The Tex Files

A Texas Ranger found the customer laying in the parking lot about 15 feet from the front door of the bootmaker's shop. His hair was singed and he smelled of sulphur. He was groggy, but he gave the following account:

I stopped by his shop to see if I could get him to reconsider 'bout building me some stingray boots. I knewe'd from past expurience to keep one foot outside the dour cause he get's kind'a excited when you start talking 'bout stingrays. That's how come I could see it. It was larger than Uncle Pearl's barn, aun it was shaped like a giant boot laying sideways. Suddenly somethung like lightnun struke and that was all I rembered. Guess I got the boot.

The old bootmaker was nowhere to be seen, and his favorite toe-box axe was missing.

What the customer had seen was a giant UFB, that be an un-identified flying boot. It was piloted by a creature from Arizonia which is a place nearly two-light years away from Texas, that be about a one hour time difference. There's a war going on in Arizonia right now. The war is between folks who moved there from Califlourania, and folks who walked up from Mexicola. The Califlouranians want the Mexicolas to do all the work, but they don't want anybody to know about it, and they want to kick the Mexicolas out. It's hard to reconcile what the Califlouranians want with what they say they want, but that's the way it is with most wars, they often don't make a lot of sense to anybody but the participants.

The captain of the UFB was a giant Spider who wore a beaver hat. The old bootmaker had been de-materialized, then re-materialized, then transported up to the flying boot by a collective imagination ray, the deadliest ray known to man, it's been known to make folks completely disappear. It happened to captain Spider once, he disappeared from a website for a long time.

Inside the UFB it looked like some sort of a hospital, but there was nobody trying to force the old bootmaker to take medication, no shock treatments, and no probing going on --guess it wasn't a mental hospital. They told him to relax, take a seat, that he could watch a movie. Westerns were playing on all 400 channels of the inflight entertainment system. The flight attendant was named Flo, and she brought him a bowl of toe-box porridge, and it was good. Then before he knew it, the flight was over.

The travelers had been rolling along in the wagon for several hours when they spotted him. He was on the trail up ahead just standing there. They rolled up to him and said,"Howdy."

The old bootmaker spoke to them for twenty minutes. He told them about the flying boot, his idiot customer, the Spider, John Wayne, toe-box porridge, and Flo. When he was through there was silence.

Well, Orville, what'd he say?

I dunno Bill. Couldn't make head nor tails of it. Pablo, you got any idea what he said?

Sounds like a foreign language to me, sounds Swedish.

Pablo, you know any Swedish?

A little.

Well, have a go at it.

"Ikea your Volvo. I said, Ikea your Volvo."

What the hell is that, "Ikea your Volvo." Thought you said you spoke a little Swedish!

Well, that's a little. Wait, he speaking again.

Orville, can you make it out?

Sounds like he is saying "sea-a-lustic tue-bux"

"Toe-box?"

Yeah, "Toe-box."

Sounds like an indian name.

Maybe he's an indian?

Yep, Chief Toe-Box. Well he don't look like an indian.

How do you know, he could be. Indians look like all sorts of folks. Besides, he's carrying a tommy-hawk ain't he.

That ain't no tommy-hawk. Wait, he's saying something again.

Sounds like he saying "ssssealis-tex, tex"

"Yah, yah, Tex" said the old bootmaker.

Well Pablo you heard the Chief, says his name is "Tex."

"Tex," Bill, he didn't say his name was "Tex." For all you know the Chief just wants a ride down to Texas.

Well call him what you want, but I think we gota take him with us and we better getsum clothes on him. Man can't stand out in this sun in just his boots an hat holding an axe.

And why not? How'd you know that he didn't just come out here for a bath, and besides, that ain't just an axe, that's that man's soap. We could be disturbing this fellers bath for all you know.

Oh yeah, right, a fellow sunbather. Well, if he was bathing where's his towel?

Maybe he left it behind.

Yeah, well, whatever, we're taking him with us, and I think he is about your size, so do you think you can loan him some clothes till we can find his people?

That night the travlers camped near the state line not far from El Paso. They made a fire, sent out some text messages, and made a short video of Chief Toe-Box the old bootmaker which they pasted on YouTube hoping he would be recognized. They called the old bootmaker "Tex."

He found a guitar in the wagon and sat down by the campfire and sang lonely songs in Swedish. He was joined by Guzelda the monkey who played along on the harmonica. It was a quiet night.

Emmett

©

The Shot

They had been traveling south for about an hour across the valley floor. The sun was out, but it was still cool. Orville had his headphones on and the metal detectors switched on. He and dad where riding up front gazing at the ground and distance respectively as they rode along. Don Pablo was riding in the back browsing the Wall St. Journal on line.

Say, says here that New Jersey has outlawed the death penalty.

