“Another woman,” he began. “Perhaps all the papers are wrong. Women are not, in fact, the weaker sex.”
“What papers?” asked Anna.
“Every paper. If a paper has been written upon it carries with it the ignorant assumptions of humanity because those assumptions are locked up in the language that must be used to write. Every paper, every book, every word, every letter, is part of a larger network of memories passed down through time. From the moment you write, you create a memory. Your writing always exists in the past and as such it was always written when you were stupider than you are now. Every word is written in a state of intellectual privation compared to when it is read. Every pen a tool for the aggrandizement of a moron. Inflicted as humanity is with an illness of a belief in its own perpetual rectitude, it uses this opportunity to write down lies that are lies even when they were written. And after writing down the lies frequently enough, the memories seem to fill up our collective mind. Before long, everything written is either partially or completely a lie. Truth exists in front of you, and nowhere else.
“Are women the weaker sex? I have no idea. But humanity seems utterly sure of it. And seeing as how humanity has been wrong about almost everything it had once taken for truth, I wouldn't bet on it being correct in this case.”
Anna just looked back at Hoffman, seemingly unimpressed.
“My name is Karl Hoffman. I am the lead in this lab.” He walked over to a large shelving unit next to a tank and picked up a metal pot. “Would you like some coffee and pastries.”
Anna paused briefly. “Um, coffee. I'll have some coffee.”
“Cream, sugar, milk?”
“A small amount of cream, please.” Hoffman prepared the drink and handed the cup to Anna.
“So, they've told me some things about you, but not much,” he said, sitting back in his chair behind the table. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Hm. Well, for starters, what is your area of expertise?” he asked, sipping his coffee.
“Micro-hydraulics, micro-dynamics... um, chemo-dynamics. I'm decently well-versed in other things as well, but those are my favorite areas of inquiry.”
Hoffman's eyes squinted and he smirked. “Well, that explains why they sent you to me. Those are my areas of expertise as well. Have you ever had the pleasure of working in a place with an unlimited budget?”
Anna gripped her cup tightly. “Yes. I'm wealthy.”
“Wealthy is one thing. Unlimited money is another thing.”
“My best friend is also Cassidy St. Claire. The owner of St. Claire industries. I don't know if you know of her.”
Hoffman's smirk disappeared. “You're joking.”
Anna shook her head.
Hoffman snorted a laugh out his nose and scratched his eyebrow. “I know of her. She may not remember me, but we had a rather unpleasant interaction at an academic conference a few...” Hoffman looked at Anna, his eyes widening. “... You,” he said, pointing. “I remember you. You were with her. A quiet girl. You wouldn't look anyone in the eye.” He chuckled. “Who would have thought you were more intelligent than anyone there.”
“How do you know that I'm more intelligent?” Anna asked.
“My... employers, here... are very good. If a person of skill existed in this country, well-known or not, they retrieved them. None of the men at that conference are here, and yet you are. You are not only a female, but you are also the youngest person here by at least a decade.” Hoffman leaned back in his chair and brought his interlocked hands up under his chin. “I expect great things from you, Miss Brown.”
Anna gazed back, unsure and small. She sipped her coffee.
---
The town burned. Fire crews ran up and down roads desperately working to get the fire under control. Carriages pulled by horses ran up and down the main road, filled with water from the river to the south-west.
Gideon was in the hotel, still mostly undamaged, helping tend to the wounded. He walked up and down a line of people with a pitcher of water. Ethel helped the doctor, tending to the wound on a person's leg. She would periodically look up and smile at Gideon. Outside the hotel, lined up on the dirt, was a row of nearly two-dozen bodies, some covered, others not.
The town burned. The smoke rose. The sun obscured.
Cassidy walked into the hotel lobby and made eye contact with the doctor who looked up and nodded in recognition. He told his patient, a young man with an arm injury, to hold the wet cloth to his wound. He then got up and walked toward Cassidy.
