3-21-16

We called her the “Cat Lady.” In the 80’s and into the early 90’s, this sweet old lady showed up every morning at Belcher Park to feed the wild cats that lived there. In 1986, Belcher Park was less a park and more like an overgrown forgotten piece of land. Our neighborhood was still a friendly place where you knew almost everyone on the street and said hello and talked about the weather or the Red Sox. The Cat Lady lived on our street at the bottom of the hill. Every morning she slowly trudged up the hill with her plastic bags of cat food.

The cats knew too. They sensed her presence. They would gather at the Belcher Park entrance sign, running back and forth excitedly like children in a schoolyard as she turned the corner into the park. At times there could be up to ten cats. As she bent down to portion out the food in bowls, the cats rubbed up against her, tails sticking high in the air. The party was on. These were by no means friendly cats either—they were super shy and if it weren’t for the Cat Lady I would never have known they lived there. If by the odd chance I came across one as I was cutting through the park to the fort, it was gone in seconds.

In 1993, when she got older and the hill was probably too much for her to climb, she began to drive her car. And like a good mother she continued to feed them— rain or snow.

By 1995-96 I lost track of the 70 Allen beat. I was traveling around a little, off partying with my friends and not living at home anymore. It wasn’t until years later when the neighborhoods started to change— good neighbors sold their houses and older folks passed away that ignorant inner city families moved in. It was then that I remembered the Cat Lady and wondered if she were still alive or not. She was such a good person. When I think of her now it reminds me of two things: first, the basic goodness in people. Secondly, it brings me back to an idyllic time, a sort of golden age when neighbors were neighborly and life was fun and pure.

ps... I woke up at 4:30 am and for some reason was thinking about the Cat Lady who, in reality was Mrs McGann-- not sure about spelling but I knew her son from High School. He was a good guy but he just wasn't part of my crowd and we never bumped into each other. Anyway, I don't know what brought it on but I felt compelled to tell this small story. It was snowing, despite it just officially turning spring a few days ago and I knew the kids would have school cancelled and if school was cancelled, I wasn't going to work. So school was cancelled and instead of going back to sleep I went right to my desktop and wrote about our beloved Cat Lady.

Gone chapter 1 rewrite

From above, the boat was a dot on the seascape caught in the wide expanse of blue sky and sea but from the inside, it was a boxing ring; the boat struggled over swells that slammed the bow. The boat ran along the peninsula toward Grace Point. At the helm, Taylor Walker stood firm. His charisma belonged more to a general than an executive. He steered the Sea Cruiser inland and headed for the empty beach. Waves rocked the boat, the next wave higher than the last, splashing over the gunwale. The passengers laughed nervously with each gut drop. 

“That looks like a good spot,” said Benny Jones.

Taylor nodded. 

Alec Walker sat off to the side on a soaked cushion. The cold water sprayed in his face and the cool winds masked the burning effects of the sun. At his feet, a life preserver rocked back and forth in a puddle. The Velcro on the strap was folded over itself. He kicked it and looked up. A larger swell rose up and hit the starboard side with a surprising force. For a moment, Alec felt as if the boat were tipping upside down, in slow motion— his whole world was about to fall into the mad sea and he would be finished.

“Holy crap!” yelled Benny Jones. “Did you feel that?”

Benny smiled then let out a loud nervous laugh. He stood alongside Taylor.

“We’re good,” yelled Zack Gary. 

Zack moved slowly toward the stern. He held on to the slippery gunwale and walked a step at a time, rocking back and forth and balancing precariously. A wave bashed the starboard; he slipped and for a moment it looked like he might topple over. He lunged forward and grabbed the stern cleat. He held on. He looked at Alec, eyes big as marbles. “Okay! Maybe we’re not good,” he said, smiling. 

“We better move, ha-ha,” Benny said.

“Don’t worry. It’s not my first start, you know,” said Taylor.

