Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen

It’s hot, my tee shirt is wringing wet, my left arm throbs, my pajama bottoms are wadded up in my crotch, my mouth is painfully dry and I have to take a leak. The clock glows an eerie green 2:06 AM. Damn it all, I’d better get to the bathroom. Is this what getting old is all about — tossing, turning, aching, and peeing?

I turn on the lamp on my side of the bed and put on my glasses. Maybe if I read for a bit I can fall back to sleep. This rarely works but I don’t know what else to do, it’s too damn early to get up. Get up and do what? This book isn’t half bad, it’s not a page-turner but it’s a notch above my usual who-done-it. I think Marla did it by the way. Why do we itch when we’re trying to read? Is it some allergic reaction to bed linen or is it something psychological? Anyway, I scratch, read, read, scratch. The clock blinks 2:43. Maybe Marla didn’t do it after all. That new guy, Alex is a scumbag. He probably did it.

I turn off my light at 3:04 and feel like I might be able to sleep a little while longer. My mental images are winding down. I’m now not so sure about Alex.

“Bobby, Bobby.” Someone is calling me by my boyhood name or am I dreaming? I hear a woman say “Bobby” again and I open my eyes and prop myself up on my pillow.

My mother is sitting on the edge of my bed. Is it really my mom? Mom is a young twenty-something and beautiful; not the older woman I buried over twenty years ago. I wrestle with my bedding trying to get to her. She moves back a little and is just out of my reach.

“Bobby, your dad and I have been watching over you. We’re both worried about you and he asked me to come to you tonight to warn you of a coming danger.”

“Mom, oh mom, can it really be you?”

“I’ve only got a few minutes to tell you to be careful when you’re in Denver next week. Watch out for an old Marine with a grudge. Bye, for now, my dear.”

“Mom, mom … mom,” I mumbled to an empty room. What had just gone on here? Was I dreaming or did I just have a chat with my long deceased mother? I lay back down in the dark room, my mind racing.

I jump out of bed, turn on the lights and race around the room hoping to find some sign of my mom’s visit. No such luck, my bedroom is just as it should be. I sit and try to calm down and think this out. Let’s see, what do I remember? My mom or a much younger version of her was sitting at the foot of my bed. She wore a 40s-like print dress and her hair was in ringlets like she wore as a young woman. I don’t remember her that young but she looked to me like she does in my old photos of her. No one could look as she did but her. It had to be her. Was she real? Was she a ghost or was she a character in my dream?

What did she say? She warned me to be careful in Denver, something about an old Marine with a grudge. Who’s this Marine? Marines don’t normally hold grudges; they get it all out of their system at the time by throwing a shit-fit or killing somebody.

This had to be a dream. Mom wouldn’t come back from wherever just to give me this cryptic message. My real mom would have told me right up front what to look out for.

The day begins and I can’t seem to get going. I’m obsessed with the image of my mother. Not her warning particularly, just her, seeing her, talking to her. I don’t know how to tell my wife, Linda. Tell her what, about my dream or my encounter with a ghost? She actually believes in that sort of stuff and would freak if I could ever get her to believe me. She’d probably blame it on the martinis we had last night and tell me to lay off the booze for a while and see if my mom comes back.

We have a long day’s drive to Denver, a little over ten hours. The hours pass as uneventful as they did in our last seven trips. I keep thinking of my mom, her visit and her warning. What could be so important that mom would come back from wherever and warn me and who is this Marine I’m supposed to look out for?

We get to Linda’s dad’s house in Thornton, a north Denver suburb, about dinner time. I don’t mention my mom’s warning to anyone or my new obsession with an “old Marine with a grudge.”

The next morning we get up early and head to National Jewish Hospital. Linda has been receiving treatment here for a mysterious lung ailment. The waiting room with its rumpled magazines and comfortable couches seems as familiar to me as an old shoe. Linda is called for her first appointment and I settle in with a nine-month-old copy of National Geographic. I’m half way though an article on the death of the Amazon rain forest when I hear a male voice shout, “Bob … Bob … Bob Rockwell.”

Who could be paging me? I’m not a patient here. Maybe it has something to do with Linda? Maybe she needs me? I put down my magazine and yell, “Yo” to the waiting male nurse. He’s about my age and too scruffy to be anybody important. He introduces himself. “I’m Paul Gasnor and I’ll escort you back to the examining room.” I follow him wondering what’s up.

He shows me into a typical doctor’s exam room with a paper covered examination table, two uncomfortable plastic chairs and the usual sink and cabinet. I grab one of the chairs for a minute or so before Paul returns with a syringe and some other stuff on a little tray. I wonder what the hell’s going on; does he intend that shot for me? He says, “I’ll just give you this to relax you a bit. The doctor will be right in.”

“You must be confused; I’m not a patient here. I don’t have an appointment with anyone.”

“Let me give you this relaxant and then we’ll talk. I’ve waited nearly 50 years for this moment.”

“Bullshit, you’re not giving me anything,” I say as I jump out of my chair ready to fend off the syringe.

Paul makes a grab for my upper arm and I see this as an opportunity to end whatever’s going on here. I raise my left arm and I swing my elbow with all my might directly into his chin. My unexpected punch sends Paul to the floor. His tray and its contents hit the tile with a loud metallic crash. He has this demonic glare in his eyes as he tries to get to his feet. I kick him squarely in the jaw. He goes down again, this time for the count.

Is he the old Marine mom warned me about? He must be. He said he’d been waiting nearly 50 years for this moment. Who in the hell is he and what did I do so long ago to evoke this kind of hatred? I feel compelled to pick up the syringe, raise his shirt sleeve and inject the solution meant for me into Paul’s left bicep. I wipe the syringe with Paul’s shirttail and place it in his right hand, wipe down the arm of the chair with my handkerchief, prop Paul up against the wall and sneak out of the room.

I go back to the waiting room too nervous and excited to read. I expect to hear an emergency call, alarm or something. Nothing happens out of the ordinary. Linda finishes her last appointment and we head back to her sister’s house for dinner.

I listen to the evening news and pore over the next morning’s Denver Post. Nothing, no news about an injured technician or nurse found in an examining room at National Jewish. How come no news? Maybe Paul came to and returned to work without his absence being noticed. Maybe someone found him and called the police. Maybe he’s dead and there’s a murder investigation underway. Maybe, maybe, maybe … my mind races with possibilities.

