The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time

by Samuel Ben White

  "I hope so, too," he told her. As an idea popped into his head, he told her, "Perhaps even if we can't get there, one of our grandchildren will be one of the first explorers to see La Plata Canyon."

  It was another night much like that one that she asked, "I bet you had many friends back there in your La Plata Canyon."

  "Not really," he shook his head. "Just two really."

  "Come now—"

  "Seriously. I knew a lot of people, but I didn't have any close friends."

  "So who were the two?"

  "Man named Charlie Begay was one. He was an Indian. Not like the ones you're thinking of. He was from a tribe called the Navaho. I helped get his son into college. Really bright young man. His father could have gone to college, too, but he had to support his parents and went to work instead."

  "And the other? The other friend, I mean."

  "Tex. He was quite a guy. Saw him the day before I left." He grimaced slightly, then added, "I never thought, at the time, that I'd never see him again. There was so much we talked about that day that I would like to have spoken more of. To learn more of."

  "Why? What did you speak of that day?"

  He had been getting out of the pilot's chair, making one more check of the machine before the "flight", and had just selected for a hard copy. The printer began to generate a pile of paper containing the pertinent data and Garison scanned it with an expert eye, tuned through years of practice—and months devoted to this particular project—to spot the smallest discrepancy.

  Tearing off the printout while paper was still being spewed, Garison walked over to the "engine housing" and removed the cover. Glancing back and forth between the machine and the printout, Garison visually inspected everything he could reach without having to dismantle the entire device.

  "Looks good," he muttered. Standing up, he glanced at his watch and said, "All I need now is fuel." His watch told him it was just now nine o'clock and he knew there would be no way to get the fuel he needed before noon. Still, he thought, that should leave him enough time to complete the experiment in the afternoon.

  Fuel had been one of the main considerations when locating in La Plata Canyon for the San Juan Mountains were rich in uranium. In a colossal breech of both protocol and good common sense, the director of the uranium processing plant often traded Garison processed uranium for work. This not only served Garison quite well, but the work done for the director served that man as well. It was another instance of Garison exploiting the inefficiency of a totalitarian state where graft was as much a rule as any law written in the books.

  As the printer regurgitated the last of its fibrous meal, Garison made one more quick assessment of the read-outs. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he powered-down the computers and started for the door. If he left soon, he could make it to the plant just as the lunch bell sounded and, thus, meet with the director under fewer prying eyes than there might have otherwise been.

  Just as his hand reached for the doorknob, the intercom to the right of the doorframe buzzed. Puzzled, Garison depressed the talk button and said, "Fitch."

  A solitary word came in reply, "Tex."

  Garison smiled and pushed the button which would unlock the front gate and allow his visitor to enter. A dubious looking visitor slipped in, then ducked into the bushes. Garison left his lab at the same time, intending to meet the visitor in the middle. He was careful to lock the door behind him as he exited the lab and gave the knob a quick check just to make sure before setting off across the yard.

  Just as Fitch got to his house, the figure came out of the forest and called with a smile, "Howdy."

  Garison Fitch smiled at the old man and asked, "That's a word whose etymology I am still curious about."

  "Means hello," the man said gruffly. Tex was a man Garison guessed to be in his mid-fifties, though he could have been much older—or younger. His skin had that weathered and wind-beaten look of someone who had spent a lot of time in the sun. Garison knew the man was what the vernacular had once called a cowboy, or gaucho, and he looked every bit the part. His boots were run down at the heel as a result of walking with bowed legs and the flannel shirt he wore was soft and worn. His pants were of the denim dungaree variety and he wore a slouching hat known as a "cowboy hat" and the unofficial symbol of the state of Texas.

  "I know what it means," Garison laughed. "I just don't know where it comes from."

  Effecting a poorly done British accent, the visitor explained, "It is a form of conjunction, a condensing of the phrase 'How do you do' into a single word: howdy."

