by Jon McDonald
Gordon wiped tears from his eyes as he headed back towards town through the rusted cars in the scrap lot behind the Shell station. He couldn’t count that Uncle Wallace wouldn’t check out the other gas stations along I-40 looking for him, so he decided to skip hustling the other filling stations on I-40 today.
A scamper of ruby throated humming birds flashed before Gordon and drew his attention towards a ’55 Chevy with no engine but with a still intact back seat. He walked over and peered in. He looked around and as no one was in sight, he crawled into the back seat. Because he’d only had a few winks of sleep this morning, he curled up, found a tarp on the floor, pulled that over him, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.
◘ ◘ ◘
An eagle circled above the sheltered box canyon searching for rabbit. The high sun above his wing cast a fleeing shadow on the cornfield below. Three stalks of corn grew out of each of the many small mounds in the field. Squash vines crawled along the base of the corn, and beans corkscrewed their tendrils along the stalks of the corn, climbing upwards towards the sun. These three staples of the Hopi diet had fed generations. Spider Woman walked the field - a gourd in one hand, a bucket of water in the other. She carefully watered each mound, preserving every precious drop she could. The sun scattered prisms of light in the few renegade drops that did manage to escape the gourd between the bucket and the mound.
Far off on the horizon towering clouds were mounting with the promise of a summer storm. Lightning was streaking to the ground in spikes of thunder as the storm approached. Spider Woman looked up and began to chant and dance. The storm grew, filled the canyon, and began to splash life into the sucking, waiting cornfield.
Cheap Trick’s eyes fluttered as he turned over in the back seat of the car but he did not wake.
◘ ◘ ◘
What? What was that? Cheap Trick looked around him - disoriented. He was outside the Chevy. It was early afternoon. Had he really slept that long? He walked through the scrap yard and onto a side street and past the alley where only last night he had given his third blow job of the evening to some old crank. It looked so innocent in the daylight - just boxes, bins, and dumpsters, not the towering caverns of shadow and doom that they assumed at night.
He reached the main street - the sun still blinding. He looked left. He looked right. He nodded and turned to the left thinking he might cop a soda at the corner store where the cooler was in the back and out of sight of the clerk. He passed a yellow dog, leashed to a parking meter - panting, and trying to squeeze into some shade by the fat base of a street lamp.
He walked into the air-conditioned store and headed to the back. He had just enough change for some Fritos if he could stick a cold soda down the back of his pants. As he walked down the chip isle he passed a young guy about his age. When he reached the Fritos Cheap Trick looked back. The young man was staring at him and smiling. Cheap Trick nodded and returned the smile. The kid was a cute little blond twink. Cheap Trick wondered if the guy had any cash. He walked up to him.
“I’m Gordon.” He held out his hand. He was never shy about introductions. They were what kept him alive on the street.
The young man was nervous and quickly looked away.
“Got a name?” Cheap Trick pushed and offered his hand again.
The guy looked back and took his hand. “Tom. I’m Tom.”
“Got a cigarette?” Cheap Trick asked.
“Don’t smoke. Sorry.”
“Nah, that’s okay.” He studied the kid. “I’ll give you a blow job for five bucks. Or you can give me one for ten.” Tom’s eyes widened and he looked around to see if anybody else had heard that. “There’s an old car with a back seat just down the block. We could go there if you like.”
Tom couldn’t answer. But his eyes were nervously scanning the store. Cheap Trick was not about to waste any more time with some closet case loser who didn’t know what he wanted, so he turned to go to the cooler. Tom reached out and touched Cheap Trick lightly on the shoulder. Cheap Trick turned back.
“How did you know?” Tom asked softly.
“Ah Jeeze, when you been around as long as me you get to know these things.” He studied Tom. “Ever been with a guy before?” Tom shook his head and looked down. “Got any money?” Cheap Trick continued.
“Some.”
Cheap Trick held out his hand and Tom emptied his pocket. “Come on let’s get some eats and get out of here.”
