J.C.

He wasn’t very big. He stood almost to my shoulders. Four foot, eleven inches. He told me one time that he had been hassled all his life because he was small. He was also quite skinny, even as an older man. He had loved beer and marijuana since his teenage years. He had never been very work brittle, but he always seemed to get by somehow. Mostly, when he worked, he helped farmers who owned small farms, but he had done a few short stints at factories through the years. 

I knew him casually since we were nine years old, but because of circumstances of fate, I got to know him much better in these last two years. Two years ago, my live-in girlfriend physically attacked me while I was driving down the road. I was stopped by the police, charged with DUI, and lost my driving privileges. I rented an apartment uptown, began drinking in skid row bars, and struck up a friendship with J.C..

I found myself walking the two and a half blocks that would take me to see J.C. at the Rendezvous Tavern. I did this nearly every morning. It had become my routine for the past two years. I worked the night shift in a warehouse on the edge of town, loading trucks for shipments to fast food restaurants. At fifty four years old, I was still in pretty good shape. I had an inexpensive apartment just off the square in the small town where I live. My health had held out. My expenses were minimal. There were two grocery stores that were just a short walk from my apartment. And skid row was just a few minutes away…

In our town, skid row was a one block area on East Main that had four bars, two on each side of the street. It had a shady reputation, to say the least. The bars there were frequented by mostly the ragged people of the community. Twenty five years ago, it had boomed. When there was more work, a mix of people went there for sex and drugs. These days, the work wasn’t there, neither were the crowds. Still, at night, it got busy sometimes. The older folks were stoners, but most of the younger folks were into meth. These days it could get pretty mean on skid row at night.

I walked the brick sidewalk from my apartment past the courthouse square, down Main Street, that would take me to the Rendezvous Tavern. As I walked, the bell at the top of the courthouse rang nine times. Nine a.m.. I passed the statue of Abraham Lincoln with a small pig at his feet, which graced a corner of the courthouse lawn.

The story was that pigs were squealing beneath the old courthouse. Abe requested a Writ of Quietus. I guess in those days, court proceedings were sometimes interrupted by squealing pigs. This happened when Lincoln rode the circuit to practice law at various county courthouses in Illinois.

The businesses uptown around the square were struggling. A Walmart had sprung up on the edge of town. Many of the young people in town had moved away, either to go to school, or to find work elsewhere. The coal mines and better paying factory jobs had disappeared.

J.C. had a mobility scooter. He simply called it his scooter. He lived about one half mile from uptown and rode it uptown nearly every day of the week. He received social security disability for various medical problems, including muscle atrophy and cardiac problems. He had had three heart attacks and had a defibrillator. He smoked cigarettes like a dragon. He was a daily pot smoker and drank beer like the Coneheads.

His scooter was parked out front of the bar across the street. I crossed Main Street and walked into the front door of the Rendezvous Tavern. J.C. sat on a barstool near the end of the bar watching Julie, the bartender, stock the coolers with beer. He had been obsessed with her for the two years I had known him well. Even though they had never had sexual relations, they often seemed like an old married couple, friendly at times, at each other’s throat at other times.

I sat down on a barstool next to him.

“How you doing old man?” I asked.

“Pretty fair,” he replied.

“Julie,” I said, “get me and J.C. a couple of beers.”

She walked over and put a couple of Miller Lites in front of us, then went back to stocking the coolers.

J.C. watched her walk away. Julie was in her early thirties and looked pretty good, especially when you considered how hard she had partied for the last ten years or so. She had long brown hair, nice-sized breasts, and a great ass to boot. This despite having developed a fancy for the meth as of late.

I got along well with Julie. She had a good sense of humor and was fun to party with, but she drank like a sailor. I had never been intimate with her, but on several occasions we went bar hopping together. It cost me a pretty penny.

J.C. quit watching Julie and turned to me.

“Wanna hitter, Alan?

“Sure, brother.”

