by Weston Ochse
“Being responsible for your family is a harder prospect altogether,” his father had drilled into him. “Attaching yourself to a higher principle is easy compared to a wife and kids and cousins and aunts. Familial responsibility is something that everyone can attain. Who was it who said that marriage is the great equalizer?”
Certainly someone who’d never been divorced thought Gibb as he surged forward, siren blaring as his Crown Victoria bore down on the Chevrolet. Divorce was the great equalizer. Knaves rose as great men tumbled.
Just as Gibb was about to shout commands from his loudspeaker, the driver of the Corvette eschewed a felony and rationally slowed the vehicle. An arm emerged from the driver’s side window and waved back at him as if Gibb were an Avon dealer invited in for tea and an order of soap.
One thing was for sure, the person who initiated the divorce could be accused of gross irresponsibility. His father never would hear of it. Once, when a good friend fell ignobly out of love with his wife of ten years, his father had given up the friendship without even a care. Never again did his father speak to the person whom he’d fished with and played poker with every weekend for ten years. Never again would he be in the same room with the man who'd been forced to resort to divorce. So polarized was his father by his beliefs, that young Dolan grew up with two choices—either be with Dad or against him.
The Corvette coasted to a stop beside a worn saguaro. At least three hundred years old, pieces of the immense cactus had fallen dead from the affects of vehicle exhaust. Other parts showed signs of drive-by cactus shootings.
After radioing his location to dispatch, Gibb stepped from his cruiser into the still warm night. The temperature had fallen from a daytime high of 100 degrees to 80. Dolan could still feel the heat of the day radiating from the asphalt through the soles of his shoes. It might drop another ten degrees by midnight if they were lucky.
He placed his hat on his head and adjusted his baton. Although wary, he wasn't too concerned with the driver. This one was the type to throw money at a problem rather than fight it.
"Sir, please place your keys in your hands and hold them out the window."
Once the driver complied, the rest was paperwork. Gibb found that he'd been right about the man. No hardened criminal here. In fact, he was a fire chief in San Diego.
"I didn't see you back there, officer. Sorry about that," the driver said.
Gibb allowed the man to believe his own lie and wrote him a ticket for the maximum.
“Taking responsibility for one's actions is sometimes the hardest,” his father had said to young Gibb as he was growing up. “Not only do you have to make up for your own mistakes, but if those mistakes affect others, you have to make it up to them as well. What was it the Chinese do? If you save a life, you're responsible for guaranteeing that life forever? Once again they got it all wrong. The truth is that if you adversely affect someone's life, it is your responsibility to correct it. If you save a life, you're a hero. But if you kill someone... if you kill someone outside of war, or protecting your family, your life is no longer your own.”
Gibb finished writing the ticket and passed it to the indifferent driver. The sun was nearing the horizon, etching the sky in reds and yellows. The driver stuffed the ticket into a glove compartment already overflowing with paper and sped off towards Los Angeles and the sunset.
He glanced around at the landscape. Amidst the scrub and skeletal remains of tumbleweeds, Gibb counted seven sets of crosses on his side of the road. There was nothing especially dangerous about the area. The road ran straight for miles. So why so many deaths? The only logical explanation he could come up with was the night drivers from Los Angeles to Phoenix and back falling asleep at the wheel.
Gibb's father's belief was nearly existential, something Gibb had taught his students so long ago. The essence of existentialism is a life-view where the individual is ultimately responsible for his actions. Gibb slipped into his cruiser in time to hear the squelch of the radio and a trucker asking about the strange lights over by Sore Finger Road. If Gibb remembered correctly, that was just east of Pyramid Peak. He put the patrol car in gear, waited for traffic to clear, then sped across the median and back towards Phoenix.
Ten minutes later, with the sun all but set behind him, he slowed to a stop behind a black panel van parked along the shoulder of the highway. Two Harley Davidson choppers and an immense Lincoln Towncar with gold-fleck paint were pulled onto the grassy shoulder. Parked in the front was an old fashioned red bus with large letters scrawled across the side in white paint — Espectáculo de Redención. Gibb's Spanish wasn't as good as it should have been since he lived in the Southwest, but he made the words out to mean Redemption Roadshow.
