wilted streets: a novella & stories Read online

  Chego lay bleeding to death. He was not happy, he was not sad. He was at peace.

  LULU We were huddled in the bank. I was bleeding from my side. The place was surrounded by cops and the phones were ringing. All the employees and customers were in the vault. We had the money but no way out. I was growing weaker but nothing seemed to stop her yelling. I looked at Lulu and could only focus on her moving red mouth. She was a beauty, no doubt about that. I smiled.

  “I did what you said,” she screamed. “I told you this was a bad idea. But, no, you said it would be easy. In and out, you said. Well, we got in but we ain’t getting out. Now what, we just going to sit here until you bleed to death? What about me? I knew you were trouble from the get go. Sweet Jesus, what the hell did I ever see in you? I was better off hooking and movin’ dope. Now I’m fucked, I’m screwed. I ain’t ever getting out of here. Sure, sure, get a stake, head south, beaches, booze. What a crock. And like a fool I bought into it. Well, what’s your next great idea? You gonna’ say something or you gonna’ just lay there?

  She stood over me, getting redder and redder in the face. She spit on me and kicked me in the leg. I raised the Colt and shot her in the face. Her head exploded as I passed out. No booze, no beaches; just quiet.

  SURF’S UP

  In the nascent dawn, while the shadows still held their secrets and the working class began to infiltrate the streets, you could almost see me in the corners. You had to look hard for I was nearly invisible. I wanted not to be seen and no one wanted to see me. I stumbled down the rusted out iron steps to the hidden entrance that led to my hovel. It was damp and smelled worse than I did but it was away from the eyes that burned through me before turning away in disgust.

  The war for me was over but now the battle to survive raged on; in my heart and in what was left of my body and soul. My face a ravaged and hideous mess. 18 months in VA hospital’s left me broken and full of hatred and despair. Now I was left to roam the filthy back alleys of the city, searching for scraps and hoping for death.

  So long ago, another life, but a short time in years, I was strong and full of bravado. I was a Marine, glittering in my creased uniform and shiny shoes. Pumped full of hostile intent and straining to see action, I cared not the cause. I

  141 wanted to unleash my hard won skills to annihilate any and all. Ashcanistan, as the old timers called it, beckoned to me with a sirens song of clattering rounds piercing the night and raghead bodies flopping about in a final bone blasted boogie. The blood soaked visions clouded my anxious sleep and left me obsessively cleaning my AR-5 rifle as I awaited deployment.

  Finally: a forward fire post. My brothers, we warriors, armed to the teeth. We craved action, our bones ached as our fingers caressed our rifles and grenades and rockets. We were juiced, hyped and as wired as coke heads. Bring ‘em on, ain’t no towel head alive can equal a US Marine. My whole being was fine tuned and waiting for the switch to be thrown so I could lay waste to any living thing in my sights.

  Then without warning, It happened. We were overrun and the one thing in my life that I truly lusted after was now finished in the blink of an eye. Torn apart and bleeding with no possible air cover we broke and ran. A fragmented mortar shell tore my face to shreds; subsequent rounds shattered my left arm and leg.

  The attackers were driven back but I spent the night in agony with only my fire team leader holding a cloth to my face so that I would not bleed out.

  My war was over before it began. I remember little of the endless flights and surgeries. The dope kept me in a twilight state. Doctors talked but I heard little. I did not want to live. Finally they set me free. I was a twisted, limping, face ravaged useless piece of barely human garbage. The VA was unresponsive and the complications for receiving compensation were now beyond me. I was on my own and felt little or nothing for my fate. The night provided cover and the city provided food. What the grocery stores and restaurants threw out could feed a nation.

  I spent my days sleeping or at the library, wrapped in an old coat and a hoodie. My eyes were no longer set right in my face and reading was a problem. I adapted but could not focus for long. I bathed as best I could in public washrooms, my visage so frightening no one dared to challenge my presence. I only went to the VA for my scripts. Their insincere offers of help and prying questions made me wonder how much longer I could bear the indignities.