He began to load one pinch hitter after another. We took turns smoking them, while sitting at the bar. J.C. and I had an unspoken agreement. He supplied the pot and I bought our beer. After we had smoked three one hitters each, I made my way over to the jukebox. I played 8 or 9 fossil rock songs. I put on Creedece Clearwater Revival, the Moody Blues, Jackson Browne, Bob Dylan, and others. Sometimes we would listen to songs from the soundtrack of Oh Brother Where Art Thou, laughing like crazy at times while they played. We were, after all, hillbillies in hillbilly heaven.

Greg, the owner, came in the door as J.C. was smoking a one hitter.

“I told you guys to go to the restroom to do that shit.”

Julie laughed. “Nobody is in here, Greg.”

“I don’t give a shit. It’s not cool.”

J.C. laughed. “We won’t do it no more. I promise, Greg.”

J.C. had told him that a hundred times. We both laughed and J.C. put the one hitter and pot in his pocket. Greg walked down to the other end of the bar to talk business with Julie.

J.C. was grinning like a cat eating shit. I loved him just as he was. I wanted him to discover the truth that had been revealed to me many years ago. And the joy that came with the discovery. 

Many years ago, in Vietnam, I was at the lowest point in my life. I asked Jesus for help. I experienced a powerful spiritual experience shortly after that. I felt like I was in heaven for about 30 seconds. There are no words that  would describe it. That thirty seconds seemed like an eternity. Everything was one. Everything was connected. Everything was beautiful. There was nothing but love, joy, and peace. Thirty seconds of bliss. It was more help than I could have dreamed I would get. I never did become involved in organized religion, however. I always thought of myself as a barbarian Christian.

“J.C., don’t you ever have any curiosity about God?”

“Don’t start that shit again, Alan. I’ve told you before, all we are is specks of carbon, that’s it.”

“J.C., God spoke and made everything.”

“Bullshit, Alan. If there’s a God, where did he come from?”

“He always was, J.C..”

“Bullshit. He had to come from somewhere.”

“He always was, J.C..”

J.C. was not concerned with the origin of the universe or what events would unfold in the distant future. His concern with the past was limited to his own remembered experiences within his lifetime. His only concern for the future was related to his plans for the next 30 days or so.

The front door of the tavern opened. In walked Jerry, an old friend of us both. He owned the bar next door a few years ago. He was a little older than us. He had retired from the coal mine. He had been a wildman in his youth, but had mellowed out considerably in recent years. He sat down at the bar and ordered a beer.

“What are you drunken clowns doing?”

We both laughed and I told him we were contemplating the nature of the universe.

“You guys are too fucked up to contemplate anything.”

J.C. handed him the bag and the hitter. “Shut up, Jerry. Go to the pisser and have a couple hits.”

Jerry took the bag and the hitter and made his way to the men’s room.

Meanwhile, J.C. was watching Julie again. She was stocking the liquor beneath the bar.

“She’s on that shit again, Alan. Look at her mouth.”

She stood there with just the bar between us, scrutinizing an order form. Her lips were moving this way and that, something she did when smoking meth.

“Look at that camel toe, Alan.”

Her jeans were very tight. She gave J.C. a dirty look. “Up yours J.C., you pervert.”

Jerry came back from the men’s room smiling and gave J.C. back his pot. It was pretty decent reefer.

The front door opened and in came Joe and Mark. Joe worked for a construction company and was often out of town. Mark did maintenance work on oil rigs and other odds and ends. He also did a lot of trapping. Often in the winter, the back of his truck would have dead beavers, muscrats, , coons,  and coyotes in it.

They were both legends in our area for the amount of whiskey they could put away. When they were barhopping, often fights would break out in the bars they left, because the younger guys would try to keep up with them and then become mean and stupid. It happened often.

They sat down at the bar and ordered beers.

“Alan, did I ever tell you about the time I took J C. on my coyote run last winter?”

“I don’t think  I heard that story, Mark.”

“Well, we came up on a coyote in one of my traps and I gave J.C. the pistol and told him to shoot it.”

“Was he a dead aim?”

“Oh, he shot him. Made him pretty mad! Then I had to finish him off.” Everyone in the bar laughed.

“Bullshit Mark! He moved right when I shot and you know it.” Everyone laughed again.Jerry looked pretty stoned. He looked at me and J.C. and shook his  head.