  "And hello to you, too. Your accent needs some work, still. So, what brings you up this way, Tex?" Garison asked, noticing that, as always, Tex was looking at the barn that concealed his lab curiously. Garison let no one in the lab, whether they were friendly or not. He had even been deft enough to turn away government inspectors, so far.

  "Just thought I'd stroll by," the old man replied as they went into the house. As they walked through the doorway to the house, Garison paused for a moment to listen, at which the old man told him with annoyance, "I'm clean."

  "You certainly don't smell it," Fitch chided him. The old man did smell as if he had traveled quite a distance on foot. His clothes and his knapsack added to the impression, being stained with dust and snow and maybe even a little sweat, reaffirming what Garison had often thought before: Tex traveled on foot when in Marx.

  As a safeguard for his scientific experiments, and in deference to the global significance of his locale, Garison had wired his house with the most sophisticated anti-bugging electronics in the world. Had anyone tried to enter his house while wearing a microphone or any sort of electronic device—even a hearing aid—an alarm would have betrayed them immediately. Something as big as a pocket radio would have set off alarm claxons audible two hundred yards away. Garison had added the alarm system as if in concession to the state, but the truth was that it was the state he most wanted to be protected against. The upshot was that he was confident Texas wasn't wired on this visit—or any other he had made.

  "What's new in Texas?" Garison asked as they sat down in the living room. It was a good-sized room, with furniture Garison had mostly made himself. Rugged and functional, but not always comfortable, in some circles it would have been hailed for its "quaint rusticness", though that wasn't the effect Garison had wanted. He had actually been trying for beauty, but his wood-working skills were still fledgling.

  "Nothing much," the old man replied. "It's an election year, again—but I reckon we'll keep the same man. He's done good so far."

  Garison nodded and said, "Hecht's a good man. We could use a few like him up here—if the system had a place for him."

  "We could use a few more like him down there," Tex mumbled. "Things get a little tight at times, even in Texas. World bein' how it is."

  "Which reminds me—for some reason I can't fathom—you didn't happen to smuggle in a little of that elixir, did you?"

  Tex smiled, but shook his head, "No, I traveled light this time. I'll try to bring some up next trip. It ain't easy carrying that stuff in on your back, you know."

  "That's true." Garison said, with a twinkle in his eye, "But it has been too long since these lips have tasted the Nectar of the Gods."

  "What I want to know," Tex told him, "Was how a Red like you came to like Dr Pepper in the first place. It may be our 'national drink', but we don't export. I mean, we would if anyone would let us, but..." he let the thought trail off since they both knew how it would be finished.

  Garison thought for a moment as he tried to remember where he had first tasted it, then replied, "It must have been when I met with President Perry. He introduced me to the intoxicating drink and told me how it had been invented by an apothecary in your little town of Wacko."

  "Waco," Tex corrected. "And we call 'em druggists."

  "Whatever," Garison shrugged. "But I know you didn't sneak up here just to chat about my beverage preferences. Why are you here?"
<
br />   Garison had been meeting with Tex ever so often since he had moved to La Plata Canyon. The old cowboy (a term Fitch had since read a great deal about in Texas literature since first being introduced to it by Tex) just showed up every now and then and talked for a while before drifting back to Texas. The mere fact that Tex had shown up so soon after the move had told Garison that, somehow, the Texans probably knew what he was doing just as well as the Soviets did. Garison had never figured out how the man crossed the border, and had never felt at liberty to ask. Tex was certainly a spy of some sort, but he was friendly and Garison had never told him anything of value.

  Over time, a strange sort of friendship had developed despite the fact that neither man completely trusted the other. They often talked of cowboying and religion and other topics, and both had come to know that the other was being open and honest during such discussions. When the conversation moved to politics or science, however, both began to hold back—and they both knew it. It was like an intricate dance and, maybe, the difficulty of learning the dance was what had forged the genuine friendship that lay underneath.