  The effort to carry on soon became too much of a burden. What was the use of all this? I was a disfigured freak, mangled and broken beyond repair. i blamed no one but myself. I wanted to storm the world and be a warrior-killer. I bought the myth but lacked the humanity to temper it. My country gave me a license to kill and I bore it proudly. The game was played and I lost. 143

  The smells and the taste of the Afghan air often came to me in the night. My brief time there sits festering in my twisted head and oddly brings to me the only pleasure I now know. It is not enough. That night I limped down to the subway and waited for the next train. As it approached, screeching around the curve, I leapt. Relief flooded my being. Semper Fi.

  INJUN BLUES

  He waited patiently. The Phoenix heat was lying upon him like a wool blanket. Odors of heated tar and exhaust fumes filled his head. The effort it took to move was almost more than he could handle.

  Across the street a homeless-looking man was urinating against the side of a building. The few brave souls navigating the mid-day heat ignored the pissing man. His urine splashed onto his torn sneakers but he seemed not to notice. He finished and tucked himself into his layers of torn and filthy clothing. The man shambled off. In his wake came an elderly and obese black woman. She was pulling a cart of groceries. Her house slippers slapped against the pavement beating out an ancient tap-tap-tap that almost brought a smile to his lips. He silently watched the old woman limp along in the oppressive heat.

  Still waiting in a desiccated attempt to stay upright his vision began to blur. He did not know if it was just heat waves rising off the concrete oven before him or if it was all the drinks he had had this morning. It seemed that

  145 his brain was on fire. He pushed himself off the bench. He smelled frying meat and his own alcohol-tinged sweat. He drew himself erect. He peered down the length of the street but saw no bus approaching. He slumped back onto the burning iron bench. The waddling old fat woman turned a far corner and he was alone. Cars continued to roll by in a hissing airconditioned rush.

  He wanted to think about what had happened but the heat robbed him of all sense. He knew that drinking was not a reason nor was it smart. He thought he had been doing so well. By sheer force of will and against all advice he had accomplished what he had set out to do. It had taken months of searching, trying and begging. He had finally secured a job at a plastic factory. It was only packing and shipping but it was a job. It was a new start for him. He remembered his lessons: One day at a time, follow the 12 steps. He had relapsed so may times. Then, after weeks of ignoring the remarks, the slurs, the looks, he gave in to the rage.

  Slowly he had lost his car, his apartment and all semblance of self-respect. He did not want to return to the Res in defeat once again. To listen to the broken men tell him what he already knew but refused to accept. He knew it was a dead end for him there. He always wanted more. He saw how the men ended up there. They became rusted out hulks like the ochre truck bodies that littered the land.

  He had tried to fit in: to find the white man’s rhythms, the white man’s vision of the world. He had failed once again. He was low on money. All that was left was a single bag that he had left at June Begay’s tiny house. She was good to him. He would not accept money from her. Without work he would not sleep there or with her. His desire for sex faded with his loss of employment.

  He knew that he should be at the library looking for work on the computer. If only he had not stopped to drink with Lone John. Now his head was so stuffed that he could not clearly see a screen to work on. Probably they would not even allow him in the library.

 
; He looked again but still saw no bus coming. He had to get some relief from the heat. He rose and walked slowly down the street. He saw a used clothing store with a sign that said, “Cool Inside”. He entered and staggered amongst the racks pretending to look at the clothing. He felt the sweat dry on his skin: It felt good. His determination returned and he vowed to himself that he would go to the library. He would find another job. He would go back to AA and stop the drinking. This time he would work hard and save money and buy June Begay a present and treat her good. No more abuse, no more arrests, no more jail.

  He slapped his palm with his fist and spun to leave the store. He lost his balance and tripped over his own feet. He felt himself falling.

  **** He awoke as if from a long dream. His face ached and when he touched it he could tell it was all swollen. He sat up slowly and opened his eyes. He was in a jail cell. Across the cell, leaning against the wall was a familiar face.