Technically, the vehicles shouldn't be parked there. The shoulder was for emergencies only and the presence of the vehicles represented a safety hazard. There were some drivers who unconsciously drove towards what they stare at; highway patrolmen dying every year from this same luckless event. The vehicles shouldn't be parked there, but Gibb wasn't about to disrupt the service. The highway patrol had an understanding about the crosses and, when possible, allowed people to mourn the loss of their loved ones.
A crowd of at least twenty people had gathered around a large white cross embedded in the earth thirty feet from the road. Three large Mexican bikers, their arms crossed over shirtless, tanned chests, watched Gibb as approached. Their heavy-lidded gaze defined disdain for his authority. They didn't even look at his gun. They had larger ones in holsters on their own hips. As Arizona was an open carry state, this was perfectly legal, if not a little Wild West.
Gibb stopped several feet away and stared over their shoulders at the large cross embedded in the earth. He'd seen it for several years now. He tried to remember the circumstances surrounding the death, but could only remember that it had been a young woman in a single car accident. Probably fell asleep at the wheel or something equally tragic.
"What do you want?" the one in the middle asked. His Fu Manchu mustache barely camouflaged an upper lip that had curled back into a snarl. "This is a private thing we do."
Gibb glanced at the speaker, then returned his gaze to the service. He watched the people situated around the cross in different states of mourning. All dressed in their Sunday best, most had their heads down and their hands clasped in front of them. A tall thin man wearing a black coat with tails stood in the center, his back to Gibb. Beside the tall man knelt another, his hands covering his face as his shoulders shook with sobs. Lying in front of them at the base of the cross was what could only be the Long Cool Woman.
Gibb felt an icy finger slide the length of his spine.
"Hey," the biker on the left said, stepping forward. "Ronnie said this is private."
Gibb turned, conscious of where his own hand was in relation to his pistol grip. "This is public land." He glanced down at the pistol on the man's hip and nodded his head towards the weapon. "I suppose you have a permit for that?"
Fu Manchu stepped forward beside the other biker.
Gibb took a step back.
“Why you want to interrupt, man?” Fu Manchu asked.
“I asked a question, sir. And what about you? I suppose you have a permit, as well?”
“We don’t need a permit. This is Arizona,” said the third biker remaining in place.
Gibb looked from one to the other. He knew they didn’t need permits, but his question often gave him indications of wrongdoing. He’d once had a guy turn tail and run when asked the question. It was a professional ploy, nothing more.
Before the situation could escalate any more, the tall man intervened. "Can I help you, officer?" His long gray hair flowed down his back, tied in an Indian braid. He put his hand on the shoulder of the biker who stood on the left of Gibb and squeezed gently. The tall man nodded to the biker, then gazed steadily at Gibb. "We're in the middle of a service and would appreciate if you’d refrain from speaking so loudly."
Gibb couldn't help but grit hi
s teeth at the man's visage. The tall man's face had been horribly burned. The contour of the skin was like the surface of the moon. Smooth and rough patches were separated by painful dimpled crevices where skin had failed to graft properly. The man's blue eyes gazed startlingly upon him, capturing him, daring him to look away.
"I'm sorry," Gibb heard himself saying. He forced himself to stare, knowing that to look away would be the worst offense. "I didn't know I was so loud." He could only imagine the pain the man had gone through.
The man nodded once. His ruined lips pealed back into a feral grin. He ran his right hand down the lapel of his six-button suit coat in a smoothing motion, and turned back to the service.
"Wait," Gibb said, stepping forward. The three bikers intercepted him, one placing his hand on Gibb's chest. He ignored this, his pleading gaze on the tall man.
The tall man turned and stared at Gibb, his posture clear that he was awaiting the reason for the further disruption.
