Big Maria

by Johnny Shaw

  Desert Vista Estates was the cheapest trailer park in Blythe. And that was saying something. Even with the bargain prices, it never attracted a single snowbird. The winter flock from the north preferred the grassy havens with swimming pools and gravel roads for golf carts. Although some Mexicans lived at Desert Vista, it was mostly white. The Mexicans tended to migrate to Mesa Verde, the other super cheap trailer park on the other side of town.

  Ricky wished he could move his family somewhere nicer, but Desert Vista was the only place that he could afford a space for both the trailer and the bus. It was where he was. Where his wife and daughter were. That made it home. He wanted so much more for both of them, but wanting wasn’t having.

  Ricky drank his coffee and watched the morning pageant. If he had lived in the suburbs, business suits would have kissed trophy wives, gotten into their German-engineered cars, and listened to satellite radio on their commute. But most of the people in Desert Vista were desperately alone, drove beaters or hogs when not hitchhiking, and were unemployed or criminals or unemployed criminals. This morning’s procession of lost souls consisted of a couple drunks stumbling home, the sheriff’s department dropping off a well-beaten Mexican, and two prison widows on broken heels finishing their kneepad shifts outside the truck stop. The poor women sold their bodies to pay the bills while they waited for their men to be released from one of the nearby penitentiaries. It was a sin, but Ricky found the devotion to their mates admirable, even beautiful. How could any sacrifice in the name of love be wrong?

  In the four years that Ricky had lived at Desert Vista, he’d never made the effort to get close to his neighbors. It made it awkward when you shared a beer one day and the next day you caught that same person in your trailer stealing your toaster oven and DVDs. You never knew what kind of mischief a Desert Vistan was into. If someone asked for a ride to the bank, the only good answer was no.

  He didn’t know anyone’s full name. He didn’t ask. Paranoid suspicion was a valuable survival tactic. Everyone referred to everyone else by aliases, nicknames, generics (chief, buddy, bro, etc.), or not at all. Most of the time, conversations consisted of little more than a head nod and grunt.

  For that reason, he knew most people only by sight. He and Flavia had given each of them nicknames. The Sloth, Albino Wino, Matt Hardy, Roadhouse, and The Kurgan were a few of the men. The Michelin Woman, Fright Night, Goth Betty, and Lucky Tooth were the women. It was a little mean to call them names behind their back, but it’s not like he would say anything to their faces. What was the harm?

  And just when Ricky thought the train had passed, the caboose arrived in the form of Shitburger staggering toward him with weaving purpose in his half-drunk stumble.

  “Morning,” Ricky said as he approached Shitburger. He didn’t know how loud the pockmarked drunk could get and wanted to make sure he didn’t wake Flavia and Rosie. The trailer walls were so thin, it was a wonder they kept out the light.

  “Hey.” Shitburger swayed, eyes to the ground.

  “You okay?”

  “I puked my pants.”

  Ricky was neither surprised nor curious.

  Even from five yards, Shitburger’s breath smelled like an alcoholic baby’s diaper. But that was the prologue. The real odor came from his body. He smelled like a slaughterhouse in summer. Manure and dead beef. Ricky wondered if that was how Shitburger got his name.

  “You got a computer, yeah?” Shitburger said.

  Ricky nodded and backed up a step, wondering how long he could hold his breath.

  “It got websites and that stuff? The Internet, right?”

  Ricky nodded.

  “I was wondering could I use it for a hour? Got some research to research.”

  “Everyone’s asleep.”

  Shitburger nodded. “Not now. In no shape. Pants all puked. Soon, but whenever. Later.”

  “I don’t know. I got to work. Then I got things.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “How much?” Ricky asked.

  “Couldn’t be a good neighbor?”

  Ricky smiled. “When was the last time you loaned someone a cup of sugar?”

  “Twenty bucks. Hour or so. Don’t think I’ll need more than that.”

  “Okay,” Ricky said. “But you got to wait until I’m back. Around three. Don’t come bothering my family.”