Geezus that's cruel.

What's that Bill?

I said its mighty cruel of them to make a guy spend the rest of his natural life in prison in New Jersey. You'd think you'd want to cut that one short.

What'd you say?

I said its a good thing you got those headphones on Orville so that you don't hear what Don Pablo is saying about you.

Is he cursing at another fellow?

No, just reading the paper on line that's all.

Well then why did he start cursing?

He's not cursing, and take off those headphones if you want to talk.

Orville took off his headphones and stuck his left finger in his ear and began twisting it back and forth cleaning it out.

Say Bill, you notice anything different about this land?

Yeah, I been looking at those hills up in the distance, and the ground as it is receding away, and, I don't know, but it seems to me that a lot of the color has gone out of the land since I first started painting it 50 years ago.

Yep, I've noticed that the dry gulches are drier, and the dry lakes are drier, and drain off much faster than they used to when they get some water in them, and what water they do get just isn't as much as it used to be. And when I dig down I notice that the ground is significantly drier than it used to be. I have to dig much deeper before I notice a change in the color of the soil indicating the presence of moisture. What's more, a few of the old mine shafts that I poke around in are no longer damp.

Interesting, I thought it was just my cataracts getting the better of me.


A rifle-shot rang out across the valley floor from the west and whizzed over Phone Home's head.

"Haw!" Orville pulled the wagon to the left. Don Pablo dove to the bottom of the wagon. Dad jumped to the ground and headed left of the wagon.

Pablo, pass the spy-glass.

Dad leaned against the side of the wagon and glassed to the west.

Anyone have a guess where that shot came from?

Somewhere in the direction of where you're lookin.

What'd ya see?

Nothing yet. Let's sit still and see what happens.

300 yards away two men lay on the ground with their rifles. They had come out the night before with night vision equipment, dressed in camo, carrying walkie-talkies, rifles, and a thermos of coffee. They were members of a self-elected border surveillance group looking for people crossing the desert at night. They sat all night waiting to spot someone, anyone, out crossing the desert at night. They sat, and sat, and saw nothing. By morning boredom had not only set in, but it had taken charge of their brains and displaced any traces of common sense they ever had.

In the morning an old wagon had come into view. They thought it would be "funny" to fire a shot at it. One had bet the other that he would not shoot at it, and like most such bets of this sort there would not be a winner and a loser, just two losers.

The shot was fired.

And they hadn't planned what to do next.

They wanted to run, but were afraid to be seen. So they crawled backwards toward a bolder forty feet back.

Crawling across the ground they both heard it, and they both knew what it was.
They just didn't know where it was. The sound was unmistakable, even if you never heard it before you'd know what it was.

Then a scream. The man could not help himself, he rolled over onto his back and was bit again. He kicked at the ground to shove himself away. The other man jumped up and ran, dropping his rifle.

There they are. Looks like something happened. One of 'em is running away.

The bitten man stood up. He fell over.

We better go and see what's up.

The travelers walked towards the fallen man.

Howdy, you fire that shot?

Help me!

What happened?

Let him die.

What happened?

Did you fire that shot or not?

I was bit.

Let him die.

You've got to help me. My leg is swelling up, I can feel it.

Why'd you shoot at us?

Let 'em die.

I didn't mean to.

What you doing out here anyway?

We was looking for illegals. Can you help me?

Lookin' for illegals! Border Nazis, let him die. [Don Pablo spit on the ground].

Why shouldn't we just leave you here and let you die like he says?

We didn't mean to hit you, we wuz just foolin around, honest, we didn't mean ta aim at you.

Let's get him up and into the wagon. We'll have to head in toward El Paso to find someone to help him.

The laid him down in the wagon and headed in.

What you got against Mexicans?

Their taking our jobs.

Really, now what jobs is that?

All of our jobs.

Tell me, what exactly do you do?

I install auto-mo-beale windshields.

And you're worried that a Mexican will take your job?

Sure.

Well maybe your problem is with your boss and not no Mexican. Maybe you should've thought about your career options before you quit school if you're worried about some Mexican taking your job.

Nothing more was said to the windshield installer, or by him.

His leg was discolored and swelled around the bite. But after three hours there were no signs of anything worse happening to him.

Looks like you were dry bit.

What?

No venom. Lucky you.

They came across a line-man and called in an EMT. 20 minutes later they transferred him to an ambulance.

That night they camped north of El Paso. After dinner they climbed a hill carrying binoculars and the spy-glass. They sat on an outcrop at the top of the hill and glassed south to El Paso. They could see the Rio Grande. It was lit up like an amusement park on one side. On that same side were two fences separated by a forty foot corridor running along the river. In the corridor border agents bounced along in Jeeps, lights flashing on top. In the corridor against a fence they saw twelve people kneeling with their hands in the air. Around the twelve stood Border Patrol officers. They watched as one-by-one an officer took someones arm and brought it down behind their back, then took that person's other arm and brought it down behind their back, then the officer locked that person's wrists together with a strip of plastic.

