Road Trip a chapter from my novel Willie

Road Trip

By Daigneault

           

            The hard plastic phone rings on the cluttered, oak desk.  A middle-aged cop picks it up. 

            He clears his throat and then answers with a gruff tone, “Spokane Police Department, Can I help you.”

            “Yeah, this is Detective Carl Whitlow, I’m with Rock Springs P-D.  We’re located in Southern Wyoming.  We got a circular from you on an armed robbery and I’ve got two youth offenders in our lock-up that match your description.”

            “Okay, let me transfer you up to the Lieutenant.”

            A minute later a different man comes on the line, sounding a little annoyed, he say’s, “Robbery, Did you get any names out of those little bastards.”

            Whitlow replies, “I got a Joseph Bisc and a Willard Bershears. They can’t be more than 12 years old”

            “That’s them… hold on to em, we’ll send a car out.  It’ll be a couple of days.

            Whitlow, hangs up the phone.  Shaking his head he looks across his desk at the two boys, sitting quietly, handcuffed to the heavy bench, with a look of deep concern on their faces.  They are both wearing dirty, white tee shirts, worn out jeans and work boots.  A couple of scrawny little shits that look like they should be playing baseball or doing yard work, or… anything…  anything else.  It’s hard to think they’ve robbed a grocery store, and even harder to picture these two using a gun.  Maybe it’s this damn depression.  Times are hard. The whole country has gone bust.

            Chuck, our old foreman, stops with his story for a minute and leans back to light a cigarette.  We are a small group of ironworkers, sitting in a dusty, plywood job shack on a construction site, in south Phoenix.  The air is thick with the smell of grease and stale cigarettes.  It’s over 100 degrees in the shack.  Too hot to eat, everyone is drinking as much Gatorade as they can get down in the 15-munite break.  Dripping with sweat, at least we are out of the brutal Arizona sun. Chuck is dark and wrinkled from years of the heat’s damage.  His hands are badly crippled, from being smashed so many times by the iron, but he can still get over two tons an hour, per man.  In short he’s one tough old rodbuster.

            He takes a deep drag and slowly blows out the smoke. As it billows across the room, he goes on, “That was back in 1935 or 36.  In those days they would send a couple of older beat cops in a car across country to pick up lower level crooks they wanted.” 

            I break in and ask Chuck, “Did you know Willie back then?”

            “He was older. We used to say there were 10 men for every job and there were no jobs.  So everyone was always broke.  But if Willie was around… well, things were different.  I remember one time Willie was at my cousins house.  We wanted to drive out to the lake and go swimming with our girlfriends.  So we were all pooling our money.  It just wasn’t enough to buy gas to get to the lake and back. 

            Willie said, “Everybody go get your swim suits, I’ll meet you back here in about an hour.”

            An hour later Willie shows up.  He’s got a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey, a ham, some bread and a bunch of other shit for a picnic. Then he takes us to the gas station to fill up my cousin’s gas tank.  I think it cost a few bucks. Willie had a twenty and a five.  That was a lot of money back then.  We all went to the lake and had a great time. 

            The next day my old man’s reading the newspaper. There is a story about a local store being robbed.  It seems the thieves got away with a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey, a ham, some bread and twenty-five dollars in cash.”  Chuck staring at the floor like he could still see the scene shakes his head as he lets out a little snicker.  Then he looks me in the eye and says, “Willie… he simply refused to go with out.  He was going to be okay, or he was going to be dead.”

            “So what happened with the cops in Wyoming?” I ask.

            Chuck takes us back into the story; “The way they got back to Spokane was, after the cops picked Joe and Willie up, they would drive all day.  You need to remember there were no freeways in those days, so it was backcountry roads all the way.  At night the cops would put the boys in some little small town jail and then go to a diner and sleep in a motel.  In one of the jails, Willie had a few bucks hidden in his sock, that the cops hadn’t found when they searched him.  He bought a knife.

            The next day Willie and Joe are sitting in the back seat, and the cops are up front.  They’re trying to make good time, maybe doing 60, which is quite fast in one of those old cars. 

            A beautiful spring day, sailing down the road in central Idaho.  A ribbon of highway, gently rolling through a carpet of knee high, bright green, potato plants as far as the eye can see.  The cops are enjoying the trip.  They’re relaxed, foolishly dropping their guard.  To them Willie and Joe are no threat… just two scared little kids.  Remember no cage between the driver and the back seat. Out of the blue, Willie leans forward.  He grabs the driver by the hair and quickly reaches around his neck, pressing the homemade blade to the tough, old cops throat.

            Willie says, in his most menacing 12-year old voice, Okay motherfucker, pull the car over or you’re dead.

            The two old cops are torn between the seriousness of the knife and the irony of this 80-pound child acting like Al Capone.  The driver lets out a little snicker.  The other Cop’s belly starts shaking, and then trying to hold back, he breaks into a low whine, which causes the driver to uncontrollably roar with laughter.

    Without a second’s hesitation, Willie slices the driver’s throat wide open.  A shower of blood sprays all over the driver’s window, the dashboard, and the inside of the windshield.  In the same instant the driver instinctively lets go of the wheel and grabs at his throat.  The car lurches on to the dirt shoulder and then the front wheels suddenly catch the edge of the asphalt.  In seeming slow motion, the car lifts into the air.  After silently rolling over a few times, it explodes when the rear end hits the blacktop.  Mangled metal and glass are flying everywhere as the smashed up squad car goes flipping down the highway.  The car finally skids to a stop upside down, the roof totally crushed in.  Everyone inside is drenched in the driver’s blood with multiple broken bones.  Stuck in the smoking wreck, fading in and out of conceseness, it was hours before some local cops could cut them out. ”

            Chuck stops and thinks for a second.  He goes on ”The driver died.  They charged them both with the murder.  Because they were minors they were released on their 21^st birthday. ”

            Chuck with an odd little smile says, “After that… those boys weren’t real popular with the cops around Spokane.            