Two more uneventful days pass, Linda taking tests and seeing doctors while I exercise my backside in the waiting room. I’m too nervous to read so I sit and people watch waiting for the tap on the shoulder that I know is coming. Nothing happens.

On the third day after my scuffle with Paul I see his obituary in the Post. It doesn’t say anything about his cause of death, only that he had died two days earlier, was an ex-Marine, a long-term employee of the hospital and is survived by his wife, Mary Ann. I read and reread the obit trying to put my puzzle together. Had I killed him? Who was he and why did he hold a grudge against me for all of this time?

All I know for sure is that Paul was my age and an ex-Marine who seemed to know me and talked about waiting 50 years to inject me with a needle. Oh yeah, he had a wife. Maybe she can tell me something. I find their number easily and call.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Gasnor?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to express my condolences for your loss. I’m Jeff Fischer, an old Marine buddy of Paul’s from Twenynine Palms. I read about his death in the paper.”

“Thank you, but Paul never mentioned any old Marine buddies. In fact he hated everything about the Marine Corps and Twentynine Palms. Where did you say you’re from?”

“I’m from here in Denver. Were they able to determine the cause of death?” The sweat ran down my back as I waited for her response.

“Something about a drug interaction. The hospital isn’t saying much, only that he died at work from an adverse reaction to a drug.”

“Do you think the hospital could be hiding something?”

“If they are it would be because they are embarrassed that Paul had access to drugs like that.”

“Did he ever talk about his tour of duty at Twentynine Palms?”

“Not much, only that he was thrown in the brig there and was later transported to the brig at Camp Pendleton by a Marine that he couldn’t stand and he hates to this day.”

“I don’t know anything about any of that. Thank you for talking to me and again please accept my condolences. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye Mister … what did you say your name was?”

“Jeff Fischer,” I repeated the name I dreamt up a few minutes ago.

The puzzle is now complete. I was temporarily assigned as a chaser (the Marine word for a prison guard) at the detention barracks in Twentynine Palms. The base wasn’t big enough to warrant a real brig so we held prisoners until their sentencing and then escorted them to Camp Pendleton by bus to do their time. I had to take one I prisoner who was sentenced on a Friday to Pendleton in a jeep with a driver on Saturday morning because he was too big a risk for our make-shift little brig. He was a tough guy and I took precautions in our four-hour trip over the mountains.

I don’t remember doing anything that would warrant his kind of hatred. Oh, there might have been one thing. When we stopped for lunch I marched the prisoner into the roadside diner and stood him at parade rest with his nose to the wall while the driver and I ate. The civilians in the restaurant must have thought we were a strange lot, my prisoner in handcuffs, the driver in utilities and me in my tropicals wearing a loaded 45. The driver and I ate while our prisoner made sure that the diner’s wall was secure. He gave me some lip about not being allowed to eat so I jabbed him in the kidneys, maybe a little too hard, with my night stick. He crashed to the floor whining obscenities. Our little Marine drama really amused the civilian diners. I got him back on his feet and shoved his face, maybe a bit too hard, into the wall and went back to my lunch.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. I checked him into the brig, got my paperwork signed and headed out to look up a high school buddy, a swabbie corpsman (Navy medic) going to school at Pendleton to work with the Marines.

I don’t remember anything about Paul’s stay in our detention barracks. I must have had contact with him but nothing comes to mind. Could our little scene in the diner be the source of his hatred? Did I embarrass him that much? Maybe I injured him permanently with my jab to his kidneys. Maybe he’s been pissing blood and thinking of me for all of these years.

Anyway, I just killed this guy and I don’t know why.

Our drive back to Deming was a normal trip for us. We listened to a book on tape so we didn’t talk much to each other. My mind raced with the events of the past few days and I didn’t hear a word of the book. Had I really killed someone? Would I be charged with murder? I kept thinking that I could argue it was self defense, and it was, but could I prove it. It’s amazing but I didn’t feel any remorse about killing Paul, if I did indeed kill him, I did it with his own weapon. He was just an asshole who tried to kill or do some serious harm to me. I can still see him sprawled on the floor emanating pure evil in what must have been his last conscious moment before I put his lights out. As it turned out, out for good.

Once home we settle in to our usual retirement lifestyle but I’m tense, really tense. Much more tense than normal. Not because I might have killed some asshole but because the authorities could knock on my door at any minute. There’s no statue of limitations for murder. I’ve got to live with this fear for the rest of my life. I can’t live like this knowing that I could be charged with murder at any time.

The days pass slowly; I toss and turn even more at night. My mind races with possibilities. Could the hospital have covered up his death for some reason? People die all the time in hospitals and they routinely sign death certificates. Maybe Paul had some history with drugs and they were embarrassed that he had access to theirs. This has to be it. Wouldn’t they do an autopsy and find a big bump on his chin in addition to his drug induced death? Maybe they rationalized his fall caused his bruises? These questions and millions more race through my mind. I can’t sleep, I can barely function.

Now I know why criminals confess. The mental torment of waiting for the ax to fall is unbearable.

A couple weeks later I’m was tossing, turning, sweating and scratching in the wee hours of the morning when I am awakened or I think I am by a now familiar voice calling “Bobby, Bobby.”

I rise to see my mother much as she was months earlier. “Mom, oh mom,” I mumble.

“You’ve had a tough time with your experience in Denver, haven’t you?” Mom says this with the same compassionate voice I recognize from my childhood. “You should stop fretting; I was with you the whole time. I watched the hospital prepare their paper work and I looked in on the autopsy. Yuck, autopsies are really awful; I’ll never do that again. Their conclusions were that Paul Gasnor died from a self-induced drug overdose. Now go back to sleep. Sleep well my son.”

©2009 by Bob Rockwell

How does the wind make the desert seem even lonelier? Is it the eerie howling or is it because the desert’s vastness and beauty is hidden by the blowing dust? It’s been blowing constantly for weeks and I’ve had it up to here.

I’m tired of being cooped up inside of my truck watching the world blow by. I should quit bitching about the weather and introduce myself. My name is Bob Garcia. I’m a U.S. Border Patrol agent assigned to the Deming, NM Station in the El Paso Sector. Today I’m on routine patrol on the dustiest road in what has to be the loneliest part of the whole US/Mexican border. There are probably lonelier stretches of border in Texas but this it from here to the west coast. I’ve been with the border patrol just over 18 months and this is my first assignment after the academy. I’m from San Diego, Santee actually, but San Diego sounds better and people know it. I kicked around in a couple dead-end jobs for two years after I got out the Marines before I was accepted with the USBP.

