in Sunshine’s bags, and if they don’t fit, he ties them on the outside with zipties and bungee cords.

When the horses’ bags are bulging, he tells them to hold on, and goes back inside, walking around the house, looking for something. He can’t find it. He stands in his study, looking around, thinking. He looks at his desk, goes over to it, and opens one of the side drawers, labeled “School Stuff.” Taking out a black marker and going back into the bathroom. Leaning in close to the mirror, he uncaps the marker and draws a large circle around each eye, up over his eyebrow and over the bridge of his nose, filling them in all black. He puts on his white hat. He smiles.

Leaving his keys on the kitchen counter, he goes outside, locking the door behind him. Untying the horses, he swings himself up into Silver’s saddle and sits, straight-backed, looking around one last time. With a soft flick of the reins, he says to his horse, Hi ho Silver, and heads south.

Gordon Lightfoot came out the front entrance of the Wildhorse Casino, rolling up his smock. His supervisor, Gus, right behind him. Hey college boy!

Gordon leaned up against one of the columns, searching with one hand in his jean jacket pockets.

Gus came up to him, pointing. No one talks to me that way, college boy.

You mean when I said stop talking to me like I’m an idiot?

I mean you disrespecting me.

Me disrespecting you? Gordon handed him his bunched up smock. You can find someone else to cook burgers.

Gus grabbed the smock. I can find anyone to cook burgers.

Exactly.

You can’t quit.

I just did.

You’ll never work on the Gila River Reservation again!

I think that’s ok.

Gus stared at him a second, then walked back inside. Gordon checked his pockets again and found a pack of cigarettes, American Spirit, and took one out and lit it. After he took his first drag, he looked out across the parking lot and saw a man with three horses riding towards the casino. They reached the parking lot and kept coming through the rows of cars, right up to the front step where Gordon was standing. The man said whoah softly and pulled on the reins, bringing all three horse to a stop. He looked at Gordon, pushing back his hat. Howdy.

Gordon did a double-take. What’d you do to your eyes?

Tonto, that’s my mask. You should know that.

Gordon took a last drag of his cigarette, and threw it to the ground, stepping on it. What did you call me?

Tonto.

That’s what I thought.

We’ve got a mission Tonto.

A what?

A mission. An adventure. A quest.

Man, are you fucking batshit crazy or what?

Two middle-aged white ladies walked past them, going in, looking at both of them, wide-eyed. Gordon heard one whisper to the other, Do they have wild west shows here? Gordon looked back through the doors and saw Gus inside, talking to two security guards. Shit.

Well Tonto, ready?

Let me get this straight. You want me to go with you? Where’re we going?

Mexico.

Mexico? Why?

To rescue a mexican señorita.

Why?

Because that’s what we do. We help people. We rescue them when they need rescuing. Like mexican señoritas. It’s our job. I need your Indian tracking skills.

Gordon shook his head. Oh shit. Look man, I never rode a horse in my life.

The man pulled out his wallet, which was bulging. I have wampum.

Gordon smiled, shrugging. Well why didn’t you say so?

He looked back at the casino doors, through which the two security guards were coming. He jumped up on Sunshine’s saddle and flipped them off, smiling. Adios muthafuckas!

The man flicked his reins, saying Hi ho Silver, and they started off through the parking lot.

They crossed the parking lot, south and a little west, out into the Reservation desert, until they were paralleling the freeway. Turkey buzzards circling overhead. Garbage scattered everywhere. Beer cans. Diapers. Somewhere up wind, a sewage treatment plant, its foul stench hitting them like a physical blow. They wrapped bandanas over their noses and mouths, but that did no good.

In the middle of tall scrub and palo verde trees, nearing an old deserted building, windows long smashed in and half the roof missing, they passed three big rectangular cement holes, with about a foot of green algae-filled water. Gordon almost jumped out of his saddle when something long and slimy, primordial, flopped in the deepest area. Jesus Christ what the fuck is that?!

They stopped the horses, covering their mouths in the crooks of their arms. In the murky water lay a huge mutant trout, the marks on its back like black eyes, or torture scars, or a prophecy thrown with ancient bones. The fish flopped its tail again, barely moving in what little water there was. What they looked more closely they saw two other fish just as large, barely moving their fins.

Gordon looked at the building. What is this place?

Ed McCarthy looked around. Trout farm?

A trout farm? In the middle of the desert? How? Why?

McCarthy shrugged.

Gordon shook his head. Fucking Indians. Only they would do something like that.

The first fish flopped again, like a death throe, but they saw that it was actually raising itself to catch one of the bugs, flies, mosquitoes, that had begun to buzz them and the horses, going straight for their eyes.

Come on, Tonto, let’s get out of here. Nothing but ghosts.

