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After watching the Freedom Frontiersmen evacuate his motel, Mike said screw it and went to the Rosebud anyway, even though there was no legitimate reason, other than drinking, to do so anymore.
At least when Tony had been here there was someone to talk to, even if Mike’s part of the conversation consisted of rolling his eyes at Tony's wild boasts and inappropriate comments. With Tony gone there was nothing to do but drink. This made him realize that any attempt to organize an Alcoholic’s Anonymous chapter in Cornudo would have been derailed by the oppressive boredom that didn’t damage the liver, but ate holes in the psyche that could only be filled by liquor. Furthermore, there wasn’t a hall big enough in town to hold such a meeting, since everyone was essentially a drunk, or a drunk in training. In fact, the Rosebud was the only hall in town, and naturally they would be serving drinks there, which would pretty much kill the sobriety campaign.
Mike staggered out of the Rosebud about 1:30 AM. He would have stayed until last call but that would have been irresponsible to Little Fucker. Some old hippy had been playing Grateful Dead tunes on the juke box all night. Sunshine ice cream, or Sunshine dank meme, Mike sang as he stumbled along back to the motel. He sucked at remembering words to songs. His Dad could remember the words to every song he had ever heard since the lullabies in the crib. God he wished he could see his Dad right now. They could get drunk together, throwing down Pabst Blue Ribbon or some bargain swill like that. His Dad would be so proud, maybe he should call him. No more appletinis. "Fuck appletinis!" Mike screamed into the night, shaking his fist at the heavens.
Mike had to piss really bad, and started to unzip himself beneath a light pole. This was the single worst place a man could relieve himself, but drunken urinators seemed irresistibly, sometimes fatally attracted to light sources, just like the bugs buzzing overhead. The fact that his own toilet was only a minute away made the prospect even more tantalizing. Two things stopped him. First of all, he caught a glimpse of the gas station across the street. There was a light on in Danny's house just behind it, and he was sure that Marisol was probably awake, probably praying a rosary because that’s all those Mexican bitches ever did. Mike rocked drunkenly on his legs, laughing about the implications of this thought. Hell, they probably even prayed the rosary when they were fucking. He laughed himself stupid at this.
Another reason Mike couldn't urinate is because that fucking black car was parked in his lot again. It was that damned Agent Smith. "Get off my property!" Mike yelled, making a wild banzai rush on the car. Agent Smith's pasty white face, framed by those anachronistic dark glasses, multiplied in Mike's vision, reproducing itself via cellular division, proving he was some sort of spineless lower life form.
"Why don't you leave me alone?" Mike wanted to bang on the car, but thought Agent Smith might be armed, and he wasn’t drunk enough yet to test the theory.
“I brought along a friend of yours, Mike," said Smith, flicking his tongue. In the back seat of the sedan, in a shadow where the glow of the street lamps barely reached, hunkered a figure whose identity, even in a silhouette, was unmistakable.
"Mike, Mike, Mike," a voice from the back seat said in perfect Queens English, but definitely not the Queen's English. "I thought we had a mutual understanding. I pulled strings for you Mike to get you out of jail. That Sheriff was going to crucify you. And this is how you pay me? I'm really, really disappointed, Mike."
Mike really, really had to piss. He was seriously thinking about draining his valve on the wheel of Agent Smith's car.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
The shadow puckered its lips in a Presidential pout. In his reeling and spinning drunken mind, Mike wondered how a Presidential pout would look on Rushmore, chiseled alongside Mao Tse Tung, Winston Churchill and Freddy Roosevelt, whoever that fat fucker was. His Dad was always ranting that the way the country was going they might as well chisel Chairman Mao into the Black Hills, so Mike grew up thinking he was really there. College had not changed that.
The pout was almost an entity unto itself, as if an infant had sprouted from the Presidential lip and become a being all its own. It is said that bright eyed Athena sprung like a tumor from the head of Zeus. Perhaps the pout too would break away to become a mighty warrior goddess, "I just want what's mine Mike. We've been combing the desert, and we can't find it."
Mike rocked on drunken legs. "Well, why don't you comb your crappy hair instead, if you really have any? I don't have it."
"I'm going to take that as a terrorist threat," said Smith, and started to get out of the car.
"Calm down Smith," the pout cajoled him. The pout seemed more compassionate than the human from whence it sprang. "We don't want him to hurt my baby. We've got to negotiate. Mike, I'm the greatest negotiator in American history. Are you willing to negotiate? You must know something. Bring my baby back, Mike."
“I don't have your baby," said Mike. "I just have to piss really bad. Excuse me." Mike stumbled toward the shining beacon for besieged bladders that the Gasden Motel had become.