“You guys are really something.”

Everyone laughed again. Mark finished his beer. I saw him wink at Joe. “Julie, give us all a shot of Beam.”

She set up the shots and everyone did one. Then I ordered shots of Wild Turkey. I didn’t have to work that night. I knew better, but I didn’t care. Mark, Joe, and I took turns of buying Jim Beam, Wild Turkey, and some other brand of Whiskey I’d never heard of. J.C., Jerry, and I were smashed. Mark and Joe left the bar laughing. Julie had Greg bring J.C.’s scooter into the bar and called a cab for J.C., Jerry, and me.

When the cab let me off in front of my apartment, it was a long climb to the top of the stairs. When I got inside, I found my way to my recliner in the living room. I looked out the window of my apartment at the courthouse clock. It was only 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

I sat in my recliner, in the living room of my apartment. My eyelids were heavy. I was nearly dreaming while awake. I was thinking about J.C. as he was now, but also about various recollections I had of him throughout the years.

I remembered him in his John Deere baseball uniform when he was 10 years old. The spectators would laugh when he came to bat. He was so short and his strike zone so small that he nearly always walked. He was left handed. Sometimes he would ground out, or on rare occasions hit a single between the first and second basemen. He loved baseball and was a diehard Cubs fan.

In his teenage years, I used to see him at the skating rink. He was truly one of the best roller skaters I have ever seen. He could skate backwards better and more gracefully than anyone else could skate forward.

He married a pretty good looking girl when he was young. They had two daughters. She left him when the girls were quite young. He drank a lot and worked very little. After she left him, he began drinking even more and smoking more pot. He partied a lot with some girls in a neighboring town in those days. You would sometimes see them drop him off after a two or three day binge at an uptown bar. He would be drunker than hell and his hair would be all messed up.

Many years ago, he was convicted of DUI and lost his driving privileges. He got around that by using a riding lawnmower to drive around town. One night, when he was barhopping on his riding lawnmower, he passed out and crashed into the door of the corner drug store, breaking the glass door. This resulted in his second DUI and a large fine.

During this period, I was sitting at an uptown bar when a guy came in laughing like hell and proceeded to tell everyone sitting at the bar of how he had been in court to hear J.C.’s account to the judge of why he hadn’t made payments on past fines. He told the judge that on account of all the rain caused by El Nino that year, he had not gotten much work from the farmers. The guy said the whole courtroom cracked up, including the judge.

I remember once, many years ago, a bunch of us talked J.C. into running for mayor. He did, but would not campaign. One day I gave him a lot of shit because he wouldn’t stop drinking long enough to campaign a little. He told me he didn’t want to be mayor. He had decided to run for State’s Attourney. I told him he needed a law degree for that. Even though he lost his bid for mayor, be got quite a few votes.

He got a mobility scooter after he became disabled. He rode it all over town, drunk or sober. The police never bothered him. If they thought he was too loaded, they put his scooter in the trunk of their squad car and took him home.

One time, about thirty years ago, I spent 10 days in jail with J.C.. We had been playing softball with a bunch of people out at the lake and drinking keg beer. We rode back into town in Doug’s pickup truck. Doug and Zeke were in the cab. J.C. and I were in the back of the truck. When we got uptown on the courthouse square, there were four guys sitting on the courthouse lawn. One of them had had a fight with Zeke a few days back. Zeke was drunk and demanded Doug pull in. We stopped on the square and a fight broke out. The guys Zeke had a bone to pick with had a billy club. Also, one of them went to the trunk of his car and got  a shotgun. The city police came onto the scene. Zeke and I spent 10 days in jail before we got bailed out. Doug bailed out immediately. J.C. spent the rest of the summer in the county jail. Zeke’s dad told him the guy with the shotgun had fired, but the shell misfired. I hunted a lot when I was young and never had a shell misfire. 

During my stay in jail, the trustee, Jim, was on work release. He worked for a landscaper. He brought me and Zeke and J.C. pot to smoke every day. We got stoned every day during the ten days I was in jail.