As they walked to the car Tom kept staring at Cheap Trick. He was nervous but excited too. “You Indian?”
“Nope, I’m from England.” Cheap Trick threw Tom a glance.
“You don’t sound very English.”
“Yeah, my dad’s the Earl of London.”
Tom looked at him askance with a sly grin. “Su-u-re.”
“It’s true. We got this really big estate on a hill by the river, and everything. My mom’s got this crown with all kinds of jewels and shit. I play on the river all day long. Got my own boat too, don’t ya know.”
“Then how come you’re here in this shit hole then?” Tom pushed back.
“I got kidnapped by ponies.”
“You are so-o-o full of it….”
Cheap Trick gave Tom a punch on the arm and started running down the side street towards the scrap yard and the Chevy. Tom ran after. They arrived at the car both out of breath. Cheap Trick leaned back against the car breathing hard. Tom stood before him and put his hands atop the car on either side of Cheap Trick’s head as he looked into his eyes. Tom leaned forward and gently kissed him. Cheap Trick was startled. Not because of the kiss but because it was so tender. He had never experienced that before. He reacted by pushing Tom away, opening the car door and pulling him into the back seat with him.
Now Cheap Trick was totally confused. He had never had sex like this before. It had always been furtive, quick, messy - emotionally painful. His whole inner being was opening like a squash blossom to the morning sun - sudden, fluid, rushing, sweet. He lay there with Tom’s head on his shoulder. Tom was gently asleep. Cheap Trick reached over and put his hand on Tom’s head and stroked his hair, so blond and fine and clean smelling. Cheap Trick took in Tom’s breath that smelled of clean linen or saddle leather. He closed his eyes as the sun had already set, but just before he nodded off to sleep he looked up to find his star.
◘ ◘ ◘
What? What was that? Cheap Trick looked around him - disoriented. He was outside the Chevy. It was late afternoon. Had he really slept that long? He walked through the scrap yard and onto a side street and past the alley where only last night he had given his third blow job of the evening to some old crank. It looked so innocent in the daylight - just boxes, bins, and dumpsters, not the towering caverns of shadow and doom that they assumed at night.
He reached the main street - the sun still blinding. He looked left. He looked right. He’d lost most of the afternoon and needed to cop some cash. So he turned right and headed down towards the bar that opened the earliest. He planned to hang out on the corner where the guys would drive by after work in their low riders, scrap heap pickups, or shiny late model sedans looking for a quickie before heading home to the wife and kiddies. They would drive really slow down the street, peering out of the passenger window, turn into the side street and wait for Cheap Trick to walk over to the car, lean in the passenger window, and say hi. Cheap Trick knew all the cops in town so he didn’t even bother to ask if the john was law anymore.
He felt bad about his backpack, but knew his Uncle would keep it for him till he got back to Hopi. He was just concerned about how he would get through the night without his jacket, but there wasn’t time to raid Compton’s or go dumpster diving. He needed cash for food right now.
Most of the guys who would come cruising by would be regulars. He knew how much each one would be willing to pay. Some were so cheap he would just give them the finger and wave for them to go on their way. And the first couple of drive-bys were, indeed, regulars. One just waved hello but drove on. The second wa
s a notorious drunk who was only interested in a line of drinks this afternoon and parked and went straight into the bar, mumbling to himself and scratching his ass.
Then a green van with tinted windows cruised by. Cheap Trick didn’t recognize it, but it slowed down slightly as it passed, and then drove on. Cheap Trick watched it go down the block, turn right at the next intersection, and come back again, having made a circle around the block. It slowed again as it passed. Cheap Trick smiled and gave a little wave. This was a potential new customer and it was good to be on best behavior, at least the first time. The van drove on, though; turned left this time at the corner and disappeared. Cheap Trick shrugged, figuring the guy wasn’t interested, and was already on the lookout for the next customer.
But two minutes later the van reappeared and pulled up at the curb. The window slid silently down and from the dark interior a hand reached forward with a fifty-dollar bill - five times his usual top dollar rate. The hand waved the bill and Cheap Trick walked up to the window.