Taylor steered the boat inland and as the boat closed in on the shore, the swells transformed into smaller navigable waves. Zack dropped anchor.

“Get the raft,” Taylor said.

 Alec stood up, a little tight from the trip. He kicked aside the extra lifejackets floating on the floor. He stopped at the refrigerator and pushed aside a collection of fishing rods and brought out the small raft. He dropped it into the water and tied the rope around his wrist. Benny and Zack gathered the portable grill, red cooler and passed it to Taylor, who by now had jumped into the raft. Alec and Benny jumped into the water and swam to the shore; Zack floated in with Taylor and the raft.

After they landed easily on the quiet beach, Taylor and Zack dragged the raft on to the smooth hot sand; while Benny opened the cooler and pulled out a beer. Taylor looked around without much thought to his whereabouts, as if he had been here before. He set up the grill, with a familiar quickness and turned on the flame— soon hot dogs and burgers were grilling. Zack pulled out a beer and he gave one to Alec.

Alec kicked his feet in the hot sand. He scouted the far sandbank that receded beyond a tide pool and into a growth of tall rigid grass. He studied the landscape and composed photos in his mind. Despite a miserable hangover, he scoured the dunes. His trained eye carved his visions into black and white compositions. 

Benny pulled from the raft, a nerf football and he whizzed it into the air to Zack. He snagged it with both arms; his right leg landed straight on but his left swung the other way and he tripped and stumbled but remained on his feet. He threw his arms up in jubilation.

“Eat that!”

Benny took off on a go route and Zack straight-armed a deep pass. Benny tracked it down, leaped and made a one armed catch. Just as he hauled it in to his chest, his beer slipped from his hand and tumbled into the sand.

“Hey. Are you hungry?” Taylor asked.

“Not really. I’m still hungover.”

“Have a cheeseburger. It will make you feel better.”

“I think I’ll just go for a walk,” Alec said.

“Don’t make me call Search and Rescue on your wandering ass,” Taylor said.

Taylor smiled.

“Just going to stretch my legs.”

The night before, Alec had gone to a Red Sox game. After the big Red Sox victory, he, Zack and Benny hit the Lansdowne Street bars. He drank a few too many shots and woke in the morning with a migraine. If not for his class assignment, he would have just slept in bed all day.
 
After a half-mile or so of trudging across hot sand, he came upon a branch— white driftwood, stuck into the sand upright like a post, as if it were put there as a marker. Lobster netting entangled the driftwood. He cocked his head. A child’s sneaker clung to the netting; its laces knotted around the driftwood. Strange, he thought. He wished he had brought his camera but his hangover, as it usually did, poisoned his memory. He found the angle he liked, a tight close-up where he would have taken the picture.

He took in a deep salty breath as a breeze rushed over him. The faint sound of a child’s small voice seemed to follow the breeze. He chuckled at his mind’s ability to create false perceptions.

He followed the voice, more out of restlessness than curiosity. He came to a wide inlet where the rising tidewater rushed through a narrow channel. It rose slowly rising as it emptied on the other side through a pile of seaweed-covered rocks. Across from the channel, he saw a few parked cars facing east toward the ocean. Men and women gathered near the cars, talking and smoking; a few drank beer. A smoky mixture of sausage and chicken wafted from a grill. He heard Lynyrd Skynard coming from a radio. Seventy yards separated them.

As he turned to leave, a muffled cry rose up again. No one was there. He was baffled. He strode to the edge of the rocky bank and then leaned over the edge. At last, a young girl appeared, drifting away with the current towards the open sea. She struggled, gasped. Small white arms flailed in the water.

            “Help.”

            Alec froze, stunned. Then, he shook it off like a bad dream. He studied the channel. It was rising faster by the second and it made a powerful cascade of sound that grew more terrifying. He tore off his shirt and dove into icy sea. He swam toward her. The water was liquid ice and it took several minutes before his body regulated to the cold. The undercurrent fought him every stroke. It pulled him back. It pushed him to the side. It took all his strength to straighten out and reach the girl. Her head dipped helplessly beneath the water as if she were on the verge of quitting. He reached out and lifted her up.