  Besides Dr Pepper, Tex smuggled in something even more valuable to Garison. Tex looked around suspiciously for a moment, then opened his knapsack and pulled out some books. They were slightly weathered, but in better condition than most that Garison saw. Garison had noticed before that books from other countries were often in better shape than those openly circulated in the Soviet world; not because the foreign books were read less, but because they were better made. In a society such as Garison's, where reading was not encouraged except of state-supported literature, quality was not a consideration in publishing. Soviet books were usually printed on a pulpy paper, with a crude or no design on the cover, and poorly stitched together. To hold the well-crafted books Tex often brought was a joy to Garison almost equal to reading their contents. He reasoned that maybe it was because he was envious of a society that prized the written the word.

  Like a kid at Christmas (a slightly incorrect analogy, as Christmas had been banned by the communists years before), Garison asked anxiously, "What are these?"

  "Novels," Tex replied. Handing the first one to Garison, he said, "Well, strictly speaking, this one isn't a novel. It's true events with a little embellishing. It's by a veterinarian we used to have back home named Doc Greene. Excellent writer and very funny. You'll like him."

  "Funny?" Garison asked dubiously. His time for reading was precious and he didn't like wasting it on anything he might consider frivolous.

  Tex nodded, "Very. But don't be misled. Ben Greene was probably one of the best horse doctors in history. His book on horse breeding is still the standard—and probably the only one of his books you could buy in this country. He wrote lots of serious works on veterinary science, and the realism shows in his fanciful books like that one you're holding. You'll learn more about horse doctorin' in one of his books than you could learn in a year at one of your veterinary schools, I'll wager."

  As Garison took the book gingerly, opening it as if it were made from spun sugar or rose petals, Tex set the next one down on the table. He said, "This one's by a feller named Kelton. Cowboy stories. Fiction, but written by a man who knows the facts, if that make sense. He lives in a place called San Angelo now, but you can tell he's spent a lot of time a-horseback. You'll learn a sight from him, too."

  Garison grabbed it happily and remarked, "I love your cowboy stories! I wish I had been a cowboy."

  "There's still a few around. I could get you a job, if you're ever of a mind to immigrate." Tex had almost said defect, as that was the only way to immigrate to Texas from any outside country. The borders had been sealed for over a decade, a policy Tex wasn't entirely in favor of but one he hadn't the means to change.

  Garison almost said he'd think about immigrating, but merely shrugged, "I'm allergic to horses, anyway."

  Tex handed Garison the last of the books and said, "This here's my favorite. I've been looking all over for a good copy to bring you and I finally found this new one. It's good to see these old books being printed anew. Makes me think maybe the young people will read 'em." After a hesitation, he added, "And then maybe the world won't look so bad after all."

  Garison took the book reverently and asked, "O. Henry?"

  Tex nodded, "Yep. I don't recollect what his real name was. It might say in there. You know, he lived up in New York and Chicago, some."

  "He did?"

  "Yeah. Back before...well, you know." There was a reticence even among the Soviet Americans to recall their former days of relative freedom under British rule for the memories were just too painful for most. Tex leaned back in his chair and added with a smile, "Maybe that's why I like books so much, Fitch. Them old books, a lot of them take me places I can't go no more. Places that are gone."

  "New York and Chicago are still there, Tex."

  "You know what I mean. They aren't the same as they used to be, and I doubt that they ever will be again."

  "You don't seem to have too much trouble with travel, Tex," Garison responded, beginning the dance that would circumvent the world of politics.

  Tex shrugged and replied, "That's a little different. The world, though, it's all closed off now. Texas is the free-est place in the world, but sometimes I feel like we're locked. Like maybe we ain't even in charge of our own destiny anymore. Seems like the world's on a set course—and a bad one at that. We're unquestionably land-locked and it seems like we're politic-locked, too."

  "My father used to say that change was always possible as long as there was hope."

  "Think there's any hope left?"