  “Ya'at'eeh, Nathan. It is good to see you again. I am sorry it is here but it is the course of our life, is it not?”

  He slowly stood on his unsure legs. He crossed the few feet of the cell and took the hand of Old Bill.

  “I am hopeless, Bill. I am no good. I try and I fail. I want more, I know that but I fail. You know me since I was small. I had no one until you. You were good to me, you are a good man. And yet, here we are: Once again in a cell. Why is this so? I have seen so many brothers give up. Is this our fate? Are we too old to change? The young people they leave the Reservation, they become like the white man. Why can’t I? You are wise. Tell me, Old Bill, I am lost and have no path. I only know the worn dirt road that leads back to the Res. I am afraid.”

  He fell back against his bunk and sat down with his head in his hands. The pounding would not stop. He was feeling as if he was going to be sick. A moan escaped his lips.

  “Be still, Nathan. The Father above sees your struggle. He can see all our struggles. I am not wise. I am in the grip of the whiskey as you are. It is our fate. Our life and our reason for life were taken from us. It is too late to return to the past. It is the white’s land now. Some of us can learn the new ways but some, like you and me, can never do this. I accept this. I try to do no harm except to myself but here we are. I am beyond being of any help to you Nathan. You may keep trying to find a place in this new world or you can return home. It is your choice.”

  Old Bill shifted himself against the wall. He looked frail and it was obvious that the wall was holding him up.

  “I was asked once by a council elder to come home and teach the young ones about the white world. To tell them of the trials and pitfalls they would face. I was supposed tell them that the Navajo way, to be kind, to be quiet, to be self-effacing did not work well in the white mans world. He wanted me to share my experience, to help those that went off to school or chose to work off the res. But what could I tell them? If I was to speak truly of what has befallen me in my long years, well I think they would never leave except to get a gun and go on a rampage.

  Maybe it is you who can do this. You are educated; you can do what I was unable to. I am old now, my time is over. Think on it, Nathan. That is my wisdom; that is what I have to give you. Return and help those that still have hope. Do not become like me.”

  Old Bill pushed himself from the wall and stood precariously on shaky legs.

  “I will sleep now. Can you help me into the bunk? I do not bend so good anymore.” He led Old Bill to the bunk and raised his feet upon the bed for him. He was light as a feather and smelled worse than he himself did.

  He climbed up on the top bunk and lay back. His arm was thrown across his eyes to block the ever-burning bulb above his head. Old Bill’s words ran around in his head. This was something he had never thought of. Perhaps this was to be his path, the one he had never found. He could be a teacher, a help to the young of the tribe. God knows he had committed every error that was possible. He could not remember how many times he had left the Res only to return in shame. Let him make use of these humbling and pitiful events.

  Before falling into a troubled sleep he repeated the few Navajo prayers he

  remembered. To the sound of Old Bills raspy snores he drifted off feeling contented. The true path home lay open to him; he had a choice. OH SO SCOTTSDALE

  Six months in Vegas and I was ready for a change. It was just too hectic. There are too many of us working the same casinos. I’m a hustler, what they used to call a gigolo, or using a nicer term; a paid escort. Now I guess I’m a cougar hunter. I’d been hearing a lot about Scottsdale, so I thought I would check it out. Maybe I would have better luck down there.

  Las Vegas is a cruel place and all the action is short term. There is not enough time to set the hooks and reel them in. The women are here for a few days and then gone. Sure, the money is good but you have to crank up the routine every 3 or 4 days and it gets tiring.

  I am lazy and always on the scout for the easy score. I thought it might be better to bag them where they live. You know, maybe I could settle in for a bit and take a break. I had been on the hustle for a few years and the road was getting old. I needed a rich old dame to support me for awhile.

  I wasn’t born with brains or money or much of a future. The only thing I have is good looks

  153 and a good body. I am 28 but can still pass for much younger. I stay in shape, have good teeth and possess a slightly Latin look which I got from my Peruvian mother. I learned early on to make the most of what I did have. My mother, nuts as she was, made a good teacher. I guess she figured using her face and body worked for her, so it would do the same for me. I learned how to please a woman, courtesy of my screwed up mother, at much too young of an age.