I like everything about my job except the occasional boredom, this damn wind and a bad case of homesickness for my old Marine buddies and my ex, Linda, back in Santee. Linda is history. She’s married now and I’ve got to get over her. But, the loneliness and boredom of my job doesn’t help at all. I have too much time to think about her and feel sorry for myself. Linda, damn her.

I’m trying to get Linda off my mind when my radio chirps, “Agent Garcia, there’s some activity in your zone about two clicks west and a half a click or so north of your current location. Check it out.”

“Roger control, I’m on it.” I step on the gas eager for some action. There’s nothing like racing through the desert to get your mind off old could-have-beens.

Bouncing around at fifty miles an hour over bumpy, rutted desert trails in a 4-wheel-drive vehicle is actually fun. I’m dodging yuccas and boulders like a week-end yahoo. I screech to a halt close to where the activity was reported.

“Control, this is Garcia, I’m at the designated location.”

“Take a look around. Our sensors picked up what looks like four illegals on foot right where you’re standing about ten minutes ago. They’re off the screen now but they’ve got to be there somewhere. Let me know what you find. Over.”

“Roger control, I’ll keep you posted.”

This is going to be fun, a game of hide and seek in this sand storm. Maybe calling this a sand storm is a bit of an exaggeration. Whatever, I’m out of my truck and in pursuit. Pursuit of what? Four illegals probably even more fed up with this wind than me. It’s not blowing hard enough to cover their ten-minute-old footprints. Four people will leave an easy path to follow. Yeah, but where are they?

I got ‘em. They’re headed down this arroyo to my left. I hope I don’t lose the footprints on the rocks at the bottom of this wash. I see ‘em; there they go … up the wash past that mesquite. I jog along in their footprints, pass the mesquite and come to a bend with a small cliff that shields the wind. Damn, it feels good to be out of the wind, even if only for a couple minutes. Who’s that? Someone, someone small is crouching under an overhang in the cliff wall.

“¿Quién va allí?” I yell in my schoolbook Spanish.

She raises her head and I see she is a young woman, a very pretty young woman. She stares at me like I’m some kind of boogieman for a moment then she smiles and says, “Buenas tardes, Señor Migra.” Migra is slang for inmigración, and is always said with a sneer when referring to the U.S. Border Patrol.

She is so unexpectedly beautiful that I can’t think of what to say next, let alone in Spanish. While I fumble for words she speaks in heavily accented English.

“Señor Migra, would Ingles be better for joo?” I speak leetle bit Ingles.”

Her cute accent brings me back to reality. “My name’s Bob er … Roberto. Let me help you up.”

“Si, Roberto. Joo are muy educado for la migra.” She firmly grasps my extended hand and rises.

She is tall, five seven or eight and strikingly beautiful in her dusty jeans, western shirt and hiking boots. As she lifts her cowboy hat to wipe her brow I see more of her pretty face and notice her long black hair tied loosely and hanging down her back. She looks like a fashion model posing for a western-wear ad. Wow!

“What are you doing out here in all this wind?”

“I was hiking with mi hermano y sus amigos but they ran when they hear joo coming. Joo can catch them if joo run muy rapido.

“Do you have any ID?”

“No Roberto. I’m just a poor leetle Mexican lost in the desert. Will joo help me, por favor.”

“I’ll have to take you to the station for processing.”

“Please señor, I can’t go back to Mexico. I will be killed if they catch me on the other side of the border. I will do anything to stay here, anything, Señor Migra.”

“Who’s going to kill you?”

“My old boyfriend is un hombre muy malo and he has really bad people working for him. They all carry guns and they’re looking for me. They want to take me back to my old boyfriend. If I don’t go with them, they will kill me. Please, Señor Roberto, I can not go back.”

“I have to take you in. You’ll be processed and returned to Mexico.”

“Why senor, can’t we keep my being here our secret? I will be very nice to joo, very nice. Por favor.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” It’s then that I see her backpack and canteen behind her against the cliff. “Grab your stuff. My truck is just over that rise.”

She walks beside me as we lean into the wind. The wind is too loud to have much of a conversation so we just look at each other and smile. She climbs into the passenger seat in my truck and I don’t object. She should be in the back in the holding tank. Does this mean I’ve made my decision?

“I’ll tell you what. You can go home with me; it’ll give us time to sort this all out. I don’t want to send you back to Mexico if you’ll be in danger, then again I don’t want to lose my job either. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Gracias, gracias joo won’t regret it.”

“I’ll drop you off somewhere out of the way, check in my truck at four and then come back for you in my car. You’ll have to hang out for … let’s see … a little over two hours. Will that be OK?”

“Si, I’ll do anything but go back to Mexico.”

I know an abandoned farm house that will keep her out of the wind if she can stand the spiders and the snakes. We drive to the farmhouse and I and shove aside the broken front door. What is left of the front room is too windy with its boarded up windows. We climb over trash and junk to what must have been a dining room. Its one window is on the leeward side so this looks like the place. I kick away some trash and clear a spot for her to sit against the wall. “Here’s my canteen and a candy bar, it’s all I have with me. Will you be OK for a couple of hours?”

“Si señor, I’ll be fine, joo don’t forget to come back for me.”

“I’ll be back a little after five. Do you have a watch?”

“Si”, she says as she grabs me around the neck and kisses me passionately. I kiss her back wondering what the hell I’m doing. If I’m gonna get fired, this is the way to go.

“Thank joo, Roberto; I see joo at 5 o’clock, adios.”

I realize that I’ve been so taken with her beauty and her story that I don’t even know her name. “I don’t know your name.”

“Maria, Maria Flores.”

“Nice to meet you Maria, adios, I’ll see you at five.”

“Control, this is Garcia. I chased four illegals for about a half mile north. I couldn’t catch them. They had too much of a head start and I couldn’t get my truck through the arroyo. You should see them on you monitor now.”

“Roger Garcia, we’ve got what looks like three illegals heading due north. We’ll intercept them at Anapra Road. You can come on in; it’s getting on near four.”

