The bright florescent office light nearly blinds me as I wait for the salesman. My gloves stick uncomfortably to black leather, but the chair embraces me warmly. I rarely fit in armed chairs, but this one opens wide enough for snug support. It’s almost like being hugged. It would make a fine replacement for my old wooden roundabout in the living room. I could put that one in the kitchen, maybe eat there from now on.
But that’s all in the past now.
I quickly check the clock and my heart jump-starts. I should leap from the chair’s grasp and find the salesman. Visiting time will be over in a couple of hours. I’ve got to get this wrapped up. But I must calm down first. I search the office for things to take my mind off such worries.
My attention finally focuses on a picture of the salesman with his lovely wife, two kids and the family dog (held by a little boy). It graces a desk littered with papers and thick ring notebooks. Everyone looks bright and attractive in the photo, except the boy who doesn’t smile and clutches the dog, a miniature collie, which appears ready to leap off his lap and out of the picture. The girl must be a few years older, maybe seven years old, maybe eleven; it’s so hard to tell sometimes. Pictures make girls seem older.
The salesman walks into the office with a computer printout flowing to the floor.
“Nice family.”
“The girl ain’t mine, that came from her,” he waves his hand toward his wife’s smiling face. “But the boy, that’s mine.” He sits sweeping the printout on the desk.
“Nice looking kid.”
He looks at me with distrust. It’s the most sincere expression, verbal or otherwise, that I’ve received from him all morning.
“The kid’s a pain in the ass. The school specialist says he’s learning disabled, whatever that means. Yeah, he’s got a learning disability all right—he’s lazy, that’s what it is! Laziness, that’ll disable any boy. Now me, I’m self-made: no father got me a job; no school specialist made up excuses for my failures. You sink or swim in this world. I’m a swimmer …” I fidget in the leather chair and accidentally bump my knee on the desk. He turns his attention toward me.” … and I can tell that you are too, a real survivor. Am I wrong, huh, am I wrong?”
“I guess so,” rubbing my leg.
“You bet I’m right. Now I’ve got something special for you, pal,” he smiles again and rustles the printout towards me. “This is a complete printout of the Projected Cost Breakdown, Option List, Vehicle Service Contract, Customer’s Checklist for Delivery, Certificate of Title, Certificate of Origin, Retail Certificate of Sale, 30 Day/1000 Miles Implied Warranty, BMYADACY-KOPEK State Used Vehicle Limited Warranty, Smart Lease Option, Extended Protection Coverage, Vehicle Cash Purchase Agreement or Credit Purchase Agreement with Proposed Payment Scheduling Alternatives, Buyer’s Guide, Projected Invoice, Transaction Summary, and the results of the Projected Buyer DMV Search Inquiry. This is just a computer printout so, in itself, it’s not binding, but everything here is 100% accurate and truthful in fact and coverage, unconditionally guaranteed!”
I try to fold the printout like an unruly newspaper. I look up to catch him gazing over my shoulder to the showroom floor. His eyes take on the look of a cat’s when something rustles in the woods. He stands and puts on his jacket.
“Look it over and take your time. We don’t push our customers here. An informed customer always makes the best decision for everyone involved, so,” he adjusts his tie, “you look that over and any questions you have, feel free to ask.” I look over and see a man wandering among the shiny new cars. As the salesman makes for the door, he says, “I’ll leave you alone to read that over and be right back, so don’t go anywhere.”
Before he makes it out the door, I spin the chair around and ask, “Could you wait one moment, please?”
He pauses, caught off guard by my sudden forwardness.
“I’m very sorry to bother you, I know you’re very busy, but I’m ready to buy the car right now. I have the money.”
He looks mournfully toward the showroom. The customer on the other side of the glass, now standing still, checks his watch.
“We can wrap this up in a minute, pal, if you just let me direct this man towards a new car.”
“I can’t wait. I must drive out of here this afternoon. I have a money order made out directly to this franchise. Can you or can’t you sell me a car right this minute.”