Zeke, J.C., and I were in the bullpen. We spent our days in an open area with a concrete table and benches. At night, we were locked into three individual cells that were side by side. One of the jailors was an old man. One night, when we were being locked into our individual cells for the night, Zeke asked him to sing us a song.

He sang a few verses of an old hillbilly song I’d never heard before. I can still remember the first verse. It went:

“Don’t send my son to prison

He didn’t do no wrong,

He didn’t steal them chickens,

They just followed him on home.”

Then he told us good night. After he left, we waited a few minutes, then lit a joint and passed it back and forth from cell to cell. At one point, we heard the jailor’s keys jangling in the distance, then it stopped. J.C. was holding the joint at the time and we heard his toilet flush. Zeke told J.C. he couldn’t believe he done that and promised to choke him in the morning. I believe he really would have if I hadn’t talked him out if it.

J.C. would give anyone the shirt off his back if they were down and out. He didn’t like to talk about politics or religion. He was mostly interested in things he could touch or feel, things right un front of his face.

I woke up in my recliner at 2a.m.. I swore I would never drink whiskey again and I never have. Not long after that time, a woman who had been a close friend of mine for several years moved in with me. For the most part, I quit going to the bars, but I would still go and see J.C. once in a while and now and then he would visit me. On one of these visits, he told me his time was short. I told him he would dance on my grave.

About a month later, after a night off from work, I got up out of bed and turned the television on. There was a preacher on television, preaching in a huge, lavish church, to a large congregation. He was telling his followers that after the rapture, they would be walking on streets of gold and living in mansions, but the people left behind were in for big trouble.

My understanding of what Jesus said was in reference to places of rest, not expensive mansions. And the Bible, as I understand it, doesn’t talk about a rapture, but it does speak of an eventual change into spiritual bodies when the Lord returns. I turned the television off. I showered, then started the familiar walk down the brick sidewalk that would take me down to skid row. There was no scooter in front of the Rendezvous.

I walked into the Rendezvous and sat down at the bar. Julie gave me a bottle of beer and took my money. Greg sat at the end of the bar. Ed, Bill, and Mark sat a little way down from me. Everyone was quiet.

“Anybody seen J.C.?”

Bill told me that nobody had seen him for two days, so Julie sent him over to check on him. He said the door to his apartment was unlocked and he went in to find J.C. dead, lying on his bed. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I finished my beer and left.

As I walked back to my apartment, my mind wandered.  As much as I could know, God was not in J.C.’s thoughts, but I believed J.C. was with the Lord and the Lord would accept him and love him. J.C. would know the truth. Truth is love. That is what I believed. It was conceivable though, that J.C.’s ashes would merge with the earth to drift through time and space toward some unknowable destiny, without any awareness whatsoever.

Because It’s the End of the World

I’m writing you now because it’s the end of the world. We grew up in love, until the times changed. You became a fascist, and I secretly joined the resistance. But you always knew about that, didn’t you? Thanks for pretending. I’ve lost count of how many times I watched you on podiums, spewing out fascist lies to the mindless masses, from behind my sniper’s rifle, I never could take that shot. Now you’re a leader and harbinger of death. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that I finally stole the original written recipe for the famous “Pina Collada”.

However, in times such as these, I had to modify my escape plans. I’m currently held up in an old dilapidated radio station in northern Canada. Any escape has been blocked off by a very obsessive and determined pack of wild dogs, I’m not too worried, where would I go until the end of the world. 

I pick up news from time to time, I didn’t think genocide was your thing. You were always afraid of clowns when you were young, so you had them all shot and bulldozed into public parks, like garbage. This New World Order thing has really gone to your head

I remember you rehearsing your speeches in our bed, both of us with revolvers under our pillows, I miss the sound of your voice even through all that propaganda. You got exactly what you wanted, and I got what I deserved.

I heard that “Social Media Withdrawal” killed off quite a few people, some ate bullets, some just dropped dead.

I heard the poor and disenfranchised are being killed like cattle, in massive herds. Does your position bring a smile to your face, or has your heart grown black, like the blood on the wheels of your war machines?

