Wednesday, November 22, 2017

boots: Carson's mother: Veronica to meet Hombre Loco

Veronica is 21, like Tom, when they meet at a rodeo outside Reno. She is a cocktail waitress in one of the casinos and has come to the rodeo with a friend and co-worker who knows a girl who is (barrel racing?). She takes note of Tom when he rides the bronc bareback and wins a silver belt buckle. They hit it off, hook up in Carson City, have a drunken fight the next day at Lake Tahoe, go separate ways, never see each other again.

Veronica finds out she is pregnant  - used a diaphragm, 94% success rate - but can't find Tom to tell him. All she knows is that Tom Walker:

1. Did some occassional stuntman work in the movies, horseback chase scenes in westerns, and then wrangling after he'd had a bad fall and got too busted up to insure.

Was at the rodeo 'cause he was feeling better and could use the prize money. (Tom will tell Carson that he was feeling better because he was "chewin' pain pills like m and m's and washin' 'em back with beers.)

2. Grew up in Texas and had a twin sister Ruth, "orphaned early."

(This allows Tom to - why has this taken so long to come around to as Obviously? - offer us his own life history,  condensed version, tell us himself oral history style, the night after their day in Ruidoso, the night before the dawn he expires.

And to footnote that Ruthie was born 18 minutes before he was.)

3. Drank a little. (Tom will correct to "drank a lot.") 

4. Could dance. (Tom will remember as if brand new the western dancing he and Veronica did in Reno the night they met. And will have already seen in his self-guided tour the photo booth-style sepia-tone vertical four-frame of them - Tom in cowboy hat and bolo tie, Veronica sporting bouffaint (sp?) and cleavage - smiling back at the camera that night.)

5: had a scar on his back.

T: Wonder if I told her how I come to gettit.

C: You did. You said a bull got me. But that was it.

T: Well. It was a bull, back when I was a kid. I was brand new to fifteen years old.  Not that you asked to hear the story.

C: Please continue.

T: Thought I'd celebrate by gettin' up on a bull they called Hombre Loco. 

C: This was a rodeo?

T: No, this was on a ranch down in Mexico, maybe an hour south of Laredo. We was down lookin' at horses but that's a whole nuther story.

C Maybe later.

T You say go.





tweet from mom's

At my mom's dining table, coffee within reach and ready to roll, and my mom comes up from behind me and hugs me and sees over my shoulder the front page of this blog - my selfie looking back at us - and asks "is this is how you find out who you are?"

My mom is aware of this blog.

I answer, "I'm not sure I'll ever be able to do that."

It occurs to me, though, that she is not so far from something close enough to dead-on that I can't quite pinpoint. Not that it matters.

I began all this whatever this is, by the way, at my grandmother's dining room table when i was a little boy drawing and or writing or, later, at the age of maybe 12 or so, making floor plans. (Much more recent examples populate this blog.)

I found myself yesterday considering throwing some sketching at something like that. I have this notion of a baseball field built from a hole dug in the earth. which is not particularly groundbreaking - pardon the pun - but i have some idea of how to utilize the dug-up soil.

lit by solar power.

anyway, back to finding out who I am.

dream: bird's eye view of deep sea diver

like pov a drone right above the diver, scuba and all that, in the middle of deep blue and otherwise empty ocean, beginning his slow descent to great depths.

and i "know" the los angeles times is covering the event.

he's just started, it seems, and i'm positioned as if at high noon directly above him.

a thought does occur. 

brand new and deep depths.

but still waters, the sea's surface near glass flat and calm cobalt mirror.

and coming to a town near me.

perhaps.

dream: kelli encore, my indecision

and waking from it melancholy.

she'd been up for the encore but not, right after, giving me her number.

and as she walked away she made a comment, though i don't recall what exactly she said but there was some advice involved.