The travelers watched in silence until all twelve people had their wrists bound behind their backs and were led away to a waiting vehicle.

Shit. Remember Check-Point Charlie?

Sure do.

Yeah, back then when somebody came over from the eastern block they'd be given a job, a home, and admired for being brave.

Not here, not this place.

Problem with Mexico is that commies don't run it.

Not yet.

Yeah well, if they did we'd still toss `em back.

Suppose so. Nobody wants poor people. Not anymore, we let `em all in already. Including my grandparents, yours, `n yours.

Yeah Bill, well back then there was work for them all.

Yeah well, there's still plenty of work. I hear they plan on building a wall from San Diego clear across here and down to Brownsville. Who'd ya think is going to build that wall? I'll tell you this, it won't be retirees from California, Michigan, or Pennsylvania. Won't be Mormons, or cowboys, or even that kid at Walmart who sold you those metal detectors. And it sure won't be that fool who shot at us this morning. No sirree. I think we know who is going to build that wall.

Orville stoked his pipe. Pablo spit on the ground. Nothing more was said.

They walked down to the wagon, unrolled their beds and drifted off into the night, sleeping the sleep of their fathers.

The next day would bring a new man to them.

The Interrorgation

In the morning the sky cleared and the wind abated. Orville was working on the dry-cells in his wagon, brushing off some corrosion that was growing on the terminals, while Don Pablo was tending to Daisy and Phone Home. Dad was sitting on Billy’s porch reading the Wall St. Journal sipping a carrot juice smoothie when down the drive came two black Chevy Suburbans.

They stopped in front of the house. Two INS agents in green uniforms stepped out of the first Suburban followed by two guys in dark suits with curly wires dangling from their ears. When the second Suburban stopped, five guys in generic black tactical clothing carrying assault rifles poured out.

Mornin’

Mornin’ to you officers. What can I help you with?

That mule over there, is that yours?

No, it belongs to Orville, why?

That wagon his?

Suppose so, what’s up?

Mind if we look around?

Go ahead.

Where you fellers comin’ from?

Arizona, why?

You wouldn’t be coming from Sonora and smuggling illegals, or drugs would you?

Now what would three ole men like us be doing with illegals or drugs? We’re just out doing a little prospecting and sight-seeing that’s all.

Mind if I take a look?

Go ahead; ask Orville, it’s his wagon.

The two agents walked over to Orville followed by the suits. The ninjas walked over too, but as they did so one of’em walked backwards keeping an eye on my dad.

Mornin,’ you Orville?

That I am. How can I help you?

Mind if we look in your wagon?

No, go ahead, but you won’t find anything in there that will interest you. Just some tools, a barrel of grits, a stack of postcards of me and the wagon, and the things that three old men need to get us through the day.

Like what?

You know, the usual; hemorrhoid medicine, eye drops, blood pressure cuff, stuff like that.

What’s that on the roof of the wagon?

Solar panels.

Solar panels, what’s them for?

To power my metal detectors underneath the wagon, power our satellite dish, recharge our Blackberries things like that.

I suppose you got a gps in there too.

Don’t need one. We know where we’re going, know where we been too.

An where’s that?

Where’s what?

Where you been?

All over.

Where you headed?

Out prospecting.

Where?

Haven’t decided yet.

I see.

About then Don Pablo came over and just stood there watching. Dad had drifted down off the porch and was stroking Phone Home who seemed a bit nervous. He didn’t like having so many people with guns around, and he didn’t like people whose eyes you couldn’t see.

Well, if you fellers see any illegals crossing the border you give us a call ok?

About then Don Pablo piped up. Yeah, if I need a blow-job and waterboarding I’ll call you.

What did he say!?

He said, you fellers are doing a fine job and if he sees anyone crossing the boarder he’ll call.

That right, well Orville, and whoever you are, you have a nice day, hear.

It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t an order, it was more like a threat. They turned around and walked back to their Suburbans with one of them walking backwards keeping an eye on them and drove off.

Geezus you fool, what got into you? What did you say that for?

He said it because he was born stupid, that’s why he said it.

I said it because there ain’t no use in being an old man if you can’t say what’s on your mind. Say, what do you suppose they was listening to with them Ipods, Brittany Spears, Wu-Tang Clan?

Well, I bet it wasn’t Arlo. Listen you fool, those weren’t Ipods, and they weren’t listening to Brittany Spears, Vivaldi, or Chuck Berry. They were listening to an old man making a fool of himself. Bill, can’t you talk some sense into him.