“Roger, control.” I’d done it. I didn’t tell them about Maria.

It took me to almost four thirty to retell the story of chasing the four illegals, turn in my truck, and end my shift. I dashed home to change and headed back out without catching my breath. What was I hurrying for? She’d been squatting in a desolate canyon before I found her. The old farm house will seem like a Holiday Inn to her after that. I’m not running for her, I’m running because I can’t wait to see her again. She really got to me.

“Hola Maria.”

“Hola Roberto, joo look bueno without joor Migra clothes.”

“Thanks, you had enough of this place? Ready to go?”

“Si, I’m ready. My new amigo, this leetle leezard, will miss me and the chocolate joo left for us. Adios, leetle leezard.”

It’s a quiet drive back to Deming. Neither of us knows quite what to say when Maria asks, “Roberto, joo are un guapo hombre mexicano. Where joo from?”

“I’m from California. My grandparents were from Mexico but my mom and dad tried to raise me as an American. That is why my Spanish is so bad. Do you mind that we speak English?”

“No, no mi Chicano amigo, if joo can stand my leetle bit Ingles.”

We pull up to my tiny apartment and pause in the driveway. I don’t know what to say so we sit for what seems like hours when Maria says, “Are we going in or are we going to sit here in the car.”

I jump out and open the door for Maria. She drops her backpack and our two canteens on the floor just inside the door and says, “Not bad for a soltero. How joo say soltero in Ingles?”

“Bachelor.”

“Bien, joo are a bach … bachleer aren’t joo.”

“Yes, I’m a soltero. I’m not married; in fact I don’t even have a girlfriend at the moment.”

“Maybe joo have a new girlfriend and joo don’t know it yet.” See says as she grabs me and kisses me again.

We fall to the couch.

I can’t remember when I’ve been happier. Maria has been with me for … let’s see now … sixteen days, but who’s counting. It’s amazing how some unforeseen event like finding Maria in the desert can change your whole life overnight.

Work even seems like fun again, or is it just because I can’t wait to get home every night. Last night we had dinner at Campo’s with a Border Patrol buddy and his wife. Maria was the center of attention. She tells everyone she’s an old girlfriend from Guadalajara and that we met a couple of years ago in San Diego. That seems to work; she is so sweet and sincere that no one suspects she is an illegal that I hauled in during a sandstorm.

Maria wore my tee shirts until we had a chance to go shopping for clothes in Las Cruces. Maria loved the mall, especially the boutiques for the younger set. She acts and dresses like an upscale teenager and not like the poor little Mexican girl she claims to be. I wonder what the real story on her really is and if her badass old boyfriend is really looking for her. I guess, Deming is as good a place to hide as anywhere.

I don’t know what she does during the day. She keeps the house neat and she prepares good but simple Mexican dinners. Her enchiladas and red sauce may be even better than my mom’s but I’d never tell anyone that. She made friends quickly with Josephina, the old lady from next door. Josephina is probably eighty and loves to sit on the shady porch of hers, drink beer and gossip the day away. She and Maria can spend the whole day jabbering in a Spanish that’s too fast for me to follow. I’m glad she has a friend even if it’s the neighborhood gossip. What they talk about all day is anybody’s guess.

We’re living like a married couple or maybe honeymooners might be a better description. I’ve never known a woman like Maria before and I’m madly in love. I’ve got to get a commitment from her. I’m not going to let her get away. She’s too beautiful and sophisticated to be living with me in a run-down apartment in Deming, New Mexico and spending her days with someone four times her age. She seems happy enough but what is she going to do?

“Hola novia how was your day?”

“I had a good day. Josephina and I walked to the leetle panadería down the road and bought some galletas. How joo say galleta in Ingles … coookie, I think? Josephina and I had café y coookies this afternoon. I’ve got some for joo, for after dinner.”

We had tacos for dinner and her coookies for desert. I poured us a glass of brandy and we curled up on the sofa to watch TV. Maria watches Spanish language TV during the day but she seems to enjoy CSI, Cold Case, and other popular TV shows with me at night. Her favorite, by far, is Dancing With The Stars.

I’ve got a full day tomorrow and have to get to bed. Maria will spend all night watching TV if I don’t drag her off to bed. Going to bed with her is truly the highlight of my already good day, by far.

Today was pretty quiet. We put a lot of miles on our trucks only to come in empty handed. Oh well, our job is to protect the border and that’s what I did all day, protect. I hurry home. “Hola, I’m home.”

No answer. I look everywhere for Maria. She’s probably over at Josephina’s.

“Hola Josefina. ¿Donde esta Maria?”

She tells me in Spanish that she hasn’t seen her since around lunch time.

I go home and open a beer. Maybe she walked to the store and will be back soon. After the sun sets and my third beer I begin to worry. Where can she be? She has always been here or at Josephina’s when I get home from work. Should I wait longer, drive around looking for her, call the police, or what? I check with Josephina again and learn what I already know. Driving up and down the streets near home is just as fruitless. Its eleven o’clock and no Maria. I return home not knowing what to do.

I look in the closet. All of the clothes I bought for her are hung neatly on the rack. Wait, her backpack that she always kept at the back of the closet isn’t here, neither are the jeans and western shirt she had on when I found her. Her hiking boots are gone too. She hasn’t worn them since I bought her some sandals her first day here.

If she’s gone, and it looks like it, she left with only the stuff she came with. I can’t believe she’d leave. We were so happy.

The days drag on. No word from Maria, she just disappeared. I wait for a phone call that’s not coming. I pace, I pout, I drink, I’m lost without her. How can I find her, I’m not sure of her real name and I only know what she told me about herself which isn’t much. She never mentioned any friends or relatives here in the US and she seemed adamant about not going back to Mexico.

Work is boring again but somehow different. I no longer think about Linda instead I look for Maria behind every bush and down every canyon. I know she’s not out here but I look for her anyway. I’ve be assigned to the check point on the Columbus highway. I check each car for her and I have to fight the urge to ask everyone who passes if they’ve seen her.

After work on Wednesday I open my mail, drink a beer and stare at my bills. My phone bill looks ordinary enough until I spot a long distance call to an area code 213 number. That’s Los Angeles. I didn’t call anyone in LA. Maybe Maria did? Is this a clue?

I write down the mysterious phone number and wait for a chance to ring it out with my friend, José a DEA agent who works our sector. He has access to all of that federal database stuff. José takes down the number reluctantly and promises to get back to me.