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

pecos: jesse and billy: javelina (not wabbit) season

and fourty-fours in their hands, not nines. a stalk of sorts. billy has seen them through the binoculars. a rattlesnake makes itself known. billy shoots it, startling the javelinas who come out at them like a stampede of bison.

except smaller. a lot smaller.

and fewer, closer to ten then thousands.

but they're coming and jesse and billy are shooting and missing except for one, who's blasted dead off course, tumbling as a broken boulder. and then another, kilt dead by hot lead to the head, dropped in a spasmodic then still pile of not-pig.

but one gets billy like jaws getting robert shaw.

except different. the javelina doesn't swallow. only a flesh wound. except that it's serious. jesse fixes as best he can, makeshift tourniquet. billy notes the vultures already circling above.

the sound of a nearby shot javelina wheezing and bellowing its last labored breaths. a guttural groan of seeming resignation.  jesse leaves billy to relieve the javelina of its misery.

boom.

jesse surveys the other dead javelina, on its back and legs in the air like a coffee table upended.

walks to billy, helps him up.

j you'll live.

b hurts like fire.

j i got something that'll put it out.

hoists him up, arm around him.

j just don't get used to it.



pecos jesse and billy jesse's deck wabbit season 1

sunset.

in lawn chairs beers in hand empty cans crumpled near a bin nearly full with empties.

jesse sports a black eye and swollen jaw. 

pit bull between them. hand guns and phines within easy reach on a table between thrm.

billy takes a long hit off a joint , passes it to jesse, who takes a big hit, looks at the joint as if a rare 
butterfly specimine, clearly lit, as is billy.

b good shit bro.

j right?

b that ain't from no mexican.

j norcal.

b sweet. howdja hook that up.

they smoke and pass as they talk.

j don't matter.

b alright.

j but i'll flow ya a river if ya like it.

b bring it. since when did high end weed become a desired commodity around here. 

j artists are movin' in. 

jesses's phone ringtones. ranchera. brief chat. partly in spanish. ends the call. 

b what was that about?

j my sister thinks i'm gonna forget her quincenara.

b ha. as if.

j (getting it) fuck you.

b smiles, sees something in the desert that is, like henry's and kyle's, his backyard. points to it. jesse looks.

a rabbit has hopped to within sight, then scurries into some brush. jesse grabs his gun, stands, as does the dog until jesse immediately sits him back down with a hand gesture. tells it to stay, heads out toward the rabbit, billy following with his gun.

they walk out, the rabbit bounds into view again.

jesse aims. 

bwon't be much left for stew.




pecos: danny and soledad fort davis to JESSE'S BACK PORCH

danny and soledad fort davis.

henry calling california. talk to kelly, who thanks him (for taking care of business in ventura county jail with the man who raped her). (and it occurs to me now that this young women is his niece-in-law through his late wife, whose brother is kelly's dad. it is the grandfather, though, that has paid henry, despite his refusal.

calls from the deck, with a beer and the dogs. the same sunset danny and soledad are watching.

the same sunset susan is watching from her back porch. small and simple back yard, bordered by six-foot tall cedar. clothes line and sandbox. she sips from a glass of white wine, stares at the sandbox and the small stake hoisting the small flag of the united states stuck in the middle, tilted as a windmill on iwo jima. a breeze that nudges her hair rings chimes hanging from the eave. what sounds like a GUNSHOT startles her. she stands, spills her wine.

jesse and billy, jesse's back porch, sunset.