Maybe one day you’ll hear “Until the end of the World Radio” broadcasting news of a new resistance.

Maybe I’ll be eaten by wild dogs.

But you stay right where you are, I want you safe, right by the Devil’s side.

Almost Heaven

“I did it.”

“Did what?”

“Solved a life problem.”

“That makes me so happy. Fill me in.”

“That would be more along the lines of a confession.”

“All ears on this end.”

“It involved a man.”

“This has a familiar ring.”

“Not for long. This was not a regular man or the kind of man you would associate with me. This was a man who was part of a substrata.”

“A problem man.”

“To put it mildly.”

“Was he from West Virginia?”

“I refuse to characterize people on their origin. But, yes, since you ask.”

“You’re so close to Almost Heaven in your part of Appalachia. Easy guess.”

“I like West Virginians. Some very attractive, smart, educated folks.”

“But not all. Substrata.”

“You could say sub-substrata. I refuse to use the H-word, but it gives the flavor.”

“Inbred. Crude. Illiterate. What we used to call a hillbilly.”

“An offensive word. But you’re on the right track.”

“Did you meet this particular man during your official duties at the Maryland Department of Natural Resources?”

“Yes and no. I never met him. I saw him. A lot.”

“Description?”

“Thirtyish. Long stringy hair and a ZZ Top beard. Over two hundred pounds. Bib overalls. No shirt. Muck boots.”

“He’d follow you?”

“He’d show up a couple times a week, in town, on the job.”

“Did he do anything?”

“Watched me.”

“You ignored him?”

“At first. Then I thought, this is absurd. Confront him. Ask him what he’s doing. So I did.”

“And?”

“He walked away. It irritated me, so I took his goddamn picture with my phone. I made some discrete enquiries and finally found out who he was.”

“Do I need to know his name?”

“You don’t. The guy was, not sure the right word, ominous. Creepy. I got convinced that his big lurking presence, licking his lips, his hairy shoulders and bare arms, that he had nothing on under those filthy overalls.”

“You’d see him in the woods?”

“He’d just appear. Never said anything. Never stopped looking.”

“Just a wild guess, but did this guy have a record?”

“Sex crimes going back to juvenile. Peeping. Indecent exposure. Public masturbation.”

“Find out anything else?”

“Not much. Seasonal worker, brush hogging, lumberjacking, worked in this part of the state a lot. But I didn’t report the stalking.”

“Why not?”

“It’s hard enough being one of only three women rangers in western Maryland. Gotta protect the image. And I’d rather take care of my own problem.”

“You’re armed, right?”

“Nine millimeter Beretta. That’s why he never did anything but watch. But I had a feeling, a conviction really, it was only a matter of time.”

“So you got proactive?”

“Ever see a bear trap?”

“Nope.”

“Big steel cage eight feet long, three feet in diameter, solid steel on top and bottom, wire mesh on the sides, bars on each end like a jail cell. A bear smells the bait, goes in, gate closes, bear trapped.”

“Straightforward.”

“Bears are wary, it takes a while. But it’s awesome when it happens. Six hundred pounds, pissed off, throwing itself against the bars.”

“You check the traps periodically?”

“It’s one of the wonders of the job. Where else can you work outdoors, beautiful mountains, and see things real close-up, like a wild bear in a trap—something almost no one else will ever see?”

“This guy, this perv, he’d follow you while you’re checking the traps?”

“It’s an ongoing program—trapping problem bears that break into cabins and tear up trash cans and chicken coops. We trap and relocate them, in the spring especially. They’re hungry and mean. I knew he’d show up at a site.”

“Lemme guess. You lured him into a bear trap and released him where he won’t bother you anymore.”

“Thought about it. But how do you get a guy who grew up in the woods into a bear trap?”

“What if you’re the bait?”

“Thought about that, too. Show a little ankle, he clambers in after me, I put a bullet into him. But think about it. Firing a nine millimeter handgun in a steel box? Too loud. Too messy. A lot of explaining to do after.”

“You’re past the point of ignoring the guy.”