They passed some BIA houses, ten of them out in the middle of nowhere, all the same, faux-adobe squares, scrunched together on a few acres of land when there were acres of desert all around. Some children were playing outside one of the house and waved to them. They waved back.

They took a dirt road south from the BIA houses and got to a brand new complex of buildings, though no one seemed to be around. The sign out front at the paved road/highway proclaimed it an alcohol rehab center.

They looked up and down the road. Nothing to the west, though to the east in the distance they could see buildings and the sun shining cars on I-10. They nudged the horses across the pavement and into more garbage-strewn desert.

They rode until evening, then stopped in an old sandy wash. Ed took off his hat, wiping his brow on his sleeve, slightly smearing the marker, which had already been running down his cheeks like black tears. We’ll stop here and camp for the night.

Gordon looked around. Here?

Yep.

We’re not going to get a hotel or anything?

Nope.

Not even a motel?

Nope.

Alright.

Now Tonto, if you want to collect some wood, I’ll take care of the horses and then get out some food for us.

Ok boss.

There wasn’t much wood to get in a desert, but Gordon found some old palo verde branches and a dried out saguaro trunk. He dragged them back and piled on other smaller branches and some grass into a pile. Taking out a notebook from his inside jacket pocket, he tore off a page and stuck it in the bottom of the pile, lighting it with his lighter. The grass took, and soon flames spread to the branches. He stared at the flames for a while, then looked up at the sky. The stars had started to come out, bright and clear away from the city, though he could still see car lights from the freeway way off in the distance.

Ed put the coffee pot on the edge of the fire, and threw some beans in the frying pan. When they were warm, he poured half in a bowl and handed it to Gordon, along with some bread and cheese.

Gracias.

I didn’t know you spoke Spanish, Tonto.

A little. Couple years in college. For example, did you know that tonto means stupid?

I didn’t know that, Tonto. We’ll need your Spanish-speaking skills when we get down to Mexico. When we rescue María.

The mexican señorita?

Yep.

Do you actually know this mexican señorita?

Not actually, Tonto, but I’ve heard she’s in trouble. Mexican banditos.

Banditos?

Or maybe the federales. But probably banditos. Hard to tell nowadays.

Well, that’s probably true. Do you know where to find her?

That’s where your Indian tracking skills come in, Tonto.

Right.

They ate refried beans on tortillas, with slices of cheese, washed down with water, sitting over the fire, which had dwindled to some embers under the coffee pot. After he had washed out the pan with a little water, Ed McCarthy continued to throw small twigs and branches on, as they sipped coffee.

Gordon spat. Damn Ed, you could’ve brought some instant. These grounds are killing me.

That’s cowboy coffee, Tonto.

It’s like rock coffee. If rocks could float, which they can’t, so never mind.

Adding the cold water is supposed to make the grinds sink to the bottom.

Supposed to, huh?

Ed McCarthy shrugged. The life of a cowboy is rough.

Gordon spat out another ground. For an Indian too.

So Tonto, tell me about yourself. You’re always so stoic, never saying.

Gordon stared at him. Are you serious?

Your help is always appreciated, but we’ve ridden so long together I feel we should finally unburden ourselves.

As he said this, Ed McCarthy was staring into the glowing coals. Gordon took another sip of coffee and ate another piece of 82% cacao chocolate. Well, Ed, my father’s Apache, but my mother’s actually Crow. She and my dad met at a powwow up in Boseman, and she just came back down to Arizona, to Globe, with him and they got married. My dad was a firefighter for the BIA for a long time, he was already in his thirties when they had me. My mom, she was like eighteen. Bad mix. Also, they both drank. My dad not so much, but my mom, a little too much. She didn’t work cause she had me, and my dad was always gone on fires, so there she was stuck on a new reservation and basically stuck in the house taking care of me, so she did a lot of drinking. My dad would come back from being out of state on fires somewhere and sometimes just find me by myself in my crib. My mom would be down at the bar. I don’t remember any of this, you know. Anyway, this went on, I was oh, two or so, and then one time my dad came back home and she wasn’t there and she never came back.

They stared at the fire.

So I got raised by my dad when he was home, but mostly by my aunt, his sister. She already had five kids of her own, so she didn’t really mind. I guess.

Did you ever see your mother again?