"Mike! Mike!" the desperate pout yelled after him.
Anywhere but the Gadsden Purchase, this encounter would have seemed out of the ordinary. As it was, Mike shrugged it off and went to take a piss. The Gadsden Purchase was a DMZ, where world leaders sometimes showed up to placate you, so you wouldn't go over the line.
Little F was sound asleep when Mike checked in on him. Instead of tormentors, the critters in Tony's room had become the kid's protectors. Even though there was still a highly toxic snake loose somewhere in the room, there was nothing quite as reassuring as sleeping among fanged beasts that are toxic enough to frighten the most determined and deadly human predator.
Mike tucked in next to the kid. The room spun around on its axis, Mike saw the stars in their courses, but it it was only the reflection from the spackled ceiling. He thought the critters must be getting one hell of a ride, then passed out.
Somewhere around dawn Little F woke him up, pounding on his chest and yelling "pee-pul." Mike checked the camera on his phone, thinking the FF was back, but was relieved to see what looked to be a normal traveling couple. As he put on his shoes something slithered against his foot in the dark, but he did not see it and was still drunk enough that it produced just another dulled sensation, like the rest of his senses.
"Sorry to disturb your slumber good fellow," said a late middle-aged man with a long face and a chin so small it created an almost flat, featureless expanse down to the neck, something a geographer would call an intermontane plateau. His wife looked exactly the same, except shorter and with darker hair. The woman was wearing what could be classified as a sun bonnet, a ridiculous accessory at 3 AM, but in his motel, paying customers could wear what they wanted. The man had on a ball cap that read Hill Country Bird Festival, and had a pair of binoculars strung around his neck. He spoke in what would be classified as the Received Pronunciation dialect, but in his muddled state, Mike couldn't tell the real Queen's English from the Brooklynese of that shadow in the back seat.
The man said "The missus and I were kicking around the back country in the Huachucas, listening for the Whiskered Screech Owl, which has quite eluded us, I must say." Only the British would be smiling so cheerily at 3 AM after a night crawling around in the brush among thorns and cobwebs, Mike's Dad might have said. Once they had conquered the world with their warships, now they were conquering it with binoculars. "At any rate, we are quite exhausted, and thought we would layover here a while. We have heard the Le Conte's thrasher is splendid about these parts, and we would dearly like to cross that off our list. The sun never sets on our British birding Empire, old boy." It was clear the man had made this little jest many times in the past, to mixed reviews. His faithful wife was well trained to perform her espousal duty to laugh at the lame joke, even at 3 AM. "Can you give us a room dear lad? And have you heard any updates about the local whereabouts of that species?"
Mike nodded in the negative. Over at the Rosebud, nobody had been talking about LeConte's Thrashers. But he was glad to check them in because they looked like nice people, compared to the blood-sucking fiends of late, so he gave them a special weekly rate, though no one had ever stayed a week before, and he found it slightly odd that anyone would want to. Then again, he had heard somewhere, probably from his father again, that the English were an odd lot. They deliberately sought out inhospitable places that normal people found absolutely inhospitable, all in the name of advancing the jolly good Union Jack.
Mike started filling in the bouncing registration blanks, perfect equilibrium still eluding him in his cloudy head. "Name is Easely. 37th Earl of Easely, but who’s counting?”
Mike learned quickly that Earls were fond of giving their titles even when no one asked. For this Earl, being a tourist in these rebellious colonies across the pond meant that no one knew what an Earl was, much less cared. Oh you mean like that feller on My Name Is Earl? - one particularly loathsome gas station attendant had asked him. And then there was that gang of ruffians singing Duke of Earl behind his back in the hotel lobby in Albuquerque. But even though nobody here sympathized with his lofty rank either, the Earl of Easely couldn't help taking out his Earl card and waving it around.
"This is the Lady Easely," the Earl Added, though it seemed obvious. He signed the registration slip as Mike informed them of the free HBO (hacked) and complimentary WI-FI (hacked). “Oh we won't be having any of that. The Lady and I like to live off the grid as much as possible. I've brought along a complete set of ornithological field manuals, and that should do for entertainment. We'll be up early for tea."
Mike wasn’t about to serve tea and crumpets to some pampered, self entitled Earl at the break of dawn. He gestured toward the Cornudo Café and the Earl got the point. “Splendid. Good night," the gentleman said, and Mike staggered back drunk to Tony's room. Hosting royalty or not, he just wanted to sleep off this bender.