“How's the fire-fighting progressing?”
“Well,” replied Cassidy. “We've burned down a few buildings to stop the spread of the fire, and we used up all of my grenades blasting away debris, but it looks like the fire is contained. What's on fire is lost, but the rest of the town is safe. At least, it appears safe, I don't want to count my chickens too soon, but I think that we're good.”
“I'm sure that people appreciate your help,” said the doctor, walking into the bar.
“Yeah, well, they may not appreciate it if they knew that this monster possibly came to El Paso because of me.”
“If he hadn't come here for you, another monster would have come for someone else. That's El Paso.” The doctor walked up to a small metal tub filled with sudsy water. He washed his hands in it. “Granted, I doubt that this hypothetical monster would have blown up half the town, but I'm sure that he would have smelled just awful.” Cassidy chuckled and gave the doctor a wide smile.
“How many injured in total?” she asked.
“About fifty,” replied the doctor. “Most aren't too bad, but a few... we may lose a few.” Cassidy looked out over the stuffed lobby. “The hotel is letting us use beds and we're putting the worst in them. I don't want these people seeing them.”
“Where's the Marshal?” asked Cassidy.
“We put him in a room, too. Not because of his injuries, but because we didn't want people seeing him down.”
“He's awake, then?”
“Oh, no. I'm sorry, I thought you knew. He hasn't moved. He's breathing and his eye response is good, but he is out cold.”
Cassidy nodded solemnly.
“Don't feel bad,” said the doctor.
Cassidy returned a wan smile. “I don't have much choice in the matter.”
“Well, try none the less. He's a fighter. He's going to die in a gunfight at some point in his life, so it's almost inconsequential if he dies today or at some other time.”
“You don't seem to be to keen on him.”
“I'm not. He's a thug. I respect that the town needed a thug, and I can't argue against his results, but a thug's a thug in my book.”
Cassidy nodded. “What results are we talking about?”
“Well, last year, I had to tend to thirty-six shootings. This year, four. I appreciate that, I just wish that it hadn't been done by such a loathesome man.”
“Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; Threaten the threatener and outface the brow of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes, that borrow their behaviors from the great, grow great by your example and put on the dauntless spirit of resolution.”
“Shakespeare?”
“Yep. King John. Basically, fight fire with fire, and hope that your example will make others better.”
The doctor nodded as he dried his hands on a towel on the bar. “Perhaps. But is it wrong to wish for a time where there is no fire at all, and to loathe those who set it, for good or ill?”
Cassidy looked calmly and almost lovingly at the doctor, before her face transformed to one of faint sadness. “No, I suppose not.”
The doctor saw this change in her affect and tilted his head, sorry for his statement. “Of course, that could be the corruption of reality for an ideal. The world is what it is, and it must be faced. To condemn those who fight for good is probably unfair.”
“Oh don't, don't... don't backtrack because you hurt my silly feelings. Living une
quivocally for an ideal does not need to conflict with reality and you of course know that. I know that. I... aspirations are my life's blood. A person can act on Earth but judge from the clouds. Even religion, in all its stupidity, seems to understand that.”
“Yeah, but it's much easier to corrupt an ideal that it is the world. Ideals can be dangerous when they're used as tools to judge. I meant it more as a guide. I never meant to judge. Even with the Marshal, I don't really judge. I refuse to judge. So please, don't think that's what I was doing to you. I would never presume to know enough about someone else to judge them. Living out here... you can't judge. Living out here... it is a world that does not admit of judgment. It simply is. It exists, and I do my best.”
Cassidy just stared back at him, her conflicted emotions resulting in a mostly flat expression, her sadness only visible in her heavy eyelids, pulled down ever so slightly. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Trying to make a difference,” replied the doctor.
The sadness disappeared from Cassidy'e eyes. “By the way, what's your name, anyhow?”
