“You betcha. Lots of wild animals out here. Some on two legs. Not to mention the kind that slink around without legs.”
“I’ll keep in touch. I’m still getting settled in,” Paul said getting back into his SUV.
He took a detour to town to pick up a couple of burritos, and decided to pop in on Kate. He pulled into the motel lot, and on the other end he saw Kate talking to a guy standing next to a beat-up pick-up. It was Ash. Paul kept his distance until Ash touched her arm, and she pulled away. Then he approached them. As soon as Ash saw him, Paul could see Ash’s hackles rise up, with chest and belly out in a subtle but defiant stance.
“Hi Kate, excuse me, am I interrupting something?”
Kate took two steps towards Paul. “No, nothing. Ash was just leaving.”
Ash said nothing, got in his pick-up and sped off.
Kate and Paul walked through the empty lot towards the office. “He’s pissed that Jasmine hasn’t paid him for some stuff. I am so sick of this.”
“You’re sick of it? I think I’m going to hole myself up on those five acres and build a fortress complete with an underground bunker.”
“I may join you.”
They sat behind the counter in two folding chairs. This was the first time Paul sensed that maybe pursuing something with Kate was a bad idea. The last thing he wanted was to have a circle of friends that included the druggies and miscreants similar to the ones he chased from Alphabet City to the Bronx Zoo. That saddened Paul, because he really cared for Kate. Maybe now that her husband was gone, she could go on with her life and leave that baggage behind.
“I’m really glad you bought that place. It’s a relief actually,” Kate said, softly, confessing to him.
“Einstein said, once you stop learning, you start dying. I’ve got a lot to learn. You should come by soon. The place is in shambles now, but once the floor guy finishes I can get to work on making the place my own.”
“Let me know when, and I’ll be there.”
“My burritos are getting cold. I should be heading back.”
Driving back to his place, he thought a lot about Kate. Ash was probably part of the fun and games her deceased husband had been tied into. It’s like being on one of those playground merry-go-rounds, where kids hang on to an iron pipe while others push it around at breakneck speed, and it goes so fast that kids just start flying off. Her husband was one of the first to go flying off. More are sure to follow. But he didn’t want to be a hero. Nope. Not gonna happen.
“Here’s your burrito. Great work! You should be finished tomorrow, don’t you think?” Paul said, truly astonished at how beautiful the place was looking with wall-to-wall ceramic tiles.
“Yup. Tomorrow should about wrap it up. Came out better than I expected. Some of these homestead add-ons are way out of whack.”
“You think this was an original homestead?”
“Definitely. This room here was the original cabin. The slab in this part of the house is heavy-duty perfection. Probably poured 60 or 70 years ago, and not a crack in it. Somebody knew what they were doing. I figure this here, with the kitchen on the wall, was just a one-room cabin. And they used the outhouse out back by the stable.” Thomas walked a few feet through a doorway. “This bedroom and this bathroom were added on probably in the late Forties, early Fifties. Still a good concrete slab, but not as good as the front room. The rest is Seventies and Eighties add-ons. Not great, but above-average construction.”
“You do other construction work? I might be looking.”
“I do it all. But floors are my bread and butter. You have to do it all these days. If you don’t, you’re dead. I’ve got solar power, a greenhouse for my vegetables, and a 40 ft. self-sustaining fish tank.”
“Fish tank? Like tropical fish?”
“No. I only eat what I grow. Catfish. I tried keeping a few head of cattle for food, but man, you ever see a cow get slaughtered?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Not pretty. Too much work. I keep one just for emergencies.”
“Like having an extra freezer of steaks in the garage, only you don’t need the freezer. I like how you think, Thomas. I’ll be painting in the back bathroom.”