In mid May in the Gadsden Purchase, the sun is in spring training for its regular season depredations of summer. The solar orb, eager to prove that its lackluster showing in winter did not indicate future performance, pried its way through the curtains and reflected off the glass fortresses of the menacing menagerie of desert outcasts lining the shelves, invading Mike's aching eyes. It's hard to sleep, thought Mike, when a hairy spider as big as your fist, sporting dripping mandibles, is staring straight at you with a multitude of malevolent eyes. He gave up and crawled out of bed.
Today he planned to hollow out part of a wall in his own room so he could install a safe. The way things were going here, he thought keeping a stash of ready cash was not a bad idea. He gave Little F breakfast and struggled to the office, trying to shield the sun with his left arm, but the sun was threatening to melt it, so he lowered his arm and forged ahead by alternating eyeballs, to limit the searing on any one individually. Half blind he almost didn't see Marisol walking over from the gas station, wearing cutoff shorts and a red tank top, but when he did his jaw almost came unhinged.
The Gadsden Purchase seemed to sprout buxom, beautiful women from cactus buds. Dear Jesus I didn't brush my teeth yet. Mike wanted to make a mad dash for his toothbrush, but leaving Marisol hanging might make a worse impression than his fermented breath.
"Morning Mike," she said sweetly as they exchanged a very girlish handshake that Mike tried to elongate by leaning back on his heels as far as possible, to spare her the cloud of noxious fumes percolating from his mouth and mandibular area.
"Muhning," he responded as tight-lipped as he could and still speak. She spared him further elaboration, obviously accustomed to men becoming morons in her presence. Meanwhile, the tan line peeking out from beneath her cutoffs was awakening parts of Mike that had lay dormant since Lisa's departure. Ursus Horribilis had awakened from hibernation. Further preparations for becoming a monk were put on hold.
“My uncle sent me by to see if you needed help cleaning up the rooms that Eric's people wrecked. Honestly, I volunteered, because it's so fricking boring around here. I need something to do besides waiting to jump when my uncle snaps his fingers. Can we cool it with the PC euphemisms for swear words, by the way? I mean, I'm cool with it if you're ultra religious, but if you want we can use real F bombs and ditch the fricking this and fricking that."
"Kbyme," Mike squeezed out from between clinched teeth. "All pay u."
"No, I'm not asking for a job, I just came by to help a neighbor. Is your jaw wired shut? Did you get in a fight?”
“Fall me,” Mike muttered. Marisol turned out to be fluent in bad breath dialect, because she followed Mike to the office without question. "Scouse muh secont," he said when they got there, then went in the back to brush his teeth. "Much better," he declared as he returned a new man. "I just got out of bed. I was up late last night entertaining visiting royalty. Some Earl from England came in."
Marisol didn't seem either surprised or impressed. She was crossing her own rather regally tanned legs in Mike's office chair. "We get all kinds around here."
"I think they're out scouring the sand right now, searching for some bird I didn't even know existed. My Dad always says only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun. I thought that was just one of his Dad sayings, but I guess he's right. It's only ten, not yet noon, but why split hairs?"
Marisol distracted, so Mike offered her some coffee. "I have a Keurig. It will be quick, it has these little cups."
"Sure. Hey, just because we have the only tube TV left in the free world doesn't mean I don't know what a Keurig is."
“You should get one. They're great." Mike wished he could take that back. A beautiful woman shows up on his front door and the only small talk he can think of is about his freaking Keurig?
"It would only confuse my Uncle. He would pace around the kitchen cursing it, then break it on purpose. He won't even use the remote control. I have to get up and change the channel for him."
Mike scrambled off for the coffee. "How do take it?"
"Just black."
"Whoa! Really?"
"There's no point sugar coating anything out here.”
Mike handed Marisol the mug. She had a self-effacing streak that kept his hands from trembling in the presence of beauty. If he didn't know any better, it was almost if she didn't know she was hot, but that was impossible.
"Poor bird," she said.
"Huh?"
"That bird you said the Earl was looking for. Poor thing thinks this sandy shithole is the entire Universe. It could easily fly out of here, but it has no frame of reference, and probably assumes every place else is the same as here, so why bother? You and I, on the other hand, know better. Is that a blessing or a curse?"
"I don't know yet. I'm still trying to figure it out. You probably think I'm a dumbshit for coming out here on purpose."
She took a seductive sip on the mug, her thin lips embracing the porcelain gently and softly, tasting it like a lover's skin. Down in its cave, the hibernating bear rolled over and scratched itself.
“No, I think you're running from something.”
"Whoa! Your Uncle always said the same thing.” But when Tony said it it was annoying, not charming. “Tony is your Uncle, right?"