  “Perfect. Three. I got to get cleaned up. Get my beauty rest, yeah?” Shitburger laughed a nauseating laugh until he inadvertently hawked a jellyfish onto Ricky’s boot.

  THREE

  Frank Pacheco couldn’t stand a lot of things.

  Frank couldn’t stand those four old hens. Not even seven o’clock and their piercing laughter grated on his every nerve. Being old don’t make you cute, honey. He wanted to tell them to shut up, but that would mean talking to them. That, he couldn’t stomach. When they spoke to him, they always reverted to a condescending baby talk that would make a cartoon princess vomit. He didn’t know if it was because he was an Indian or they thought he was simple. Probably both.

  Frank couldn’t stand Blythe. It wasn’t that much different from the reservation, but something about the town depressed him. Like most desert towns he knew, Blythe was a sun-faded patch of concrete and dying palms. It felt like it was one good gust away from being swallowed by the sand that surrounded it. Or maybe it had been swallowed and spat out like a wad of indigestible fat. Blythe was the kind of town that you drove past on the highway, hoping that quarter tank of gas would last until a more hospitable stop down the road. Every Tuesday Frank’s grandsons drove him down to Blythe from Poston, dropping him off in the parking lot to wait for the Drug Bus with the other oldsters.

  Above all, Frank couldn’t stand being old. Outside, his body was crumbling, but inside he still felt young and full of adventure. Whenever he saw some hoodlum acting tough, he thought about serving the punk a beating. He had at least one good scrap left in him. He wanted more. He wanted shots of mezcal and cans of beer. He wanted a nice Cohiba. He wanted to bang young quim. Hell, he wanted to be useful. He was tired of people taking care of him. He wanted anything more than what had turned into a tedious and drawn-out wait.

  No matter how many people he had around him, he had never felt more alone.

  The Drug Bus pulled up in all its canary-yellow glory at seven on the dot. That was one thing Frank was thankful for. Ricky was always on time. You didn’t see a work ethic much anymore, but the big, muscle-bound kid was an exception. He may not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but Ricky worked hard and did his best to be polite and helpful.

  Frank watched Ricky help one of the hens with her first step. She openly flirted with him. Wet, clumpy lipstick and shameless double entendres. It made Frank sick. Did they think that poor kid enjoyed it?

  Ricky smiled when he saw Frank. “Morning, Mr. Pacheco.”

  Frank grunted.

  “You ain’t got to act mean around me. I’ve seen you smile when no one’s looking.”

  “Who said I don’t smile? I smile. Laugh, smile, even giggle when I have a mind. Just not this early. All us Indians aren’t Iron Eyes Cody.”

  “Who’s that? Relative of yours?”

  Frank shook his head and climbed into the bus.

  In an effort to be as far away from the hens as possible, Frank sat in the front of the bus across from Ricky.

  Ricky took Ogilby Road for part of the way. It took a little longer than the highway and the view was identical, but he knew the old locals preferred it. His passengers liked to be reminded that although the old road might be long in the tooth, it hadn’t lost its function if you were patient.

  Frank alternated his attention from one window to the other. The Mule Mountains to the west, the Cargo Muchacho range to the east, and the Chocolate Mountains behind them. Mostly rock and scrub, there was no visual difference between the ranges. It all used to be his people’s land, but it was hard to lament having something that ugly stolen from you.

  “So what kind of
Indian are you? There’s like a whole lot of kinds, right?” Ricky asked without taking his eyes off the road.

  It took a second for Frank to realize that Ricky was talking to him.

  “What kind of white are you?” Frank said.

  “Gosh. Don’t know. Didn’t know my parents. Don’t even got their last name. Got my first foster parents’. Thinking I’m just regular white, I guess.”

  Frank nodded. The kid was hard not to like. “I’m Chemehuevi mostly. But all the River Indians got a little of everything else in there. Mojave, Hopi, Navajo. Everyone’s mixed red. Some Mexican in there, too. How old are you, Ricky?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “And you got your own business. Good for you.”

  Ricky gave Frank a glance and a smile. “I got a daughter. In the first grade. Trying to make things better for her than they were for me.”

