Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly

by Conrad Wesselhoeft

  “So you didn’t give enough?”

  “Not nearly,” Dad says.

  The wind talks for a while. To the west, three ship shadows—the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria—sail across Zuni Mesa. They sail right off the edge.

  “When I wake up from a nap these days,” Dad says, “I lie there, and that’s when I talk to God. Tell him how grateful I am, despite it all. Then I get down to business: ‘Please keep an eye on Arlo and Siouxsie.’”

  “Especially Siouxsie,” I say.

  Dad sinks into himself. He looks shot out. All that could happen to him seems to have happened.

  I want to tell him about the “extreme and lasting good” that could turn us around. In fact, that’s the main reason I wanted to come up here today.

  But looking at him, I decide not to.

  Why add my straw to his load?

  Anyway, I know what I have to do. I’ve made up my mind. Being up here today has cleared things up.

  Dad won’t like it. He’ll hate it.

  I hoist my ass off the rock.

  “Hey, let’s put it over there instead,” I say.

  “What are you talking about, Arlo?”

  I point north. “Mom’s monument. Let’s put it smack up against the rim—right where Pretty Boy balked.”

  Dad gets up and dusts himself. We ponder the north rim of Burro Mesa. That sheer line where grass meets sky. Beyond stand the Spanish Peaks. And far on the horizon, the broken jaw that is the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains.

  All the beautiful, lonely bones of the world.

  Dad drains his Sprite, crunches the can.

  “Damn!” he says. “This was a wasted afternoon.”

  Chapter 46

  NEXT MORNING, I RIDE OUT to Two Hole. Uncle Sal is seated at the dining room table eating silver-dollar pancakes and reading the Albuquerque Journal. The big headline on the front page says “Economic Doldrums.”

  “Mornin’, Arlo!” he says, closing the paper. “How’s my favorite diamond in the rough today?”

  “Not too shiny,” I say.

  He signals for me to sit. I grab the chair across from him and eye his pancakes—a real breakfast. Drool-worthy.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Just wondering,” I say. “Do you still have that e-mail from that CrazyDirty&Extreme guy?”

  “Sure.” He reaches for his phone and searches for the e-mail.

  Aunt Portia comes in from the kitchen and beams at the sight of me. But when I stand, she frowns.

  “Arlo, whatever you had for breakfast didn’t work,” she says. “I’m going to fatten you up.”

  “Please do,” I say, and she goes right back into the kitchen.

  “Here it is,” Uncle Sal says. “His name is Bill-William Cooper, Jr. He’s the executive producer. Why? What’s on your mind?”

  “Jett Spence,” I say.

  Uncle Sal spikes a couple of silver dollars and sponges up some syrup. “Last I heard, ol’ Jett was out to pasture enjoying his retirement.”

  “Yeah, well, it might be time to un-retire him,” I say.

  Uncle Sal stuffs a forkful into his mouth and rolls a hand to get me talking.

  I tell him my idea. By the time I’m done, he’s eaten a half-dozen silver dollars, and his eyes are glistening. He grabs his napkin and wipes his mouth.

  “You’re joking, of course.”

  “Nah, I’m serious.”

  His face falls. “Good God, Arlo! Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who’s always telling us to aim high. You know, Defecare due volte and all that?”

  Uncle Sal rattles his head. “Yes, but this takes defecare due volte to a whole new level.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “That’s why they’re gonna pay me maximal. Because this won’t be any ol’ jump into a dirt pile.”

  “The answer is no,” Uncle Sal says. “Let me amend that—hell no!”

  He picks up the newspaper and snaps it open, redacting me.

  Aunt Portia comes in and sets a mug of coffee before me—“Un caffe per Arlo”—and a plate of silver-dollar pancakes. She’s drawn a smiley face on the big pancake in the middle, using maple syrup. It even has a squiggle that’s supposed to be hair.

  “Grazie,” I say.

  I take a bite, because Aunt Portia wants my verdict now.

  “Mmmmmm. Super-grazie.”

  “The secret is in the bread crumbs,” she murmurs confidentially. “Add bread crumbs from a stale loaf to fatten your batter. Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t,” I say. “Thanks.”