"The Life" a chapter from my novel "Willie"

My school ID photo when I was studying writing!

The life            

            With a quick poke, the needle pierces the big, pulsing vein on Willie’s right arm just below a three and a half inch line of tracks that follow the vein to his current injection site, revealing several years of intravenous drug use.  He pushes a small amount of the dark brown liquid into his arm.  It is still warm from cooking it up in the spoon, with the burned bottom, that is laying on the table next him.  He pops loose the rubber surgical hose, tying his arm off, and starts to feel the warm rush. Drawing blood back into the syringe it mixes with the sweet brown nectar, a swirling cloud of narcotic heaven that Willie is now shooting three or four times a day.  He slowly pushes the plunger down.  As the syringe empties he feels the opiates ooze into every pore in his body; like warm honey.  Fading into a tranquil dream and then nodding out, he is floating in the arms of his one true love… Heroin.

            After about twenty minutes, Willie slowly opens one lazy eye; with a sleepy smile he thinks to himself, “well… time to earn.” 

            He unbuttons his fly and picks up a second syringe, filled with smack that is lying on the table next to the burnt spoon.  Checking to make sure the plastic cap covering the needle is secure he then tapes the syringe, point down, to the inside of his thigh, just below his crotch, with a wide strip of surgical tape, and then pulls his pants back up.

            Driving over to the job, Hank Williams is on the crackling old radio in his 1965, piece of shit, Plymouth Valiant.

            Even though it’s the middle of the night and snowing outside, he’s warm and toasty, partially from the heater but mostly from the heroin.  With a dreamy smile on his face he follows along, “Hear that lonesome whippoorwill, he sounds too blue to fly…”

            His mind wonders over to thinking about her… hotter then doughnut grease, that one.  It’s not his fault, if her old man doesn’t know what she really needs. Most straight johns have no idea how to treat women.  He snickers to himself, ”It’s okay honey we can try again next month.”  She couldn’t get enough of him, then he turned her on to the shit and that was the end of her Betty Crocker days.  By now he’s singing at the top of his lungs with the old car radio, “And as I wonder where you are, I’m so lonesome I could cry!”

“Man oh man is this some great shit,” he thinks s to himself.

            She told Willie about her boss, the middle-aged lawyer, with thinning hair and a huge paunch.  He was always standing too close, with his perpetual bad breath and those eyes that were always peaking down her blouse.  Then one afternoon, as Willie was leaving her house, before her husband got home, she mentioned the safe in his office.

            “Does he keep cash in it?”  Willie asked.

            “Not usually, but he’s been meeting with a client that owns topless bars all over town and he always pays in cash.  My boss keeps bitching about it,”

She tells Willie “I’m pretty sure he’s holding the cash in the safe, so he won’t have to claim it.” 

            Twenty minutes later, Willie drives into the parking space in back of the law office.  He wonders around to the trunk of his car to get his tool bag.  Checking his pocket to make sure he brought the key, he heads into the empty office.  Once inside he waits a few minutes with his eyes closed, to adjust to the darkness. While he waits he hums the Hank William’s tune he had been singing earlier enjoying the warm narcotic haze. 

            Opening his eyes, there is enough light to proceed with out a flashlight.  First he throws furniture and the contents of desk drawers around the room knowing full well that the safe is upstairs.  If he goes directly to the safe the cops will know it was an inside job.  He then goes upstairs and ransacks the other offices, saving her bosses office for last.

            Once at the safe, he points a small flashlight at the dial and puts on the stethoscope.  Three full turns to the left to clear the tumblers.

            Hank starts singing in his head “I’ve never seen a night so low.”

            Concentrate, he firmly tells himself. 

            “When tears get in your eyes”

            The dial starts to look a little fuzzy.

            Willie quickly realizes, he’s way to high to open the safe.  Plan b… He’ll have to take it back home and crack it after he comes down.  A quick nudge and he can tell it’s been bolted to the concrete floor… no problem.

            Willie gets out his pocketknife and walks over to a beautiful dark brown leather couch in the center of the office.  He cuts out a 20-inch square of the leather from the seat cushion.  Looking through his tools he takes out a splitting wedge and a 12-pound sledgehammer.  He wraps the wedge in the soft leather and tucks the edge under the front of the safe.  He adjusts the light to shine on the wedge and stands up.  Holding the sledgehammer like a golf club, he pretends to look down a fairway and quietly says, “four” to himself and takes a full swing at the splitting wedge.  The leather muffles the sound, but the safe doesn’t budge.  For the next 10 minutes, Willie constantly beats on the wedge, occasionally taking out his frustrations by smashing the expensive walnut furniture, lamps and assorted decorations that are scattered about the room.

            The safe finally gives; a few more whacks and it breaks free. He lifts the safe, checking the weight.  It’s heavy, maybe 125 pounds.  Lifting it all the way up he thinks, “I’ll need a shortcut.” Willie drops the safe on a coffee table just for fun, and looks around the room.  He walks on over to the huge picture window that has the words Law Office painted backwards in black and gold old English letters.  Looking up and down the street, the coast is clear.  Willie walks back, picks up the safe and runs at the window, raising it up as high as he can, as he gets closer.  One last heft and the safe sails through the second story window.  As it breaks through the glass the silence is shattered with the screaming clang of an alarm.

            “Shit” he says out loud…”Time to go!”

            Not wanting to waste second Willie steps out through the broken window on to the ledge.  The safe is lying down on the sidewalk surrounded by the shattered glass, about 12 feet below.  He leaps down, but what he doesn’t see is the ice covering the sidewalk.  When he hits the ground his feet fly out from underneath him and the back his head smashes into the corner of the safe.  Lying in broken glass he feels the warm blood dripping down his neck and back.  The police cars sirens are now drowning out the clang of the alarm.  Several squad cars screech to a stop a few feet away. The cops jump out and surround Willie, guns drawn. 