  “All you can do.”

  “You got kids?”

  “I got a daughter myself. Two grandsons.”

  “I never see your wife. She don’t like Mexico?”

  “Used to love it, but she passed on. Been gone for”—Frank counted slowly on his fingers—“six years now.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  “No reason to apologize. Used to being on my own.”

  Frank could remember when Los Algodones was a quaint and quiet border crossing, mostly produce trucks and even mule traffic in town. Now the foot traffic was entirely blue hairs and wrinkled white men. The chipped stucco buildings looked the same, but the businesses inside had changed. They had become doctor and dentist offices, but mostly pharmacies, every other shop competing for the best discount.

  Frank went to four different farmacias before he found the best price on his cancer medication. He would have to wait until the following Tuesday for the cholesterol pills, vitamins, and less important crap. By then, his casino check should have arrived. The small allotment that he got for being an Indian was just enough to keep him from burning the neon monstrosity to the ground.

  The heat and walking took more out of him than he wanted to admit. What was it with Mexicans and their hate for shade? He couldn’t remember seeing a single tree in all the Mexican cities he’d ever traveled to. Frank took a break on a low wall and looked over his list. Sweat dripped from his nose onto the folded paper.

  Finished with his medicine shopping, Frank wanted to pick up a couple of Cuban cigars with the cash he had left. He wouldn’t smoke them, but having them would make him feel good. At the very least, he could chew the ends.

  He swayed a little as he rose, light-headed and dizzy. He took a knee. A fifteen-year-old Mexican boy approached and put a hand on his elbow.

  “Está bien?” the boy asked.

  Frank shook the hand away and rose without the boy’s assistance.

  “Estoy bien. Yo no necesito su ayuda,” Frank said sharply.

  The boy smiled and shrugged. He hit Frank with a solid right cross to the chin. As Frank fell over the low wall, the boy grabbed for Frank’s bag.

  The boy was too young to have an effective punch. Enough to knock Frank off-balance, but not enough to hurt him. Frank landed on his ass but held on to the bag, pulling the boy toward him.

  Frank got to his feet, ignoring the aching in his hip and knees. The boy continued to pull at the bag. Despite the pain, Frank felt energized. The kid wanted a fight, he’d get the horns. Messed with the wrong goddamn redskin. Frank threw his best haymaker.

  And missed horribly. The boy pulled the bag from his grasp and kicked him hard in the stomach. Frank collapsed to the ground with his wind, his pride, and his breakfast knocked out of him.

  Frank no longer cared about his bag. All he wanted was air. Sweet, delicious air. Thirty painful seconds later, he had his breath back. His throat tasted like Jimmy Dean and piss.

  When he looked up, Ricky stood over him with the Mexican boy’s neck tucked into the crook of his enormous arm. The boy struggled but eventually went slack when he realized he was beat. Ricky’s size made the boy look small and defenseless. It made Frank feel worthless. This scrawny child had gotten the better of him.

  “Got your bag, Mr. Pacheco. You okay?” Ricky reached forward with his free hand.

  Frank stood on his own and took the bag from Ricky.

  “Thanks.”

  “You want to get a punch in? I’ll hold him still. Sometimes a kick in the butt is the best lesson. Or should I bring him to the cops?”

  Frank looked at the frightened boy.

  “Let him go.”

  “You sure?”

  Frank brushed off his pants. He wanted to hit the kid. Bloody his face. Beat the youth right out of him. But he knew it wouldn’t be satisfying.

  “Yeah. No harm done. Let’s forget about it.”

  None of the seniors ever had problems with the border agents when crossing. While buying Mexican prescription drugs and sneaking them over the border wasn’t exactly legal, even the Border Patrol didn’t have the heart to stop an eighty-year-old grandma from getting her arthritis meds.

  Back at the bus, Ricky finished his head count. Two of his seniors were AWOL, but Ricky wasn’t concerned. There were always a few stragglers. He’d give them another fifteen minutes before he went looking.

  Frank approached him at the back of the truck.

  “Thanks for the help back there.”