  When she’s gone, Uncle Sal lowers the paper. “Let me get this straight. You’re proposing to jump your Ducati motorcycle off the highest mesa in New Mexico. Do I have that right?”

  “Hundred percent,” I say. “But Burro’s not just the highest mesa in New Mexico, it’s also on the state line. So I’d be jumping from New Mexico into Colorado.”

  “What a relief,” Uncle Sal says, rolling his eyes. “Listen, Arlo, I know something about risk. I’ve paved a highway to the bank with bricks made of pure, immaculate risk. But Sweet Mary from Tucumcari, this isn’t risk, it’s suicide.”

  “Nah, suicide’s when you die,” I say.

  “Which almost happened at Rio Loco,” Uncle Sal says.

  “This’ll be different,” I say.

  “How will it be different?”

  “This time, I’ll make it.”

  Uncle Sal shudders, raises the Journal, and walls me out again.

  I bust through my pancakes. Drain my coffee. Mop up my plate. I want to lick it, but the standards at Two Hole are higher than at home.

  “Hey, do me a favor,” I say to the wall of newspaper. “Just read that e-mail from Bill-William what’s-his-name. Out loud. Please.”

  “Fine,” Uncle Sal says, folding the paper. “Makes no difference to me.”

  He opens the e-mail and starts to read aloud. His voice perks up at “thirty-five percent market share,” “twenty-one million viewers,” and “dizzying paycheck.”

  I hear his marketing mind clank into gear—and then skeptically unclank out of gear—about three times.

  He finishes reading the e-mail and shrugs. “Happy now?” he says.

  “So just thinkin’,” I say. “If I did this—hypothetically, I mean—it would be a lot of fast money.”

  Uncle Sal nods. “If you did this—if!—and got away with it—bigger if!—it would be a windfall. You could skip the whole fried-chicken phase of your career and go straight to prime rib.”

  “I’ve been thinking of becoming a vegetarian,” I say.

  Uncle Sal flicks away the thought. “Arlo, tell me straight—nephew to uncle—why do you want to jump your Ducati off Burro Mesa?”

  I point to the big headline in the Albuquerque Journal. “Economic doldrums,” I say.

  Uncle Sal broods on this. He knows where we stand at home—Dad’s job status and all. And he knows about Siouxsie’s health problems—not all the details, but enough to know that Huntington’s is a bottomless pit.

  “Where I come from, Arlo—going back a couple generations to old Italy, the port of Pescara—all our reasons for improving our lives came down to one word: famiglia.”

  “Yeah, well, I must come from the port of Pescara too,” I say.

  His eyes glisten. “Arlo, I’m proud of you for wanting to help your family. But this idea of yours—I oppose it. Emphatically. Try it, and you’ll break your neck.”

  “I’d break more than that,” I say.

  “Oh?”

  “I’d break a promise.”

  “What promise is that?”

  “To never never do anything like this again.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Uncle Sal says. “Case closed.”

  I get up to go. At the front door, I turn and look back. I expect to see him walled behind the Journal again. Instead, he’s staring at me.

  “You may as well know,” I say. “I’m gonna do it anyway. I
’ll call Bill-William Cooper myself. Just do me a favor, don’t tell anybody. They’ll only get gray hair. Especially don’t tell Dad.”

  Uncle Sal looks at me like I’m already a ghost.

  And maybe I am.

  Chapter 47

  IT’S SATURDAY. I’M UP EARLY—and I’m never up early on Saturday.

  I wolf down a couple of sausages and roll out my Yam 250. Cam has wrenched and duct-taped it back to respectability after my little incident at Rio Loco Stadium. It’s not in perfect shape, just like I’m not. But it’s good enough to go.

  I mount up and spin dust.

  On the highway, I grind into silence. The scab plain—usually the blandest brown in the crayon box—is a hundred muted shades this morning. The road reeks of sage and creosote.

  I wonder, how many more mornings like this do I have left? Because you never know your last. And not knowing—that’s what makes it great. That’s what makes this the Land of Enchantment.