Monday, November 20, 2017

sister

we'll get looked at a lot
and the folks at my spot
will say bro
didn't know you had a sister

and ask me to speak
but i don't spring that leak
though they'll know
i damn sure have kissed her


pecos danny and soledad at fort davis FROM SMOKE to SMILE

[FROM: "...interact with my meds"]
--------------------------------------------
soledad produces a joint from her sock.

d where do you get this?

s doesn't matter. i found it under my pillow.

she takes a look around, lights it, inhales, passes it to danny.

d damn that smells good.

soledad finally exhales, blowing out smoke.

s indica. it's called big sur goodnight. and it's better when you put it to your lips and inhale instead of holding it and staring at it burn away.

d sorry.

he takes a hit, holds it. closes his eyes, tilts his head back.

s when's the last time you smoked.

d afghanistan.

s hash?

danny nods.

he takes another hit, passes it to soledad, who watches him intently.

s y'alright, soldier?

he nods, gives a thumbs-up.

soledad takes a big hit.

s alright for a minute? i'm gonna put this out. we'll hit it again on the drive home.

danny is unresponsive.

s earth to valenzuela, come in valenzuela.

d they need some of this shit at big spring.

she moves closer to him. he opens his eyes, they look at each other. he throws his arm around her, pulls her closer. she happily acquiesces.

s so you're okay?

d i thought about you.

she smiles, her first since we met her.

s i thought about you too.

d uh oh.

she is confused, looks at him.

he kisses her forehead.

d rest your head against me again. it felt hood.

she does.

pecos: danny and soledad at fort davis to SMOKING

the camaro is a convertible. top down.

fort davis parking lot. soledad pulls in, parks. a grand view to the land below and beyond.

s this alright?

d this is great.

s you remember?

he turns to look at her.

d come on.

s just askin'

d do you?

s do i what?

d remember.

s remember what?

d alright then

silence. the sunset.

s i got some weed.

he looks at her.

d yeah?

s good shit from no-cal.

d since when you been smokin' weed?

s dad? is that you?

d just a question.

s for a minute.

d alright then.

s want some?

d sure.

s sure or yeah?

d yes, please. just don't know how it might interact with my meds.


J'e

She'll ask about the others
'cause she'll have found this book
no matter what my druthers;
it's the barb that set the hook.

And I will tell her everything
she thinks she needs to know
and when that mockingbird won't sing
I'll ring out I told you so.

pecos: danny and soledad

he's already been to henry's the day and night before, and had lunch with susan (mom) and susan's lunchtime companion, gloria, whose son did not return from afghanistan.

stopping into a pool hall for a beer he sees soledad, with whom he shared an unrequited semi-crush in high school. he did not act on it because he knew he would be enlisting right after graduation.

she's shooting pool, running the table. he finds an inconspicious spot from which to watch her. a blue handkerchief hangs neatly out of her jeans back pocket. tattoos. ballcap on backwards. she sees him when steps back to line up the eight ball for the win.

he raises his beer to toast.

she misses.  pays up, holsters cue in the rack on the wall, approaches danny. (danny valenzuela. there got it.) and soledad ramirez. sometimes soly.

s hey

d hey

s whenja get back?

d few days ago.

she nods.

s where ya been?

d v-a in big spring.

s for what?

she picks up his bottle of beer, takes a swig, holds it

d psych stuff.

s what's psych stuff.

d therapy.

s what kinda therapy

d talk. drugs.

s what kinda drugs.

d how much time ya got?

s i have to be home by nine.

d i was gonna drive up to fort davis.

s want company?

he nods. takes his beer back and finishes it, sets it on the table.

s can i drive?

CUT TO SOLY HAULING ASS UP THE HILL IN DANNY'S CAMARO

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Yi 2012: boots: the dinner scene

The last piece of the puzzle is the dinner scene between Carson and Tom I have finally decided to include. I ought to be able to take care of that tomorrow and then, finally, the pieces are complete and ready to assembled. I will finally be, save for the tedium of typing into format, done.

tweet from texas

sitting at my mom's dining room table, landed in austin two hours ago. the flight featured family time - thanksgiving travel - thus kids included, and babies, two or three of which made sure to not let the interludes between bawling and or wailing last more than a couple minutes.

a three-hour flight that felt like four-and-half.

and the harder and harder to be in the mix with people getting louder and louder.

but the view from the windows to the south are better than those across the narrow aisle, where i usually sit.




Saturday, November 18, 2017