If I could I would’ve done so a long time ago. But I can’t so I won’t. I might as well talk Phone Home into playing cards with us tonight. We could use a fourth hand at Poker, cause that monkey of his cheats.

That’s cause he taught her to.

That’s right, if I didn’t you two would’ve cleaned me out long time ago.

They loaded up the wagon, and tied some futon stuffing they bought from Billy around the wheels. They made a drag out of some willow branches and tied it to the back of the wagon and said adios to Billy and headed east.

Around dusk they stopped at a dry creek and camped in a hollow. Later that night after cognac and cigars they climbed a small rocky outcrop and looked into the west. The stars were out in an ink black sky. They could see Orion, Venus, and the ground light from a helicopter crossing the mesa back and forth. They laughed and congratulated each other on their good luck for being alive, for at their age every day is a gift.

©

Fear in the streets of Mesilla

Orville took off his headphones and flipped a switch shutting off the electric magnet under the wagon. Fourteen pounds of scrap metal dropped to the ground. He set the brake while Don Pablo jumped down and Dad tied Phone home and Daisy to a hitching post.

What’s up Billy?
Not much Bill, just stretching in the sun and doing my work.
Kind of windy out on that porch ain’t it.
You don’t know the half of it, there’s more wind around here than what you feel blowin right now. What’s up with Don Pablo, he’s quieter than usual.
I think we saw Flo back at a truck stop 30 miles west of here.
You don’t say.

Dad knew Billy when he was a kid growing up in Brooklyn. He first met the kid when he shipped back from Singapore and Billy was hanging around the dock playing three-card Monte. He told Mrs. McCarthy that no good would come of Billy if he continued to hang around the waterfront, and he encouraged her to move west where Billy could grow up in an environment free of gamblers, thieves, and robbers, and where he could learn a useful trade. So, Mrs. McCarthy followed dad’s advice and moved west with Billy and his brother. Billy took to ranch work like a new lottery-winner takes to outbidding everybody on eBay. Every time dad saw Billy he was driving some cow down the road or out of a field. Billy always had a pair of wire cutters dangling from his saddle horn just to help free cows that might get stuck in fences. Dad never could figure out which ranch Billy worked for because he seemed to be driving cows with different brands every time he saw him.

Come the 60’s Billy became a vegetarian and got tangled up with a micro-biotic commune over in Lincoln Co. Then one day he just wandered off from the geodesic dome he was staying in at the commune and we didn’t see him for years. But you know, sometimes the attraction of the familiar is just too powerful, and last year Billy showed up in Mesilla and opened his Ashram, Yoga Retreat, and Gun Cleaning Service. Now days he just sits around in an Ingyar yoga position, listening to Bob Dylan while cleaning other folk’s guns.

So, I take it you three need to rest over for a spell?
Yep, taken' a break from Arizona, Orville’s got some sheriff back there in a snit over that burro you see there, we call him Phone Home.
Well, that’s ok with me, stay as long as you like, but I am warning you, things ain’t so quiet around here.

Some real estate cowboy from Rhode Island by the name of Will Divide moved in a while back and started building retirement adobe homes for folks from back east. That in itself ain’t bad, it’s just that now he wants to build a fourteen foot wall around the town to keep Mexicans from wandering through the neighborhood at night when they cross over.

What happened? Did some old lady from Connecticut get scared one night when she found a Mexican family going through her garbage can looking for something to eat or something?

Bill, people been crossing the border and coming this way for years, you know that, it ain’t nothing new, and having a Mexican family rooting around you trash at night looking for something to eat ain’t new either, its less of a nuisance than having Oscar’s dogs knock your can over and strewing last week’s lasagna all down your drive.

Sounds like Mr. Will Divide just sees a chance to make some money by selling a big wall to the town, which in itself ain’t new either; people been trying to get government contracts ever since there was a government. Sometimes I think the only reason there is a government is so that enterprising fellows like Mr. Divide can get their hands on tax payers money.

Yeah, well he's running all over town scaring folks. He says we need a wall to protect ourselves from a terrorist attack which he says is certainly coming. He says that every day more an more Mexicans is becoming Muslim, and that there ain’t nothing worse than a Mexican Muslim. He says they are forming terrorist cells down in Sonora an calling themselves “El Quaeda.” I don’t know much about that, but I do know that he is scaring the heck out of folks and I am seeing more and more business every day here in my gun-cleaning shop, I just wish more folks would sign up for my yoga classes. You know I teach Ingyar yoga Tuesday and Thursday nights, and you could use a good stretch.

Yeah, that may be so, but, listen here. Somebody is always scaring us about something, and somebody is always making money out of it. You remember back in the 50’s, everybody had to have a bomb shelter?

There wasn’t no point in owning one, what sort of world would you come back to if you had to use one? Folks never thought about that.