  I blast up the canyon, bump over the cattle guard, and pull up outside the barn. Lee’s there tinkering on the YZ 125. She stands, flips back her hair, and gives me a smile.

  I’m taking her into the high canyon today. If you can ride high country, and fit into it, everything and everybody is beautiful, not just the few.

  Over at the house, the screen door slaps. Siouxsie rolls onto the porch in her new wheelchair. She doesn’t really need the wheelchair yet. She’s just messing around. And kind of messing with me.

  “Hey, give me a minute,” I say.

  Lee glances at Siouxsie. “Take all the time you want,” she says.

  I cruise over to the porch and kill my engine. Pull off my helmet. Look up at my wheelchair-riding-but-not-yet-bound sister who stares at the rim rocks, a sulky sphinx. She is, however, wearing her hearing aids, and sphinxes don’t do that.

  If I had to guess her philosophy, I’d say it’s this: life’s a joke, but it hurts too much to laugh. And she would be right.

  “Wish I could just go ridin’ off,” she grumbles.

  “Soon enough,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, that’s a lie.”

  She’s wearing the headband Mom made for her—the one with the tie-dye shades of blue.

  “Tell Lee to take care of my bike,” she says to the rim rocks.

  “Your bike’ll be fine,” I say. “It was born for today.”

  “Yeah, well, I sure wasn’t.”

  Slam! There it is. The sphinx has spoken.

  “And tell her to take care of you too, Texas Slim. You’re not good for much except ridin’ dirt bumps.”

  I let the words sink in. Because she’s right. I’m not good for much when it comes to Siouxsie and all that clashes inside her. When I was twelve nothing clashed inside me—except whatever got between me, my bike, and the mesas.

  “Where would you go?” I ask.

  Siouxsie still hasn’t looked at me. Just adjusted her sneer. “Huh?” she says.

  “I mean, if you could go anywhere on the 125—your 125 . . . just hop on and blast off, where would you wanna go?”

  “That’s a stupid question,” she says.

  I toss my helmet in the air and catch it. Glance back at Lee, who’s watching us.

  “Hey, do you remember how you told Dad and me we all live on different sides of a mountain?”

  Siouxsie twitches. “Yeah. So?”

  “So I haven’t been much of a brother. Not since Mom died.”

  Her shoulders jerk, like it’s nothing.

  “But I’m workin’ on it. And if I don’t make it . . .”

  Her eyes cut to mine. “What do you mean, if you don’t make it?”

  I toss my helmet again and catch it. “Only . . . sometimes there’s no right or wrong. Just half right or half wrong. Like, if you had to pick between stale or spoiled—”

  “Stale, obviously,” Siouxsie says.

  “Well, this is harder than that.”

  Siouxsie pivots in her chair and rolls over to the top of the stairs. She peers down at me. “What on earth are you talking about, Arlo?”

  “Nothin’,” I say. “Only, maybe I’ve been living on the wrong side of the mountain. And I’m sorry.”

  She weighs my words. I can tell she senses there’s more to them, but she doesn’t ask me to elaborate, thank God. Because if she did, I might have to tell her that, if I were a better brother, I’d do everything I could to help her for the long haul.

  I’m also thinking that someday I will ride away and one of us will be gone forever.

  “Well, mountains have trails, you know,” she says.

  I get off my bike, climb the porch steps, go behind the wheelchair, and wrap my arms around her. Hold her close. Like I never have.

  She sits there, not knowing what to make of me.

  I’m her crazy brother.

  I ride away.

  I always ride away.

  LEE AND I FOLLOW the dry bed of Chicorica Creek, then cut through the cottonwoods and take an old road that runs through the Ponderosa. We climb a few miles through shade. To any distant ear, we must sound like obnoxious chainsaws. I pity the hibernating bear or sleeping cougar, but what the hell.

  We break into a meadow. To the north, you can see all the way up Raton Pass, to the south all the way to the Capulin Volcano. East is an eyeful of mesa, traced with snow. West is filled with dam and pipeline. We don’t look west.

  I might not always like living in Clay Allison, New Mexico, but I always love the high country. It fills my eyes and lungs. Makes me feel punier and luckier.

  Lee gets off her bike. Picks up a pinecone. Inhales it. Pockets it.