“It got worse. He showed up at my cabin, standing on the other side of the road across from my driveway. That takes me past mildly annoyed straight into pissed. I jumped out of the car and poof, he’s gone. I heard a four-wheeler start up back in the woods.”

“I’m gonna guess that was the last straw.”

“I can’t live like that, looking over my shoulder all day all night. Time to solve the problem. And without repercussions.”

“Next time you see him in the woods, put a bullet in him.”

“Easier said than done. I’d do it if he attacked me, of course. But that has its risks. He’s big. He could take me by surprise. Rape me, murder me. I can’t wait for that and I don’t want to get into a homicide, even if it’s self-defense.”

“Okay, what?”

“It went down like this. I’m checking a trap and we got one. Big brute, snarling, shaking the trap. It’s almost dancing across the forest floor, the bear is so pissed and hungry. I head to the truck to report it, get assistance, and there he is. Next to a big oak, staring at me. He shrugs the shoulder straps off and his overalls drop. Guess what? No underwear.”

“I’d a shot him.”

“Fun fact. The safest place when you release a bear is on top of the trap. Bear shoots straight out and keeps going, usually after the first thing it sees.”

“In this case?”

“A naked redneck with a four-inch pecker hopping through the woods, his overalls down around his ankles.”

“Problem solved?”

“Problem solved.”

Who Doesn’t Like Strawberries

“What do you mean I don’t have any future left,” I asked her. “I’ve used it up? How is that even possible?”

I had no clue as to what she was even talking about. It was a challenge just to listen to her rant with the monster hangover I was nursing. Now I had to make sense of what the Hell she meant by her statement. Please just shoot me my dear and put me out of your misery.

“You’ve spent it,” she said. “You’re overdrawn. Similar to a cat using all nine lives, only it’s your destiny I’m referring to. It’s been wasted, squandered, and mismanaged. Kismet has given up, thrown in the towel. Get it smart guy?”

She motions, pointing to her head while making the goofy face of an idiot.

“Besides, your checkered past clashes with my pastel-colored future, so this relationship or whatever it is, has reached its end.”

“So help me to understand what you’re saying. The fate of my future was that I would run out of destiny. I am without any tomorrows because I’ve used them up in my yesterdays? Fate is determined at birth. My destiny however is determined by my actions. Have you joined the Church of Scientology again? Is this your Thetan talking? You’re sounding a lot like my mother, only she’d mix in some Jesus shit and top it off with some mystic witchy stuff.”

Why is it when relationships end, it always deteriorates into name calling with intention to cause emotional scars? I would much rather walk away knowing the time we spent together was a wonderful ride that just ran out of road. All this screaming and assigning blame is just vindictive, but we can’t help falling into it time and time again.

“And there it is, Mr. Negative putting down a religion he knows nothing about.”

“Hey I’ve done my research and have developed an opinion based on deductive reasoning,” I argued. “Did you know L. Ron Hubbard was a science fiction author before establishing the Church of Scientology? Gives you an idea of how he came up with the doctrine for the religion. You sincerely believe you are an extraterrestrial being? You want to know what really bothers me, is who goes around calling themself L. Ron Hubbard? I find it extremely pretentious using an initial for your first name. Why? Doesn’t he like the name the ‘L’ represents? Are we supposed to guess the name? Does he think it adds an air of mystery about him? It’s like E.E. Cummings or T.S. Eliot, what the fuck is that all about. And why is it that if I’m not in favor of or dislike something, it means I’m being negative? You didn’t like The Boys and Girls Guide to Getting Down, which is one of my favorite films, and I didn’t give you any shit about it. You don’t like strawberries, do I accuse you of being a negative person because of your dislike of strawberries? No, I never said anything. Now that I think about it, it should’ve been a clue to your own negative demeanor. Who doesn’t like strawberries?”

“How the hell did we get to talking about this shit? I’ll admit Santiago, you do have a talent for twisting a conversation into some obscure subject. But I can’t do this anymore. You should have seen this coming.” 

