Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen

We’ve got a lot of time to kill until nine tonight. I’ve got my fingers crossed that Juanita is on the level and we’ll actually meet Emilio. I’ve got to do something with Boner. There’s no way I’m bringing him back in there and letting the large evening crowd fight over his boner. What should I do? I can’t just leave him alone somewhere; I’ve got to figure out someway to hide his boner. Josefina’s tried everything; she taped it down ― or up might be a more accurate direction. She even crammed Boner into one of her old panty girdles but he yelled so loud that we concluded that we’d rather look at his boner than hear him whine. We didn’t want to hurt Boner, just make him a little more presentable to …

I know what we’ll do. Wow, I’m now interrupting myself, what does that tell you. I don’t know but I’ll think about it as soon as I solve this boner problem.

I know, I’ll get a costume, a professional costume, for Boner, something that hides his boner and doesn’t make him yell in pain. We check the Yellow Pages again, this time for costume shops.

“Good afternoon sir, how may I be of assistance?” parrots a snooty, middle aged sales clerk as we walk into the first costume shop on our list.

“We’re looking for a costume that hides or disguises a particular affliction my colleague is cursed or blessed with depending how you …”

Boner interrupts me by dropping his sweatpants and exposing his boner in all of its glory. The sales clerk gasps, covers her mouth as if she’s hiding a grin and falls back into a chair. She soon regains her composure and stands.

“I see your problem sir. What sort of costume do you have in mind?” she asks without taking her eyes off Boner’s boner.

“Anything that protrudes out over his lower abdomen and covers his large erection will work. I imagine something like the sort of thing sports team’s mascots wear. They all seem to favor a large bilious lower body. Then again, I like the costumes worn by the characters that …”

She interrupts me with her eyes still glued to Boner’s boner. It’s as if she is transfixed. “We do have an egg costume, a Humpty Dumpty costume. I’m sure it will do the trick.”

She leads Boner back to a dressing room dragging this funny-looking egg outfit while I’m left to rummage through her large collection of pirate costumes. They are only gone for a few minutes when I hear, Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja through the closed door of the dressing room. Should I interrupt or should I let Boner have his fun? Boner’s Mimi kujas are getting louder and higher in pitch. Maybe I should break this up before our sales lady gets too far into whatever she’s doing to Boner … then again …

I finally decide to intervene when Boner screams out the loudest Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja I’ve ever heard. I push open the door and find our prim and proper sales lady on her knees in front of Boner. I clear my throat to get her attention, “Ahemmm.”

She stops her vigorous activity, moves her head away from Boner, takes a deep breath, rises to her feet, turns to face me and says, “I thought I might solve his problem the old fashioned way. It always worked on my Arthur.”

The two of us wrestle Boner into this giant egg outfit. The sales clerk reaches into the costume to make sure there is clearance enough for his boner. She seems to take an exceptionally long time to perform this simple task. I think I know what’s happening when Boner starts his Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja routine again. She seems embarrassed by his moaning even though I’m sure she doesn’t understand Swahili.

The costume covers his boner as well as everything else. Only his legs and arms are exposed. His head is encased in a see-through black top hat.

“This will do nicely.”

“Takatifu fuck,” is Boner’s only comment.

Humpty Dumpty and I show up at El Cerdo Rosado at five minutes past nine. We walk into the now crowded bar and no one takes any notice of a guy in an egg costume. I guess they get all kinds in here. We both belly up to the bar this time and order two beers. I take a big gulp of my beer before I realize that Boner can’t drink through the mesh opening in his see-through top hat. I give him a “tough luck” sort of look and he responds with, “Takatifu shit.”

I look around the room and see Juanita. She’s/he’s sporting a big shiner that she’s/he’s done her/his best to cover up with makeup and she’s/he’s wearing a new short sexy dress that accentuates her/his well defined ass. She/he is signaling me with her/his eyes and subtle arm gestures. She/he is pointing to a slick looking Latino in an overly shiny — must be silk — gray suit and this lavender and white-striped tie. He looks like a younger Ricardo Montalbán all dressed up for his role in Fantasy Island. Apparently we’ve found Emilio Sanchez.

Emilio and this tough looking guy — he must be his bodyguard or driver or both — stand on the outer perimeter of the dance floor as if they’re looking for someone. Finally this young sissy-looking guy comes up to Emilio. They whisper back and forth for a couple of minutes then Emilio, followed by his tough guy and then the sissy, all parade to the door. I don’t know whether to interrupt him before or after whatever they’re going to be doing outside. I decide that he might be in a better mood after. Boner and I try to tail them as nonchalantly as one can in a Humpty Dumpty suit.

The tough guy opens the back door of a dark Mercedes for Emilio and the sissy then climbs into the driver’s seat. The car windows are so dark that we can’t see what’s going on inside so we stand there and I do my best impression of a guy with a serious egg fetish.

Picture this, I’m standing in the parking lot of a crowded Mexican gay bar on a busy boulevard in the middle of one of America’s largest cites waiting for a drug lord, or whatever he is, to finish receiving or giving a blow job, or maybe even something more difficult to imagine, with my arm around Humpty Dumpty and I’m trying to look cool.

Two definitely gay guys come strolling through the parking lot holding hands when they spot Humpty Dumpty.

“It looks like all of the King’s horses and all of the King’s men got your ass back together again. I’ll bet the King’s men were a real blast but what did you do with all of those horses? Ha, ha, ha.” They both laugh like their little joke was funny and continue on into the bar.

I guess smart-asses come in all kinds, even the Mexican-American-homosexual variety.

About 20 minutes later the rear door of the Mercedes opens and the sissy climbs out adjusting his jeans. He says a muted goodbye and before he can shut the door, I grab it and stick my head into the car.

“Excuse me sir, I don’t mean to intrude at this somewhat delicate moment but I was told by my friend Chui that you are the man to see here in Phoenix. Let me back up a bit. Two days ago — I think it was two days ago — I hosted the visit of my friend Chui and his colleague, a man who called himself Gustavo, at my humble home along the US/Mexico border in New Mexico. Each of these men was carrying a large backpack of goods, goods that I assume they were importing into the United States. We awoke yesterday to find Gustavo and both backpacks missing along with my soul mate Josefina. Let me assure you sir, I have no interest in the contents of the backpacks and have no motive other than finding my beloved Josefina. I am hoping that …”

“Why should I help you, asshole?”