It took about a week of cleaning, painting, assembling furniture, placing furniture, and assorted mind-numbing household duties for Paul to feel like the place was close to being ready. He worked hard, but it was the kind of hands-on work he longed for. For decades his police work was the stuff of books, movies, newspapers, documentaries, and reality shows. For others, that is. For him it was simply getting himself and his fellow officers home after every shift, no matter what the karmic wheel of the universe threw at him. It seemed whatever the zeitgeist was at that time, no matter what bizarre drug-inspired insanity was permeating the bottom-feeders of the city, he and his partners had to somehow go into the chaos and sort things out. Too many drug dealers? Put them in jail. Too many junkies breaking into apartments and stabbing people for their wallets? Find them and put them away too. But don’t make a mistake! You could be arresting a senator’s son. Or get caught on a video punching a criminal who just shot at your partner. Work was not mindless. Some say being a cop is worse than combat. Not because it’s the same as being in a war, but because – like being a soldier in battle – there are times of just monotonous and mind-numbing boredom. But your subconscious better know that at any second all hell can break loose, resulting in the same heartbreak as in combat: death. But soldiers aren’t in combat for 20 or more years, 40 hours a week plus overtime.
As he painted the inside of the house, sweating and uncomfortable from stooping, stretching, and raising his arms for hours on end, he could see that he was making something better. His own house. The place where he wanted to live was going to look like he wanted it. Progress was being made with each finished room. Each Walmart bed that was assembled. Each thrift-store-bought antique dresser put against a newly painted wall. As he admired his new abode, he wondered if being a cop all those years was worth it. Who had he really helped? At what cost? Then he thought to himself, Goodbye tension, hello pension! Who cares? That was then. This is now.
He had only talked to his daughter, Tracy, a couple of times on the phone during this busy week of fixing up the place. She had already moved to Twentynine Palms with Heidi. Now Tracy would be starting her new life. He couldn’t wait until he could invite them over, cook them dinner, and then sit outside to watch the shooting stars on a warm evening, with owls hooting and coyote pups yipping for their mom to bring back supper.
Maybe Tracy had an idea of where she was headed when they loaded up the Escape and headed west across the George Washington Bridge. But it was all like a crazy high-altitude hallucination to Paul. It seemed like everyone he met up here told you their life stories before they were even finished shaking hands with you. He had lived in a basement apartment for nearly 20 years, and he barely knew his upstairs landlord, never mind whoever the hell lived next door.
It only took a few days for Paul to discover his happy place at his new home: on the front porch just after sunrise. He had several bird feeders, a hummingbird feeder, and a birdbath he kept filled. The desert air was still cool early in the morning, no matter how hot the day would later become. He felt the soothing sounds of birds chirping, scratching, and humming by was doing more for his health than all the oatmeal he ate three days a week. To his right, the rocky hills of the nearly 50,000 acres of undeveloped desert were also coming alive as shards of sunshine spread across the hardscrabble and boulders. He no longer needed his morning fix of the New York Times and New York Post. A scan of his phone gave him sports news from the night before. But he realized he wasn’t getting as deep into the trends and big data of baseball as he had been doing since freshman year of high school. Did he really need to know that the Mets bullpen was giving up .25 more runs than the same period last season? He didn’t even know who the wild cards teams were or if the Mets still had a statistical chance.
But he knew that the
sparrows in his yard looked just like the ones back in New York and were just as bold, coming up to him for a flick of toast or oatmeal. And that the gorgeous, graceful roadrunners were quite elusive. According to his bird guide that little bird that sat atop the tip of the Joshua tree was a cactus wren.
Paul noticed the telltale sign of what was probably a car on the road about a quarter mile to the left, which was a cloud of swirling dust. He stood to get a better look, and just over the brush and berms of his five acres he couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears. It wasn’t a car but a half-dozen horses clomping down the road full speed with no riders or saddles. He watched in amazement as they charged up the road and disappeared. Then just as the dust was settling, he saw Mabel from the horse rescue ranch in a mad pursuit after them. This really is the Wild West, Paul thought to himself.
He noticed another swirl of dust on the road. He didn’t see a horse, but Kate’s car approaching. The birds fluttered away as she pulled into the gravel driveway.