“Yes I can.”
“Then let’s start signing things.”
Reluctantly he sits back down. I get a sense of power that I usually can only feel at home. The customer on the floor checks his watch again and leaves.
To this day, there are still wild mustangs. To witness a herd roaming the plains is a sight to behold. Dashing full speed and trailing their unruly manes, they seem to encompass the soul of the cowboy as well as the spirit of the west in striving to remain free from the reigns of civilization.157
“O.K.” he says, “Where do you work?”
“Work?”
“Yes, work, job, title, yearly salary.”
“I have a monthly allowance.”
His face takes on that sincere look again. “Allowance, what do you mean allowance? Like what I give my kids?”
“Only if they’re good, I hope.”
“Is that supposed to be funny? I’m asking you a simple fucking question.”
“Such language!” I feel my power slipping.
“Work—do you or don’t you?”
“I work every day.”
“On what?”
“Oh, on lots of things. I have a list I can show you.”
“But your job, your official title, what is it?”
“I’m the lone recipient of a trust fund managed by a lawyer and a stock broker.”
“How much do you get a month?”
“My mortgage, maintenance, electricity, heat, and phone bills are paid for automatically”
“How much do you get?!”
“$350.”
“What?”
“But I don’t spend it all on food, rarely buy clothes and never go out.”
He looks to the ceiling. “He doesn’t work.”
I don’t feel any power at all. “I’ve been able to save a lot of money. I have a money order …”
“How do you expect to get credit, if you don’t have a job.”
“My lawyer can vouch for my voracity. He’s an old family friend.”
“Your lawyer can’t do shit. He doesn’t even trust you with anything more than pocket change.” He puts his head in his hands and pauses. He must be thinking of a way to help me. “Wait. How much is that money order made out for?”
“$3,691.84.”
“Lemme see that.” He snatches it from my hand and looks it over front and back. His face relaxes and he smiles. “Have I got a car for you.”
pinto pin-to n [pintar fr. Spanish, to paint]: spotted horse so named for its painted appearance. Pintos were once war ponies of the Nez Perce Indians before the defeat of Chief Joseph in 1877 after which their horses were scattered along the northwestern plains.158
White with dull stains splashed over its body like spots on a sick dalmatian, the car is wedged in the corner of the lot and looks as if it hasn’t been moved in weeks. If I had spent hours rather than seconds surveying the lot before choosing the mustang, this would have been the one car I would have forgotten immediately. Then it hits me, a little moment of truth: inconspicuousness is one of the most important qualities my car must possess if I am to succeed in my mission.
“This baby suits you better, after all, you’re no speed demon, are you?”
“No,” I acknowledge, “I’m not built for speed.”
“It’s smaller too, easier to park and think of the gas mileage, three times better than that old Mustang.”
“What kind of car did you say this is?”
“A Pinto, a Ford Pinto. A real classic. You must have heard of them.”
“I believe I may have, but I think it was in
some crash dummy test.”
“Oh that. Those tests were all fixed by left-wing radicals who wanted easy money for drugs. They claimed the gas tank was designed wrong, but the gas tank is fine.”
“I think I recall reading in the newspaper years ago that Ford was sued and lost.”
“They didn’t lose; they settled out of court. Ford had to. They were getting reams of bad press. It was a smear campaign for the press to sell papers. This is a great car, a 1980 model, regrettably the last production year. Just give it a knock.” He knocks on the hood. “Here that gong? That’s American steel, no clang like a Jap car. Yes, they don’t make cars like this anymore.”
“I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
“Ah, you just don’t notice them. They blend in so well to the American landscape that you don’t realize how many of them are still on the road until you start looking for them.”
“Can I get in and try to turn the motor over?”
“Sure thing, pal, I got the keys right here. First let me pull that seat back for you if you don’t mind.” He loudly cranks it back. “There. See, enough room in the front seat to fit an elephant.”