  From here the ridgeline narrows up to the rim rocks. It’s the back way to the top of the canyon—also, come to think of it, to that vertical slab of rock that Lupita pointed out a while ago—the one blazed with “very old art”—the Indian petroglyphs.

  I’m tempted to head up there to check out those ancient images. The high goat-trail aspects shouldn’t be a problem for Lee. She’s good on a bike—great balance, that’s obvious.

  What stops me is the secret—to respect the fact that nobody but Lupita and I knows about this place. Maybe she means to tell Lee herself. Maybe Lee already knows.

  But I better not ask.

  We better not go there.

  Someday, maybe. Not today.

  Never mess with a secret.

  And never mess with a promise.

  Unless your very life depended on it.

  We cut down the meadow and hook on to an old mining road that leads to the ghost town of Sally Nickel. I signal Lee, and we stop at an overlook and ponder what’s left of the town: the block foundations, slag heaps, and rusted metal. The ancient steam engine and busted coal carts. All the emptiness and ghostliness. The cabins, stores, and churches were torn down and hauled off long ago.

  “What happened here?” Lee asks.

  “Mines played out,” I say. “She dried up some time after World War II. Don’t know exactly when.”

  Lee points to the cemetery on the hill. “That might tell us something.”

  We cruise past the chimneys and coal ovens and take the cut up to the cemetery. Kill our engines and walk to the iron gate. Time has rubbed the headstones and even tilted a few. You can see where plastic flowers long ago bleached into the stone.

  Lee wanders among the graves, reading the “Sleep My Beloveds” and “Rest in the Lords.” She picks up a stick and scratches lichen off one faded name. I check out a few stones myself, then go over and sprawl in the grass. It’s as high as wheat, a natural bed.

  Pretty soon, she drops beside me. “Nineteen fifty-five. That’s the most recent. But it doesn’t mean anything. Somebody could’ve been buried here after the town dried up. You never know.”

  “You never do,” I say. “Cemeteries are far from scientific.”

  Lee snaps off several stalks of grass. “Seems like half the people here died on the same day.”

  “Mine explosion,” I say. “All these
little towns were tragic.”

  She measures three stalks, and her fingers go to work twining them into a braid.

  “I counted seven Espositos and five Papadopouloses,” she says. “All died on May 5, 1948.”

  “Immigrants,” I say. “One of my ancestors died in that explosion. On my mom’s side.”

  “Tell me about your mom,” Lee says. “What was she like?”

  I shrug. “Like any mom.”

  “I’ve seen her picture, Arlo. And Lupita’s told me about her. She wasn’t like any mom.”

  I claw a hand into the earth, rip out a scalp-size chunk, and pitch it at the nearest headstone. It disintegrates in midair.

  Lee says, “I hear she was good with horses.”

  “Extremely,” I say. “She liked to ride bareback hell-bent. I’ve seen her do it a hundred times.”

  Lee chuckles. “I like her nickname for you, Little Texas Slim.”

  “Yeah, well, what can I say. Siouxsie won’t let it die. And now Lupita’s hijacked it.”

  “What else can you tell me about her?”

  I look down at the busted old town where the Main Street parade happened long ago, if it ever happened at all.

  “Nothin’,” I say.

  Lee props my wrist on her knee. “If I were to walk past her, who would I see, Arlo?”

  “No offense,” I say. “I’m just no good at this.”

  “It’s all right,” Lee says.

  As she loops the braid around my wrist, a strand of her hair brushes against my forearm. I’m extremely aware of it. Just when she’s about to cinch the knot, it breaks.

  “Shoot!” She flings it away and gazes down at all the slag and rust that once was Sally Nickel. Broken. We’re all broken. Knots, towns, people. It’s just the normal state of things.

  “I’ll tell you a story,” I say.

  “Please do,” Lee says, reaching for more stalks of grass. This time, instead of snapping them off, she slides them out by the roots, for added length.

  “One time—when I was five or six—we were up at my Grandpa Spencer’s place. It was blowing pretty hard. I had a new toy, an action figure named GI Joe or Sergeant Savage, something like that.”