“So this is where you’ve been holed up?” Kate said, exiting the car and holding a large brown paper bag. “I brought some breakfast.”
Paul was pleasantly surprised that Kate showed up unannounced. “What brings you up to these parts so early?”
“I was over at the Integratron. They had a sunrise yoga and sound bath special.”
They sat at the table on the front porch, and Kate unwrapped the breakfast burritos.
“A morning sound bath sounds kind of like morning Mass,” Paul said, noticing the sparrows were already running around his feet pecking for crumbs. “I used to be an altar boy for 6 A.M. mass. Sometimes there was only one person in the church.”
“You were an altar boy? That must leave quite an impression on a young mind. All that sacred imagery.”
Paul took a bite of his burrito and thought about that. It was absolutely true. There was something almost scary about those dark early-morning masses amidst the giant hyper-realistic statues of the mid-century Catholic Church, including Jesus on the crucifix with the red blood oozing from his open wounds. “Is that why you like the Integratron? Is it a church substitute?”
“I never thought of it that way. Maybe it is. But I never went to church. My parents weren’t religious. But I always liked the imagery. Have you heard of Desert Christ Park?”
“No.”
“What are you doing this morning?”
“Going to Desert Christ Park?” Paul asked, a broad grin across his face.
“Si. After the burritos.”
They drove in Paul’s Escape down the hill, past Flat Top Mesa, Yucca Mesa, descending a thousand feet or so and into the commercial district of Yucca Valley, which people just call the town. It’s more a collection of strip malls on a blacktop highway separated by vacant lots, feed stores, and out-of-business car lots. Kate gave directions, which weren’t many. Just a right turn here and a left there onto a winding dirt road that went up again towards the rocky foothills, and there it was: the gate to Desert Christ Park. They drove through the opened iron gates, and could see nestled into the hillside gigantic, white statues dotting the landscape in the distance. As they got closer the white figures and structures took shape; they were oversized depictions of Jesus Christ, the Apostles, and other New Testament figures and scenes from the Bible.
Paul stood at the entrance in awe of the spectacle of ten to twenty-foot-tall religious statues and tableaus spread throughout the rocky hillside. Without the statues, these few acres would be just another plot of hardscrabble and brittle brush a mile or so from the main highway. But it was transformed into a land of biblical giants. Not of typical roadside giants like Paul Bunyan or the Pee Wee’s Big Adventure dinosaurs or Randy’s ginormous donut or a mounted F-16 fighter jet. No, this was a veritable statuary forest of blindingly white, enormous depictions of The Last Supper, the Virgin Mary, angels, Christ preaching, praying, comforting children and animals, and even Jesus resurrecting from the dead in a custom-built cave.
“Wow. What is this place?” Paul asked as he stepped closer to the statues, noticing that many were in various stages of disrepair.
“A retired aircraft worker built these during the late Forties hoping to inspire world peace. If you get too close, the flaws really are noticeable. Like a lot of things, I guess.”
They spent the next half hour or so walking among the giants of Christianity in the heat of the desert sun. Both were silent as they stood next to larger-than-life apostles and biblical characters and faced a giant Jesus with hands extending, as if spreading his seeds of wisdom across the rocks and dirt.
“When I first came up here years ago, I thought this whole thing was one giant joke,” Kate said, putting her finger in a crack in the palm of one of Christ’s outstretched hands. “But now, I don’t find it a joke at all.”
“You were a doubting Thomas.”
“What’s that?”
“Doubting Thomas. After Christ rose from the dead, one of his apostles, Thomas, said he wouldn’t believe Jesus was alive until he put his fingers in Christ’s wounds to prove it.”
Kate immediately took her finger off the statue.
“And then when he saw Jesus risen from the dead, and Jesus told him to go ahead, ‘put your hand in my wounds,’ he asked ‘But what about those who don’t get to put their hands in my wounds to prove it to themselves. How will they believe?’ ” Paul asked, standing next to the giant Christ statue.
“It seems a lot of searching for meaning happens in the desert,” Kate said, stepping over some rocks to stand in the shade that Christ cast.