The doctor got a good laugh out of his system before inhaling and exhaling deeply. “Oh yes, the formalities. Boeldieu. Francois Boeldieu, but I usually go by Frank.”
“French? I would have never guessed.”
“I came here when I was very young. Get me drunk, though, and my accent comes out.”
“I'd like to hear that,” replied Cassidy.
The doctor smiled coyly, his eyes lingering on Cassidy. “I'd love to show you some time,” he said, tossing the towel on the bar and walking back into the lobby. Cassidy smiled and turned, looking out the blown out wall of the bar.
---
Back in the lobby, Gideon was washing an old woman's forearm, a rather severe cut still bleeding. Ethel walked up behind him.
“How you doing?” she asked, placing her hand on Gideon's shoulder.
“Well, I think. Well,” replied Gideon. “Mrs. Clarkson here has a pretty nasty wound, but the doctor should be able to stitch this up just fine, I think.”
Ethel nodded, leaning in a bit to look at the wound. “Certainly, I'm sure. Doctor Boeldieu is amazing.” Her hand lingered on Gideon's shoulder and he glanced briefly at it before continuing to wash Mrs. Clarkson's wound.
Gideon rose and turned his head to Ethel. “Would you mind tending to this until the doctor comes over. I have something... I have something I need to do.”
Ethel smiled at him. “Of course,” she took the cloth from his hand, brushing her fingers against his. Gideon turned and walked out through the lobby door. He stepped out into the haze and stood at the end of the line of bodies, running parallel to the hotel. Near the end, a body was covered by one of the bulletproof coats, booted feet sticking out from below. Gideon stared at it.
---
Cassidy walked out of the hole that was the bar door and walked over to the bartender, who was leaning on one of the posts supporting the large balcony on the second floor.
“Feeling ok?” asked Cassidy.
The bartender turned, her simple dress was ripped and burned, her hair a mess. She was drinking from a large bottle. “Hi. Yeah. Well enough.” Cassidy nodded then looked over at the window nearest them. A couple of simple, wooden chairs were embedded in it. She grabbed the chairs, further breaking the windows as she ripped them out, and placed them on the walkway next to the bartender.
“Chair?” asked Cassidy.
“No thanks. I think I'd rather stand,” replied the bartender. “My name's Martha, by the way,” said the bartender.
“Cassidy,” replied Cassidy, sitting in one of the chairs. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about all this.”
“Huh? Oh. It's no matter. I'm pretty drunk right now, so I'm not feeling too bad.”
“What you drinking?”
“Oh, well, I've got this,” she held up the bottle that she was holding. “This is the finest whiskey made in the states. I figured that most everything was smashed, so no one would miss it. I also,” she leaned down to some bottles at her feet, “have these... some gin, a bottle of shit wine, and this really good brandy. You want any?” She shook the bottle of wine and smiled. “It's a great time to get hammered.”
Cassidy thought for a second. “Gimme' the brandy.”
“Ooh, a lady of taste. Drink up,” replied Martha, handing over the bottle. Cassidy went to pull the cork off and the entire top of the bottle cracked off. “Don't worry about it,” said Martha. “That bottle is getting finished.”
The two drank from their respective bottles, watching the various people run about, trying to get the chaos under control. “I hope the hotel stays open. I very much need this place.”
“Yeah?” replied Cassidy.
“Oh yeah. I used to be a whore.”
“That's fun.”
“It was, actually. I enjoyed myself. Men coming in off the range, smelling like absolute shit. It got too much for me. I saved a lot of money, though, and put it into the hotel. I'm majority owner of this bar and partial owner of the hotel.”
“Oh lord. No joke? Will you have to cover the damage?” asked Cassidy.
“Some of it. I'll manage. But if the hotel went down, I'd be done for. My life savings, gone. Couldn't swallow that.”
“Did you always want to own the bar, or is this your back-up dream?”