“How could I have seen it coming? I can’t determine my future if there isn’t any. Let’s not do this. If you are no longer enamored with me please just say so and leave it at that. There’s no need for this destructive rhetoric, it’s not a healthy or worthwhile practice. Also, this isn’t my first breakup, so I’m sort of an expert. I’ve become immune to the derogatory dialogue and insults.”

“I’m more than sure of that. You’re a professional when it comes to this. Of course you’ve built up an immunity after all the relationships you’ve sabotaged.” 

There’s no winner in these types of frays. I’m truly sorry she has built up such loathing for me. However I’m completely without any clue as to what the hell happened here. It seemed to me we were enjoying each other’s company just yesterday. Maybe she’s on her… no, I’m not going to say it. Really? Y’all want me to mention that possibility during this argument? I’m at times a bit dense when dealing with women, but I have learned there’s never a right time to ask the wrong question or to answer truthfully when asked your opinion, especially concerning her appearance. All women want you to lie, it’s one of the many unwritten laws of relationship survival. And all of you want to see me persecuted. You heartless bastards. You’ll have to wait for your sick entertainment at my expense in some other story.

“I’m still without a clue as to your sudden decision to break up with me. I do want you to know I cherish you. You are the complete package and the man that wins your heart is truly fortunate.”

“Stop with the sweet talk. I’ve practiced this dissertation for quite awhile. My mind is made up.” 

‘Well that’s disheartening to hear. How long have you been practicing?”

“I’m sorry Santiago, I don’t mean to act like such a bitch. I feel so… I don’t know… I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“I’m more disappointed than hurt. I need to know the reason. Let’s not make this any more unpleasant than it already has become. I think it’s better we don’t continue with spilling any more bad blood.”

“I’ve got one question I would appreciate you answering honestly,” she said. “I found your passport in your blazer when I took it to the dry cleaners and I looked inside. You have been everywhere in Central and South America as well as Mexico numerous times in the past three years. Then I found a second passport from Canada with a different name, your picture and the same destinations. What’s up with you? What kind of work do you do? You disappear for days with no communication then appear back without an explanation. You always speak Spanish when you’re on the phone. And that friend of yours, that Donny Rico guy, there’s something seriously wrong with him. He is definitely mentally ill, no joke. Have you ever looked into his eyes? They are so empty without a spark of life in them. He’s definitely an alcoholic and a drug addict as well. What do you see in him?” 

“It’s Johnny, not Donny.” 

“What? You lied about his name?” 

“No, you misinterpreted his name. Johnny is my friend, my only friend and would never hurt anyone I was associated with. I never made condescending comments about your psycho bitch friends. Talk about basket cases, they’re the most judgmental, self-righteous, backstabbing, delusional and evil women I’ve ever encountered. Johnny has always been polite and respectful to you, isn’t that true?”

She nods her head yes.

“And your friends treat me like a leper. What am I doing? I’m beginning to get defensive.”

“So what’s up with you? What do you do for work? Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Why is it of any concern to you now? Since we are no longer together, I don’t feel I owe you any explanation. And I’m feeling a bit violated that you invaded my privacy.”

“Why is it such a big secret? What, are you a spy? A secret agent like James Bond? Santiago please, just because I’m pretty doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

She opens a drawer in the desk then hands me the two passports.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“No, not at all. I’m not interested. In fact I should begin packing up and find a place to stay.”

“You don’t have to leave immediately, tomorrow morning will be fine. I’m not going to kick you out until you’ve found a place.”

She sits down next to me on the sofa and grabs my hands.

“I asked my cousin Rodney. He’s an officer with Border Patrol, and he said most likely someone with that type of background with multiple passports is probably a drug dealer or someone smuggling contraband of some kind.”

“You asked who, what about me? Are you fucking insane? Your cousin is a federal officer? You didn’t! You can’t be serious.”

“He’s not like a real cop or anything like that, he’s Border Patrol.”

“Well, tell all the guys doing time for drug busts that Border Patrol aren’t real cops.”

“I didn’t mention your name or give him any information that would implicate you. Listen, I know you’re a drug dealer. Not the kind that sells to people out in the streets. No, you’re one of those movie type characters dealing in the big stuff. There’s a name for them but I can’t think of it right now.”

“What, you mean like narco traficante?”