            He blurts out, “Man, am I glad to see you guys!  I was walking down the street, minding my own business when that safe came flying out the window and hit me right here on the back of my head.  I’m lucky to be alive. Just wait tell my lawyer gets a hold of these guys.”

            The cops, less than convinced, spend the next five minutes cuffing and kicking the shit out of Willie, followed by a quick search.  They empty his pockets and overlook the dope hidden in his pants.  At the jail, Willie gives a call to his lawyer and they toss him in a cell with a few drunks and assorted Nair-do-wells.  The guard leaves, Willie reaches inside his pants and pulls out the syringe. 

            “Anybody want to party?” he asks the other men.  They all decline.  Willie tears off a piece of his shirtsleeve and ties off his arm.  He shoots the dope as the other men look on in horror.  His eyes roll back in his head and the world is once again right.  After about 10 minutes he comes to and bums a smoke off of one of the other men.  Leaning back with a big smile, he takes a slow drag off the cigarette, blows a few rings and starts singing, “And as I wonder where you are, I’m so lonesome I could cry!”

The First Day a chapter from my novel Willie

Willie

            Life is hard.  My father tried to protect me from the world, but also knew that one day I would have to stand up and fight.  My life up to that point was one of swimming pools, ice cream and ponies.  I was thirteen years old and the hardest thing I had ever encountered was not being chosen for basketball or loosing at monopoly. 

            I was sitting in the living room on the big brown couch with my father watching television.  Most of my friends had paper routes and always had pocket money.  I wanted a summer job.

“Dad”

“Yes son”

“I was wondering if you might have some work for me?”

“Well, we could use someone picking up the wire down at the fab yard.”

            My father owned a rebar fabrication yard in South Phoenix.  Rebar is, sort of, the skeleton of a concrete building or structure.  In the office, detailers take the architectural drawings and figure out what load and stresses will be on the various components of the building.  They design a rebar frame that is engineered to meet that load.  They create a set of plans and cut sheets that list the quantities and various lengths or shapes needed to build the columns, beams or floors in the high-rises, bridges, dams, power plants or whatever is being built.  The fab yard then takes stock lengths of rebar, cuts and bends it into the required lengths and shapes.  It is then loaded onto trucks and shipped out to the construction site. 

            I remember thinking ‘how hard could that be?’

I said, “Thanks dad, that would be great!”

            “Okay Joey, get some sleep and I’ll wake you up.  We leave at four.”

            “Four!”  I had never got up that early.  “What time do they start?”

            “At five, it gets hot early”

            The next morning while we were riding to work, he gave me a little talk. 

“Joey these guys are real men, they don’t screw around.  They don’t want to be your friend; they just want to get the work done.”  He went on, “It’s been my experience that in life there’s always a whip.  It will either be in your boss’s hand or in your own head.  Trust me it’s a lot easier if you hold the whip.”

            We got out of the car, on the oil-covered dirt road, in South Phoenix’s old industrial district.  I was sticky and sweating and the sun wasn’t even up yet.  There’s a smell in that part of town, chemical, steel, iron, dirt, sweat, and the smell of years of men working on the same piece of sun-baked ground.

            A few minutes later an old truck pulled up and a short unassuming man in his mid-forties got out.  He was wearing a faded yellow cowboy shirt and had a friendly little smile on his face.

Yawning and stretching he mumbled, “Morning Joe” 

“Good morning Chuck, Joey this is Mr. Reeves.

“Good morning Mr. Reeves.”

“You can call me Chuck, Joey, It’s nice to meet you”

Then my dad asked if I had any money.  I said, “no”. 

“Well, here’s a few bucks, A truck will come around at nine and then again at noon.  The foods not too bad.  Don’t eat too much in this heat, it will make you sick.  I’ll pick you up at two.”  He knew I was a little nervous and added, “Just do what Chuck tells you… you’ll be fine!”  Then he got back in his car.  Chuck and I watched as he drove down the street to the old two-story, red brick house that served as his office.

As soon as he was out of sight, Chuck turned to me.  The kindly look on his face had disappeared.  With more anger than I had ever encountered, starring a hole right through me, he screamed, but he did so without raising his voice.

“Listen to me you little mother fucker, your daddy might have gotten you this god damn job, but he can’t keep it for you.  Where are your fuckin hand shoes?” 

“What?” I squeaked out. 

“Your hand shoes… your gloves goddamn it.  You little son of a bitch, you show up on my time without your fucking tools.  Ya know, I don’t give a rat’s ass… when your hands look like raw fucking hamburger go whine to someone else.  Are you going to stand here bullshitting all day or are you here to work?” 

I tried to answer but before I could he went on,

“I want every fuckin piece of wire in that yard in that dumpster before the end of the day.”

In the fab yard they received up to ten trucks loaded with forty thousand pounds of steel each, every day.  The bundles are tied together with rusty wire called bundle wire.  It’s as thick as a pencil, so thick I couldn’t even bend it.   All this wire is cut off the bundles and tossed into piles, after the cutting and bending the rebar is retied into smaller bundles and shipped to the job site.  Wire is the lifeblood of a steel yard.  Needless to say it would be impossible for one person, let alone a thirteen-year-old boy, to keep ahead of the piles and piles of rusty wire generated everyday. 

I had no idea what I had done to make Chuck so mad, and I didn’t want to find out. I started picking up wire as fast as I could.  The bundle wire looks like big spiders about a foot across and the tips of the legs are razor sharp.  They get all tangled together and I had too pull as hard as I could to get them free.  On the second or third bunch, as it broke loose it sliced deep into the palm of my hand.  The blood oozed, and I howled, “I’m cut, I’m cut… Chuck help, help!!!  I’m cut.”  Chuck came running over.  “Let me see… Well shit boy you aren’t hurt, what kind of a pussy are you? You aren’t fuckin lucky enough to die… Get your ass back to work!”  I was crying, scared to death and quite sure I would need stitches, when the biggest man I had ever seen walked over and handed me a brand new pair of White Mule leather work gloves. 