“Got change?” A voice echoed from the interior of the van.
Cheap Trick stepped back – cheapskate, prick tease.
“Just kidding.” The voice chuckled. “Come back.”
Cheap Trick walked back to the window. He tried to peer inside but could only see the outline of a dark figure with reflecting aviator glasses.
“What do you do?” The voice asked.
“Depends.” Cheap Trick answered.
“What will fifty get me?”
“Most anything. But ya gotta use condoms.”
“Okay, hop in.”
Cheap Trick glanced around the street. It was quiet. The sun was already making illuminated lace of the trees as it began to set west of town. He stepped up to the cab, swung into the seat and shut the door. The driver activated the door locks, put the van in gear, and set off down the street.
“Got a name?” The stranger asked.
“Danger.” Cheap Trick replied.
“Really. Then I’d better be careful, huh?”
“Where we going?”
“Down the road a bit.” He answered, as they passed the city limit sign and headed out towards the desert.
“You gonna bring me back? I ain’t got no way to get round other.”
“Sure. I’ll take ya wherever ya wanna go.”
They drove on in silence. The driver kept glancing over at Cheap Trick, and began to play with himself.
“Kinda hot. Why don’t you take off that shirt?”
“I’m fine.” He glanced over quickly towards the driver, then turned back and stared out the passenger window.
“For fifty bucks you can take your shirt off, okay?”
Cheap Trick slipped off his shirt and laid it in his lap. They continued to drive on. By now all remnants of Winslow had long disappeared and Cheap Trick was beginning to get nervous.
“I didn’t sign on for no trip to the moon here. Where you taking me?”
“Not far.” The driver was looking hard at Cheap Trick now. “Let’s see what you got there.”
“What?”
“Take it out. You cut or uncut?”
‘Uncut.”
“Mmmmm.” The driver pushed on. “Come on let’s see it.”
Cheap Trick began to unbuckle his belt and open his jeans. Just then the driver turned onto a dirt road that was hidden by a row of cottonwoods. It was almost dark now and the van’s headlight beams jumped and swayed as the van plowed slowly down the pitted road. Up ahead was a house surrounded by even darker trees. No lights. The van pulled up behind the house and stopped. The van was still. The headlights extinguished.
Later, the van pulled out of the side road on to the road from Winslow going away from town, deeper into the desert. There was no moon. The van drove along the deserted road with only its parking lights on. It tuned off the road by a bridge and down into an arroyo and drove till it was out of sight of the highway. Not long after, the van returned. It climbed back onto the highway and headed out to the interstate towards LA.
By a Salt Cedar at the edge of the arroyo a dark shape almost blended into the bank of the dry river. There were no flowers. There were no clowns. Only a face half covered by a hubcap, with just one sightless eye pointing towards a certain star.
◘ ◘ ◘
What? What was that? Gordon sat up. He looked around him - disoriented. He threw the tarp off and climbed out of the Chevy. It was already afternoon. Had he really slept that long? He walked through the scrap yard and onto a side street and past the alley where only last night he had given his third blow job of the evening to some old crank. It looked so innocent in the daylight - just boxes, bins, and dumpsters, not the towering caverns of shadow and doom that they assumed at night.
He reached the main street. The sun sent shimmering waves off the asphalt. He looked left. He looked right. A humming bird zoomed out of the sun, paused before him, then darted left off down the street stopping to hover over a yellow dog leashed to a parking meter.
Dream About/By the Man Who Sweeps the Bridge
Usually his driver would whisk Gilbert Finley directly into the parking garage of Finley Tower, where he would take his private elevator to the top floor, unseen and unsullied by the frantic masses. But today he had sent his car to the airport to pick up his daughter returning from Prague for the Christmas holidays. Taxis were scarce today because it was fiercely raining and snowing at the same time. Gilbert had actually walked the three blocks from his penthouse on the park, and was now struggling with his umbrella in the stubborn wind. The umbrella wanted to free itself and skip down the massive glass canyon in midtown Manhattan. Fortunately Gilbert was almost at his destination. He continued to wrestle with his adversary until he reached his office tower. Once inside he stamped his feet, closed, and shook out the umbrella, and headed for the express elevator that would whisper him to his comfortable office floor. The whole floor was his office and the elevator was exclusively for his private use, accessed with his proprietary key code. His secretary was the only other employee privileged with this perk.