“For three reasons, Señor. First, because telling me would harm no one and be of little consequence to anyone but me and Humpty Dumpty here, and secondly, it would be a small payment for all of the kindness and respect I show your mules as they cross my property to deliver their cargo to you. And thirdly, I will tell everyone about your frequent visits to El Cerdo Ro…”

“Okay, okay, just shut the fuck up. I’m not saying this is true, but maybe this guy, the one you call Gustavo, your old broad and a fucking goat might have been here yesterday. They might have had some goods to sell and I may have paid them one half of their asking price. And I may have told them to see my colleague Jose Verde in Chatsworth, California for the other half of their money. Now you answer one question for me. Who’s the fucking fruitcake in the egg outfit?”

We are unusually quiet as we speed west on I-10. Boner mumbles something about César and Chui seems to be repeating what sounds like a rosary over and over. I break the silence with, “So what do we do when we get to Phoenix? I suppose I could look up my old drug contacts … but it’s been many years since I …”

Boner interrupts with, “Kubisha mbali bullshit.”

“Boner’s got a point,” Chui says again as if he now understands Boner. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember the names of any of my colleagues in Phoenix. Maybe something will come to me.”

Chui is our only link to the drug underworld. I’ve got to get him thinking, but how? I know — a couple of beers will fuel his brain cells, it always works for me when I have a complex problem.

“Vipi kuhusu pombe?”

“Yeah, I could go for a cold one too,” Chui chimes in.

I pull off of the interstate and into a so-called convenience store. I wonder what they mean when they use the term, “convenience”. Is it because the stores are convenient to get to or is it …

“Come on, Señor Bob, I’m thirsty.”

I join Chui and Boner and we all storm into the otherwise empty store. Boner goes directly to the potato chip display while Chui and I stare at the large selection of beer. Chui goes for the Mexican beer and I help him pull out two six packs of Dos Equis. Damn, these things are hard to get out of the cooler.

Boner has chosen three kinds of potato chips and joins us in our parade to the cashier. The young woman behind the counter is whispering into the phone as if she’s reporting a holdup or something. She drops the receiver and stares at us with a look of total terror. I know we look a little rough for wear but I wouldn’t think that our shoddy appearance could instill this much emotion, when I notice her gaze is fixed on Boner’s boner. I should have known. He has this effect on strangers, especially women of all ages.

She rings up and bags our purchases without taking her eyes off Boner’s boner. I’m really impressed that she can do all these simple chores, including making change, without the benefit of any visual stimuli. She’s amazing.

As we bundle up our purchases and start for the door she just stands there rigidly transfixed. No “thanks”, “have a nice day”, or “come back and see us” ― just her eerie hypnotic trance-like fixed gaze. Wow, she went from amazing to creepy in a heartbeat.

Just as we’re filing out the door, a Maricopa County Sheriff’s car screeches to a stop a few inches in front of us.

Chui jumps back and crashes into the closed door exclaiming his usual, “What the fuck?”

The two deputies have their guns drawn and pointed directly at Boner.

“Up against the wall and spread ‘em, assholes,” yells the female deputy.

We drop our purchases and comply with her request. Chui seems to have done this before so Boner and I follow his moves. They pat us down and turn Boner around with his hands in the air. The woman deputy drops Boner’s sweat pants, gasps and then yells to her partner, “Hey Rodney would you look at this. It’s the biggest damn pecker I’ve ever seen and it’s as hard as a rock. Where’s this guy been all my life?”

It’s obvious that her partner is not as enamored with Boner’s boner as she is; in fact, he seems outright hostile. Maybe it’s envy or maybe it’s jealousy but I suspect it’s her admiration for someone else’s pecker that has him in a snit.

“We had a report of someone with a drawn, concealed weapon,” he stammers in anger. “The clerk called us saying that this guy was walking around with a gun in his pants pointed directly at her.”

“Officer, the phrase ‘drawn, concealed weapon’ is oxymoronic. If a weapon were drawn it couldn’t …”

“Shut the fuck up!” yells the female deputy.

I try again. “Officer, as you can see, my colleague here does not have a weapon. An erection of this size might be considered a weapon in some hopelessly pathetic cultures but not in one as enlightened as ours. As far as I know, an erection, no matter what the size, is not a crime in Arizona or anywhere else …

“Shut the fuck up!” she yells again.

The female deputy takes her eyes off Boner’s boner for the first time and says, “You, cover that big thing up before I ah, ah … just cover it up. Okay everyone, break out your IDs and you beaner,” she says pointing at Chui. “Show me your identity papers.”

She quickly glances at my New Mexico driver’s license and Boner’s Duluth, Minnesota, library card before she turns to Chui.

“Okay, beaner whata ya got?”

Chui fumbles through his pockets and says in his best English, “Deputy, I must have left my wallet at home. You’ll just have to take my word and the word of my associates here that I’m a legal resident of these United States.”

“No fuckin’ way beaner, you’re coming with us. And you two assholes, do you know that under Arizona SB 1070 it is a crime to transport illegal immigrants? I’m taking you all in. Cuff ‘em Rodney.”

“Miss, may I remind you that you cannot arrest us unless you formally charge us with a …”

“Shut the fuck up!”

The ride to the sheriff’s office is uneventful with the three of us in the backseat, Chui and I in handcuffs and Boner with his hands free. They apparently only had two pair. We’re ushered into the sheriff’s office, photographed, fingerprinted, and strip searched. In the interest of good police work, our arresting deputy has every woman in the building come in and check out Boner and me in a nude two-man lineup. We look like the before and after models for some penis enlargement drug. Woman after woman parades by, some with a snicker others with licentious grins, and all with a deep sense of lustful awe.

I thought I’d stir the pot, “Officer, my colleague has yet to complain but I’m sure you will agree that this flagrant display of our genitals, as exceptional as they may be, shows a complete lack of …”

“Shut the fuck up!”

We are soon decked out in pink underwear and goofy black-and-white striped prison coveralls and transported to this tent-city jail. Years ago, Maricopa County’s publicity-hound sheriff, Joe Arpaio, was ordered to release some prisoners early in order to deal with the serious overcrowding that seems to plague every city, county and state in the U.S. That’s everywhere ― everywhere except here. Rather than let his prisoners out early, Sheriff Joe has built these temporary tent cities in Phoenix’s 120-degree desert heat. His tent-city jails became such a part of the Arpaio folklore that they became a permanent part of the County’s penal system. Back in 2003, when the Phoenix temperatures exceeded 110 degrees, the self-promoting Arpaio said to his whining inmates, “It’s 120 degrees in Iraq and the soldiers are living in tents, have to wear full body armor, and they didn’t commit any crimes, so shut your mouths.”

It’s just my luck to get thrown in the toughest jail in America for two very serious crimes ― terrorizing a sales clerk with an erection and a properly clothed erection I might add and having a beaner, to use the deputy’s word, as a passenger. Wow, do you think I’ll have to do chain-gang-like hard time for these crimes against …

Boner interrupts my contemplation with, “Takatifu shit.”