            He was about six two, two hundred and fifty pounds, not a drop of fat with reddish blond hair, a sunburned face and steel grey eyes.  He stuck out his huge hand and as he grabbed mine he smiled and said “Hey kid, give those a try… my names Willie!”

Out a chapter from my novel "Willie"

Today is my father's birthday.  He died four years ago on July 4th.  I'm working on a novel about my days as a rod buster.  I thought dad would like this chapter.  Happy Birthday dad!

 Out

A chapter from my novel "Willie"

Joe Daigneault  

I show up, as usual, twenty minutes before the rest of the crew.  The sky to the east is just starting to lighten a bit.  It’s still too dark to see.  I go over the sheets, layout the rigging, set up the torch and check the wire.  Today we’re finishing a six-barrel, box culvert in the desert just outside of Whitman.  As the crew shows up I drink that last cup of coffee and pop four 500mg Tylenol. 

 Kenny, an ex-bull rider turned-Christian-speed-freak, who is now the Super, wonders over.  “What do ya need, Joe?”

“When’s the pour?”

“At one.”

“Well, I could use two men and three punks.”

“I’ll give you black Howard and two new skins.”

“How fresh?”

“Right out of the box… just came off the rez yesterday and Joe, don’t kill em we’re short on help.”

“Okay but we’ll be chasing it, see if you can’t get me a few more.”

“Billy T called and said the office was sending out some new guy and they said he was only to work with you!”

“Call those assholes back and tell them, if they want me to baby-sit, they need to tack 50 cents an hour on to my check and send out a few cases of Pampers.”

“Either way, it’s gotta pour, so it’s assholes and elbows!”

“Amen to that.”

Kenny walks over to an old truck.  Two young Indians get out.  He points me out; they put on their brand new, tool belts and walk over quickly.

I say, Yah teh hey apena, denez (Good morning, Navajos.)

The older one replies, Yah teh hey, hostein (Hello Boss.)

About the same time, Howard, a huge, scary, midnight black, man, with a two inch wide scar running across his face, walks over, and growls, “Good morning, you fat, white, piece of dog shit”

“Morning fudge blossom!  If your all done with the sweet talk, why don’t you get these guys loading in that bottom and I’ll lay it out.  Oh, and Kenny says if you break em, you buy em.  So play nice.”

Howard walks over to the iron pile and starts shaking out the rods.  I tell the Indians “Just do what that big black guy over there tells you, keep your hands on the Rebe, don’t slow down and you’ll be fine.”

The older one says in broken English, “Wha happen to his face?”

I’m tempted to lay some bullshit story about a knife fight in the ghetto on them, but decide against it.  “Well, when He was twelve, down in Morenci, he and his little brother stole the limo at his sister’s wedding.  Shit, they were just two little black kids that had never seen a Cadillac that big before… going for a fucking joy ride. They made it about a mile before Howard wrapped the car around a big old oak tree.  Howard went through the front window.  His little brother was crippled for life.  He’s every bit as mean as he looks… so I’d leave it alone.” Nodding my head toward the iron I say, “Get to it!”

Howard picks up four of the 35 pound, number seven hook bars.  They are 12 feet long, with a six-foot tail.  Howard is tall enough to rest the bars on his shoulder as he carries them out to be placed in the box.  Unfortunately, the Indians are only about five feet tall, so they hold the bars over their heads as they walk.  Both try three bars and make it about ten feet before their arms give out.  The bars go tumbling to the ground.  Howard storms over and starts screaming.

“You clumsy, gut eating, cock-suckers.  Are you fucker’s lazy or just plain stupid?  That’s a good way to end up in the hospital.  If you’re too fucking short to carry these by yourselves then team up. I don’t want to see you carrying less than five of those ‘Chingaderas’ all fuckin day… And don’t let that fat, white, son of a bitch over there run out of iron, I don’t want to hear it!”

As Howard and the Indians pack the rods in I set them into place.  Working as fast as I can I tie the bars together by wrapping the wire around them, where they come together.  Then I cinch them tight by pulling and twisting the wire at the same time with my hands.  Another quick twist with my pliers then I cut the wire short.  There’s no time to be careful, so about every five minutes I accidentally run my knuckles or forearm across the razor sharp wire.  After twenty minutes, my arm drips blood and will do so for the rest of the day.  I’m so use to getting cut that I don’t even flinch anymore.  If it feels too deep, I just check quickly to see if it needs stitches. 

Around nine, an orange Toyota pickup pulls up.  An old Mexican, wearing thick prescription sunglasses, gets out.  He’s the field superintendent. 

He asks me, “Hot enough for ya Joey?”  I’m hot and sweating. it’s around 110°. 

“Hey Billy T… no, but don’t worry we’re suppose to hit 118° this afternoon.  How’s that A-C been treating you?” At 118°the average guy will make it about twenty minutes before he starts puking.  When it’s that hot, people die from heat exhaustion.

“The A-C’sFine… just fine.  Come on up out of there I need a word with you.” 

“Look, I got a pour at three and my ears work fine, so just speak up.”

“Hey… get you ass out of that hole NOW!… I need to talk with you about this guy the office is sending out.”

I’ve worked around Billy T all my life; he has a look of concern on his face that really grabs my attention, so I tell Howard,  “Hey, take over.”

When I get up top, Billy T. says, “Do you remember a huge con that worked down at the yard. The FBI came in and scooped him up one day about eight years ago?”

“Yeah, I remember him.  His name was Willie.  I used to work with him when I was a kid… Why?”

“He’s out and coming here. Apparently, they were so afraid of him down at Florence that he’s been in solitary for the past six years.  I guess he beat three guys to death… three guys with knives!”

“So why’s he out?”