  Garison paused, looked out the window that faced across the canyon, and remembered his father. His father had always sympathized with the underground movement that wanted the Americas to break away from Soviet rule and Garison had wondered more than once if those feelings hadn't contributed to his parents' demise. After a bit he said, "The mountains look the same, Tex. A little over a hundred years ago a fire wiped out a lot of timber near hear. People call it the 'Lime Creek Burn' even to this day when almost no evidence of the fire is left. Maybe sometimes nature burns off an old forest so something good can grow back. That's hopeful, in a way."

  "Sounds a little fatalistic to me, Fitch. Ain't too hopeful for them what gets burned."

  "Listen to us," Garison laughed, trying to ease the moment. "We sound like a couple of philosophy students."

  "Just sound like thinkers to me," Tex objected. "You know, people who have put something in their mind other than just the party line and now have thoughts on their own."

  "Quite an ideal, Tex," Garison replied uncomfortably. Garison had long before began to reject the party line, but he still battled with thirty years of programming that told him the Soviet way was the only way.

  "There's a place where a lot of us live, Garison." He looked around and said, "There's a place where you can keep whatever book you want in your house—right in plain view. Good books, bad books, whatever you've a mind to read. There's a place where grocery stores sell books right there in front of everybody and no government agency checks to make sure whether they're the right books or not. People read books and talk about them out loud, even if they disagree."

  "I know, Tex," Garison told him sadly. "I've seen it." Garison had often thought about the one tour of Texas he had made, but he had always had the suspicion in the back of his mind that they had only shown him what they wanted him to see, as his country would have done for a visiting dignitary. He could barely conceive that there really was a place as free as Texas claimed to be.

  Tex reached into the knapsack with a smile and said, "I wasn't telling the truth when I said I didn't have any more books for you. I've got one more. It's short, but I think you'll like it."

  Interested again, Garison queried, "What is it?"

  Tex handed Garison what was little more than a pamphlet and said, "It's the Book of Mark."

  "I've got a Bible, Tex," Garison said, his voice
just above a whisper as he had long since been trained not to make such admissions too loud.

  "You've got that old King James Version you copied off by hand, right?"

  "Yeah. So?"

  "Take a look at that." Tex gestured to the book, "It's in modern English so's folks can understand it."

  "They changed the Bible?" Garison asked with indignation.

  "Naw. That there Bible's taken straight from the Greek—the language Mark wrote it in to begin with. A friend of mine named Rondall Smith and some scholars down Dallas way are working at putting the Bible into today's English so we can understand it more easily. You read that; see if it don't make more sense to you than all them 'thees' and 'thous'."

  Tex whispered, "Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but I think I can trust you. They've got more than a million copies of that ready to be smuggled into your country in the next few weeks."

  Garison flipped through the small book, impressed at what he was able to see with just a cursory glance. Then, as if purposefully ignoring the book he held in his hand, motioned to the short stack of books and beamed, "I can't thank you enough, Tex. I know what it'd mean if you were caught coming here...and with books!"

  "These folks ain't high on independent thought, are they?" Tex broached one of the subjects they had always danced around because he knew it made Garison uncomfortable, "What did you think of that Bible you read, Garison?"

  Garison thought a moment, then decided to be honest, "I was...amazed. I had heard about the Bible, and had even quoted brief bits of it while practicing law—you know, the few little phrases that were allowed to creep into our society. Of course, when quoting the Bible in a Soviet court you never cite your source. But anyway, I was amazed. I went in as a skeptic, figuring it was just another religious crutch, but I was curious because it was a phenomenon that had lasted so long, and under such persecution.

  "Still, I figured it couldn't possibly hold up to the scrutiny of a trained legal and scientific mind like mine. I took that so much for granted that I read it like you'd read literature—with interest but not necessarily with study. It sucked me in, though. I found myself absorbed in the stories and in its unabashed attack on sin. That's one thing that really amazed me: that that whole big book by all those different authors, written over all those years could have such a central theme."