  “Kid sucker-punched you. Next time it will be you that’s got my back.” Ricky smiled, knowing the old man was embarrassed. He was like a hundred years old. What did he expect?

  “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Thanks, Ricky.”

  “No problem, Mr. Pacheco.”

  “Call me Frank.” Frank walked a few steps, and then turned. “You smoke mota?”

  “What? No. I mean, not while I’m driving. I mean. What are you talking about?”

  “Calm down, kid.” Frank laughed.

  Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic baggie. He unrolled it, opened it, and removed a couple thin joints.

  Ricky looked both ways and took the joints. He gave them a quick sniff.

  “Homegrown,” Frank said. “My grandsons are entrepreneurs like you. You ever need more, just ask. We all got a little glaucoma.”

  “Thanks, Frank.”

  Ricky put the joints in his shirt pocket.

  “You had these on you the whole time? You went into Mexico and back with a bag of grass in your pocket? You could’ve got caught.”

  “At my age a little excitement is welcome.”

  FOUR

  “No porn,” Ricky said.

  “You got a dirty mind and a low opinion. Didn’t even dawn on me,” Harry said. “Just going to research and get out of your hair.”

  Harry would have to catch some naked-lady photos when the kid was in the can or something. He needed fresh imagery for his midevening solo. The women in his current stack of nudie magazines had become so familiar that Harry practically thought of them as sisters. His lady lineup had grown pornographically stale, the honeymoon long over.

  Harry had cleaned up, but even he was aware of the rough tang of unwashed clothes and alcoholic that rose from his body. If Ricky smelled it, he didn’t say a word.

  His mind drifting, Harry wondered if people ever lost their sense of smell. Like a deaf or blind person, but their nose didn’t work. He remembered hearing that that was one of the things that happened when you got struck by lightning. If you lived. Maybe while he was online, he would find out.

  They sat on folding chairs and faced the computer in Ricky’s trailer.

  “You have about an hour,” Ricky said. “When Flavia and Rosie get home, we’re done.”

  Harry nodded. “So how do you work it?”

  “What? The computer?”

  “I ain’t used one much.”

  “Never?”

  “The one at the prison for work, but only to type in names and stuff. Play solitaire. Minesweep.”

  “Why don’t I type? It’ll go f
aster,” Ricky said. He was concerned that his trailer might absorb Harry’s stink. The sooner he left, the better.

  “What if I don’t want you to see what I’m looking up?”

  “There ain’t no secrets online. If it’s there on the Internet, anyone can see it. What’s it matter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, I can’t just explain how to use a computer. Little as I know, there’s still a lot to know. It’s your call. Either I help or you find some other place to do it. I’m not being a jerk. I don’t know how else to help, but to help.”

  Harry thought about it for a while. He looked at a child’s drawing on the wall above the computer. A house and a sun and purple grass in Crayola. He could draw better than that.

  “You have anything to drink?” Harry asked.

  “Water.”

  Harry made a face like Ricky had offered him iced urine.

  Harry finally nodded. “All right. You help. Look up something called the California Desert Protection Act.”

  “And my twenty bucks?”

  “You want it up front?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why not after?”

  “Because you’re less trustworthy than me. Just fact. Ask anyone. People trust me. They don’t trust you. If there were a ref or ump or whatever, he would tell you to pay first.”

  “Fair enough. Probably right.” Harry dug in his pocket and handed Ricky a wadded twenty.

  Fifteen minutes later, Harry was bored sober. Ricky had found a copy of the California Desert Protection Act online, but it was all governmentese. Who could read all of those heretofores and insomuches?

  “Forget this. Can’t make head or tail. Search ‘gold in the Chocolate Mountains.’” Harry unconsciously whispered, “gold.”

  “Which Chocolate Mountains?” Ricky asked.

  “What do you mean? The ones out here. The Chocolate ones.”

  “Don’t you know nothing about around here? There’s two Chocolate Mountains. The ones by the Salton Sea and the bigger ones in Arizona.”

  “Yeah, but they’re the same, right?”

  “Nope. Two different states. Not connected. We’re actually sitting in the middle between them.”