An if they had they would ‘ve pushed their politicians to stop wasting their money. But they didn’t, and folks like Mr. Divide made a lot of money by selling people holes in the ground lined with concrete. When the Soviet Union went under they looked around for something else to scare up some money. That’s when they starting selling us prisons. And in order to fill the prisons they passed mandatory sentencing laws for a bunch of drug violations. Instead of sending people to rehab, they send folks to prison. If prison could cure people of addiction I wish they would send people to prison for watching too much TV, or for yakking on their cell phones while driving, or using one in a public restroom.

Ain’t nothing worse than hearing the guy in the next stall talking to his girlfriend while dropping a turd.

Yeah well, the concrete and steel lobby was so successful selling us prisons that we now have more’n we need. Texas and several other states got so many prison cells that they rent ‘em out to other states. I hear they got 800 fellows from New York locked up near Abilene. Anyway, you know the funny thing is, Soviet Union is gone, but all them missles and more is still there. Fact is, more countries than you know got nukes these days, but you don't hear anybody making any noise about it.

I guess scaring people about illegal aliens and terrorists is gonna give the concrete and steel folks a regular boon.

You bet’cha, that’s why we been buying stock in concrete and steel companies, and we intend on selling off real soon cause they ain’t gonna build half of the walls people think they are, and we’ll sell the stock while its still going up. Just like we did a few years ago when they started building prisons, and just like we did when they started selling bomb shelters.

Yeah, they make pretty good root cellars. I heard about a guy in Tennessee who turned a big one into a mushroom farm. But what makes you think they aren’t going to build a bunch of walls?

Cause there ain’t gonna be enough money to pay for it.

How come?

Cause they got to pay for that stupid war.

Yeah, that may be, but meanwhile all this talk about illegals and terrorists is taking a heavy toll on the folks around here. People don’t smile as much, or say hello to strangers like they used to. Guys is fraid to wear mustaches, they don’t want to get shot for being an illegal. An you better warn Don Pablo and Orville about their beards, they might just get mistook for being Cowboy Taliban.

That night the helicopter flew low over the ashram and circled back, hovering still for just a moment flipping on its ground light just over Billy’s barn. Phone Home was out in the corral staring up in anticipation.

©

The Storm

That night a terrible hail storm swept across the valley floor raining down hail the size of doorknobs. The travelers took shelter under an overpass. The noise of the hail striking the ground and echoing under the overpass sent Don Pablo’s monkey, Guzelda over the edge. She climbed up into the overpass and would not come down until Don Pablo promised her a cigar. She loves cigars, and sometimes there is nothing that will calm a monkey faster than letting `em light-up a Cuban seed cigar. Since they were stuck under a steel overpass in a hail storm their satellite reception was pretty poor. Dad said they couldn’t watch the PBR finals and were sorry they missed “Windtwister” and “Total Darkness” toss n’ and turnin’. Not that they don’t like the cowboys that ride `em, its just that the three of them are partial to flying bull.

Dad text'd me one more note. He wrote that a curious thing occurred during the storm. Phone Home became very still and didn't move, or even blink an eye for a solid hour. Then he started pawing the ground in a rhythmic pattern like he was sending out Morse code. Then he stopped and starting making noise for food.

In the morning a red sun spilled sideways across the horizon like a pail of red paint flowing across the desert floor. The clouds hung low in the sky and resisted the upwards advance of the sun with all of their weight like some dark Sumo squatting over his opponent. Yep, it was a regular Cormac McCarthy sunrise.

The hail was melting into the ground as they set out toward Mesilla. By ten o’clock a wind had kicked up pushing away whatever lingering clouds remained from the night before. The sky cleared but the wind would not abate as they pulled into Billy Bonnie’s Ashram, Yoga Retreat, and Gun Cleaning Service later that day.

Yours in ernest, Emmett

©





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Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

Salt River to the Diamond Shamrock Truck Stop

I was down at “Smokin’ Steve’s Lunch and Grease Emporium” into the third bite of my Trans-Fat and Nicotine omelet today when my Motorola Razor started vibrating around my vest pocket. If I wasn’t expecting to hear from Dad I would never have stopped chewing, but because I was anxious about his whereabouts I reached into my vest pocket and flipped open the phone and read the first of several text messages that would string my lunch hour out another two.



First thing dad asked was what sort of time behind bars he, Don Pablo and Orville could expect for absconding with Phone Home. I assured him that as of yesterday possession of a burro does not require mandatory sentencing under the guidelines, besides, as far as I knew there was no warrant for his arrest, and I even checked “America’s Most Wanted” website just to make certain John Walsh hadn’t slapped their photos up on the internet.