“No one left to testify, but he did the did the rest of his time in the box.  They let him out for one hour a month to walk around in a cage in the sunlight, wearing shackles with two armed guards watching. Your old man gave him a job, so he made parole.  No General population for him.  They took him out of solitary this morning and put him directly on the bus.  He’s a little spooky.  The office told me to give him to you… keep a fucking leash on him.  There’s a tool belt for him in the back of my truck.  Tell him I’ll take it out of his first check.”

“Will do.”

Billy T drives away and I get back at it. 

Around eleven, I look up from the hole and there he is in brand new, Levis, boots and a white tee shirt.  Just as big as I remember, except he’s as white as a ghost from being indoors… no sunlight.

“I’m looking for Joey Daigneault,” he says.

“Well Willie, that would be me.  How the fuck are you?”

He smiles that big, shit eating, Willie grin and says. “Fine as frogs hair, boy… I’ll be, look at you.  You grew up!

Tequila and Magic in a Mexican Garden

Tequila and Magic in a Mexican Garden

By Mad Coyote Joe

            Looking over at the kitchen window, making sure that his wife Norma isn’t watching, Santiago reaches into the big burlap bag and produces a half empty bottle of José Cuervo Traditional Tequila.  He slowly takes a generous gulp of the golden brown liquid.  Smacking his lips together, he utters, “Madre de dios, I needed that.”

             We are in the garden collecting hibiscus flowers for Norma.  After they dry she will use them to make Jamaica tea.  I am thirteen years old and spending the summer in Guadalajara, Mexico with Santiago and Norma. Years ago they worked on my grandfather’s avocado farm in Escondido, California.  They are both in their late seventies.

             “ Now you want to be careful to pinch the stem just below the base, like this,” Santiago said, carefully removing the flower from the bush.  “Turn the flower facing up and gently slide your fingers inside without crushing the flesh of the flower or disturbing the delicate core.”  The old vaquero gets a little smile on his sun darkened face and continues, “Trust me mijo, one day, when you have a senorita, she will be very happy that you know how to do this.”  He reaches over messing up my hair, while patting me on the head and then goes on.  “Pinch this part, called the pestle, at the base and carefully remove it. Then take off the green cup that surrounds the flower, make sure there are no little bugs and then drop the flower into this burlap bag.”

            As he drops the deep red blossom into the bag, he gestures with his calloused hand, suggesting that I start picking.  “Be gentle, and do me a favor, hurry every chance you get. I don’t pay you nothing for nothing.” He says with a grin.  “Every time you pick one of these flowers a new one will grow back the next day.”

             Checking over and then dropping one of the flowers in the bag, I look up and ask “Why?”

            The lines around the old man’s face tighten a little, as his smile grows and I can almost see the story coming into focus behind his eyes, “Well… a long time ago, a beautiful woman lived in a little Casita, that eventually was added onto and finally became our big house that you see before you.  Her husband got hurt and could no longer work. 

            “How did he get hurt?” I ask.

            “How do I know?  Maybe he worked in the circus washing the elephant’s balls and the elephant sat on him.  Whatever happened he couldn’t work.”  The old man pauses, taking another slow sip of the tequila, “Ahh! Que bueno… Soon the couple had no money, not even for food.  The woman was very worried and would cry every night right here, on this very spot.  One night a little fairy was out collecting moonlight and he heard her and asked why she was crying.  She said that she needed work, anything to feed her family.  The fairy, feeling sorry for her, said he would try to help.  He touched the earth and said something in a secret language that only fairies know, and then he disappeared.

            I break in, going along with the story, “A fairy… really abuelito, did you ever see a fairy?”

            “Gordito hush!” Santiago says, as he sharpens his focus on me raising his index finger, in an attempt to look serious. “Pay attention.  The next morning the very first one these bushes, popped up right here where her tears hit the ground, and the bush had one perfect red flower.  It was so beautiful that the woman thought it must be a sign of good luck.  She put it in her hair and went to town to look for work.  Times were hard and there was no work to be had, but richest man in the town was having café’ on his terrace.  The wonderful scent of the flower intoxicated him.  Looking up he saw the beautiful woman with the flower in her hair, and had to have her.  He offered her money to spend the night with him.  She was so desperate that she agreed.             

            The next day, when she left the rich man’s home, she was overwhelmed with guilt, and went to the church to pray for forgiveness.  As she looked into the font of holy water, in her reflection, the shame of what she had done was as clear on her face as the perfection of the flower that was still in her hair.  And then it happened, as she touched the surface of the holy water, she saw her sins disappear while the flower shriveled and died.  Then the dried up flower fell from her hair, into the holy water, which instantly turned dark red, like the blood of Christo.” 

            “Was it blood?” I asked.

            “No, the holy water just turned the color of blood.  The woman went to the confessional and told the Padre about the rich man and the magic flower.  He thought it must be a sign from god, so he absolved her of her sins.  She went home with food and told her husband that she had paid all the bills.  She was free of guilt and her husband had no suspicions.

            When the Padre saw the holy water that looked like blood.  He worried it would scare away his flock, coming to confession.  He couldn’t just throw it out, so he blessed himself and drank it.” 

             “What did it taste like?” I ask?

            “I don’t know, but it looked like blood and the padre had the cajones to drink it!  The next morning when the woman went outside, the bush had grown a new flower, just as beautiful.  The woman, thinking that it might be a good idea to make a little more money to put aside in case of hard times, put the flower in her hair and went to town.  Another rich man fell under the flower’s spell and this time they went to a hotel.  Again she felt the guilt and again she went to church and again the flower shriveled and died along with her sin, but this time, not wanting the Padre to know what she had been doing, she caught the flower before it fell into the holy font.  She went home and tossed the dried flower into a big empty vase.  This went on for a while; every day a new flower, everyday more money and her husband never suspected a thing.  And their little shack soon turned into this big beautiful hacienda.” 