A prison guard leads us through a huge tent cluttered with bunk beds and partially clothed inmates. Boner’s boner sticks out prominently in the front of his jail-house jumpsuit. Many of the inmates whistle catcalls as Boner passes by. No one seems to notice either Chui or me. Finally we find three empty bunks, settle in and watch the weather channel with our new tent mates.

Boner is just lying on his back in a lower bunk with his boner sticking up like a tent pole watching the weather channel’s lengthy dissertation on the subtle aspects of the weather in Muncie, Indiana when every prisoner seems to have an excuse for walking by and taking a sneak look at the large bulge in Boner’s pants. They parade by like mourners getting their final viewing of a deceased loved one. I don’t know what to do. Should I stop this or should I pull down Boner’s coveralls and let everyone see the object of their curiosity? I’m debating this when a tough looking, heavily tattooed black guy comes up to Boner and says, “What’s up bro? You’ve had that hard-on for a couple a hours now whata ya takin’ bro, some kind of Viagra?”

“Mimi si kuchukua chochote.”

“Say what, motherfucker?”

“Mimi alisema, mimi si kuchukua chochote.”

“Fuck you man. You gonna talk that shit to me.”

“Fuck wewe pia!”

I am proud of Boner; he held his own in his first encounter with what was surely a hardened criminal. But then Boner with his erection might be the ultimate ‘hardened’ whatever you call someone falsely accused. Chui is making contact with the large Hispanic element in our tent. They all shake hands in their jive-ass fashion and giggle and laugh like a bunch of school girls. I feel a tinge of jealousy as I watch Chui maneuver around the tent like a politician running for reelection.

Finally a guard comes into the tent and shouts, “Lights out,” as he pulls the switch. We lay in total darkness listening to the clanking and squeaking of the inmates as they settle into their bunks. Soon it is quiet except for the sound of labored breathing and the growing roar of snoring.

“Señor Bob, I found out the name of the guy we need to see here in Phoenix,” whispered Chui. “He is Emilio Sanchez and we’ll find him at El Cerdo Rosado.”

Boner looks everywhere. He runs around in his night shirt with his boner bouncing shouting, “César, ambapo ni wewe? César, ambapo ni wewe?” But they are gone, long gone. Chui is scared — big time scared. If his pack doesn’t get to the intended contact he is a dead man, no excuses, dead, dead, dead. That’s the way the drug business works ― you fuck up, you’re dead. Maybe his one saving grace will be that he never hired Gustavo, but someone sure as hell had.

Boner runs by shouting, “César, ambapo ni wewe?”

I have to take charge and come up with a plan. These two yoyos will just run around the place doing their pollo poco routine.

I get them seated, make a cup of coffee for Chui and open beers for Boner and me. “Okay, let’s all agree that we want to rescue ― if that’s the right word ― Josefina and to retrieve ― I believe that’s the right word ― the backpack that was entrusted to Chui by the …

Boner interrupts me with, “kubisha mbali bullshit.”

“I agree with Boner,” Chui adds, as if he now understands Boner. “Let’s go after that pinché bastard, Gustavo.”

“I think it is safe to assume that we are unanimous in our definition of the objective of this rescue exercise. I hesitate to call it a ‘rescue exercise’ without knowing the particulars of their sudden departure, but I will assume that this will suffice as an operative expression until we learn further information. What we need to discuss, however, and come to an agreement on, is the detailed plan on how we are to achieve our mutually agreed upon objective. Let’s start with where Gustavo might have been …”

“Señor Bob, We were to meet Alfredo at the crossroads 14 kilometers northwest of here.”

“Would Gustavo deliver the two backpacks to Alfredo or would he have an alternate and possibly a more lucrative plan?”

“Why would he deliver the packs to Alfredo?” Chui interrupts again, “So he could screw me and earn a double fee? No, he would steal both packs and sell them to someone in the Sinaloa Cartel for mucho dinero. Yeah, that’s what he would do, that pendejo. He took Josefina because he needed someone to carry my pack and he’s had the hots for her ever since he saw her eyeing Boner’s verga grande.”

“How valuable is the cargo you were transporting? Was the value enough to warrant …”

Bang! Bang! Bang! Someone is knocking loudly on the back door. I pull the kitchen curtains aside and see Deputy Dip-Shit and another guy standing on my back porch.

“Boner, Deputy Dip-Shit is here. You and Chui sneak out the front door and go find something to fix up. I’ll tell them that Chui is here helping you do whatever you end up doing. Now get going.”

They exit the front door just as I open the back. “Deputy, it’s good to see you again after such a short time. I was just about to make some coffee. Come on in.”

Deputy Dip-Shit says pointing to his comrade, “This here’s Frank Gomez of the U.S. Border Patrol. He was headed out this way and I told him I’d tag along, seeing that you and I are such pals.”

“I’ve got instant or I could put a pot of Josefina’s finest on.”

“The instant will be fine. Say Bob, Frank here has a complaint he’d like to register with you.”

“We, ah, just learned that you — er — you’ve been harboring … harboring illegals, Frank begins. “You know that providing sustenance and shelter to known illegal immigrants is against the laws of the United States and punishable by imprisonment and/or a substantial fine.”

“How do you take your coffee? Here’s the sugar ― I’ll get some half and half from the fridge.”

“I don’t think you heard Frank. He’s here on official U.S. Government business,” Deputy Dip-Shit adds as if I wasn’t paying attention.

“Oh, I heard what Frank said alright. I was just trying to think of the last time I actually saw an illegal immigrant. Using Frank’s term ‘illegal immigrant’ seems inappropriate somehow. I would think we should simply use the term immigrant before a court of law determines the legality of such immigration. You see, in the United States we are innocent until proven guilty. Therefore, a more appropriate term might be alleged illegal immigrant. I think it is important to …”

Frank interrupts me with, “Cut the crap. We didn’t come here to debate U.S. law or terminology with you. We came to find out if you’ve been providing food and shelter to known illegal immigrants.”

“I’d like to explain something to you two officers of the law. We, and I include Josefina and Boner in my definition, have never done anything for anyone that was doing anything we deemed illegal. We have however, provided nourishment and comfort to travelers in need of our assistance, as I’m sure you and any other good, red-blooded American would. Our country was founded by and populated with immigrants both internal and external. In fact, the Westward movement …”

“Did I hear you just confess to harboring illegals?” Frank blurts out as his facial color darkens a hue or two.