I squeeze myself through the door by going in head first then turning sideways and nudging my thighs under the wheel which fits snugly against my stomach.
“Does this chair go back any further?”
“Why would you want to do that? A snug fit is a safe fit.”
I put the key in, turn, give it a little gas. Nothing.
“Don’t flood the engine now. Try again.”
On the third try, it finally turns over. I give it gas and feel the power of the motor in my hands as it revs up.
“Look at that speedometer, just 44,000 miles. A spinster owned it and only drove it to church on Sundays. It’s the best deal on the lot, but you got to take it today. I doubt it’ll last the morning. The next guy in could be the one to buy it. It’s practically a virgin car, pal. You’re the first I’ve shown it to since it came in yesterday and you know how guys jump on virgin meat. Well this baby’s hot to trot and her prom dress won’t stay on for long.”
I feel right at home behind the wheel of this lost classic, this misunderstood orphan of the auto industry. I can feel it in my bones. This will be my mount. My Pinto and I will hit the dusty trail together come what may.
You can judge a man by the horse he rides.”159
I’ll call her … Allamanda! Yes, Allamanda—a perfect name for a pinto pony. Together we’ll ride into the sunset, me and my pinto, Allamanda, on a mission of mercy.
“I’ve ridden weary miles with him; I’ve starved and faced the bears with him; and I’ve played the fiddle when he danced while a sergeant and a deputy sat in the room with orders to arrest him, dead or alive.”
- Frank B. Coe160
Chapter Twenty-One
“One day, while a half-blind old man was traveling on his burro, Billy the Kid and Sostenes the Bandit rode up. Sostenes said, ‘Billy, let’s kill this old blind man just to see how old blind men die.’
“‘Let him alone,’ commanded the Kid. ‘He’s doing no harm.’ The old man thought his day had come, and when the kid prevented Sostenes from killing him, El Chivato became the old man’s hero.”
- Guadalupe Baca De Gallegos161
I know I should sleep, but I also know it’s now or never. I’m beyond sleep anyway. I am not awake in the way that those who have slept are, but in the way that only those who have not slept can be. Attempting to sleep in bed would be pointless anyway. As soon as I slip into a deep sleep, my instincts shake me awake like a man driving at night along a dark empty highway nudged shockingly awake by his tires rubbing against the shoulder.
With an understanding beyond rationality, I sense that if I do give in to sleep, Morpheus, on his flight to the land of slumber, will simply drop me. Then, I’ll sink so deeply into the dark pool of subconscious space that I’ll never surface again and drown for all eternity. Some God is plotting against me. (Which God? There are too many from too many cultures to determine, who knows which one I’ve upset.) Still, there is one way to stop the demon that’s been suffocating me in my sleep. Thanks to another God, one who has mercy on my soul, I’ve been shown the road to redemption. I must complete my appointed task, however. Until then, bed is a place of peril. Out of the corners of my eyes, occasional flashes keep me alert for trouble. I jump as the phone rings. I pick up and listen.
“Hello … Hello … Hello …?”
That’s the last time I’ll ever have to listen to that.
“Have you anything to say,” asked Judge Bristol, “why the sentence of death should not be passed upon you?”
“No,” replied the Kid with conversational nonchalance, “and if I did have anything to say, it wouldn’t do me no good.”
“Then it is the order of the court that you be taken to Lincoln and confined in jail until May the thirteenth and that on that day, between the hours of sunrise and noon, you be hanged on a gallows until you are dead, dead, dead.
“And may God have mercy on your soul.”162
The waiting room is empty today as I slide past orderlies loading the wheelchair-condemned onto a medical bus. The laughing lady occupies the front desk. Holding the phone with her shoulder, she moves papers about, occasionally filing one. I walk in as she cackles and spins on her chair to file a folder on the other side. With her back to me I slip by into the stairwell, where safe, I can take a deep breath and compose myself for the steep climb.