  I rolled into Scottsdale early in January. I had asked around from guys who had been here and they told me a lot of money came into town in the winter. The Phoenix Open golf tournament was held at that time of year and it brought in huge crowds. They also had the Arabian horse show and a bunch of other events that kept the local airport filled with private jets.

  I found a cheap place to stay on the fringe of what passed for downtown. The whole place was a mash-up of Old West-style shops, art galleries, dance clubs, restaurants and a big mall set next to a canal. None of it seemed to make much sense. The town had a lot of bars that featured a zillion variations on the “Happy Hour” theme. This seemed to be a big thing in all the Scottsdale bars and restaurants.

  I wandered the area for a couple of nights checking out the scene and eliminating places that were for the younger set. These places were all full of Hollywood wannabe’s that had moved east to the desert. There were a lot of fancy cars, guys in the black slacks/open shirt uniforms and girls in screw-me heels and mini-skirts. It seemed to be a pretty lame place to have such a big reputation. It was like a little Las Vegas without all the neon and gambling. They did have a few Indian casinos but they were all low rent and full of old people lined up at the slot machines. Most of them were smoking while hauling around oxygen tanks.

  It was the older women I was after, those in their 40’s and early 50’s. I wanted the desperate ones who could still fool themselves by ignoring what they saw in the mirror. Of course, they were all surgically enhanced.

  After wandering around town for a few nights I quickly saw that Scottsdale was awash with what I called “tits on a stick.” These are the kind of women who had all been buffed and honed, scraped and draped, tucked and rolled. Many of them barely looked human any longer. It looked as if one strong squeeze and they would crumble into pieces, like a hollow plaster of Paris statue that had hit the floor.

  One place in particular seemed to draw a steady group of ladies from my desired demographic. Nice word, demographic. I didn’t have much schooling but I tried to improve my vocabulary as much as I could. Tossing in a few big words and a slight sheen of sophistication helped convince these women that they were actually having a relationship and not just a paid partner. It was as important as staying in shape. Oddly enough, a lot of my so-called d
ates did not involve sex. Many times these ladies just wanted arm candy or a warm young body to hang onto.

  I decided to hone in on this restaurant and headed to the west edge of downtown where it was located. As I was driving towards the place I spotted a book store on the corner. I did not read much but liked to keep a book around to help me sleep. I walked into the store, which appeared to be empty. Seated behind the front counter was a pasty-faced, slightly Irish looking guy. He proved to pretty well read and in a barely audible voice, pointed me to a couple of paperbacks. I walked out with a Stephen King and a book by somebody called Cain. I dumped the books in the car and strolled to the place I had picked out.

  The restaurant had a lively bar scene and I got friendly with the bartender, Danny. He was a good looking kid, highly skilled, and knew how to work the ladies for maximum tips.

  One lady who I had seen in the place a couple of times seemed ripe for the picking. She looked to be in her late 50’s, trying to look like she was 25. Tonight she was wearing open toed spiked heels, skinny jeans and a cropped sheer white blouse. Her hair was the standard blonde, short and cut on the bias. It was fairly obvious that she had lipo, a tummy tuck, a chin implant, Botoxed lips, a face lift and her eyes had been done. Of course there was also the required breast implants. All this rested on a tiny, thin frame. When she got off her stool to visit the john I thought she must have lead weights in her rear end to counter balance the huge breasts.

  When she pranced by I called Danny over and asked if he knew her name. He thought for a second and said, “Yeah, I think it’s Beverly. She’s been in here, always alone, maybe 3 or 4 times in the last couple of weeks. Seems nice enough but doesn’t say much.” He winked and turned to serve the other customers.

  As she walked by me on her return to her stool I spun around and blocked her way. “Hi, I’m Miguel, friends call me Mike. Can I buy you a drink?” I gave her my sweetest smile and pulled out the chair next to me.