“Who let you come out here all alone?” he asked.

Her eyes darted nervously.

“My mom.”

He laughed. Her face relaxed. He spied a sandy trail where she had placed her flip flops and towel.

“All right. Time to go.

He lifted her on his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his neck. She was a small girl but took on weight in the water, especially without the aid of ground at his feet. She held him tight as if she were never going to let go. He kicked his feet and paddled his arms. The resistance from the extra weight caused the undercurrent to push them backwards two strokes at a time. At that pace, they would drift out to sea.

“We’re going to play a game. I’m going to throw you— that way, towards the beach. And I’ll pick you up and do it again.”

“Like tag?”

“Exactly. But I’m always it.”

“Okay.”

He slid his hands beneath her armpits hooked and tossed her forward, not so easily, like a wet medicine ball. He swam parallel to the current. Sometimes when he released her, she slipped and fell right in front of him; other times she splashed three feet ahead. He swam. Without her weight on his back he moved fast. In between deep breaths he talked softly. “You’re doing good… look… we’re almost done.”

Then, a wave blind-sided them. It came up from behind and rolled them over; her eyes had a look of horror and death.  Alec took the hit and rolled with it. He shielded her. The wave was so powerful that Alec was able to tumble in the rest of the way to the shallow cove. When they hit the shore, he led her out of the water and fell heavily on the sand.  He was winded. He stared blankly at the sand granules.

 “Go on to your mommy— and tell her you shouldn’t be here alone.”

“Thanks Mister.”

He watched her run up the trail, sand flying out of her footprints. He sat there dumbfounded and confused. This girl would have drowned, for sure. He wondered how God chose His victims and what prerequisite went into His thinking process. What choices did the chosen have, if any? It was not her time, he thought. He was a little torn. On the one hand he believed in God and fate; on the other, it sure seemed like a world of random events, like the course of a child’s lost sneaker caught in lobster netting and beached driftwood.

He stood up, breathing easy again. He looked out across the channel. He decided to wait a little while before crossing back over to the other side.

                                                                     Chapter 2

The alarm went off. He hated the alarm clock more than his job. Red digital numbers glowed like devil’s eyes. It made him uncomfortable and morbid and dreary all over again. He hated mornings because of it— the electronic scream seared through the membrane of sleep. It hit him like a baseball bat on the skull— he hated everything about the morning. He slapped at the snooze button. He turned away.

His eyes lingered on his father’s box for a long time. He had finally gone through it. Random items were scattered around it— envelopes and bills and overturned pictures.

He turned toward the ceiling. What was he doing right now? He wondered.  He had nothing, no one. He truly hated his life— such a façade, his life— thoughts and feelings buried over the years. He got out of bed. He slipped into unwashed work pants and shirt. After a quick cup of coffee he threw on his boots and jacket and exited his apartment building.

As he cut across the parking lot to his truck, there was a subtle bounce in his step. What was the rest of the world up to? He wondered. It was like he had been asleep for twenty years. He hopped into the front seat of his blue Eldorado and sped off. He cursed the broken heating coil. It was a short twenty-minute drive to the warehouse on East Street.

He shuddered at the thought of the warehouse— it stunk of dust and oil and misery. The year is 2004. After seven years working in the warehouse he knew everyone— the delivery guys from New Hampshire and the office clerks from the suburbs. Truth be told, he hated mornings, alarm clocks, work and people. His life had spun itself into a dark cocoon.

The expressway ran along a straight line. He noticed the moon, a beautiful red moon; the sphere so close, he was hypnotized by its sloping mountaintops.

As his exit ramp came into view below the red moon glow, something intangible, as if a ghost nudged him, forced his hand and led him passed the ramp. He turned down the road that leads to the Civil War fort along the Boston Harbor. Soaring airplanes roared over him.