“No, you did not hear me say that. What I said was that I sometimes provide neighborly assistance to travelers in need. I’m not one to judge a traveler’s status or the legality of his or her travels. When someone comes to my door, I don’t check their citizenship or verify their legal right to travel. I just invite them in and share with them a little bit of comfort …”

“Do you realize that you’re contributing to the destruction of the U.S. economy by aiding and assisting in illegal immigration?”

“First off, I’m not aiding and assisting in any act of immigration. If someone from a foreign country shows up at my house they have already immigrated. I’m not at the border nor am I running a border checkpoint here. You don’t need a passport to have dinner with us and second, these poor people are keeping our economy alive by doing all of the lower-tier, minimum wage tasks that Americans won’t do. Have you seen that movie A Day Without a Mexican? It was about a day in L.A. when …”

Frank interrupts me again. He is visibly agitated. “I’m not going to sit here and argue philosophy and government policy with you.”

“Good, then let’s talk about something else. How do you think the Dodgers will do this year now that they’ve strengthened their bullpen?”

That was it for Frank. He rises and storms out. Deputy Dip-Shit just sits there looking like he’s just farted. Finally he stands, says a hurried goodbye and follows Frank out the door.

I find Boner and Chui out moving rocks in the front of the house.

“What kind of fixin’ up is moving rocks from one place to another? It seems to me that if God put those rocks there he had some plan in mind. But one could assume that it was simply the randomness of nature that …”

Boner interrupts with, “Kata ya shit.”

“Come on in, we were in the middle of something when Deputy Dip-Shit interrupted us. I’ll get us another beer.”

Once we are seated around the table again, I say to Chui, “I had just asked you the value of the cargo you were carrying and you were about to reply.”

“Let’s see, we each had 30 kilos of pure coke, that’s 132 pounds to you metric-challenged gringos. And at roughly twenty-eight thousand dollars a kilo, that’s … let me see … that’s, ah … ah, one point six eight million dollars U.S. at the street price. You understand that the wholesale price will be much lower than that. Maybe Gustavo can sell the 60 kilos for one to two hundred grand.”

“Wow, you mean to tell me you brought $1,680,000 worth of drugs into my kitchen last night and we went to sleep with it just sitting here.”

“What do you think I am — a penny-ante smuggler? No señor, I’m the real deal. I am the most successful mula in all of the Juárez Cartel. I’ve lugged more dope across the border than …”

Finally, my chance to interrupt Chui. “Where would Gustavo establish contact with the — did you say the Sinaloa Cartel — isn’t that the cartel that you’ve been at war with. I don’t mean you specifically.”

“Si, he probably arranged to steal our dope long before we ever left Mexico. That hijo de la chingada madre! I’m telling you; you just can’t get good help anymore. If I’m right and I’m sure I am, he’s headed for Phoenix and his really big payday right now as we speak.”

“Then Phoenix it is. Boner, pack your …”

“Señor Bob, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” says Chui “This drug war is for real. Those pinché cabróns in the Sinaloa Cartel will cut off your head and piss down your throat just for the fun of it. I suggest you think about this a bit before you go to war with Joaquín Guzmán, the most wanted man in Mexico and one of richest men in the world.”

“Fuck him and his billions. I’m going to rescue Josefina. Boner, get the car.”

“You know, Boner, maybe we should fix this place up. Did you hear what Deputy Dip-Shit said about me never doing anything around here? Got any ideas of what we could fix up?”

“Si kidokezo.”

“How about we get the ranch surveyed? I must have been loaded when we bought this place. I … uh … can’t remember where our property lines are. Maybe we could build some fences once we figure out where to put ‘em?”

“Kwa nini tunataka?”

“I don’t know. I am just thinking of things to fix up.”

“Vipi kuhusu sisi kazi ya nyumbani?”

“Yeah, let’s paint something. Okay, what should we paint?”

“Kata ya shit.”

“You’re just a spoil sport. If you’re not going to help me brainstorm I think I’ll have a couple of beers and think about all of this ‘fixin’-up’ later.”

“Nzuri.”

“Psst, Señor Bob, Boner. Psst, over here.”

Boner and I jump a foot off the ground when someone calls our names here in the front yard. “Yard” is probably the wrong word for the desert in front of our ranch house but what else would you call it … the un-landscaped area surrounding the front entry of our home might be more correct. Let’s stick with “yard” until …

“Psst, over here.”

As we look to the bushes, our favorite drug trafficker, Chui, stands up and waves. He says something in unintelligible Spanish to another bush and this tough-looking guy stands, weakly waves, and struggles to smile.

“Hola Chui. Welcome.”

“Hola Señor Bob.”

“Takatifu shit,” says Boner.

“Get out of those bushes and come on over here. It’s good to see you, Chui. How have you been?”

“Busy, Señor Bob.” Chui dusts off his jeans, picks up a huge backpack and slings it over his shoulder before he starts the few steps towards us. He looks back and yells at the other guy. “Consiga su asno en aquí.”

“Come on in and we’ll have some dinner. Josefina will be happy to see you. Tell your friend everything’s cool and come on.”

“You see, Señor Bob, we aren’t very hungry. We had a big dinner last night and … ah … and we’re … ah … still kinda full.”

“Nonsense, Chui, Josefina will whip up something.”

Chui can’t hide his painful grimace as he caves in, “Okay Bob, but just a bite.”
We find Josefina in the kitchen. They stand their heavy packs against the far wall and take chairs around our kitchen table.

Boner says, “Vipi kuhusu pombe.”

“Yeah, we’ll all have one,” I answer. Chui and his friend just stare at Bonner. You could see their mental gears grinding as they both think “what the fuck” or some Mexican equivalent.

Boner serves the beer while Josefina starts one of her complicated pasta recipes. I’ve learned that when she uses more than two ingredients you’re in for a long but interesting night. The fun will be seeing Chui’s friend take his first bite.

“So Chui, introduce your friend.”

“This is my colleague, Gustavo. We are traveling together on this trip. He is from Chiapas, way down in the south of Mexico. We just met yesterday before we began our journey.”

I’ve got a funny feeling about Gustavo. You know how some people just seem to look like bad or evil people? I can’t put my finger on what precisely gives me these feelings, maybe it’s his eyes. He has seedy-looking eyes but I can’t tell you what makes them so. Here’s a topic to research: How do behavior characteristics correlate with the unique aspects of one’s eyes? I’ve got to get Josefina hopping on this. There must be something …

Chui breaks my chain of thought with, “How are you guys doing? This drug smuggling business is getting a lot harder now that the migra have rounded up most of the illegal border crossers. Those migra sons-a-bitches don’t have anybody to chase anymore but us poor mules and we’re just trying to make an honest living.”