A week later I see José at the station and he slips me this note: Carla Hernandez,
26462 Cerritos Ave., E. Los Angeles, CA.

This is my only link to Maria, this and that lonely, dusty canyon where we met. I’ve got to go to LA and meet Carla or whoever lives at this address. I think I can get a week off if I get my request in pronto and my commander approves it.

Los Angeles is a huge and unusual place even to a Californian and East LA is foreign even to a Chicano from San Diego. I find the house on Cerritos easy enough and it looks like all of the other run-down, cracker box houses on the street. I park and walk up to the door nervous with anticipation. A teenage Chicano with his pants down to his knees comes to the door after my repeated knocking.

“Buenos tardes” I say with my brightest smile.

“What do you want?”

“I’m sorry to bother you but I’m looking for a friend, Maria. She said she would be staying with you for a while.”

“There ain’t no Maria here.”

“She’s about twenty six, tall and very attractive. You’d remember her if you ever saw her.”

“Don’t know nobody like that.”

“Is your mother here or anyone else that might know Maria?”

“Homes, you look like a pig to me. Why you asking all of these questions for?”

“I’m just trying to find my girlfriend, that’s all.”

“Then go someplace else, Homes. She ain’t here,” he says as he slams the door.

So much for the direct approach, I’ll go to plan B.

My plan B is parking up the street slumping down in my car and watching the house. I find a spot where my rear New Mexico plate won’t show from the house and begin my stake out. Well into my fourth hour and with a numb butt I see a car pull up in front of the house. A tall young man jumps out from the driver’s side and helps Maria out of the other door. It’s her, I’ve found her! Now what?

Before I can decide what to do Maria and that guy come out and get back into the car. They head down Cerritos and I follow at a safe distance.

They pull up to an Italian restaurant and go in. I wait a few minutes and follow them in. Maria is sitting at a table against the side wall with her back to the door. I ask for a table in front so Maria can’t see me without turning completely around. I watch and wait.

Mid way through my spaghetti the guy with Maria gets up and goes to the men’s room. I jump up and run to her table.

“Roberto, what are you doing here?”

“I came for you, Maria.”

“Get out of here. Get out fast. They will kill you.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“Go! I’ll come to you soon. I love you. Now go!”

I turn and walk back to my table. It takes me a while to realize that Maria didn’t have the cute “leetle” accent that she had in New Mexico. Unable to eat I pay my check and leave. I drive back to my motel in a daze. She said she loves me. I can’t believe she actually said that. I’ll drive back to Deming tomorrow and wait for her. What else can I do? She was pretty adamant about me getting out of here.

The drive home seems to take forever. I can’t stop thinking about Maria. What was she doing in LA? How come she speaks flawless English now? It must be big-time illegal if she was afraid I would be killed. It must be drugs. What else could it be? Mexicans smuggle either drugs or people into the US and she wasn’t leading a gang of wetbacks when I found her.

Is she a smuggler, a mule? She was only carrying a small backpack that couldn’t weigh more than twenty pounds. What’s she up to?

I’m back at work on patrol again. Time seems to drag. I’m worse now than when I was heartbroken over Linda. Maria, Maria. I had a beer with Josephina the other evening and all we talked about was Maria. Josefina misses her too. What did Maria say in that brief conversation? “I’ll come to you soon.” I think that was what she said. I wonder what she meant by soon?

Weeks pass and no word from Maria. I’m ready to give up hope but I can’t. I feel so helpless, I can’t do anything but wait. Where is she?

Nearly three months after our brief meeting in LA I see a story in the local paper. Three More Drug War Deaths in Palomas the headlines read. Two men and a woman were gunned down in a Palomas street about three blocks from the US/Mexico border. This just seemed like more of the same, one drug cartel killing off members of a rival cartel until I ran into José, my DEA buddy, at the station one evening. José asked me if I remembered that phone number he had chased down for me months earlier. I told him that I had checked out the house in East LA but never met Carla Hernandez. He said that that phone number had come up again. That same phone number was written in a note found on one of the drug dealers slain in Palomas last week. My suspicions were confirmed, Maria and the house in LA were tied together in a drug smuggling scheme. José said he’d get back to me with more info when he learned more from the Mexican authorities.

I never thought any more about the coincidence of the phone numbers until I ran into José again. José said he had a bit more information and he showed me a Mexican police report with a mug shot of the female victim of the recent killings.

It was Maria.

©2009 by Bob Rockwell

The Chez Robert is known for its classical French cuisine and intimate dining. I called and made a mid-afternoon appointment with the manager to see what he might do to equal the wonderful dinner our new trading partners had recently hosted in Tokyo.

Robert Cheval is far more than the manager; he’s the owner and the Robert of Chez Robert, arguably Boston’s best French restaurant. He poured me a glass of an excellent white wine while we sat in the empty dining room and talked about the coming celebratory dinner. After I described our recent dinner in Japan, he told me about his very private wine cellar and the dinner he would prepare for us there.

The dinner was fantastic and my Japanese guests couldn’t have been more impressed. As we were wrapping up with one more cognac, Mr. Cheval asked if he could speak with me privately. He led me to a dusty cellar room off to our left.

“Mr. Rockwell, I hope your guests enjoyed our little bit of France here in Boston.”

“The dinner was perfect in every way. You and your staff made quite an impression on some really hard to impress people.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rockwell. Now I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Sure, whatever it is.”

“I’d like you to be my guest at a special dinner this coming Thursday evening.”

“Gladly, I’d jump at the chance to come back here anytime.”

“Thank you, but there is a small, as you would say, catch. You have to name your three dinner guests. They can be anyone, anyone at all, living or dead.”

“You mean like a fantasy experience where I get to dine with actors playing the roles of characters I’d like to meet?”

“Something like that. Who would you like to invite?”

My mind raced. Who to invite? After a few seconds of thought I jokingly blurted the first three names that came to mind, “Jesus Christ, Marilyn Monroe, and Jackie Robinson.”

“A very fine choice, monsieur. I’m sure you’ll have a most enjoyable evening. I’ll see you at eight on Thursday. Now, you should return to your guests and thank you for coming tonight. Au revoir, Monsieur Rockwell.”