Gibb gulped. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to say. He glanced once at the three bikers, thought of trying to push his way past, thought of arresting them, then changed his mind. His shoulders sagged. His eyes turned sad. "Can I watch? I mean, can I attend the service too?"
The tall man stared for several seconds, then nodded slowly. "I see there is pain in your soul." He held out a hand that had also been scarred from fire. "Come and watch the Long Cool Woman. Perhaps you will find her words soothing."
The bikers stepped aside. Gibb walked between them and accepted the proffered hand. He felt strength and the smoothness of scar tissue as the tall man tightened his grip into a handshake. Moreover, the hand felt dead cold.
"Thank you," said Gibb, his voice barely above a whisper.
"They call me El Hombre Quemado," said the tall man.
The Burned Man, Gibb translated to himself. The name was a good fit, if not a little morbid.
"But you can call me Rev Boscoe," the Burned Man continued, pronouncing the word Rev, making it seem more like a name than a title.
"My name is Gibb," said Gibb.
"I know.”
Gibb raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Rev Boscoe grinned a horrible grin. “I see it there on your uniform." Rev Boscoe released Gibb's hand and pointed towards the nameplate. Then he turned, walked back to the circle of mourners and resumed his place directly opposite the cross.
Gibb's hand had grown cold from the handshake, and as he walked to the circle, he rubbed it, working the warmth back into the bone and tendons. He found a place between a young Hispanic boy and an older Hispanic woman. They shifted allowing him a space of his own, their heads down in some private misery. It wasn’t until then that he finally got a good view of the Long Cool Woman.
She wasn't beautiful. Nor was she ugly. Yet she had a presence that surpassed such earthly applications. Firm lips sat beneath the arch of a patrician nose. Lipstick had been applied to her slightly frowning lips. A somewhat pointy chin and high cheekbones complimented the delicateness of her eggshell white skin. Her long black hair held gentle curls, and had been arranged so part of it lay upon her shoulders. She wore a turn of the century black dress that covered her legs and her feet. She lay upon a specially constructed black cot that held her nearly two feet from the ground. The way her dress cascaded over the edges, it almost appeared as if she were floating. One hand rested palm up on her stomach, the other was held to by the hands of a weeping man.
Gibb watched closely and, only after a concerted effort, noticed the rise and fall of the Long Cool Woman's chest. So intent was he upon his gaze, that when she moved, he let out a gasp.
Her hand on her stomach twitched like a spider coming to life. Once, twice, then the fingers curled upon themselves into a fist as she grasped the cross.
Gibb's spine sizzled with electric alarm. His attention was trapped, as surely as if the woman's hand had closed around his throat. He felt the electricity encompass the circle, as if the mourners represented a closed circuit: the mourners, him and the sobbing man, a generator for the Long Cool Woman's magic.
Suddenly her back arched so high that he felt her spine might break. Her head fell back on a limp neck. Her hand threatened to shatter the cross, the wood trembling with the pressure of her grip. The man cried out as his hand became trapped in a furious grip. He surprised himself by trying to pull away. Then the man’s attention jerked as he realized what was happening, his attention instantly shifting to the Long Cool Woman as he relaxed his arms and ceased his attempts to flee.
The Long Cool Woman settled and turned towards him. She opened her eyes and cast an emerald-eyed gaze upon him, her words fast and low.
"¿Por qué has venido?” she asked.
Why have you come? Gibb translated to himself.
The man wiped his eyes with his free hand, and tilted his head as if he were speaking to his long lost. "Por qué te extrano."
Because I miss you.
"¿Por qué usted me molesta?" she snapped, her voice anything but loving.
Why do you bother me?
Undeterred by the anger, the man answered slowly, his heart and soul merging with every syllable. "Quisiera que usted estuviera aquí.”
I wish you were here, he said and Gibb felt every word.
The Long Cool Woman stared into the man's eyes as each of the assembled mourners held their breath, Gibb included. When she finally spoke, her voice slow and filled with passion, they exhaled and their breaths became an audible wind.
"Estoy aquí," came the words as if they belonged to the desert wind.