We enjoy a couple of beers before Boner breaks out the tequila. We tell stories about the good old days. Gustavo is silent, but Boner chimes in with, “Kubisha mbali bullshit …”

Chui interrupts, looks at me and says, “What the fuck.” This is his response to everything Boner says.

I just shrug, too drunk to translate. Finally Josefina serves dinner.

“Remember the time I came to you in the middle of the night with la migra’s dogs on my heels?” Chui asks as he takes his first bite of Josefina’s pasta. The expression on his face quickly fades to agony. He gasps and gasps again then as tears begin running down his cheeks, he reaches for his beer. After he gulps most of the bottle, he takes a deep breath, pushes his plate away and goes on with his story. “You told me to quickly go and try to take some food away from Josefina’s mofetas — I think you say skunks in English — and get sprayed. I ran out to las mofetas and acted like I was going to steal their food. This one little mofeta turned, put her ass in the air and let me have it. Mi Dios, it was awful.”

Gustavo raises his fork halfway to his open mouth. The room becomes very still as if time has stopped. We all want to see Gustavo’s expression after he takes his first bite of the Josefina’s pasta. There is this strong sense of suspense as he closes his lips around his fork. He pulls back the fork and takes his first bite. There’s a pregnant pause. Even Boner stops eating, we wait … what suspense … then POW … this pasta ball comes flying out of Gustavo’s mouth, crosses the table and hits Boner in the forehead. Gustavo violently retches, then hangs his head in his lap like he’s going to pass out, then retches again.

We all go back to our dinner, Josefina and Boner slurping up their pasta. I’m moving mine around on my plate like I’m actually going to take a forkful. Chui continues with his story while Gustavo seems to be in some sort of a trance.

“The smell was awful. That mofeta had got me good. You yelled at me to get going. I couldn’t breathe but I took off as best I could down the trail in this cloud of skunk piss. Señor Bob, you tell em’ what happened next.”

“Just as you thought, Chui, three Border Patrol agents came running into the yard being pulled by their drug-sniffing dog. The dog led them up to near where Josefina’s skunks were eating and stopped. He just sat down there and started whimpering. The agents looked at one another before they grabbed their noses and retreated back to where I was standing. They asked me if I had seen anyone. I said I had heard a noise out in the barnyard, came out, smelled the skunks but didn’t see anyone until they showed up. They tried to push their dog back into the chase. He wouldn’t budge. His quest was over.”

“The mofetas were good thinking, Señor Bob. That was the only way to make the migras stop chasing me. Anyway, I went on my way and eventually I got used to how I smelled. My contacts, however, wanted no part of me or my pack. I had to lay my pack down on the highway and retreat about forty meters while they gagged and inspected the pack with their handkerchiefs over their noses. They put my fee on the ground and took off.”

“I remember when you came back — what was it — two days later. We could smell you long before we could see you. Josefina made you strip in the barnyard. Boner picked up your clothes with a pitchfork and buried them while Josefina went looking for some tomato juice.”

“Si, there I was standing naked in the yard and you squirted me with a hose. It was really cold water. I remember my little pito shrank and disappeared. I was so embarrassed, Boner with his huge pinga and me with my little, little pito hiding from the cold.”

“I remember that your little tally-whacker stood at attention when Josefina scrubbed you with her tomato juice. She might have spent a tad too much time scrubbing your Willie but what the hell. She got you clean didn’t she? You’ve smelled like a rose — no, I take that back — more like a saddle blanket ever since.”

“You know those mofetas worked so well that I’ve been thinking about getting some of their spray for emergencies. I’ll bet it would work with the cars crossing the border too. Those drug-sniffing dogs at the border would run and hide the minute you pulled up.”

We talk and talk while Josefina and Boner eat. Finally we call it a night. Chui and Gustavo head to the barn, Josefina goes to check on Boner’s boner, and I’m off to bed.

Early the next morning I am shaken awake by a wild-eyed Chui. He is screaming.

“Señor Bob, wake up! Señor Bob! Señor Bob!”

I sit up to Chui and Boner’s yelling.

“Yeye’s gone, yeye’s gone, yeye’s gone, screams Boner.

“Gustavo is gone and he took our packs … and … and he took Josefina.”

“Kaisari alichukua pia!”

“And he took César too!”

I sprint to the door, struggle with the lock and finally yank the damn thing open only to find my buddy, Carlos, grinning in the moonlight.

“Hola Carlos.”

“Hola Señor Bob.”

“What brings you by at this late … or is it an early hour … I would suggest this is an early hour rather than late. Late would indicate …”

Carlos interrupts my dissertation on early versus late with, “Señor Bob, I’ve got these 17 people I’d like you to meet. We’ve been walking since nightfall and could all use a little TLC and a chance to use your bathroom.”

“Sure enough Carlos, get these tired folks in here.”

I turn and yell into our dark and empty living room, “Josefina, Josefina, Boner we’ve got guests.”

Carlos ushers this motley gang of dirty and tired people into our modest living room. I’m bringing in the dining room chairs when Josefina comes out of the bedroom in her lavender, see-through, baby-doll pajamas. Our Mexican guests let out one huge sigh as if they’re all reading from the same hymnal. The three young women in the group all look away seemingly in embarrassment while their men folk just sort of lick their lips and shift around in their chairs. The silence of the moment is shattered when Boner comes into the room wearing his usual nightwear, an overly large tee shirt that hangs to his knees and shows his huge jutting boner in the best possible light. The women immediately hide their faces in their hands while the men just gape enviously. The four young children in the group all stare at Boner’s boner for a few minutes and then begin to giggle hysterically.

I stop the giggling and break up the uneasiness with, “What will you folks all have to drink … we’ve got … let’s see … water, milk, soda … I think we’ve got Coke and Dr. Pepper … coffee, tea, beer … tequila … and maybe even some Scotch if Boner hasn’t drunk it all.”

No one says anything. I think they are too stunned by their first impressions of our wholesome American home. Seeing an old lady in baby doll pajamas assisted by a man with biggest erection this side of the porno hall of fame is more than their righteous Catholic hearts can take.

I break the silence again with, “How many hands do I have for water?”

Seven shyly raise their hands and so it goes until everyone has placed their drink order. Carlos stands and introduces each of the shy and embarrassed members of his party to their hosts: Señora Josefina, Señor Bob and Señor Boner. I wonder if boner translates into Spanish as an erection. The Spanish word for an erection is erección, almost the same as it is in English but I don’t know the Mexican slang word for an erect penis. My English/Spanish dictionary is no help at all. Oh, I forgot to mention that Carlos is a coyote or as we like to think, a tour guide leading a group on a one-way adventure into a new world and a whole new life.

