The Pot Thief Who Studied the Woman at Otowi Crossing

by J. Michael Orenduff

  I sat back in my chair, satisfied with my succinct summary that explained how I became interim department head and did not reveal any of the complicated and gruesome details.

  My satisfaction evaporated when Freddie said, “But I explained to you last fall that there was not enough demand for ceramics classes to justify two positions. Junior being dismissed was a perfect opportunity to reduce the ceramics faculty to one person and use the money from Junior’s position to hire a full-time and day-time digital art teacher because that’s what the students want today.”

  So much for simple. “Well, the need to replace Junior was what the dean used as an excuse when he made me a full-time temp. But it turned out that the real reason was he needed me to be eligible to serve as head because no one else would do it, and he didn’t want Armstrong.”

  Freddie shook his head and said, “I’d forgotten how bizarre the academic world is. Makes prison seem almost normal. Do you have any idea how to be a department head?”

  “Susannah asked me that same—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I withdraw the question. It’s presumptuous of me to ask since I don’t know how to do it even though I had the job for a number of years.”

  “According to some people, you did it fairly well. And I hope they’re right.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I plan to be Charlie McCarthy to your Edgar Bergen. When anyone asks me a question or wants me to make some sort of choice, I’ll tell them I need to consider it. Then you’ll advise me of the best thing to do, and I’ll present it as if I thought of it.”

  “I’m not sure you should put that much trust in me.”

  “It’s not a matter of trust. I have no place else to turn. You’re the only department head I know. And on top of that, I need to get some compensation for allowing you to live free in Spirits in Clay.”

  “So being the shadow chairman is my rent?”

  “Exactly.”

  After he managed to eat the entire Frontier burrito, I asked him what he wanted next.

  “The three things I missed most in prison were freedom, sex, and booze.”

  “In that order?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rock and Roll didn’t make the list.”

  “No.”

  “Well you have your freedom. I can’t do anything about the sex part, but I will buy you a drink.”

  You will not be surprised to learn that I took him to Dos Hermanas.

  Chapter 16

  Angie swirled up to our table, her colorful folklorico skirt fanning her lemony perfume through the masa-scented air.

  “A margarita with salt for you and,” she turned to Freddie, “what are you having, handsome?”

  He smiled and answered, “What do you recommend?”

  “Got to know a bit about you to make a recommendation. You local?”

  “From Colorado, but lived most of my life in Albuquerque.”

  “¿Hablas español?”

  “Un poco.”

  “Had anything recently you liked?”

  “The last drink I had was over six years ago.”

  “Uh-oh. You been in the 12-step program?”

  He laughed. “Nope. I’ve been in prison.”

  She also laughed. “You’re joking.”

  He shook his head. “I was released today. Hubie picked me up down in Los Lunas and took me to Frontier for a late lunch and then here for a drink of … well, whatever you recommend.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “I have just the thing for you.”

  The drink she returned with was in a margarita glass, but the liquid was darker, as if someone had used tequila añejo. There are people who make margaritas with dark aged tequila, but there are also people who make apple pies using Ritz Crackers instead of apples.

  “It’s called ‘freedom’,” she said. “Tequila añejo, ancho chile liqueur, and lime juice.”

  “I’ll drink to freedom,” I said and lifted my glass.

  He clinked his glass against mine, took a sip, and pronounced it delicious.

  Angie bent down, kissed his forehead, and said, “Welcome back.”

  He watched her walk away, her long black hair swaying with each step.

  “Wow.”

  “That for the drink or for Angie.”

  “Both. I’ve been here a couple of times, once or twice with Susannah and you. Obviously, Angie doesn’t remember me.”

  I was looking slightly to his left as he spoke. Susannah had just entered. She looked at our table, hesitated, then turned and left.

  I guess Freddie looked different enough that a casual acquaintance might no longer recognize him. But someone who had slept with him for several months would. And obviously did.

  After we finished our drinks—he said he was limiting himself to one because of the long dry spell—we walked to Miss Gladys’ Gift Shop. Inviting Freddie to bunk behind my shop had been spur-of-the-moment, and I didn’t want Glad Farthing showing up in the morning to mind Spirits in Clay and discovering a vagrant in my former residence.

  I introduced Freddie to Glad. He invited us in and said that Gladys was cooking dinner and he hoped we’d join them.

  Before I could fabricate an excuse for declining the invite, Freddie said, “It does smell delicious,” and I remembered that even though he knew Miss Gladys, he didn’t know her as Nuestra Señora de los caseroles as she is affectionately known in Old Town.

  The building she and I own parts of is over three hundred years old. Its history began when Juan de Oñate entered what is now New Mexico on July 11, 1598, twenty-two years before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock and even before Jamestown which most history books mistakenly describe as the first European settlement in what is now the U.S.