She smiled in a way that really didn't reveal anything significant from the password-protected part of her brain. "Kind of. I guess."
Mike let this little bit of awkwardness fizzle off. "How about you? Are you originally from here?"
She almost spit her coffee out. "Hell no. I'm from San Diego. Can't you tell from my valley girl voice? Everybody thinks it's strange to see a Mexican who talks like a Val. It's my curse. No one takes me seriously because of that."
"Why did you leave?"
Marisol squirmed in her chair. Like everything else, she even made discomfort look sexy. "It's a long, tragic story. Why don't we get to work?"
"Ssure," Mike said with one of his extended serpentile esses. He handed her a set of keys. "I'll tell you what. I'm doing a remodeling job in here I have to take some measurements for. I'll meet you out there in a few minutes. Those goons we're in rooms 11-16. Just start taking off the sheets and I'll be there in a minute."
Talking about sheets with such a sexy girl made Mike's hormones hum. Once Marisol was gone, he ran around to Tony's room to check on Little F. The kid was sitting on the bed before a captive audience of critters, his postcards spread out before him, sorted in geometric patterns that only made sense in his tiny head. "Stay here and be good," Mike cautioned him, though it was hardly necessary because the boy would not budge for hours. "Don't open the door." Mike didn't want Marisol learning about Little F yet. He wasn’t ready for that level of trust.
"Be good," answered Little F with a wicked smile. Mike gave the boy a big bucket of animal crackers to keep him entertained.
Back in the office, Mike examined wall in his room he had torn out a few days ago with the idea of installing a safe, but in the excitement of the ordeal with the FF he had put it aside. Grabbing his tape measure he popped his head in the hole, and at once spotted a rectangular object hiding in the darkness, a shadowy lump that blended into the gloom. Leaning his head down and stretching his arm out gingerly, ever mindful of scorpions and other toxic creepy crawlies, Mike pulled the object toward him.
The thing was caked in dust, only in the Gadsden Purchase could dust penetrate a wall this thick, but still identifiable as a cigar box, the kind Mike's dad might have used to lug his pencils and crayons to school, before they invented those plastic boxes with the snap tops.
Mike carried the box to the table, where there was a letter from Lisa, addressed in her curling lovey-dovey script with letter i dotted with hearts. This cuteness, once charming, irritated him now.
Next to Lisa's letter sat a surprise email from Otis, that he had printed in the event any common law domestic arrangements were disputed. It read: Bra, I don't wanna be the bringer of bad news, but you been good to me, and I thought you oughta no. I don't feel good doing this because Lisa used to be my friend too before she got all bossy bitch, but Lisa been two-timing you. Theirs this prof that has been visiting to give her so-call political instructin, but now the prof has move in. As far as I know Lisa is livin in your house, so this is a fuck up thing to do. I went there yesterday to so-call return Lisa a crappy book she tried to make me read. I thought shit was going on because the prof's car was always there. I heard them going at it through the door. I dropped the book and run. I don't wannabe a snitch, but you got no business with this bitch. She a ho, dump her bro. Love you bro, Otis
There was nothing new about the email. It was the same shit his Dad had been trying to tell him that he wouldn't listen to. But it helped Mike decide what to do with the unopened letter from Lisa. He needed room on the table to open the cigar box he had found, so he ran the letter through the shredder.
As the shredder teeth ripped ravenously through Lisa's letter, its wicked metal teeth seeming to savor the mauling, Mike carefully pried the cigar box open, wary that some fanged invertebrate would leap out. Turns out there were no bugs in there, but instead a collection of medals, the largest and most notable being a blue cross with a crown atop it, bearing the words F Pour LeMe Rite. That meant nothing to Mike, but beneath this was another that was most definitely an Iron Cross, a decoration Mike recognized from the Hogan's Heroes episodes he used to watch with his Dad. There was so much of this bling being flashed about on the show Mike assumed they issued them to all the krauts. His Dad said they handed them out for successful bowel movements. Even that bumbling bald fuck Klink had one, or did he? Mike would Google it. But the blue one? That one looked serious.
Holy shit these must be Herr Mueller's medals, it occurred to Mike, that grouchy old fuck really was a Nazi bastard. He wondered how they had gotten plastered up inside a wall. Was he hiding this shit in case the Mossad came to drag his ass to a war crimes tribunal?
Mike’s preoccupation with his archaeological discovery meant he didn’t see Marisol standing there in the office, leading Little F by the hand. The boy was not scared, but looked perfectly happy munching on an animal cracker. “Look what I found," Marisol said. She looked happy too.
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Image by MADe via Wikimedia Commons