On the radio the song, Marguerittaville played. He hummed the part about how it’s nobody’s fault. Then it dawned on him, as clear as the landing planes: life does exist outside the fucking spring packing plant. There was more to this life than boxes and springs and time cards and monotony— and maybe there were dreams, old latent dreams just on the edge of the horizon and beyond that red moon.

He shut off the radio and the car and stared over the harbor, sunlight glinting over the ocean and through the windshield.

He scrolled over his life. He had lived alone so long now. He hadn’t a girlfriend in years, not since Cassandra. He was single, no kids and independent. He could leave his apartment anytime. He lived anonymously. Other than coworkers and the teller at the bank, his only social contact comprised the Internet— though he doubted “social” best described the activity. He wandered through chat rooms, shopped online stores and researched data when he needed answers about weather, climates or general information.

He circumvented MySpace. His profile picture, taken in 1994 at Saugerties, New York reflected a lean, carefree twenty five year old man with long hair dripping across his face. He stood beside Benny and Zack— all three shirtless and covered with dried mud and laughing. Back then, Alec always smiled.

New friend requests popped into his MySpace mailbox— hot buxom blonds, Jasmine or Delight, who sold great new wonders that, inspired their sex lives. Penis enlargement pills. A bottle could be his for $24.95. These days, his friends list was mostly rock bands and advertisers. Nightly he deleted dozens of spam emails and messages. MySpace was more about acquiring a huge friends list— even if they weren’t real friends. He scrolled across the page. He had no real friends on MySpace. Benny preferred books to computers and Zach despised the Internet. Benny was a river guide at Grand Canyon; Zach lived somewhere in Guatemala.

Alec studied the descending airplanes for a long time. In the distance they were tiny and mute as bugs skimming the pond until each one closed in— big and supercharged. American, Pan-Am and Delta. Southwest. From what he saw in movies and read in books, he loved the west. It reminded him of warmth and light. And new beginnings.

He started up the car and drove back on to the highway in a new direction. The red moon followed him like a trusted companion until it peeled slowly away and daylight broke. He set the truck on cruise control. Something spurred him on, burned in him like an addiction. He drove all day. He pumped gas when he needed it and ate when hungry. By sunset, he had traversed 700 miles and hunkered down at a cheap motel in Roanoke Virginia. The next morning, he bolted across Middle America juiced on coffee. By nightfall, the red moon had returned. He cruised into Tucson Arizona and checked into the first motel he saw.

                                                                            *

In the morning, he rolled out of bed and thought: I’m gone. Really gone. He had stopped wishing to be somewhere else, years ago, but now, that same somewhere else had found him, captured him quite suddenly. He stood by the bed, staring at his feet. He felt free, weightless. He didn’t care about the warehouse, apartment or bills. He walked to the door, still dressed in his work pants and shirt.

He opened the motel door. Mountains tumbled over, pushed down and cut across the blue sky. He wondered how he had missed them in the first place. Then again, he had arrived under the cloak of night. Now the sun beat down on his face and the world around him might as well been a strange planet. Cactus dotted the landscape; dry heat simmered along the scorching earth. He crossed the street and at Circle K gas station, bought an ice coffee and the Tucson Citizen. He spied a shaded bench and rejoiced, surprised by the lightness of his thoughts. He sat down.

“Alec Walker?”

He looked up. The man looked vaguely familiar. He had beady eyes and subtle twitches in his neck. Alec knew him from somewhere and shook his head, resigned.

“It’s me, Billy Bulbz. From Shanks class,” he said.

Mr. Shanks. So many years ago, he thought.

“Billy. Yes Billy. Hey how are you?”

“I live here. Been in Tucson about two years now. I run a bar downtown— not too far from here.”