Josefina serves the drinks as Carlos, Boner, a guy from the group named Rodolfo and I go out to the barn to set up folding army cots and break out the blankets and pillows so these travelers can spend what is left of the night in as much comfort as we can provide. Fortunately it isn’t meal time. We’ve never had a visitor that could stomach Josefina’s cooking. I remember how startled this young Mexican girl was when she tried to feed Josefina’s finely prepared lunch to César. César took one look at the runny beans, the gooey rice and the burnt and broken taco shells and took off. It’s pretty bad when a goat won’t eat your food. César eats everything. Everything that is everything except Josefina’s cooking.

I’ve got to put a bathroom in the barn. Do you know what it’s like for 21 people to share two bathrooms in the morning? Think back to camp or maybe even the military where every morning is like the seventh inning stretch at the ball park. I pee outside in a bush and join Josefina and Carlos in the kitchen. Josefina is serving everyone her weak and overly sweet coffee. I make a cup of instant coffee for myself and notice as I look out of the kitchen window that many of our guests are watering our cacti with Josefina’s coffee. Wait until Josefina serves breakfast, then you’ll see some truly inventive food disposal techniques. No guest, no matter how destitute and starving, has ever eaten all of one of Josefina’s meals. The Mexicans are all too polite and too thankful to tell her that her food really sucks.

This pretty young girl, Maria, comes in from the barn and offers to help Josefina make breakfast. Boner and I look at each other and Boner says, “Takatifu fuck.”

“I totally agree,” I say as if I understand Boner.

Josefina asks Maria to brown the tortillas while she fries the eggs and reheats some leftover beans she dug out of the freezer. “Maria, try not to burn the …”

She is interrupted by Carlos bursting through the door yelling, “Señor Bob … the policía, the policía!”

I run to the door to see the dust cloud of a car speeding up the gravel road to our house. “Carlos, get everyone into the barn and stay there until I come get you. Maria, hurry to the barn with all of those tortillas.”

“Si señor,” Carlos yells over his shoulder as he runs from the house. Maria is right behind him with an arm load of tortillas.

Minutes later a Luna County Sheriff’s car pulls up to our house. Out climbs my old nemesis, the harmless but dumb as dirt, Deputy Dip-Shit.

“Howdy Bob.”

“Good morning Deputy, what brings you out here so early in the morning?”

“I need to talk to you, Bob. There’s been another complaint.”

“Okay, come on in and have some coffee and tell me all about it. If that pecker-head neighbor of mine has been calling you to complain about something I’m going to … er … do something …

Deputy Dip-Shit interrupts with, “No, it’s not him this time, it’s the feds.”

Deputy Dip-Shit says hello to Josefina and Boner, takes off his big cowboy hat and sits down at our kitchen table.

“Smells awfully good Josefina. How’s it hangin’ Boner? Heh, heh.” He laughs at his own little joke. Don’t you hate people that laugh at their own jokes especially when they aren’t funny? Boner hasn’t been “hangin” in a hell of a long time.

Josefina serves Deputy Dip-Shit a cup of her finest coffee. I wait to see the expression on his face as he lifts the cup for his first sip. “Damn that’s … uh … uh … hot,” he utters in a cross between a moan and a cry of agony as his eyes roll back in his head. He unconsciously scoots the cup across the table as he regains his little bit of composure. I’m willing to bet he won’t touch that cup again.

“Er … Bob. We got this call from the Homeland Security folks over at Fort Huachuca in Arizona. They’re the people that fly the drones along the border for the Border Patrol. Anyway, they say you’ve been shooting at their drones again. I thought we talked about this before and you promised me you wouldn’t be doin’ that anymore.”

“I don’t remember shooting at any drones. I did shoot at a hawk circling the place the other day. The damn thing looked like he was going to attack so I fired off a couple of rounds just to scare it off.”

Just as Deputy Dip-Shit is about to speak we hear a toilet flush and one of our Mexican guests emerges from the bathroom. He takes one look at Deputy Dip-Shit and bolts for the front door.

“Who in the hell was that?”

“That’s uh … that’s uh … Pablo. He’s helping me with some work around here.”

“What kind of work? You don’t do anything to need any help with.”

“You were saying before Pablo interrupted you?”

“Oh yeah Bob, they’ve got your picture. That Predator drone can read and photograph a license plate here on the ground.”

“That sounds like an invasion of privacy to me. Anyone who can photograph me standing in my own front yard minding my own business deserves to be shot at. I’m not saying I did it or anything, but if I did, they sure as hell deserve it.”

“Bob, listen to me. That drone travels at 240 knots per hour at 19,000 feet. We’re at roughly 4,000 feet … that puts it at … let’s see … almost three miles above us. You ain’t gonna hit it with your deer rifle, so quit pissing these people off. The next call you get won’t be from me, it’ll be from the FBI.”

“Deputy, if I had a Peeping Tom, peeking through my windows even after I’d chased him away a number of times, could I legally shoot him?”

“I don’t know Bob, you’d have to warn him and be in some sort of danger before you could claim self defense or an invasion of privacy.”

“Okay, I’m warning you now that I feel I’m in danger. Big Brother is casing this place for I don’t know what. I can’t scratch my ass without drawing the blinds and Josefina can’t drop her drawers without some Fed in another state getting a hard-on. Is that anyway to …”

“You’re just gonna have to deal with it. This is much bigger than you and me.”

“You said it travels at 19,000 feet. I just need to figure out the windage and elevation for a target traveling at two hundred knots an hour three miles away. Let’s see, my rounds travel at 2700 feet per second and our altitude here is 4064 feet. The ballistics of my ammo indicates a 55 inch line-of-site drop at 500 yards. I can figure this shit out …”

“Quit that Bob, you ain’t gonna hit that drone, so knock it off before you get into real trouble.”

“Thanks for stopping by Deputy,” I say as I stand and head for the door. Deputy Dip-Shit thanks Josefina for the coffee and says goodbye to Boner.

Boner shakes his hand and says, “Kwaheri, na riddance nzuri.”

I walk Deputy Dip-Shit to his car and as he heads on down the road I go to the barn to check on our guests.

They are all gone. They’ve left nothing behind except full cups of coffee.

“Get my rifle Josefina; here it comes again,” I yell without taking my eyes from my binoculars. “I’ll get that son of a bitch this time.”

“Get it yourself; you’re not going to hit it anyway.”

“Ah come on, if I take my eyes off of it, I’ll lose it.”

“Go ahead and lose it. It’s going to fly right on over us no matter what you do.”

“I know but I’ve gotta try. I can’t let Big Brother get away with this any longer.”