            Santiago takes the flower I am working on out of my hand and inspects it, “Good, make sure the center is all gone, it will make the tea bitter.”  He drops my flower into the bag and pulls out the bottle taking another sip.  As he savors the tequila he thinks about the story, then he continues. “I tell you Mijo, living a lie is a funny thing, it eats away at you.  Finally the woman could take it no longer.  She went and told the Padre what she was doing.  The Padre made her promise to quit.  Then he told her about drinking the holy water.”

            “Did she quit?” I asked.             

            “Yes, she did, but the bush kept making flowers.  She would pick them and put them in the vase, which was filling up very fast.  She decided she should get rid of the flowers before they caused any more trouble.  Remembering the Padre’s story, she made a tea with them and served it to her husband… the same Jamaica tea we drink today.

            Maybe it was the holy water and maybe it was her sin and the tea was delicious and it quenched her husband’s thirst; but not forever like the Padre who was never thirsty or needed another drink as long as he lived.” 

The Best Mexican Food in the USA!

I went to Carolina’a del Norte in Phoenix this morning.   As I sat there eating one of the simple pleasures of living here, I was reminded of one of the great Mexican Food arguments which circulates around this part of the world. 

My friend Bob Boze Bell, millionaire publisher, of True West magazine, has been in a several decade long debate with the Distinguished Professor Paul Andrew Hutton, Professor of history at The University of New Mexico. 

Both men are well versed, lecture, and have written extensively, on the history of the American west.  Professor Hutton says, that New Mexico has the nations best “Mexican food”, with Mr. Bell correctly arguing, that Arizona has the best!

This is not some subjective argument because I prefer Arizona’s use of certain chiles or cilantro.  There is a simple reason that we have the best Mexican food in the U.S.  Arizona was the least inhabited region of the Southwest.  We had no real anglo settlement until, after the Gadsden Purchase in1852 and then the Civil War, which ended in 1865.  Tucson was basically an army outpost from the 1860’s on.  Eventually growing into a small community and then the largest city in what would become Arizona, until the farming around Phoenix grew in the early 1900’s.

Now I’m sure Professor Hutton, will take great offence with me, a mere cook, lecturing him on history.  But knowing history and understanding it are two different enchiladas (Professor Hutton, please see; food, Mexican, if that school has dictionaries).

The food currently being offered in New Mexico is a combination of Spanish and Native American, traditions starting in the 1500’s. In the 500 years since they have developed a separate “New Mexican “cuisine, that although delicious, is not Mexican food. 

Here in Arizona we’ve only had 150 years to bastardize the Mexican food, with our best efforts coming directly with Mexicans, across the border.  California like Texas are both older and have a lot of fusion, Mexican food.  I’m not saying that there are no great Mexican food restaurants in these places… there are. 

Just saying, Mexican food, is a misnomer, like saying, American food.  There are many styles and traditions through out Mexico and the food here is mostly “Northern Mexican” food.   But, Professor Hutton, our Mexican food can beat your Mexican food with one stove tied behind it’s back!

Warmly

Mad Coyote Joe

God in threes A Poem by Daigneault

God in Threes

A Poem by Daigneault

Throwing Angles at the rain

It’s …

Yes

No

There

These words that cannot say

Of soil and song and joy and truth

Water knowing water

That tree thinks of time

And I live with words

A current a vale

Or light and God

At some point

I am the land and sky

Where are the words

Evading me but all around

I want the words

I need the words

Where are the words

Where?

Why not?

When?

It moves through me

All around

The warm breeze loves the autumn leaves

One but not

So I wait

A hope a prayer

Yes a prayer

Wordless, together and yet just beyond, so close, one but not, tangible, but not

Un-said un-known

Other

No we

Know we

Caged locked I see the door

You dry cold worn

She has lost so much and we can’t find a path

Old now is this the last few pages of that book she wrote

Of a life of fantasy he was on the road on those women but where was she?

I cannot look as the fire grows dim as she grows dim this bright lonely light

Was this her truest lie this life she almost had

And I on the sidelines alone throwng angel at the rain.

I cannot find tears or pain that can see this error in our basic makeup

We calmly watch as our families burn to ash

Less than ash for ash can be touched at least it has the heart to leave us filthy

They just leave and that that is left behind is not them in any way

My father called it garbage but I think it is less

How can a life end in so little

Where is true sadness

Where is the mind going why how

Please help me to find my way back to the surface

The light

Blood and fire and pain and deep pounding breaths

Beautiful breathless muscles pushed beyond their limits

Life fresh soil and sweat

Please

Please

Awake

Am I

A cross between sight and pain

The horizon I see it

And I feel it sees me

Knows me

Once again I am alive, If only for today

I come to this cross road again and again

This light is out there and I feel my mind working again and again

But I fear that monster that is just out of my vision.

His breath wet and putrid

Just a round that next corner

Always taking

A thief

But the fight goes on

I know that all is there if only I can extend my grasp

Just become strong enough to reach once again

I can see that thing that I wish to call light

But that is the wrong word

But I can see it and feel it

God in Threes.

"The life" from my ongoing online novel "Willie"

With a quick poke, the needle pierces the big, pulsing vein on Willie’s right arm just below a three and a half inch line of tracks that follow the vein to his current injection site, revealing several years of intravenous drug use. He pushes a small amount of the dark brown liquid into his arm. It is still warm from cooking it up in the spoon, with the burned bottom, that is laying on the table next him. He pops loose the rubber surgical hose, tying his arm off, and starts to feel the warm rush. Drawing blood back into the syringe it mixes with the sweet brown nectar, a swirling cloud of narcotic heaven that Willie is now shooting three or four times a day. He slowly pushes the plunger down. As the syringe empties he feels the opiates ooze into every pore in his body; like warm honey. Fading into a tranquil dream and then nodding out, he is floating in the arms of his one true love… Heroin.