Gilbert was early as usual. The floor was unlit, and Gilbert didn’t feel like turning on the lights just yet. The hermitically sealed windows kept out all noise from the surrounding city. His secretary had not yet arrived and he was completely alone. Gilbert crossed to the windows and contemplated the storm surging around him on the 92nd floor. The tower at this height was completely encircled by clouds, but the storm was as remote as was the rest of his life – his wife, his children, his colleagues, his friends. Right now he wanted to bash open the window and feel the ferocious winds, drench in the torrential rain, feel the stinging bite of the snow. Something had been going on within him for the past week or so. He was morose, restless, withdrawn. He’d lost his appetite, taken no pleasure in his racquetball sessions, and slept with shallow, tortured dreams. He’d tried to figure out what was wrong. His investments were secure. He owned his penthouse with no mortgage. His wife was young, stunning and faithful – or so he believed. His business thrived. He could travel when and where he wanted. His children were intelligent, inquisitive, and sported bright futures. So what was it that was causing this rampant disease?
He heard the elevator doors open at the other end of the floor. His secretary had arrived. But she would go to her office, remove her coat and goulashes, and prepare for the work day without disturbing him. She would always wait for him to summon her before she would make herself known.
Gilbert’s phone, with its discrete Eine Kleine Nachtmusik ring tone, announced his wife, Gloria.
“Gil,” she announced, “the caterer says she just cannot find the sugar angels for the table decorations like Stephanie Daniels had at her Christmas party three years ago. They were so cute and such a hit. It seems no one makes them anymore. What am I to do? You must have some idea where I can find them. You have so many contacts. Can’t you call somebody?
Gil took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “I just can’t deal with that
right now.”
Gloria was momentarily stunned into a brief silence. “Gilbert Brandon Finley, I never expected such a lame response from you. I am gravely disappointed.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive.” He hung up.
His phone rang again and he was not about to answer his wife another time, but it was his son, Geoffrey. “Dad, can you … me?”
The call was breaking up. “Geoff, where are you, I can hardly hear you?”
“I…Tibet.”
“But Christmas….”
“Sorry….I….mission….next week….call….really bad….good-b….” The call ended.
Oh swell, now he would have to let Gloria know about this. This would mean recriminations and pouting for who knows how long. But at least Mary would be here from her university studies in Prague. Why Prague? He never understood. Some sort of Slavic studies. Why Slavic studies? He shook his head. He made a call to Mary’s phone.
“Oh hi, Dad? I was just about to call mom.”
“You okay? Did the car meet you at the airport?
“There’s been a hitch. I’m still in Amsterdam. My connection was grounded because of some volcanic eruption in Iceland. Can you imagine? They have no idea when we might get out. I’m so sorry. I just don’t have that much vacation time. Think I’ll just go back to Prague when the ash clears or else go back by train. Sorry about missing Christmas.”
“Oh honey… You mother will be so disappointed. Me too, of course, but you know your mother….”
“I know, so sorry….but what can I do?”
“And Geoff called. Don’t think he’s going to make it either.”
“Shit…. I’ll call you both on Christmas day. Hey, gotta go. I’m at the ticket counter….” She hung up.
Again the phone rang. It was Gilbert’s driver. “Mr. Finley….”
“Yes, I know, Mary just called me. She’s stranded at Schiphol.”
“I am sorry sir, shall I come back, or shall I wait for Mr. Geoffrey?”
“No, come back, Geoffrey’s AWOL too, I’m afraid.”
“Bleak Christmas, sir.”