Back in the day, Billy treated acquaintances as brothers-in-arms, on the surface, but after their departure, he told bad jokes and back-handed shots at their character.

“I just got here last night. I’m thinking about staying.”

“Well, I could always use some good help at the bar, you know until you figure out what you want to do.”

“If you’re offering me a job, sure. I’ll take it.”

“It’ll be nice to have a white face around for a change.”

“I’m free, anytime.”

“Here’s my business card. Call me tonight. I’ll give you the details,” he said.

Money was no problem— for he had squirreled away a mattress full of cash over the years and didn’t need to work, not yet anyway. Nonetheless, he had decisions to make. What about his life left behind? He was certainly ready for change and he prepared to let this new road take him for a trip, at the very least, a detour from the mundane reality of his last few years.

                                                             

                                                                     Chapter 3

Alec performed a yeoman’s job at the Wagon Wheel. After only a week of washing dishes and mopping floors, he was now bartending. He became familiar with locals and tourists and welcomed all patrons with a friendly New England accent. Sometimes after a long shift, he would sit at the bar, drink a few beers and listen to music. This night, he ambled up to the jukebox, a five dollar bill in hand. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to hear, Walk the Line or Heart of Gold.

“That’s a good song, no?” she asked.

He turned around and smiled.

“Which one?”

“Yes.”

Sandra Dee wore her hair long and straight with crimson stripe the length of it. She dressed in tight blue jeans, a Sublime concert shirt and Converse sneakers.

“Good,” he said.

He put in the money and played Heart of Gold.

“I know you’re not from here,” she said. “So I’ll ask… why are you here?”

I don’t know yet.”

“So you will live here, in Tucson?”

“I think so.”

“Watch for scorpions. They sting like a motherfucker,” she laughed.

“I’ll be careful.”

“You have a family?”

“No. Not anymore.”

She gazed at him and processed his words. She nodded.

“Let’s play darts.”

They crossed the room to the dart boards. He snagged the chalk from the shelf and spelled their names on the scoreboard.

“So what do you do for a living?” he asked.

“Nothing real exciting.”

“That narrows it down.”

“Ha ha funny man.” She punched him on the arm lightly. “My brother runs a diner across town. I waitress.”

“Your brother must pay well,” he said, chuckling.

“Shut your trap, man,” she said.

She shot her dart, bull’s eye.

“Or I’ll shut it for you,” she laughed.

She spoke with a softness and directness that inspired him to listen to her every word, as if she were singing through a smoky western accent. He had never met an American Indian. She brought out his old spontaneity, so long dead in him. She matched him shot for shot with confidence. She bought endless rounds and when he waved cash at the bartender, she refused his offer. He was her guest and she, a perfect host.

She swigged on her beer, put the bottle on the table and looked at the board. Her crystal blue eyes sized it up and she took aim. She held the dart in a practiced stance and released it with the precision of professional. Whoosh, deadly accurate.

“Who did that? Ha!” she spun in a circle.

He felt like a man again, a very lucky man. He was afraid he would wake from this trance and come to his senses. The years of guilt and depression had taken its toll. That night, he felt as if he might evolve into someone else, a quiet stranger in a strange land. He basked in an overwhelming, unfamiliar joy. He had developed butterfly wings, he thought and taken flight across the arid wasteland.

                                                                            *

There had been a time when, seven years before he could not stop thinking about his girlfriend, Cassandra Odessa. He was in love and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, make babies, coach little league and live life happily after.  

One night, he and Cassandra had gone out to dinner at Four Square in Boston across from the Commons. It had been weeks since he had seen her. She had been shuttling back and forth between Boston and New York working and was especially busy now, with Christmas catalogues and flyers in full demand. Born to be a model, Cassandra Odessa was gorgeously sleek and refined. Her dark curls, sculpted cheeks and statuesque beauty brought to mind Helen from Troy in the 21^st century.

They left the restaurant bundled in hats, gloves; Cassie in her long wool coat and scarf and stylish boots. He walked slightly ahead, anticipating how he would pop the question.