What the fuck is wrong with me? I leave my passports in my jacket for her to find, and now I identify myself as a drug trafficker. Damn I’m a real tough nut to crack, and to top it off, I’m in a relationship with a woman who has a federal police officer in the family. 

“Yes! Yes, that’s it, narcotics guy. Well, are you? Tell me, I promise not to tell anyone. Please. It’s hard to believe because I’ve rarely seen you do drugs and you never seem to have much money. Tell me!”

“Well that’s just goddamn great! You’re a real piece of work. If I was a drug dealer, you would be in deep shit right now. Believe me, you’d be on someone’s hit list. What the fuck were you thinking? I’m packing up and leaving now. My work never mattered for the eight months we’ve been together, why has it become such an issue now?”

“Why are you so upset? If you aren’t a trafficker, there should be nothing to worry about. This is the reason I’ve decided to end our relationship. You are a mystery, I still don’t know who you are after being together for over a year, not eight months, genius. Sometimes I watch you while you’re sleeping and it seems you  never relax, your body is always jerking and twitching. I wonder if you’re chasing after butterflies or being chased by some monster, in your dream. When your son Nigel visited at Christmas, he told the story of how all of your children were afraid to wake you from sleeping because you would abruptly jump up with your fists clenched in an aggressive posture. So they would use a broom handle and poke you from a safe distance then run out of the room. Everyone thought it was hilarious and laughed, except me. I thought it was sad thinking about what would cause someone to react that way. I asked Nigel later that night and he told me about your childhood with your father and your time in prison. Santiago, the reason for me ending our relationship is that I’m falling in love with you. Why I said you have no future is that you seem to live only for the day, for the hour, for the right now. You don’t ever talk or make plans for the future or for our future. I feel lost, need some security in my life. Who knows what could happen with the life you lead. You’re here one moment and then you vanish in a flash. You could be killed, busted, or decide to just never come back, leaving me all alone. How has anyone ever been able to risk a relationship with you? Oh, that’s right, they’ve all given up. Don’t you want a mellow life, a safe place, a home with someone who will be there for you, to take care of you, someone to love you?”

“And where could I find such a person? Besides, maybe I’m not sure if that type of life is what I want at this time. I did the marriage thing, the house, the eight to five job, the family. I failed miserably at all of it. I’m grateful that my children were able to survive the fiasco, coming through it mostly unscathed. I’m not in favor of doing it all over again. The good side of having made a mistake is that you know when you’re doing it for the second time.”

“Tell me what it is you are searching for in life. What do you want?”

“What do I want? I want a woman with the faint taste of cocaine on her lips. A kiss that takes my breath away. A cool summer breeze in her touch. Her hair with the smell of a far off rain, skin smooth like a river stone. Her laughter, the sound of church bells at midnight, ocean waves splashing in her eyes, a hint of confession in her lies, her breath with the aroma of oven-baked bread and can throw a mean punch.”

“Get out! Now go, you son of a bitch!”

Those were the last words I heard her speak. I packed my things and left as requested, then called up Johnny Rico.

“Thanks for picking me up, Johnny. I knew things wouldn’t work out with her. It’s all for the best. She’s got a cousin or an uncle who’s Border Patrol. Then she tells him about my passports and my travels for the last few years to Mexico and Colombia. And to end it all, she called me a son of a bitch. Can you believe that shit?”

“No way? I know your mother was a very nice lady. Maybe you should want me to get rid of her for you? Make the problem go away.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Rico? Have you been watching movies again, Scarface or Blow? No, I don’t want you to do anything to her. You got it?”

“Yo entiendo. But I never like that womens. She always stares at me real strange. She kinda freaked me out. I’m happy you’re not with her anymore.” 

“Where did you get this car?” I asked him. “Why aren’t you driving the van we used for the run?”

“Well, somewhere I lose the keys, and the rental guy can’t come till tomorrow with new keys. So I borrow this ride from the hotel parking garage.”

“You stole this car?”

“No, I borrow it to pick you up!”

“Oh Rico! What am I going to do with you?”

“Why? What you wanna do?”