Once that was settled Dad began text messaging details of their overland journey. He wrote that they had done some “surface mining and reclamation” while traveling, but only got an old belt buckle he had to return. I’ll have to explain . . . . You see Orville installed six metal detectors on the bottom of his wagon several years ago. On sunny days the metal detectors are powered by solar panels on top of the wagon, and on cloudy days the metal detectors are powered by small rotary generators attached to each wagon wheel. As he drives along the metal detectors scan the ground for valuables and send high pitched chirps and squeals into the headphones that Orville wears to monitor the action. Mostly his metal detectors just locate bent nails, beer cans and random auto parts, but occasionally they’ll turn up a lost piece of jewelry or a coin, especially if he goes “surface mining” around a rest-stop. Orville also installed an electric magnet under the wagon that will pick up ferrous metal objects littering the ground. He says he’s going to donate all proceeds from the scrap metal he finds on this trip to the Home for Lost and Abandoned Air Travelers, a cause he has recently become sympathetic towards.



While “surface mining” Orville stares at the ground looking for whatever it is that a geologist or prospector looks for as they roll along in the wagon. While Orville is staring at the ground my father sits next to him and stares off at the distance. Dad studies the light as it falls across the mountains, the clouds moving across the sky, and all the landscape’s features as they recede into the grayness of distance. That’s what artists do; they stare at things and make mental note of the shades and tones, and they save their visual observations for later expressions of what they have seen. Who knows what my dad will see on this trip, who knows what he will paint. Maybe dad will paint a nude man hugging a cactus up on Rabbit-Ears pass on a star-filled night in an embrace of unrequited love giving new meaning to the word "vegetarian" and his likeness will wind up hanging in some Californian’s home just to the side of their flat-screen TV. Anyway, as Orville was staring at the ground, and my dad was staring at the distance, Don Pablo was riding along in the back of the wagon with Guzelda, legs dangling over the side, staring at nothing in particular as they pulled into a Diamond Shamrock truck stop at dusk when my father spotted a silver belt buckle warbling in the air towards him.



The belt buckle was still attached to a belt, which was still attached to a pair of pants which, moments before, had been attached to a man who was leaning against a pick-up truck he was filling when suddenly the truck took off and hooked the man’s pants in the gas flap hinge and tore them right off his legs sending them flying into the air. The pants landed on the ground beside the wagon in a cloud of dust and gravel kicked up by the truck as it sped past. It was driven by a woman with large hair. My dad thought he recognized the woman driving that truck, but he wasn’t 100% certain, but I am fairly certain, that it is a good thing that the light was slipping away and that Don Pablo was in the back of the wagon staring at nothing in particular.



Dad wrote that the fellow just stood there slack-jawed in his boots and boxers wearing a gas-station shirt that had a small name tag with “Melvin” stamped into it. Dad didn’t know whether Melvin’s boots had leather toe-boxes or not, but the way I figure it, unless they were steel toed, it wouldn’t have mattered one way or the other.



As they did not want to have to stick around and give statements to the Sheriff, or be forced to testify at a possible trial as to what they saw, and because there ain’t a witness protection program known to date that could possibly protect them, the three of them chipped in to cover the cost of the fleeing truck’s gas. That’s what prudent men do, and these three would not have lived as long as they have if they weren’t known for being prudent

yours in ernest, Emmett

©






This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

Who are they?

Who are these three fellows . . . .
Only a few white people know his real name and I am one of them and sworn to keep it secret. In fact I was nearly 50 before I was told his real name even though I knew him since I was five years old. He’s been called “the grungiest man I’ve ever seen,” well I can assure you that he does bathe; yep he takes air baths once a week. See Don Pablo does not particularly like water. He says it wrinkles the skin and removes all the body’s essential oils. He says its ok for drinking and watering his roses, but soaking yourself in it is a different matter. So once a week Don Pablo strips to nothin’ but his boots and hat and stands naked facing the sun the last twenty minutes before it goes down and cleanses himself that a way. Occasionally he sits in a sweat lodge when visiting his friends up in the four corners, but he does that just to be hospitable. And when he does he wears all of his clothes in the sweat lodge. He figures that if he is going into a sweat lodge to open his pores he might as well open the pores in his pants and shirt as well. His Navajo friends didn’t mind, in fact they may be pleased that he keeps his clothes on. Don Pablo’s diet consists primarily of raw meat, he says cooking meat makes it wrinkled, and I already explained how he dislikes wrinkled meat. Don Pablo used to be a trader on the floor of the Chicago Commodities Exchange, but he quit to move to Arizona. But he just couldn’t sit on the urge to buy and sell things, so, he became a trader in native American jewelry, rugs, pottery, and you name it. He has an old west museum near Scottsdale full of stuff that he has retired folks from the First Pentacoastal Church work in for him, they’re a group that moved out west from Biloxi, Mississippi after Katrina came through and carried their church east into Hancock County, Mississippi. Hancock County is "dry," so that’s why they moved west. The Pentacoastals had been praying that Katrina would carry the church all the way to New Orleans so they wouldn’t have that problem, but, no such luck. Don Pablo used to have a girlfriend, but he would just look away every time my dad mentioned “Texas Flo.” Dad said she made the best tasting bar-b-q and toe-box porridge he ever ate, said that he had never had shiner bock on his cornflakes before or since, but it sure was good. Don Pablo would just grunt and look away, maybe that explains why he don’t like to eat cooked meat, who knows.