Oh yeah. Later. Like when I was ten she got back in touch with me. She married this white guy up there. An oil driller, but like the owner of a company. Big christian. So he kind of cleaned her up. Or she cleaned herself up. Didn’t want to lose out on that money. She called, asked me if I wanted to come live with her. But I said no. I didn’t even know who she was. Like, who was this strange woman talking to me on the phone? She tried talking to my dad about it, but he wasn’t having any of it. And, she didn’t push it. Probably could’ve made me go up there if she really wanted. But she didn’t. I think she was just doing her christian duty, though I don’t think she ever really cared about all that. Later when I was a teenager I did go up and visit. Wanted to check it out, you know. Her husband, Jack, was a real winner. Nice house. Nice church. She never said nothing when he was around. Fucker tried to make me go to church when I was there. Like, any person under my roof goes to church, but I was like, no way. His face got beet red, you know the way palefaces get when they’re angry, which is all the time.

Later that night I heard them fighting in the kitchen. About me. Like, arguing, but then fighting. I was upstairs in the guest room and I heard him hit her and I was down there like a jackrabbit. She was sitting on the floor crying, holding her face, and he was standing over her and I didn’t even slow down, I just walked right up and hit him right in the nose. Knocked right to the ground. I think all three of us were surprised. I didn’t know what else to say, so I said something like, Don’t hit my mother or I’ll kill you! He just stared at me, then got up and went upstairs. Big guy too. I was just a scrawny Indian kid.

And what’d I get? My mother told me, You can’t stay here. You have to leave now. So I packed my stuff. Right before I left, she handed me an envelope with a thousand dollars in it. I don’t know how she got it, if she just stole it or had been saving it. But she told me, Gordon, you have to get off the Rez. You have to make money. This is what happens to us because we don’t have any money. I’ll always remember that. So I took the money and left. I didn’t know whether to say thank you or what.

You never saw her again?

No. Thing is, she stayed with the motherfucker. But, she had my address, and sometimes she would send me money. When I got in high school, every letter had some money, a check, and a short note, saying she was ok and that she hoped I was ok and that I needed to keep my grades up and get into college. Get off the Rez. Get off the Rez. And, she was right. I don’t know how she was right, since she was so fucked up, but there it is.

You should see her again.

And say what?

Just, hello.

Yeah, well. Gordon poured himself some more coffee. This isn’t decaf, I can tell. I’m gonna be up all night.

So how did you get off the Rez?

Well, somewhere, I started to like reading. Didn’t get it from my dad. Didn’t get it from my mom. And not from my aunt Mabel either, but her kids, my cousins, they were in school and bringing home their books, and as soon as I learned to read I was always poking around in them. Plus at school all the poor old white women who taught us were just so grateful that some of us ignorant Indians had any interest in reading they’d start giving us books every day. I didn’t fit in anyways, since I was the runt of the family I was already being picked on at home, by the time I got to school, being picked on was second nature. It was just the way it was. Books were just a way to escape, get away. Better to go to the library for lunch than hang around the cafeteria and get picked on. And the teachers and librarians let me, and some others. Like I said, old white ladies love Indians. Or at least the ones who want to read books about white people.

My daughter’s a schoolmarm too.

A what?

A schoolmarm.

Jesus Ed, I forgot, you’re crazy. Anyway, I shouldn’t make fun of those women. They saved my Indian ass. By junior high I moved back into my dad’s house and basically lived by myself, since he was gone a lot. I shouldn’t say that. In the winter he was around, and he took me hunting. Sometimes we’d just drive, go on all the old two tracks, listening to the radio if we could get something way out there. Fishing. He knew some good fishing spots too. So, suddenly I wasn’t an Indian nerd. I wasn’t overweight, didn’t have glasses. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but there were plenty of other kids who were eating Coco Krispies every meal and just watching tv and getting beat and fucked by their fathers. Prime victims. Whereas I had actual real Indian skills like fishing and shooting guns. Kids stopped picking on me.

I never forgot what my mom told me. Whatever else she did, she was right. I looked around at the Rez and just saw that we couldn’t win. My dad was one of the lucky ones, with an actual real job, but firefighting doesn’t pay that much unless you’re on fires, unless you’re working overtime, unless you’re gone a lot. But those kinds of jobs are the ones all the guys want. Any other BIA jobs are just hard to get, and people who work them tend to get their family in on them. Other than that, nothing. So, you stay and have no work and are poor, or you leave the Rez and are just a little bit more than poor, but nobody ever does. Families don’t want their kids to leave. They say they don’t want us to lose our culture, our heritage, so we stay and end up like our parents, poor, overweight, living in shitty houses in shitty cities, like Globe.

Did your father want you to stay?

You know, I think maybe they only thing my parents had in common was to get me to college. Once I was sixteen, he got me into firefighting, on the BIA handcrews, during the summer, and sometimes even during school, for the money, but even if he wasn’t home a lot, he did always ask about my grades. I think his plan was for me to go off to college, but then come back.

Is that what you’re going to do?

Does it look like it?

Something happened.