Work was hectic as we began to deal with the details of our new partnership. I didn’t have time to think much about my dinner date coming up on Thursday. It had to be the ultimate fantasy experience but how could they find and rehearse three actors in a mere seven days? Robert must know what he’s doing but it seemed like an impossible task. Okay, Jesus might be a regular dinner guest and Jackie has probably been invited a time or two but where would they find a Marilyn on such short notice?

I arrive ten minutes early. Robert escorts me to the cellar and serves me a glass of lovely red Bordeaux that I didn’t catch the name of. I’m alone in the cellar savoring my wine when Robert enters with this hippy looking fellow wearing a robe and sandals.

“Mr. Rockwell, may I present Jesus of Nazareth.”

“How do you do, I’m Bob Rockwell,” I say as I extend my hand. The Jesus guy hesitates for a moment then grabs my hand in an unusually warm, firm handshake. He is clearly dressed the part but he’s not someone I’d pick to play Jesus. He’s short, five foot-six or seven, olive skinned with dark hair, and a disheveled beard. The sort of straggly beard you see on homeless people, not the beard you’d find on the statues in my church. It’s then I notice his dark haunting eyes, eyes that seem to glow as if illuminated by some internal light source.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Rockwell.”

Robert hands Jesus a glass of red wine and leaves the room.

“Merci Monsieur Cheval,” Jesus says in impeccable French to the empty doorway.

Jesus takes a sip of his wine and his face lights up. “This is really wonderful. I’m impressed with what you’ve done with wine since I was here last. This is so much better than what we had in my day.”

I can imagine a struggling actor being blown away by a taste of a forty-dollar-a-bottle wine but not Jesus Christ, the King of Kings.

Mr. Cheval appears in the doorway followed by an exact copy of a young, voluptuous Marilyn Monroe. “Ms. Monroe, may I present Bob Rockwell of Massachusetts and Jesus of Nazareth. Gentlemen, this is Ms. Marilyn Monroe of Hollywood, California,” he says as he turns and leaves the room.

The Jesus guy is obviously more at ease with Marilyn than I am. I’m wondering where they found such a beautiful girl to play this part. The Vegas shows have never had a Marilyn-look-alike as beautiful and as authentic looking as this girl. She’s spilling out of the skin-tight, sequined gown that she wore to JFK’s birthday party.

Jesus hugs Marilyn and says, “We are so glad you could join us this evening Ms. Monroe. Here take my wine, I’ll get another.”

“Thanks Sweetie” she says with a sexy wink, “but I’d prefer something with a bit more kick. Do you think I could get a bourbon?”

Did I just hear what I think I heard? Marilyn called Jesus, Sweetie. So much for being the King of the Jews.

I didn’t get a chance to hug our Marilyn-look-alike before Mr. Cheval walks in followed by number 42, Jackie Robinson wearing his 50s-era Brooklyn Dodger uniform.

“Ms. Monroe and gentlemen, may I present Mr. Jackie Robinson of Brooklyn, New York. Mr. Robinson, these are your dinner guests for tonight, Ms. Monroe, Mr. Rockwell and Jesus Christ.” This Jackie-look-alike is as good a clone or better than the Marilyn player. So far Mr. Cheval has outdone himself except possibly for the little hippie he has playing Jesus. After shaking hands with Jackie we all take our seats around an exquisitely set table.

Marilyn wiggles in her chair as she seductively sucks on the ice cubes from her bourbon and water. She is all body language and with her body she screams sexuality. Jesus and I enjoy watching Marilyn squirm and the very fine wine, while Jackie sips his beer. There is a stillness in the room as if no one knows where to begin. Finally, I thank them for coming and remembering my manners I ask Jesus if he would lead us in a prayer.

“Dear Father I thank you for the opportunity to share in this feast and to enjoy the fellowship of these wonderful people. I personally want thank you for letting me set foot on earth again and partake of this delightful wine. By the way, how did you come up with wine this good without me knowing about it? Amen.”

I thought Jesus’ comment on the wine was cute. I wonder if the real Jesus was as big a wine freak as this guy seems to be. Jackie hasn’t said anything other than hello and request a beer so I ask, “Jackie, how are the Dodgers going to do this year?”

Jackie smiles and says, “Better than their current record of 34 and 16 would indicate. They’ve got better pitching than we’ve seen so far this season. Joe Torres knows what he’s doing and you’re going to see a lot more hitting out of Hudson and Loney.”

“Don’t you wish you could pick up a bat and give them a hand?” I ask.

“I used to but I got over that. It took me some time to realize that I was very fortunate to have played in the big leagues and to have enjoyed the success that I did. I’m happy now just watching the kids play today.”

“What do you think of the hero status that you’ve obtained? We honor you with a Jackie Robinson day; a day where everyone wears your number, 42. You’re on the list of black American heroes, right up there with Martin Luther King and W.E.B. Dubois.”

“Now you’re embarrassing me. I’m just a minor hero and not in the same league with Dr. King,” Jackie says with a broad grin. “I’m just an athlete who was playing ball at the right place and the right time. If it wasn’t me it could have been any number of other guys.”

Jesus raises his wine glass as if he’s making a toast and says, “You’re too modest, Mr. Robinson. Your personal sacrifices and the pain and humiliation you suffered were extreme. You are truly a man of extraordinary character. I’m honored to share this table with you. But, what’s up with that beer when you could be drinking this really great wine? To Jackie!”

We all raise our respective drinks when Marilyn whispers through a cloud of cigarette smoke, “And you’re damn good looking for a colored fellow.”

No one knows what to say after Marilyn’s comment so I ask her, “Marilyn, I understand the pressure and media scrutiny in Hollywood can be almost unbearable. How do you cope?”

Marilyn takes a gulp of her drink and seems at a loss to answer when she murmurs, “I’m not sure I coped all that well. My marriages were disasters, my acting career was stuck in neutral and I was getting tired of being an aging blonde sex symbol. How would you like to be only known and appreciated for your tits and ass?”

Jesus answers her, “Ms. Monroe, you are blessed with large wonderful breasts and a truly magnificent posterior. Why should these exceptional assets be the source of your unhappiness?”

“I don’t know, all I know is that I’m either depressed or drunk or both.”

Jesus answers with, “Ms. Monroe, tell us about Marilyn or Norma Jean the real person, not Marilyn the movie star and sex symbol.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I work in grade B movies, I wiggle my ass and guys all want to get in my pants, end of story.”