I am here, she said, as her hand went from gripping the man's hand to caressing his cheek.
The man sobbed once more, and then gulped as he swallowed heavy emotion. He cast his eyes to Hell for a moment, before he raised them and gazed into the eyes of the Long Cool Woman. "No. Me refiero a que desearia que estuviera viva," he sighed, a lifetime of need encompassed in those seven words.
No. I mean I wish you were alive.
The Long Cool Woman stared into the man's eyes, stroked his cheek one time, and then answered softly. "Desee la lluvia, desee la felicidad, pero no desee que Dios le devuelva lo que se ha llevado.”
Wish for rain, wish for happiness, but do not wish for God to return what he's already taken.
Roles reversed as her earlier anger became his. He frowned as he spat the words, "Entonces no quiero a Dios."
Then I don't want God.
"No digas eso! No sabes lo que dices," she hissed.
Don't say that. You can't mean that.
"Pero yo se, es a ti a quien amo," he said kissing the hand of the Long Cool Woman's as if it were his wife's. "Es a ti a quien siempre he amado.”
But I do. It's you I love. It's you that I've always loved.
"Entonces amame dejandome ir," she smiled sadly.
Then love me by letting me go.
"¿Qué?"
What?
"Dejame ir," she said, her voice little more than a sigh. "Estoy muerta, asi que dejame estar con Dios."
Let me go. I am dead, so let me be with God.
"No puedo." His own sigh merged seamlessly on the end of hers.
I can't.
She stared at him, then removed her hand from his embrace. She placed it on her lap and spoke through pursed lips. "Entonces eres un egoista."
Then you are selfish.
"Deseo solamente amarte," he pleaded, reaching out, but afraid to actually touch the Long Cool Woman, but desperate.
I only want to love you.
"Entonces amame y dejame ir," she said shaking her head.
Then love me and let me go.
"Te amo," he said, staring into her eyes.
I love you.
She turned and stared towards Heaven. She continued to shake her head slightly, until finally she was still.
"Te amo," he said once more, this time softer.
The Long Cool Woman smiled once, a ghost of love escaping, then closed her eyes. She returned
to her coma, no longer a part of the living, nor longer a part of the dead, rather caught in the middle somewhere in the static of a neverland fugue.
The man stood slowly, his right hand holding the side of his face that she'd caressed. "Adiós, mi amor," he said, then he turned and pushed his way through the crowd. As he passed, his gaze momentarily met Gibb's and there was a cast about them that he recognized.
Acceptance.
Gibb watched the man stagger to the Cadillac. One of the bikers held open a door so the man could climb inside. Before the door shut, the man glanced one last time towards the Long Cool Woman and the cross. When the door closed it marked the end of the service. Some of the mourners left quietly, heads down in contemplation as they made their way to the bus. Others talked amongst one another, some happy, some sad.
Gibb didn't know quite what to do. He stared at the Long Cool Woman, whose countenance was as immutable as the Venus de Milo's. The rumors, the cable news shows, the late night wonderings had all been true. Everything he'd heard about this woman had proven itself before his eyes.
"Time to go, officer," Rev Boscoe said, his cold, scarred hand resting on Gibbs shoulder.
Two of the bikers approached and busied themselves securing the woman to the cot. They scooped her dress from the earth and tucked the edges beside her. From beneath, they brought out three sets of straps that they snapped in place across her body. Rev Boscoe tested the straps to make sure they were secure, then nodded to the one nearest the woman's head. Gibb stood silently as they lifted and carried the woman to the back of the black van where the third biker waited with the doors open.
The third biker approached the cross, wrapped two meaty hands around it, and snapped it at its base. He laid it against his shoulder, walked to the back of the bus, opened the door and slid it behind the back row of seats.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Gibb said, suddenly realizing what was going on. “You can’t do that?”
“It’s no longer needed,” Rev Boscoe said.
Gibb turned to look at the inscrutable face.
“The purpose of the cross no longer exists.”
Gibb nodded absently, but didn’t quite understand.