After about twenty minutes, Willie slowly opens one lazy eye; with a sleepy smile he thinks to himself, “well… time to earn.”

He unbuttons his fly and picks up a second syringe, filled with smack that is lying on the table next to the burnt spoon. Checking to make sure the plastic cap covering the needle is secure he then tapes the syringe, point down, to the inside of his thigh, just below his crotch, with a wide strip of surgical tape, and then pulls his pants back up.

Driving over to the job, Hank Williams is on the crackling old radio in his 1965, piece of shit, Plymouth Valiant.

Even though it’s the middle of the night and snowing outside, he’s warm and toasty, partially from the heater but mostly from the heroin. With a dreamy smile on his face he follows along, “Hear that lonesome whippoorwill, he sounds too blue to fly…”

His mind wonders over to thinking about her… hotter then doughnut grease, that one. It’s not his fault, if her old man doesn’t know what she really needs. Most straight johns have no idea how to treat women. He snickers to himself, ”It’s okay honey we can try again next month.” She couldn’t get enough of him, then he turned her on to the shit and that was the end of her Betty Crocker days. By now he’s singing at the top of his lungs with the old car radio, “And as I wonder where you are, I’m so lonesome I could cry!”

“Man oh man is this some great shit,” he thinks s to himself.

She told Willie about her boss, the middle-aged lawyer, with thinning hair and a huge paunch. He was always standing too close, with his perpetual bad breath and those eyes that were always peaking down her blouse. Then one afternoon, as Willie was leaving her house, before her husband got home, she mentioned the safe in his office.

“Does he keep cash in it?” Willie asked.

“Not usually, but he’s been meeting with a client that owns topless bars all over town and he always pays in cash. My boss keeps bitching about it,”

She tells Willie “I’m pretty sure he’s holding the cash in the safe, so he won’t have to claim it.”

Twenty minutes later, Willie drives into the parking space in back of the law office. He wonders around to the trunk of his car to get his tool bag. Checking his pocket to make sure he brought the key, he heads into the empty office. Once inside he waits a few minutes with his eyes closed, to adjust to the darkness. While he waits he hums the Hank William’s tune he had been singing earlier enjoying the warm narcotic haze.

Opening his eyes, there is enough light to proceed with out a flashlight. First he throws furniture and the contents of desk drawers around the room knowing full well that the safe is upstairs. If he goes directly to the safe the cops will know it was an inside job. He then goes upstairs and ransacks the other offices, saving her bosses office for last.

Once at the safe, he points a small flashlight at the dial and puts on the stethoscope. Three full turns to the left to clear the tumblers.

Hank starts singing in his head “I’ve never seen a night so low.”

Concentrate, he firmly tells himself.

“When tears get in your eyes”

The dial starts to look a little fuzzy.

Willie quickly realizes, he’s way to high to open the safe. Plan b… He’ll have to take it back home and crack it after he comes down. A quick nudge and he can tell it’s been bolted to the concrete floor… no problem.

Willie gets out his pocketknife and walks over to a beautiful dark brown leather couch in the center of the office. He cuts out a 20-inch square of the leather from the seat cushion. Looking through his tools he takes out a splitting wedge and a 12-pound sledgehammer. He wraps the wedge in the soft leather and tucks the edge under the front of the safe. He adjusts the light to shine on the wedge and stands up. Holding the sledgehammer like a golf club, he pretends to look down a fairway and quietly says, “four” to himself and takes a full swing at the splitting wedge. The leather muffles the sound, but the safe doesn’t budge. For the next 10 minutes, Willie constantly beats on the wedge, occasionally taking out his frustrations by smashing the expensive walnut furniture, lamps and assorted decorations that are scattered about the room.

The safe finally gives; a few more whacks and it breaks free. He lifts the safe, checking the weight. It’s heavy, maybe 125 pounds. Lifting it all the way up he thinks, “I’ll need a shortcut.” Willie drops the safe on a coffee table just for fun, and looks around the room. He walks on over to the huge picture window that has the words Law Office painted backwards in black and gold old English letters. Looking up and down the street, the coast is clear. Willie walks back, picks up the safe and runs at the window, raising it up as high as he can, as he gets closer. One last heft and the safe sails through the second story window. As it breaks through the glass the silence is shattered with the screaming clang of an alarm.

“Shit” he says out loud…”Time to go!”

Not wanting to waste second Willie steps out through the broken window on to the ledge. The safe is lying down on the sidewalk surrounded by the shattered glass, about 12 feet below. He leaps down, but what he doesn’t see is the ice covering the sidewalk. When he hits the ground his feet fly out from underneath him and the back his head smashes into the corner of the safe. Lying in broken glass he feels the warm blood dripping down his neck and back. The police cars sirens are now drowning out the clang of the alarm. Several squad cars screech to a stop a few feet away. The cops jump out and surround Willie, guns drawn.

He blurts out, “Man, am I glad to see you guys! I was walking down the street, minding my own business when that safe came flying out the window and hit me right here on the back of my head. I’m lucky to be alive. Just wait tell my lawyer gets a hold of these guys.”

The cops, less than convinced, spend the next five minutes cuffing and kicking the shit out of Willie, followed by a quick search. They empty his pockets and overlook the dope hidden in his pants. At the jail, Willie gives a call to his lawyer and they toss him in a cell with a few drunks and assorted Nair-do-wells. The guard leaves, Willie reaches inside his pants and pulls out the syringe.

“Anybody want to party?” he asks the other men. They all decline. Willie tears off a piece of his shirtsleeve and ties off his arm. He shoots the dope as the other men look on in horror. His eyes roll back in his head and the world is once again right. After about 10 minutes he comes to and bums a smoke off of one of the other men. Leaning back with a big smile, he takes a slow drag off the cigarette, blows a few rings and starts singing, “And as I wonder where you are, I’m so lonesome I could cry!”