So goes the dialog almost daily between Josefina and me. I’m adamant about shooting down this damn government spy plane and after a few thousand rounds Josefina has given up on my ability to hit anything. She should have seen me in the Corps. I could geld a mouse at 500 yards with my M16 ― well maybe 300 yards. If the VC could shoot down our helicopters in Nam with small arms fire, then I can take this damn thing down with my hunting rifle.

“Come on; let me get off one round at least.”

“Okay, but lets sit down and discuss this as soon as you’ve wasted all of your ammo. We need a better plan.”

Finally I fire off 68 rounds, but as usual that damn thing just keeps coming. I resign myself to another victory by Big Brother, put down my rifle and enter 0946 Jan. 4, 2011 into my log. I keep accurate records of the flyovers so that I can develop a pattern for when I have the proper firepower.

“Come on in for breakfast. I’ll wake Boner.”

Breakfast is her usual weak, overly sweet coffee, runny eggs, chili devoid of all flavor except extreme heat and stiff burnt tortillas. Josefina may be the worst cook in the world but no one has the courage to tell her so. She just keeps cooking and cooking and we keep looking for new and better ways to secretly dispose of her creations. Boner comes out of the guest bedroom grinning followed by César, our pet goat and Boner’s best friend.

“Mornin’ Boner.”

“Asubuhi njema.”

Boner seems to understand English but he only speaks some foreign tongue we think is Swahili. You see, Boner fried his brain with drugs years ago and froze a couple of his personal traits in time. It’s like his brain is stuck at exactly what he was doing at that instant in time the frying occurred. He only speaks Swahili, he grins continuously and he has this embarrassing but enviable condition. He has a perpetual erection. He must have been happily humping some Tanzanian babe when his brain snapped. If one must get stuck in one brief instant in time, his ain’t a bad way to go. He is really large and his protruding erection either scares the hell out of you or you admire it as a true thing of beauty, depending on your interests at the moment. Me, I’m just jealous.

As best we can tell, his penis is erect 24/7 and it protrudes at a near 90 degree angle causing this huge bulge in the front of whatever he’s wearing. He seems to favor sweat pants because they are less constraining but they just add to his “protruding” problem; that’s if you call it a problem. We’ve tried everything we can think of to help him get it down: cold water, drugs, ice packs, booze, whacking it with stick but nothing worked. When Josefina was younger she was very good at turning my rigid erections into limp, dangling softies. Once she tried all of her old tricks on Boner but nothing worked. Boner just broadened his smile and moaned Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja over and over. Josefina reported back that although Boner’s boner looks good it doesn’t really work for him; it just stands there like a flag pole but nothing else. He never finishes, so to speak. She added, with a sigh, that it did work wonders for her, however.

For the past couple of years she’s been researching and experimenting with herbal and homeopathic remedies to help Boner with his problem. She has this theory that if aphrodisiacs create erections then one must concoct exactly the opposite ingredients for the inverse effect. She once made a brew with a rhino’s tail thinking that it would have the opposite effect as a rhino’s horn, a well-known aphrodisiac. In any case, she checks Boner’s boner every evening, sometimes for extended periods of time.
Boner has been with us … let’s see now … since 1996 … that’s 14 years now. We woke up one morning at the Burning Man annual bonfire up in the Nevada desert and found Boner in our tent, with a boner, curled around César fast asleep. He and César have been inseparable ever since.

Boner digs into his eggs and chili while I move mine around on my plate. “We’ve got to have a better plan,” Josefina says between bites, “We’ve been shooting at that spy plane for months now. I think it must be too high to hit with a rifle. We need a hand-held surface-to-air missile launcher like the Ukrainian 336-24. I’ve read that it out performs the U.S.-designed Stinger and the Soviet-Russian Igla-1. What well-heeled terrorist do we know that could lay his hands on one for us?”

“I suppose one of the Mexican drug cartels could get us one but I don’t know how we’d pay for it,” I say hesitantly.

Boner chimes in with, “Takatifu shit.”

I know a little bit about the drug business; in fact I was pushing drugs when Josefina and I met. I was discharged after my second tour in Viet Nam and used my GI Bill to attend classes at Arizona State in Tempe, Arizona. It was really boring sitting in classes with teenagers after spending so many months in the boonies kicking ass and taking names. Although ASU is relatively close to the Mexican border, drugs were expensive, especially after Nam pricing, and hard to come by. Go figure. I knew I could run a drug business on campus, make a few bucks and have more fun than sitting in the student union with some pimple-faced jackass discussing Freud’s theory of transference in the therapeutic relationship.

Anyway, my drug business took off much faster and bigger than I ever imagined. All of a sudden I was the “Big Man on Campus” and I was rolling in dough. I was socking away piles of money and rapidly losing interest in my studies when I met Assistant Professor Josefina Bernstein, PhD teaching her obscure class on the introduction to Sociocultural Anthropology, whatever in hell that is. We hit it off right away. She became my biggest customer and I ended up with an A+ in her class. I leave it to you to figure out how I actually earned that A+.

Life was good. Uncle Sam was picking up my tuition. I was making money faster than a junk bond trader. I was sleeping with this sexy older woman and I was staying higher than the water line on the Titanic. Josefina was into causes and her cause du jour was César Chávez and his United Farm Workers organization. I was all for the rights of migrant farm workers but I didn’t share her passion for these poor people. Maybe Nam had driven my give-a-shit factor way down on my humanity scale.

The Arizona legislature had just passed a bill prohibiting farm workers from boycotting and striking during harvest times and César Chávez wasn’t going to take that with a full stomach so he went on a very public fast and we all went to a big rally in support of his fasting. Maybe it was the mood of the crowd, maybe it was the weather or it could have been the drugs, but we thought the best way to get our point across would be to do it in the nude. The crowd cheered us on and for a while we thought we were really making a statement for the rights of farm workers everywhere. That was just before the police came and convinced us otherwise. We were both arrested and photographed by the police and the press au naturel. The following morning I saw my sorry ass and Josefina’s magnificent tits on the front page of the The Arizona Republic. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones who saw it. Josefina was notified by her department head that her services would no longer be required after the end of that term. That was okay by me, I was pretty sick of college by then but Josefina was devastated. She had worked years for her shot at tenure and it all went down the drain in one braless afternoon.

We finished out the term and both said goodbye to the hallowed halls of academia, Josefina with a tear and me with a finger. We really didn’t have anything else to do or anywhere else to go. Josefina only knew teaching and Sociocultural Anthropology, whatever that is, and the only three things I was good at were: throwing hand grenades, disabling land mines and peddling dope to teenagers.