Jesus responds, “The cure for your depression will have to come from within you. It is not something I can make go away. Now, if you had leprosy that would be a different story.”

Marilyn orders another drink from the waiter serving our entrees. I take the pause in conversation to ask Jesus, “Your last supper is much celebrated in the church today. Can you tell us about it?”

“First of all, it wasn’t nearly as grand as Leonardo’s lovely fresco and we actually sat on both sides of the table. We drank a lot of wine that evening, reminisced about our times together, and reasserted our love for each other. I saw this as my last chance to reinforce my teachings and ensure that each disciple would continue the work we had begun. My hangover the next day was the least of my problems.”

“We celebrate communion today to honor you and your wishes at this your last supper.”

“I am enormously honored to have this ritual performed as an act of remembrance of me but I didn’t say those words about the wine and the bread. My disciples chose to have the communion ritual represent our last dinner together and use those simple everyday things as reminders of me and our work.”

“Did I hear you right? You never gave the speech about the wine representing your blood and the bread your flesh?”

“Mr. Rockwell, you either take things too literally or you haven’t had enough wine. The mass you celebrate today, including communion, is a ritual, a devout ritual passed down through the ages to serve as a reminder of me and my teachings and to help focus your thinking. Rituals are really good for this. Don’t take them literally, take them for the thoughts and emotions they evoke.”

“Jesus, Christianity has come a long way in the last 2000 years. Are you happy with what’s going on in your name today?”

“No, not at all. Some of the stuff today really gets my halo out of whack. I’ve gotten over all of the bloodshed and oppression that was done in my name but your money-grubbing TV and radio evangelists are worse than the inquisitors of old Spain. These scam artists with their gilded sets and gaudy mega-churches exemplify everything I dislike, no loathe, about my religion today. If the money lenders of my day thought I was peeved, wait until I get to your radio and TV studios. Why do you put up with them or an even better question, why do you support them?”

Jesus’ outburst left us speechless. Robert, sensing the moment, appeared from a side door. “Ms. Monroe and gentlemen I hate to interrupt but it’s near closing time. I hope you had an enjoyable dinner? May I propose a final toast?”

“Please do,” I respond.

“Here’s to the Son of God, the most celebrated actress of her time, the great second baseman who integrated major league baseball, and the businessman who had the wisdom to assemble this interesting group. May you all go in peace and happiness.”

“Hear, hear!”

Everyone took one last drink, Marilyn from her fifth bourbon, Jackie from his third beer, and Jesus and me from our umpteenth glass of wine.

We all hugged, shook hands and followed Robert to the stairs. Robert kissed an unsteady Marilyn goodbye and sent her on her way. He hugged Jesus and opened the door for him while Jackie and I said goodbye one more time. Jackie followed Jesus, and Robert turned to me.

“Thank you for sharing your fantasy evening with me. Au revoir, Monsieur Rockwell.”

My mind raced as I drove home. What had just gone on? These actors, if that was what they were, were fantastic. Even the hippie Jesus grew on me. How had Robert pulled this off? I can’t remember when I’ve been more impressed with a dinner group or an entire evening for that matter. No answers came. Had I just had the ultimate fantasy experience?

Friday morning I sat listless in my office staring at the wall. I couldn’t stop thinking about last night’s dinner and the three amazing characters I dined with: Jackie the humble and impressive gentleman, Marilyn the sexy depressed bimbo and best of all, Jesus the wise and warm little wino.

I waited for a respectable hour to call Robert and thank him again for last night. Someone answered the Chez Robert’s phone at 11:30. I asked to speak to Robert.

“There is no Robert here, monsieur.”

“I’m looking for Robert Cheval, the owner and manager.”

“You are mistaken, monsieur. I don’t know a Robert Cheval and I own this restaurant.”

“No, you must be mistaken; I was there with Mr. Cheval last night in your wine cellar dining room.”

“Monsieur, we have no wine cellar dining room nor have I ever heard of Robert Cheval. Au revoir, monsieur.”

©2009 by Bob Rockwell

your ballpoint pen runs out of ink in the middle of signing your name
you have to pay 25¢ for air at a service station
you get a splotch of spaghetti sauce on your new white sweater
the guy ahead of you goes 10 miles and hour under the speed limit
you find your morning newspaper lying in a puddle
some moron clanks his spoon on the sides of his cereal bowl
your inconsiderate neighbor ruins your outdoor party with his loud power mower
you can’t read your own handwriting
a smoker tosses a cigarette butt out of their car window
some bumpkin serves you ice cold red wine
you can’t get the lid off of your shampoo bottle in the shower
it rains just enough to leave spots on your windows
your new purchase is open proof
your taco shell falls apart on the first bite
you try to squeeze mustard on your bratwurst but get only vinegar
you can’t understand the clerk at a convenience store
some asshole puts you on hold to take another call
you can’t find something you just saw a minute ago
the label of your tee shirt sticks up over the collar
your shoelace breaks right before the big event
the price tag of your new purchase is on for good
your technical support person is in India
the lady ahead of you in the checkout line can’t find her checkbook
you know who did it halfway through the book
some scumbag tosses their trash out of a car window
your friend sends you an overly sweet, sickening email about friendship
you get the cart with a wobbly wheel at the supermarket
you forget to turn off your cell phone in church and Aunt Martha calls during prayer
TV commercials boom in at a much higher volume than the show you are watching
you fart and everyone knows it was you
someone drinks the last beer in your fridge
your clerk at Wal-Mart takes 20 minutes to find the price of one of your items
the guy sitting next to you hogs the armrest
your flight arrives too late to make your connection
a small glitch in electrical power screws up all of your clocks
you wander aimlessly looking for something at Home Depot
you scratch the eight ball on an otherwise magnificent shot
the guy sitting next to you on an airplane talks about himself all the way to Boston
you make a big deal out of answering your phone and it’s a wrong number
the neighbor’s dog won’t stop barking
a telemarketer calls during dinner, or anytime for that matter
some beer-swilling red neck says anything
you have to go back to the store for the thing you forgot on your first trip
you step on some asshole’s gum in the parking lot
you miss a two foot putt
only one of your market’s 32 check-stands is open
all of the other lanes on the freeway are moving but yours
a group has a TV special to give awards to themselves
a vending machine steals your money
some stranger shares their cell phone conversation with you
your lane never moves at the bank
that aggressive housefly won’t land so you can swat ‘em
it never dawned on you to put on sunscreen
people don’t pick up after their dog
you’re stranded in the bathroom without toilet paper
a dog sticks his nose in your crotch
all lanes of traffic stop cold for no apparent reason
your cute little table at the bistro wobbles
the vending machine keeps rejecting your perfectly good dollar bill
you’re on hold and hear the same recorded message over and over and over
some yoyo explains the obvious to you
your college-age waiter is condescending
the driver in the car ahead of you at the ATM takes all day
you have all of the ingredients for a recipe, except one
you cut your finger on a piece of paper
the neighbor’s cat craps in your garden
your assigned seat is the one between the fat guy and the lady with a screaming kid
the line for the restroom is really, really long
you inadvertently delete something important on your computer
your contact gets stuck in the corner of your eye
some snob implies that she’s better than you at anything
you get dog shit on your shoe
your barbecue runs out of propane halfway through cooking dinner for guests
your computer crashes while you’re in the middle of something
your camera’s batteries go dead at a big event
you receive an email chain letter
you cut your tongue licking an envelope
some know-it-all, wind bag lectures you on anything
some jerk thinks he knows why we invaded in Iraq
sweat from your brow runs into your eyes
you fall asleep and miss the end of the movie
your ice maker tosses cubes on the floor
you order the wrong dish at a restaurant but eat it anyway
you drink too much at a party and make an ass of yourself
people disagree with you on something they know nothing about
you have to get up in the middle of the night to pee
someone talks down to you
you’re not paying attention to TV and find you’re watching Dr. Phil
anybody expresses anything that they heard Rush Limbaugh say
you can’t remember your own phone number
and finally,
you see a Dick Cheney for president bumper sticker