By Mad Coyote Joe

Tequila and Magic In a Mexican Garden

Tequila and Magic

In a Mexican Garden

By Mad Coyote Joe

Looking over at the kitchen window, making sure that his wife Norma isn’t watching, Santiago reaches into the big burlap bag and produces a half empty bottle of tequila. He slowly takes a generous gulp of the golden brown liquid. Smacking his lips together, he utters, “Madre de dios, I needed that.”

We are in the garden collecting hibiscus flowers for Norma. After they dry she will use them to make Jamaica tea. I am thirteen years old and spending the summer in Guadalajara, Mexico with Santiago and Norma. Years ago they worked on my grandfather’s avocado farm in Escondido, California. They are both in their late seventies.

“ Now you want to be careful to pinch the stem just below the base, like this,” Santiago said, carefully removing the flower from the bush. “Turn the flower facing up and gently slide your fingers inside without crushing the flesh of the flower or disturbing the delicate core.” The old vaquero gets a little smile on his sun darkened face and continues, “Trust me mijo, one day, when you have a senorita, she will be very happy that you know how to do this.” He reaches over messing up my hair, while patting me on the head and then goes on. “Pinch this part, called the pestle, at the base and carefully remove it. Then take off the green cup that surrounds the flower, make sure there are no little bugs and then drop the flower into this burlap bag.”

As he drops the deep red blossom into the bag, he gestures with his calloused hand, suggesting that I start picking. “Be gentle, and do me a favor, hurry up every chance you get. I don’t pay you nothing for nothing.” He says with a grin. “Every time you pick one of these flowers a new one will grow back the next day.”

Checking over and then dropping one of the flowers in the bag, I look up and ask “Why?”

The lines around the old man’s face tighten a little, as his smile grows and I can almost see the story coming into focus behind his eyes, “Well… a long time ago, a beautiful woman lived in a little Casita, that eventually was added onto and finally became our big house that you see before you. Her husband got hurt and could no longer work.

“How did he get hurt?” I ask.

“How the fuck do I know? Maybe he worked in the circus washing the elephant’s balls and the elephant sat on him. Whatever happened he couldn’t work.” The old man pauses, taking another slow sip of the tequila, “Ahh! Que bueno… Soon the couple had no money, not even for food. The woman was very worried and would cry every night right here, on this very spot. One night a little fairy was out collecting moonlight and he heard her and asked why she was crying. She said that she needed work, anything to feed her family. The fairy, feeling sorry for her, said he would try to help. He touched the earth and said something in a secret language that only fairies know, and then he disappeared.

I break in, going along with the story, “A fairy… really abuelito, did you ever see a fairy?”

“Gordito hush!” Santiago says, as he sharpens his focus on me raising his index finger, in an attempt to look serious. “Pay attention. The next morning the very first one these bushes, popped up right here where her tears hit the ground, and the bush had one perfect red flower. It was so beautiful that the woman thought it must be a sign of good luck. She put it in her hair and went to town to look for work. Times were hard and there was no work to be had, but richest man in the town was having café’ on his terrace. The wonderful scent of the flower intoxicated him. Looking up he saw the beautiful woman with the flower in her hair, and had to have her. He offered her money to spend the night with him. She was so desperate that she agreed.

The next day, when she left the rich man’s home, she was overwhelmed with guilt, and went to the church to pray for forgiveness. As she looked into the font of holy water, in her reflection, the shame of what she had done was as clear on her face as the perfection of the flower that was still in her hair. And then it happened, as she touched the surface of the holy water, the flower shriveled and died… her shame left. She could feel her sins disappear. Then the dried up flower fell from her hair, into the holy water, which instantly turned dark red, like the blood of Christo.”

“Was it blood?” I asked.

“No, the holy water just turned the color of blood. The woman went to the confessional and told the Padre about the rich man and the magic flower and the blood red holy water. He thought it must be a sign from god, so he absolved her of her sins. She went home with food and told her husband that she had paid all the bills. She was free of guilt and her husband had no suspicions.

After she left the Padre went to look at the holy water that looked like blood. He worried it would scare away his flock, coming to confession. He had a big problem… he couldn’t just throw it out, so he blessed himself and drank it.”

“What did it taste like?” I ask?

“I don’t know, but it looked like blood and that padre had the cajones to drink it! Well the next morning when the woman went outside, the bush had grown a new flower, just as beautiful. The woman, thinking that it might be a good idea to make a little more money to put aside in case of hard times, put the flower in her hair and went to town. Another rich man fell under the flower’s spell and this time they went to a hotel. Again she felt the guilt and again she went to church and again the flower shriveled and died along with her sin, but this time, not wanting the Padre to know what she had been doing, she caught the flower before it fell into the holy font. She went home and tossed the dried flower into a big empty vase. This went on for a while; every day a new flower, everyday more money and her husband never suspected a thing. And their little shack soon turned into this big beautiful hacienda.”

Santiago takes the flower I am working on out of my hand and inspects it, “Good, make sure the center is all gone, it can make the tea bitter.” He drops my flower into the bag and pulls out the bottle taking another sip. As he savors the tequila he thinks about the story, then he continues. “I tell you Mijo, living a lie is a funny thing, it eats away at you. Finally the woman could take it no longer. She went and told the Padre what she was doing. The Padre made her promise to quit. Then he told her about drinking the holy water.”

“Did she keep her promise?” I asked.

“Yes, she did, but every morning the bush kept making the flowers. She would pick them, but she was afraid to just throw them out so she put them in the vase, which was filling up very fast. She decided to get rid of the flowers before they caused any more trouble. Remembering the Padre’s story, she made a tea with them and served it to her husband… and this is the same Jamaica tea we drink today.

Now maybe it was the holy water and maybe it was the miracle of her forgiven sin… the tea she made at home was delicious and it truly quenched her husband’s thirst; but not like the Padre who after the first drink of the magic tea, was never thirsty again, and the people around here say that he never took a drink of anything except the wine at communion, as long as he lived.”