Orville is the guy in the center. He is not a cowboy, a bootmaker, a gambler, or the owner of permanent mailing address as far as I know. Orville is a prospector. He graduated from the Colorado School of Mining. He owns one third of an amethyst mine down in Bolivia that played-out years ago, but he still gets royalty checks from his partners, Guzman and Roderico. Orville has been wandering the west for years in his wagon looking for minerals. Orville styles himself as an ecological, or “green” prospector. Says his wagon pollutes less than a Toyota Prius, and with that I can’t disagree. Orville has not found a viable vein yet, but he has struck gold. You see, years ago wherever Orville went, he noticed that tourists would take his picture. So he decided to have postcards of himself, his wagon, and whatever beast was pulling it made up. He sells those postcards, autographed, for $1. Last time my father and Don Pablo helped Orville to count his post card money that he keeps in an old grain sack there were 60,000 one dollar bills. That’s a lot of postcards.

The other guy is my father, Bill Dwyer, who I can assure you bathes with regular frequency. My dad is an artist who wanders from Santa Barbara, California to the rocky coast of Maine via his home, New Orleans, painting landscapes, seascapes, and the bayous of Louisiana. Dad moves with the weather. He has a ’48 Packard that he drives that has a ping-pong table-top mounted on the roof. Around the ping-pong table-top there is a three foot railing. The table-top serves as a deck on top of the Packard that my father sits on when he wants to paint the scenery. He accesses the deck by way of a boat ladder mounted on the side of the Packard. I suspect he likes the deck as it must remind him of his days at sea during the war in the Merchant Marine; I have his Coast Guard certificates from five war zones and his under fire certificates.

As my dad is driving along and gets the urge to paint the scenery he just stops by the side of the road and climbs up on his deck with his paints and pallet and goes at it. He took out the bench seats and bolted in a bucket seat for the driver, and laid a bed down that runs from the front passenger seat into the back. If you ever ride in my dad’s car as a passenger you got two choices. Either lay down in the bed, or roll up the bed and put a kitchen chair where the seat has to go, but hold on when he hits the gas as your seat will fly backwards, this I know from experience. The area behind the driver’s seat and the trunk he uses to store his paints, frames, tools and groceries. He made those modifications to his car long before Winnebago came along. If you are driving west out of Abilene some day and see an old man atop the roof of his car, don’t call the rescue squad, it’s only my father painting what he sees. I could tell you more about my father, but what son couldn’t, but for now I hope I have satisfied your curiosity as to who those guys are. And please note, I ain’t making any of this up, I’m from New Orleans, and we don’t have to.

Meanwhile, I am expecting to hear from them any day now as they continue on their journey with Phone Home, and I will keep all of you posted when I do.

Yours in earnest, Emmett

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The Gift

Several weeks ago they were out prospecting for turquoise and uranium just south of the Tonto national forest. They were having the usual luck, which was no luck at all. They had camped for the night and were sitting around a camp fire doing rope tricks and text messaging their currency traders in Hong Kong when off to the east they heard a loud crack in the sky, and saw an erratic flash. They thought nothing of it and went back to their rope tricks, cigars, and discussion regarding the advantages of investing in Atlantic City casinos.

The next morning while drinking their wheat-grass espressos they spied a strange procession coming across the mesa toward them. It was an odd group of people, and they were being led by a burro. My father said that the group included at least three guys who looked like Elvis. He said the Elvis’s did nothing but complain about their shoes being stepped on, something about toe boxes caving in but he didn’t remember much about it. He said the group also included several airline pilots, thirty or more tourists from a Bahamian cruise ship, a hippie who said his name was Jesus, and another guy in a suit, Gabriel Goldstein, who claimed he was Jesus’s lawyer. There was also a guy from New Jersey who my dad said looked a lot like Jimmie Hoffa, a pizza delivery man from Roswell, NM, three Vietnamese fishermen from New Iberia, Louisiana, and the Travelocity Gnome who said he got drunk and got on the wrong flight back in Vegas.

This group of wanderers stopped long enough to ask directions to Interstate 10 and then started up again, all that is except for the burro. It seems that the burro had taken a shine to Orville and his cow Daisy who was pulling Orville’s wagon, and this burro had no inclination to leave. Burros, they are known to be stubborn like that. Anyway, Orville hitched the willing beast up to his wagon alongside of Daisy and the five of them made their way back to Don Pablo’s estancia.