“If you exclude painter in Paris and President, this is my primary dream. I don't know what it is. I love serving drinks. Best drinks around. Good coffee, good liquor, good cocktails. It may not seem like much, but I feel that I'm doing something to make the world a better place. No one fights in my bar. No one gets hurt. Everyone just has a good time and goes home happy. That's got to be worth something.”
“I think it is,” Cassidy began. “The world is like a big pool of water. We start ripples and they go out, lasting a long time. Go far enough into the future and no one may be able to remember where the ripple started, but that doesn't matter much, I think. The ripple is there. That's what is important. The ripple. You make someone happy today, and you make every day in the future better for that person and everyone they meet. No, no. I think that you are making a difference. Especially out here.”
“I need to keep you around. You make me feel good about myself.”
“Nah. Once you sober up, you'll begin to hate me like everyone else.”
“Who could hate you?”
Cassidy looked up at Martha with a raised eye brow and a sarcastic smirk.
“Alright, yeah, I see what you're saying.” They returned to looking out over the town. “I want to be remembered, though. I don't just want my ripples going out without my name. I don't have kids, and if I did, they'd probably be idiots.”
“Just donate a lot of money. Get a building named after you,” said Cassidy. “That's what my parents did.”
“People don't name buildings after whores,” replied Martha.
“Sure they do. You just have to be around long enough. Give yourself another fifteen years and they'll name anything after you. Then, make sure that your building is around for a long time. After enough time passes, no one is willing to knock it down. It becomes an icon of sorts. No one can remember life without it. Whores and buildings are like that. Doesn't matter what they do or where they come from. They stay around long enough and they become iconic; they become respectable.”
“You're philosophical about weird things,” replied Martha.
“I certainly do,” said Cassidy, taking another swig. “I mean am... what the hell,” Cassidy said, looking into the bottle. “I haven't even had that much.”
“I miss the sex,” said Martha with a smile.
“Seriously?” Cassidy asked, looking up at Martha. “Ew.”
Martha laughed. “That's why we'd always fuck in the tub. Made things tolerable. And they may be gruff and dumb, but these men know their way around a woman's body. No time for sex, now.”
Cassidy swished the brandy in the bottle and looked out int
o the town with a contemplative gaze. “Never had any trouble?'
“Never?! Of course I did! Men seem to think that just because I sold my notch that they had some sort of right to it. I'd cut those sons of bitches good. That's how you deal with them. You let them know that you're willing to do what every man would be willing to do. You're willing to kill 'em. And don't ever think that it's a loss,” Martha said emphatically, wagging her finger at Cassidy. “Trust me. The men who try always have tiny members, tiny. They're never worth your time. The nice ones! Now, you gotta' look out for them. They're big enough to punch a hole through a wall. They get to moving and you feel like you've got something stuck in your chest. Good god, I am getting explicit.” Cassidy laughed. “I'm drunk. This is why I don't get drunk.”
“And you are drunk,” said Cassidy.
“Damn right, I'm drunk. And proud of it.” Martha bobbed a bit as she stood there. “I'm also horny... bah.”
Cassidy got a mischievous look on her face. “You know... I've got a guy who may be able to take care of that.”
Martha looked at Cassidy incredulously. “He good looking?”
“Yeah. Fifty-five. Fit as a fiddle. Clean cut.”
“Oh god. Are you talking about the guy who started this whole thing?”
“... Maybe,” replied Cassidy.
Martha stared at Cassidy, one eyebrow raised. She groaned in contemplation. “I'm game.”
---
Jebediah stood in front of the inferno that had fully-consumed the whorehouse and its connected buildings. The fire crew rushed around with buckets of water — the whole lot of them, nothing more than small silhouettes in front of the roiling flames. Jebediah was motionless, his arms behind his back. Cassidy walked up beside him and stood there for a time, saying nothing. They just looked over the fire together, silent.
“Jeb,” Cassidy began. “What was up with you and him?”
Cassidy St. Claire and The Fountain of Youth Parts I, II, & III Page 42