I got up with the fire bug. Instead of heading to college right after high school, I just fought fires. Good money, lots of travel. Kept me in shape. I could drink all the beer I wanted and never get a gut. I started to be gone more than my dad. We hardly saw each other for two years.

I know why you stopped fighting fires.

Yeah? Why?

I saw that notebook you were scribbling in.

Gordon grinned. Ed, you guessed my secret! The reason those white ladies loved me so much in school was because I wasn’t just reading, I was writing.

Tonto, you are a poet.

He nodded. Yep, and after two years of fighting fires, I realized I hadn’t written anything, and hadn’t read much either. I could see that I was going to end up exactly like my dad. Which to most people, that’s not a bad thing. Most guys on the Rez would kill for my job.

You quit.

Yep. Cold turkey. Went back to my white lady angels from school and they helped me get my application for Mesa Community College together and then I left.

That’s where my daughter’s a schoolmarm.

Yeah? Small world. I didn’t even say goodbye to my dad, he was up in Idaho with his engine. With the fire money I had from that summer I headed to Phoenix and fell into the Indian curse.

The Indian curse?

Away from the Rez, surrounded by white folks. I started to understand why no one ever left. Every fucking day somebody calling me Chief, asking me where my bow and arrows were. Trying to go to classes, filled with white people, and work at a Safeway filled with white people. It’s hard bagging groceries knowing you could be on a fire out in the Chiracawas, getting paid three times what Safeway pays, and at least getting respected. Or at least just, you know, walking around on a mountain with a pulaski in my hand watching trees torch a hundred feet in the air. So, I did what any self-respecting Indian would do: I started drinking.

That’s the Indian Curse?

The whole thing’s the Indian Curse. The drinking’s just the final manifestation of it. Or, no, the final manifestation is waking up under a bush out back of my apartment complex.

Did you drop out of school?

Gordon smiled. Not at first. I made it to year two, and I never would’ve done it without another white woman helping me. She was my composition teacher my first semester and then my second. She didn’t give up on me, even when I would vanish for a week because I was drunk. I barely passed most of the other classes, and she did some talking to some of the other instructors too. I’m telling you, she went out of her way. I don’t know why. No, I know why. She liked my writing. She said I was a good writer. So I took her second writing class, and then the next year I took a creative writing class she taught. After that I didn’t have any more writing classes and things went downhill.  As long as I had writing classes, I could keep my GPA up. That, plus I did ok in the two lit classes I had, and ok in Spanish too. The rest? Math? Science? Not so good. Meanwhile I kept losing jobs. They’re not so understanding about vanishing for a week. My fire money ran out. I couldn’t get work. I just could not take going to another white guy and asking him for a job bagging groceries. I just couldn’t.

What was this teacher’s name?

Ms. McCormick. Hot too. And young, sort of.

Tonto, that’s my daughter you’re talking about.

Ed, are you serious? I’m sorry I said she’s hot.

It’s alright. Why didn’t you ask her for help?

Gordon hesitated. Well, she was always busy. I mean, she wasn’t my teacher anymore. I guess I was just ashamed.

He dumped the grounds at the bottom of his cup into the fire. I just didn’t want her to know how bad it was. How bad I was. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Ok, go on.

Go on? I haven’t talked this much in my whole life! Nothing else to say. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t work in another fucking Safeway, so I went down to the Wildhorse Casino. I went to another Rez, just so I wouldn’t feel like a freak. Just so I could be around some more brownfaces. And you saw how that worked out. Not all brownfaces treat other brownfaces from other tribes very well. Plus, I’m an asshole.

Tonto, you’re a poet.

I’m an asshole poet.

But a poet nonetheless.

Ed McCarthy stood up, tossing the dregs of his coffee on the fire. Well Tonto, we have a long day tomorrow.

Ed, can we maybe stop at a WalMart or something tomorrow? Get some water? Or a Coke?

If you can use your tracking skills to get us to a trading post, Tonto, I’d be much obliged.

Ok Ed. Well, I’m going to turn in. You got a sleeping bag for me?

I’ve got this Navaho blanket for you.

You know Ed, nobody actually uses those anymore. Not even the Navahos. Look, this one was made in China.

The Navahos make great scouts, Tonto.

What’s that got to do with anything?

Ed McCarthy didn’t reply. Gordon stood up. Hey Ed?

Yes Tonto?

Did you pack any toilet paper?

Cowboys don’t use toilet paper Tonto.

They don’t? What do they use?

Leaves. Rocks.

Rocks?

River rocks work well because they’re smooth.

Ed, we’re in a desert.

Goodnight Tonto.

Ed lay down on his rug and wrapped himself up. Gordon stood looking at him for a second, then got out his notebook, tearing out a couple sheets. For once, his poetry notebook would be good for something.