By the end of the day my dad saw how attached Orville had become to the critter so he told Don Pablo he was going to “phone home” and ask me if there was anyway for Orville to keep `em. Well I got a cell call from Dad explaining the situation so I figured the only person who could be of help would be attorney Goldstein. He was easy to find in the phonebook as he has a large personal injury advertisement in the yellow pages that includes a list of his most famous clients. I didn’t see Jesus on the list, but I did see Jesse James, Marilyn Manson, passengers from the Titanic, and the 1st mate of the Hindenburg.

Attorney Goldstein filed some papers in court. I don’t know exactly what those papers were called, but it sure sounded a lot like “Wrist of Habeas Corpus Christi.” Anyway, attorney Goldstein told my dad to run a legal notice in various newspapers in order to give any interested party an opportunity to come to court and lay claim to the beast before the judge signed the papers. So my dad ran ads in the Arizona Republic, the Wall St. Journal, the Phoenix New Times, the Times-Picayune, the New York Times, the Trenton Times, the High Times, the Times-They-Are-A-Changing, and the Village Voice for three consecutive weekends prior to the hearing date. My dad ran a legal notice that contained a photo of the creature with the following information: “Is this beast yours? A hearing will be held in the Maricopa County Courthouse, Room 3A, Wednesday, November 21, 2007, to determine title to said beast. Beast answers to the name “Phone Home” and was found south of the Tonto National Forest leading stranded airline and cruise ship passengers, Elvis, Jimmie Hoffa, Jesus and his lawyer to safety. If this beast is yours show up and prove it!”

I forgot to mention it, but Dad and Don Pablo started calling the critter “Phone Home.” You see when Dad told Don Pablo that he would “phone home” to see if there was something that could be done about keeping the beast, the critter’s ears started twitching, and he started pawing and stamping the ground in a repetitive fashion and braying as only critters like that can do. Don Pablo figured that “phone home” must mean something to the animal, so they decided to start calling him “Phone Home.”

Well the hearing before Judge Bean was held two weeks ago, and no sooner had the ink dried under the judge’s pen when Sheriff Joe of Maricopa County stormed into the court room wearing a pair of Chinese ropers and demanded possession of the burro.

It seems that Sheriff Joe got it into his head that the critter was an illegal alien and should be detained and deported. Attorney Goldstein told Sheriff Joe that all the aliens had already left and that Phone Home weren’t one of `em. But Sheriff Joe would hear none of it. Dreading the thought of that poor creature falling into the hands of the Sheriff, Orville, Don Pablo, and my dad slipped out of the courtroom with papers in hand and headed back to Don Pablo’s place to hitch up the wagon, grab Don Pablo’s pet monkey, Guezelda, and skedaddle before they could get stopped.

Anyway, that’s pretty much what happened a few weeks ago in courtroom 3A of the Maricopa Superior Court. I have no idea where Don Pablo, my dad, and Orville and the critters are today. My dad text messages me occasionally; he says they are fine and somewhere east of the Salt River. My guess is that they are headed toward New Mexico. Dad said they were headed to the “land of enlightenment,” and that’s what they call New Mexico, ain’t it?

Meanwhile Sheriff Joe has vowed to fight this matter in court as long as he is standing in his Chinese ropers, and attorney Goldstein says he will defend Orville’s possession of the beast until “Judgment Day or hell freezes over, whichever comes first.” I don’t know which will happen, whether hell will freeze over first or Judgment Day will come, but the possibility of that poor Phone Home being forced to live in a tent and wear pink underwear would surely break old Orville’s heart.

Well Mr. Dailey, I don’t know if the Phone Home is Chicarron or not. I suppose you’ll have to be the one to identify him, but there you have it, that’s the story. It don’t seem to have a lot to do with toe-boxes, or boots for that matter, but I’ll keep you posted just the same. Never thought I’d see the day when my dad would become a fugitive, but odd things happen in life. Say, if you see my dad, Don Pablo, or Orville’s photo on a post office wall will you let me know? And Mr. Tostig, if my pappy and his pals should wind up over in Texas, is there any chance you could see to check the burro’s traces and harness, and my daddy’s boots? I hate to think of those ol`timers fleeing the law in their socks, so if you could look out for them it would be appreciated. I’ll text message them that your shop will be easy to find, as you keep a candle lit in the window at night for just these sorts of things.

Well its morning and I got chores to do; I got a herd of wire-haired daschunds that need to be looked after. I’ll keep you posted of any news, till then, please keep an eye out for old timers and remember, Phone Home.

Your in ernest, Emmett

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This work is licensed under a Creative'>http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/">Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.