  Oñate brought 500 Spanish settlers and soldiers and 7,000 head of livestock. They worked their way north along the Rio Grande, some of them settling near what would eventually become Albuquerque. They seized control of the indigenous people, taught them Spanish, and forcibly converted them to Christianity.

  That’s what happens when you allow hordes of illegal aliens into your homeland.

  The second unwelcome flow of immigrants was from Texas, a trend that continues today. Most of the people who own vacation cabins in New Mexico are Texans wanting to escape the heat and other Texans.

  Miss Gladys’ husband was a wealthy cotton merchant who moved from Texas to New Mexico on the advice of his doctor. It didn’t help. Miss Gladys soon became a widow.

  Being a resourceful and energetic woman, she used some of her inheritance to purchase the east third of our ancient adobe in Old Town where she opened the eponymous shop therein. When I purchased the west third of the building, we became neighbors and friends, and I became the recipient of casserole leftovers. Her official excuse was that all her recipes were for casseroles for two. In fact, it would have been easy to make smaller casseroles since all the ingredients are easily halved; e.g., one can of Campbell’s Cream of Chicken Soup instead of two, one bag of Kraft shredded cheddar instead of two, etc.

  As you have no doubt figured out, her real motivation was to feed the poor guy who didn’t have a wife and to once again have someone to cook for.

  The frequency of casserole deliveries lessened considerable after she and Gladwyn married. There are seldom any leftovers now. Glad actually loves the casseroles. Having grown up in England, he probably thinks of them as haute cuisine.

  But even he must have been taken aback when Miss Gladys announced we were having Baked Eyeballs Casserole.

  Freddie laughed and said, “I had lamb eyeballs once in Morocco. After you get past the idea, it’s not bad, sort of like eating very tough hardboiled eggs.”

  Miss Gladys’ hand went to her mouth. “Oh my. You must be a brave man. I can assure you there are no eyeballs in this dish.”


  She placed the large baking dish on a trivet next to her on the table and instructed us to pass our plates. I knew this to be her method of portion control, which in her case means you get twice as much as you want.

  She described the dish as she ladled it onto our plates. “It’s as easy as falling off a log. One jar of Prego Italian Sausage & Garlic Italian Sauce, one 15-ounce tub of ricotta cheese, one small bag of Kraft grated Parmesan cheese, one box of bow-tie pasta boiled and drained, one container of fresh mozzarella cheese balls, and one small can of sliced black olives. Just put the pasta in the casserole dish, dump in the sauce and stir it around, spread the ricotta and parmesan, then bake until it’s bubbling hot. After it comes out of the oven, line up the mozzarella balls on top of it and place one olive slice on each ball to make them look like eyes.”

  As usual, it tasted better than it sounded, especially because by the time she ladled it onto the plate, the olive slices had fallen of the mozzarella balls so that the dish wasn’t staring me in the face as I ate it.

  When Freddie requested a second helping, Miss Gladys said, “I do love to see a man enjoy his food.”

  “He must really love it,“ I said. “He ate an entire Frontier burrito at lunch.”

  “Zounds,” said Glad, “the fellow is a true trencherman.”

  One of Gladwyn’s many endearing traits is his colorful phrasing.

  “Just trying to get back the weight I’ve lost over the last six years,” said Freddie.

  “You poor dear.” said Miss Gladys. “Have you been ill?”

  “No, I’ve been in prison.”

  “Oh, my!”

  “He completed his term today,” I interjected quickly. I feared Miss Gladys was about to ask the obvious question and didn’t know how she might react when told that he’d been in for manslaughter. And I kept talking. “He served his term and wants to put the past behind him. The warden praised him for working to help other prisoners achieve rehabilitation.”

  “How did he do that?” asked Glad.

  “I taught them painting,” Freddie responded.

  “So they can get jobs painting houses when they are released?”

  Freddie laughed and said, “Not that kind of painting, although it might have been better for them if they had learned house painting. I taught them how to paint pictures. I was an art professor at UNM.”

  “Do I know you?” asked Miss Gladys.

  “We met briefly. I’m surprised and honored that you remember me.”

  “You were introduced this evening as Freddie. But your real name is Frederick. Let me think a moment … Blass! You are Frederick Blass.”

  He made a movement best described as a curtsy of the head. ”At your service, Miss Gladys.”

  “And you were convicted of—”

  “And served his time,” said Glad looking at Miss Gladys, “and is spending his first night as a free man as our guest for dinner.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “I believe it is time for cake.”

  Chapter 17

  I was pulling into my reserved parking space on the first day of classes for the spring semester when a thought came to me—no one had assigned me to teach any classes.

  A second thought came to me—classes are assigned by the department head.

  The third thing wasn’t a thought. It was just a feeling—embarrassment.

  I made a U-turn and drove to Spirits in Clay where I found Freddie in the shop standing in front of an easel.

  “Hi Hubie. If you’re looking for Glad, he came in to mind the shop this morning, but I sent him home. I bought some art supplies yesterday at Artisan and decided that since I was going to be here painting, he might as well have some time off. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. How did you get to Artisan? It’s over by the University.”