Some strange astringent has been used to clean the stairwell which stings my eyes. The two flights leave me breathless. Coming out, I’m disoriented. Easter decorations, sloppily hand-cut, haphazardly line the walls in a Matissian nightmare of cheap pink and light green construction paper. Trying to remember the room number, I follow my nose, figuratively of course because I’m breathing carefully through the mouth. I find the long hallway. Cluttered with abandoned human wrecks and faceless white-smocked orderlies, no one pays me any mind as I walk towards the room at the end. The door is slightly ajar again. I peak inside. Mercifilly, he’s asleep. I walk to his bed. He looks so peaceful—eyes half closed, mouth half open—he could be dead all ready, but he isn’t. This is the last look I’ll get of him, here, in this bright white hell and I’m filled with a sudden pride because I know that I will be the angel of his deliverance, me, Walter the nobody, former anonymous apartment dweller, former beautiful loser, former member of the living dead.
Carefully, without disturbing his sleep, I pull the pillow from under his head.
The report of a shotgun brought the townspeople to their doors up and down the street. News about some sort of tragedy at the courthouse spread quickly. Billy the Kid had done something terrible again. “I told you so,” ran from mouth to mouth. The desperado was loose; he might be planning other atrocities. Panic fell upon the town. Best for Lincoln to keep indoors. So the villagers, having rushed out, rushed in again, drew the bolts, and closed the shutters. Half-a-dozen men eating dinner in the Wortley Hotel crowded pell-mell out upon the porch. That was as far as their curiosity took them. Enthusiasm for investigation evaporated when they saw Olinger stretched dead across the street. They remained on the porch as spectators, awaiting the next act in the play.163
“Great-grandfather?”
“Huh …”
“Great-grandfather, are you awake?”
“¿Quien es? ¿Quien es?”
“It’s me.”
“¿Es Chavez?”
“No, Walter.”
“¿Quien es, Walter?”
“Walter, your great-grandson. Walter, the name you’ve got plastered all over your room, the number you’ve been calling for days, weeks, years. I’m here. I’ve come to save you. We’re going to make a break for it. You’re going to be free again.”
“Great-grandson? I have no great-grandson. Had a grandson though. Up and died in a motor car accident with his wife. His wife—a fine looking filly, she was.”
“We’
re making a break for it, Great-grandfather. Are you game?”
His eyes light up. “Am I game? Am I game! Ain’t never been a man more game than me.” His brows furrow in confusion. “What’s all this talk about a game?”
“Do you want to break out of here or not, old-timer?”
“Break out! Are we bustin’ out of this damn jail? Terrible place to put a fellow in.”
“You bet we’re busting out. Are you ready to leave?”
“Where’s my horse?”
I toss the pillow on the seat of the wheelchair. “Right here, saddled up and ready to ride.”
“Good. I’m a little weak from doing so much time in this hell-hole. Help me mount up. Hey wait. This ain’t no horse. It’s a damn mule!”
“It’s all we got, Great-grandfather. Do you want to go or stay?”
“An army couldn’t keep me here. Let’s ride.”
He tries to roll over, but is held back by his left arm still shackled to the bed. My heart leaps into my mouth. How could I have forgotten?
“Looks like I’ll have to slip this cuff,” he remarks.
“But how?”
“Folding-palm technique—watch.”
Using his right hand, he folds his left palm inward and miraculously slips out.
“Ha! Never was a shackle made that could hold me.”
He rolls over but can’t get up. I have to help him—another part I hadn’t thought out. He seems as fragile as a boiled chicken wing. I’m afraid to touch him. He puts his right arm around my shoulders. His touch is clammy and ice-cold.
“What are you waiting for? You some kind of greenhorn? Swing my legs out.”
I hesitate.
“Are you getting paid in Arbuckle stamps? Drag my legs over the edge, pronto!”
I obey.
“Now lift me up and don’t drop me.”
Even though he looks light, he seems to weigh a ton. When I finally have him in the air, I realize the wheelchair is facing the wrong way.
Billy’s Blues Page 15