Paul gazed upward in awe at the giant Christ before him. “Jesus spent forty days and forty nights in the desert before he was crucified. Then there was Saul’s transformation by the blinding lights of the desert.”
“Did you major in religion or something?”
“I was the last generation of Latin-speaking altar boys.”
“Have you heard of Salvation Mountain?”
“No. What’s that?”
“It’s kind of a man-made mountain in the middle of nowhere with giant quotes from the Bible and prayers to Jesus, all built by a guy who died a few years ago.”
“I’m realizing there’s kind of a theme going on out here. I’d like to see it, but I still have a lot of work to do at the house. We should probably head back.”
Kate always knew there was a theme of searching for something out here in the high desert. A sense of something larger, more powerful, and mysterious. She believed that one of the reasons her husband wasn’t able to kick his booze or drug habits was because AA required a belief in a greater power, and being a stubborn atheist he refused to be part of it. And ever since he died, she held a grudge against this higher power. She once regarded Desert Christ Park as a ridiculous tribute to a fairy tale. Same as Salvation Mountain and every church billboard that lined the local highway and offered help to anyone in need. But as she watched Paul take in the scripture quotes on the giant religious icons she could see a different kind of reaction. It wasn’t by any means ridicule.
“Let’s go over to that little rock chapel,” Paul said, leading her across the gravel path to a small cave-like structure constructed out of multicolored desert stones.
There was a white stone cross over the altar with a shard of sunlight illuminating it. The three small pews were also made of stone, as were the kneelers. Paul was silent as he walked ahead of Kate and knelt down on both knees, bowed his head, and clasped his hands in prayer. From the side, Kate could see his lips slightly move as he prayed in silence. She wondered if he was praying in Latin. Kate decided she would wait outside for him.
Paul hadn’t really prayed in a while. During the past few stressful weeks he had recited a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers but he hadn’t prayed to Jesus. The Jesus of the New Testament pictured in so many missals, catechisms, movies, and paintings as the bearded man dressed in white robes. He found it easier to talk to that Jesus. That version of the Trinity in human flesh who faced
his fate with doubt and the felt pain of human flesh being torn and tortured, knowing it was his duty. Paul thanked Jesus for what he had. He survived the cop years. The crazy partying years. The being married to a drug addict years. The sad years separated from his daughter. He thanked Jesus for his now-beautiful, smart, healthy daughter. For Greta and Peggy who watched over her. And prayed for guidance from Jesus in his new life, out here, somewhere in the California high desert. Whatever that meant.
“You seemed like you were off in another world in there,” Kate said as they crunched gravel on the way to the parking lot.
“I was very much in this world that whole time. I don’t know. You ever look for signs? In little things. Even stupid things? Like when you’re thinking some random thought, say pizza, and then a Domino’s delivery car pulls up next to you?” Paul asked, staring at the huge concrete slab with the Ten Commandments carved into it.
“I’m always looking for signs.”
“I don’t know if it’s just coincidence or significance.”
“Isn’t that what faith’s all about? Not knowing.”
Paul pondered that, pausing with his finger on the car remote for a few moments. He pushed the button, the loud chirp piercing the quiet and they got in the Escape.
Paul’s new home was ready for his special guests. His daughter, Tracy, and her friend, Heidi, had already been sharing an apartment in nearby Twentynine Palms, but Paul didn’t want them to come by until the house was together. And this was the night. He had hoped to cook them dinner, but not knowing tofu from toffee he enlisted Kate to assist in the meal. He did have second thoughts on having Kate over on the first night Tracy and her friend came by. They were sure to assume that Kate was his significant other, which was not the case. Then of course he thought, what the hell is the difference? She’s a friend, right? Who cares if it’s not clear who he is romantically involved with? Yeah, he’s her father and her mom just passed away, but he’s been out of the picture for a long, long time. They’re all grownups, right? Should he tell Tracy in advance? Nah. No biggie.
High Desert High Page 17