©2009 by Bob Rockwell

Introduction

This ranting thing is addictive. Once you start you can find an endless number of things to bitch about. Here’s some more stuff getting under my sun burnt skin.

An I for an I

Is it just me or have you noticed that everyone you talk to is only capable of talking about themselves. All conversations are verbal memoirs full of I, I, I, me, me dialog. This kind of conversation used to be the property of Hollywood assholes and other not too bright egoists. Now everybody’s doing it or maybe it just seems that way because I hang out mostly with older, retired folks.

I challenge you to pick a topic, Obama’s economic stimulus plan, Jessica Simpson’s weight gain, or an old James Cagney movie and have a conversation with someone, be they an old pal or a total stranger. If you can avoid any I or me references you’ll see how pathetic your conversational partner really is. I’m willing to bet he or she will quickly turn the conversation into an all-about-them chat while inserting more I’s and me’s than you could ever count.

These people take everything they hear as a cue to launch into their own personal anecdotes. Are we all that insecure? I’m glad you and I don’t do that.

Litterers and Other Low Lifes

Who throws trash out of their car windows? And, who is tossing all of those cigarette butts on the roadways? I don’t know but they all seem to smoke Marlboro Lights. There must be a lot of these folks if the county road running by my house is any indication. What are we going to do with these scum bags? Capital punishment may be too soft a penalty.

Pit Bulls

Why do we put up with people keeping these things as pets? Week after week we read stories of these animals maiming and killing our children. I know we all love our dogs but these animals are potential killers just waiting to go bonkers.

You can almost domesticate any number of wild animals and treat them as house pets if you’re really into that. But the reason we don’t keep bears or mountain lions as house pets is that they aren’t safe. They can revert back to their normal, wild state at any time and kill someone. Sounds just like a pit bull, doesn’t it. Most cities have ordinances prohibiting us from having “exotic” animals as pets and I strongly believe we should put pit bulls into this category.

I’m not arguing that we should get rid of pit bulls; we should classify them as dangerous, exotic pets and not house dogs.

Bumper Stickers

Have you ever heard or seen something so funny or so interesting that you had to tell it to everyone you see everyday, forever. That’s what bumper stickers essentially do. Bumper stickers and decals are really dumb ideas no matter how passionate you feel about their message. Why, because we change, times change, and everything, even the cleverest joke, soon becomes stale. And, how would you like to be remembered forever as the one guy in town who voted for Bob Dole? Pleasant thought.

Too-Lazy-to-Return-Their-Cart Assholes

I don’t know about you but I always return my shopping cart to the designated return place in the parking lot. It pisses me off to no end to pull into a parking space only to find a shopping cart blocking the way; the cart that some inconsiderate asshole was too lazy to return.

I know we can’t legislate manners or punish the lack thereof but we’ve got to do something about these folks. Any ideas?

Hot-Air Hand Driers

Don’t you hate these things? Okay, the continuous loop of soiled cloth wasn’t much better and paper towels seem to find the floor more often than the waste basket. I guess we don’t have an answer to this nagging problem but these hot-air gadgets are the worst. I’m thinking of hanging a golf towel from my belt loop.

Radio on the Road

Have you ever hunted for a radio station on a car trip away from home? Its tough, isn’t it. I can’t believe the stuff that’s being pumped over the air waves. Let’s see you have a choice of Mexican music, Spanish language talk, a Bible-thumping evangelist, a content-free talk show, or hillbilly music. Maybe I’ll find NPR or a popular music station if I keep hunting. Nope, Mexicana, Mexicana, evangelist #1, more Mexicana, evangelist #2, a Rush Limbaugh wantabe, Mexicana again, and you guessed it, a twangy hillbilly singing something that might be sad if we could only understand him. America’s commercial radio is the best advertisement for satellite radio services you’ll find but I somehow feel funny spending $9.95 a month for something that seems like it should be free.

Snobs and Other Pretentious Pricks

Why are we all so insecure? Insecurity has always surpassed the plague, and everything else for that matter, as the biggest epidemic of all time. We all exhibit our insecurities in a couple of ways; the most common being an obsession with talking about oneself and only oneself. But the manifestation that really gets to me is snobbery. These assholes have to continuously remind us of how important, rich, accomplished, or socially connected they are and we ain’t.

Being a pseudo snob wouldn’t be so bad if they could go about their snobbery without being condescending and continually reminding us that they are somehow better than we are. It’s their “I am (insert a word) and you’re not,” attitude that really gets me going. No one wants to be made to feel inferior to anyone else even when it might be true.

Screw these people!

©2009 by Bob Rockwell