  “I walked. Every step was a breath of freedom.”

  “Nice. But it’s still a long way.”

  “Okay, I admit it. They all know me there, so I got a ride back.”

  “How did you pay for the supplies?”

  “Saved my prison wages.”

  “I have my first question for you as the shadow department head. I’m supposed to be a full-time temp, but I forgot to assign myself any classes and school starts today. Is it too late? And if so, what will happen? And if it’s not too late, how do I assign myself classes?”

  “Being department head is considered full-time. You don’t have to teach. Many department heads teach a course once or twice a year because they enjoy it. But new department heads are way too busy to teach a class.”

  “So I won’t get in trouble?”

  “Didn’t Dean Gangji talk to you about release time?”

  “He said I would teach 4 courses unless I was granted release time for other duties. But I didn’t ask what that meant because I didn’t think I’d have other duties. And when I did the paperwork with Ms. Robinson, she didn’t say anything about it either.”

  “The release time for department heads is four courses. So you will not be teaching this semester.”

  “How will I keep busy? How will I earn my pay?”

  He laughed and said, “Trust me. After a few days on the job, you won’t be worrying about that.”

  I drove back to the university, parked in my space and entered the art building packed with a line of grumbling students. I excused myself as I went past them and finally arrived at my office only to discover that was where the line began.

  “Are you the department head,” asked the sullen student at the head of the line.

  “I am. Come in.”

  I unlocked the door, went behind my desk and invited the student to sit down in front of it. I now appreciated the big desk that I had often made fun of; it seemed to be a barrier between me and an angry student.

  “I need ART 2000 to graduate, and I can’t register for it.”

  “Let me check.” I was happy I’d studied the stats and data folder. I found the page with data about the spring offerings. “There are three sections being offered, and none of them are full. You can register for any one of them.”

  “No I can’t. I also need to register for ART 2100, and it’s offered at the same time as ART 2000.”

  “Well, just take one of the other sections of ART 2000 that doesn’t conflict with 2100.”

  “Have you even looked at the schedule?” he said angrily. “They all conflict.” The veins in his forehead were showing, and I begin to wonder if the desk was adequate protection.

  I looked back at the folder and saw that all three sections of ART 2000 (Basic Design) were indeed offered at the same time, which couldn’t be right because they all had Jollo Bakke listed as the instructor, and while she is aggressive, I didn’t think she could be in three different places at the same time.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience. There seems to be a mistake in the listing of course offerings. This is my first day on the job. I’ll get this straightened out.”

  “You better,” he growled and hastily turned to go.

  “Would you please ask the next student in line to come in as you leave?” I said to his back.

  He nodded.

  The young woman who entered was calmer than the first student, but had the same complaint. As did the third student.

  I went into the hall and spoke loudly, something I’m not good at. “May I have your attention. The list of course offerings shows all three sections of ART 2000 offered at the same time. That is obviously an error. This is my first day as department head, so it may take a few hours to get this straightened out. But by tomorrow, you should be able to have a choice of three different time slots to choose from. If that is why you are in line, you can leave. If you are here for a different reason, please remain in line.”

  About half the students dispersed. The other half had
a similar complaint. They couldn’t register for ART 3357 Digital Art because all the sections were in the evening. I stood in the hall and explained that the instructor was employed full-time during the day and therefore could teach only in the evening. One young man said. “I have to work to put myself through school. I work as a bartender six evenings a week. I can’t give up my job. Why should a university professor get to teach only in the evenings? Let him give up his day job instead of a bunch of us having to give up our night jobs.”

  “That’s a good question,” I said, “and the answer bodes well for all of you. His day job pays a lot more than the University does. So if you learn the skills he has, you’ll qualify for high-paying positions when you graduate.”

  “But we won’t graduate if we can’t take his course.”

  I thought about it briefly, then said, “As you heard me say to the students who need ART 2000, this is my first day on the job as department head. No one else on the faculty is qualified to teach digital art, and I don’t know anybody in town who can teach it. But if any of you know someone who can, let me know, and I’ll try to hire him or her to teach a daytime section.”

  When they all started talking at once, I interrupted them. “Write down names and contact info, and I’ll get right on it.”

  After they handed me the hastily drawn list, I walked to Bakke’s office. Her tiny desk faced a window and her back faced the hall. She was bent over the desk with a very small brush in her hand. I knocked on the door frame.

  “Go away. I’m busy.”

  “This will only take a minute.”

  “The hours when I’m available to students are posted on the door. Come back then.”

  “I’m not a student.”

  She whirled around and said, “What do you not understand about … Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

  “I need your help to fix a mistake in the class schedule. It shows all three sections of ART 2000 listed at noon on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “That’s not a mistake.”

  “Then I guess the mistake is listing you as the instructor for all three. Which one are you actually teaching at noon on Tuesdays and Thursdays?”