Somewhere in our drug-induced haze we heard that César Chávez was setting up a “wet line” along the US/Mexico border to keep more Mexicans from entering the U.S. illegally and screwing up his unionization efforts. We volunteered and were immediately sent to the loneliest stretch of desert either of us had ever seen, along the border in Luna County, New Mexico. Turning around wetbacks wasn’t nearly as much fun as we thought it would be. They really wanted to come here and they could care less about César Chávez or his unionization efforts. We hated the job but fell in love with the country. We bought an old run-down ranch right along our “wet line” spot with the intentions of fixing it up. Someday I’ve got to get on with whatever “fixing it up” means.

I had just fallen asleep with John Arthur’s Once upon a Time in a Psychotic Daze on my chest when Josefina woke me as she crawled into bed. She was worn out from having spent the evening checking on Boner’s boner. I looked at the clock; it was 3:34 AM. Boner was still moaning his Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja from the other room when someone started pounding loudly on our front door.

alisema, Bob, maiti – – he’s dead, Bob, dead
ambapo ni wewe – – where are you
ambapo ni sisi – – where are we
asubuhi njema – – good morning
basi fun kuanza – – let the fun begin
fuck wewe pia – – fuck you too
hebu kufanya baadhi ya Tequila – – let’s do some tequila
hebu kupata Josefina – – let’s find Josefina
hii ni haki yetu mahali kinda – – this is just our kinda place
kaisari César pia – – he took César too
kata ya shit – – cut the shit
kubisha mbali bullshit – – knock off the bullshit
kuwa makini – – be careful
kwa nini tunataka – – why would we want to
kwaheri, na riddance nzuri – – goodbye, and good riddance
Marekani – – United States
Mimi alisema – – I said
Mimi kuja – – I’m coming
Mimi nimepata pee – – I’ve got to pee
Mimi nina nyumbani – – I’m home
Mimi si kuchukua Chochote – – I ain’t takin’ nothin’
mwanamke hiyo ni tiger – – that lady’s a tiger
ndiyo, lakini ninikuhusu hili – – yes, but what about this
ni kuhusu wakati – – it’s about time
ni nini tunaweza kufanya – – what are we going to do
nini fuck – – what the fuck
nini fuck ni wewe – – what the fuck are you
nzuri – – good
si kidokezo – – not a clue
sisi ni Outta hapa – – we’re outta here
takatifu fuck – – holy fuck
takatifu shit – – holy shit
vipi kuhusu sisi – – how about we work on
kazi ya nyumbani – – the house
yeye’s gone – – she’s gone

© 2011 by Bob Rockwell
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-1-105-09282-4
Printed in the United States of America

Preview

After writing and publishing a host of short stories and a number of historical fiction pieces Bob Rockwell has just finished his first full-length novel, Boner. Boner is a humorous look at some extraordinary characters set in the present in and around the US/Mexican border. Bob, a Marine Viet Nam veteran and his soul-mate Josephina Bernstein, PhD bought a run-down ranch along the Mexican border in Luna County, New Mexico after spending some time there as volunteers in César Chávez’s ill-fated “Wet Line” blockade of 1973. Their lives were changed forever when they woke up one morning at the annual Burning Man event only to find this young man asleep in their tent curled around César, their pet goat. He only speaks Swahili, he grins continuously and he has this embarrassing but enviable condition. He has a perpetual erection. Hence the name Bob gave him, Boner.

Bob spends his time shooting at the Border Patrol’s drone aircraft, harboring illegals and drug traffickers which he defends against the establishment. Josephina gave up her professorship at ASU to cook meals so bad that even starving illegals won’t eat them and to find a permanent cure for Boner’s problem. Things were going along fine. That is until two drug traffickers stop by for dinner, an evening of tequila and a warm place to sleep. Bob, Boner and their drug-running friend, Chui wake up to find that the other mule has stolen all of the cargo, some $1.6 million in cocaine, and kidnapped Josephina along with their pet goat. Chui knows he’s dead if he can’t recover the dope, Bob passionately wants to save Josephina from harm and Boner misses his best friend, César.

This unlikely trio takes off on an adventure to rescue Josephina and recover the stolen cocaine. Their quest lands them in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s infamous “tent-city” jail, through a bar brawl in a Hispanic gay bar in Phoenix before they pull off one of the most unique jail breaks in history. Their clues soon lead them to California where they find themselves boner deep in the porno movie industry and guests for an evening at the Playboy mansion. Their trip continues on to Tijuana where they’re asked (forced) to revitalize a historic landmark and then on to an even more adventuresome and deadly stop amid the drug cartel wars in Juarez.

Our story ends with an unexpected conclusion shortly after our characters reunite at their ranch in Southern New Mexico.
Mimi kuja!

The Wit, Levity and Inanity of Bob Rockwell

Alone in the Dark was how I wrote all of these stories. I won’t tell you that I was in my pajamas and drinking beer in the early hours of the morning, because you’d think even less of me. The hardest part of writing is that I become so engrossed in the story I’m trying to tell that I let my beer get warm and go flat. I can’t even begin to count all of the beer I’ve wasted. I’ve got to develop a type – type – type – swig – type – type – type – swig writing technique. In the meantime here’s what I’ve warmed my beer over during the past five years.

You’ll find this hard to believe but I was a Boy Scout once, and a pretty darn good one at that. I was my troop’s senior patrol leader before I became more interested in playing with the neighbor girl than tying knots. I learned a lot in the Boy Scouts. Things like . . . er . . . I’m sure I learned something . . . It’ll come to me . . . It’s on the tip of my tongue . . . er . . .

Anyway, I thought it might be fun to see how I’m doing in keeping the Boy Scout promise I made so many years ago. I swore on my honor that I would do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; and to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight.

I’m okay with the God and country part but I fall way short in obeying the Scout Law. If I remember right (I looked it up) the Scout Law goes something like: A Scout is: Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent. Wow, I can’t believe that I actually swore to be all of those capitalized words. Okay, so I’m not too Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful or Thrifty but I’m relatively Clean and sometimes even Friendly. And, what’s up with being physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight at my age. Maybe when I was twelve, but today I stand behind the famous words of Bill Clinton, “It depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.”

The Scouts have a motto that has stuck with me over the years. Be Prepared! Notice the exclamation point at the end. I think that means it’s really important. Okay, I’m prepared ― but prepared for what. I’m not really prepared for a nuclear holocaust, a tsunami washing away New Mexico, war with North Korea, the day our sun burns out or my next prostate exam but I spend most of my day preparing for cocktail hour and then when dinner comes, I’m always prepared to eat. I get prepared for bed every night but that’s about it. Do you think this is what being prepared (prepared with an exclamation point) is all about?

Enough of this, I’m getting depressed. Let me show you how to tie a clove hitch. First you . . .