“Let’s cut through the park,” he said.

They crossed at the crosswalk; a sea of yellow taxi cabs stared them down until they reached the curb and passed through the iron gate into the park.

“This is nice,” she said. “I can breathe.”

The wind rattled through the Whispering Willows that grew by the frog pond, the pond now packed with families’ ice skating in the makeshift rink. The giant Oak trees were lit up with red and white Christmas lights, blinking wreaths, and life-sized manger displays. A fresh snow coated the grass, frozen over. At the Minute Man statue atop the hill, they stopped and observed the panoramic view.

“I miss you, you know,” he said.

“I know. Work is just exhausting right now.”

He removed his gloves and drank from his flask— a warm mixture of coffee and Bailey’s liqueur. The lights on the Christmas tree filled the park with color.

“Once the holidays are over….”

He truly loved her. He knew that having a family was not on her to-do-list, for now at least and that her modeling career was first priority. Still, he was a hopeless romantic and believed they could be together no matter what life threw at them.

“I don’t know. I really don’t see things slowing down. In fact there is talk we might be moving to New York,” she said.

He reached into his pocket; he fingered the ring box. He ground his teeth and counted the fleeting seconds, waiting to tag that right life-changing moment.

“It’s really crazy right now.”

She pulled her hat over her ears. She rubbed her gloved hands together.

“Cass’… I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

“It’s getting cold,” she said.

“You know I love you. And I just don’t see any reason to wait. You mean the world to me. I know things have been tough for us the last six months. But I know, in the grand scheme of things, it’s all minor inconvenience… as long I have your love. I don’t care about anything else.”

Her smile disappeared.

“We’ve been friends for a long time,” he said.

He took out the ring box, opened it. The diamond gleamed. He took to one knee.

“Will you marry me?”

Her eyes fixed on the box; tears formed. 

“Oh… it’s beautiful.”

She gazed upon it as if it were a foreign object, some artifact from a remote archeological dig.

“Well?”

She stammered.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes… no… maybe.”

“Wow… I can’t Alec. Not now. You know that.”

“Why not?”

“The agency… they want me to move to New York.”

“Really?”

“I’m not sure if it’s the right thing,” she said.

“So now you have to move to New York?”

“I have to follow my heart, Alec.”

“I could go too. I could easily be a fashion guy.”

“It’s not that. I love you. I do. But… things have happened.”

He closed the ring box.

“I can’t see you anymore. I’m sorry. It’s too complicated,” she said.

“You’re breaking up with me?”

“I have to go.”

“Four years come down to this— a one liner?”

She fled in tears and disappeared into the bowels of the Green Line train station. Shock consumed him like foundry fires. A sickening gloom oozed from the Christmas tree. He stood dumbfounded and gaped toward the stairwell as if she were a ghostly figment tossed from his imagination. He tried to move; his feet were like ice blocks, bonded, like glacier freeze to the ground, blue streaks of ice fastening him in place.

 The next morning he sat at the kitchen table. He drank coffee. He scraped an old coffee stain on the table with a butter knife. He turned the knife over. He stabbed at the stain. He twisted his wrist. A key clicked in the door lock. The door creaked open and the familiar slip of soft shoes on the linoleum floor. He froze but his breathing quickened. He remained seated, not turning to face her, the butter knife tight in his grip. She brought in the cold air with her from outside. He knew right away: she wasn’t his princess anymore returning from exile. She was a stranger, passing through his life like a brief beautiful storm that suddenly dissolves into cloudy shaken sky. He stands there admiring as it moves across the horizon away further away. Fearful it could return and destroy him. 

“Forget something?” he asked.

“Listen, Alec. I never meant for any of this.”

“So what’s his name? That’s all I really want to know. And why.”

“I’m not going to lie to you. I owe you that. It was harmless enough. He’s a photographer. We were just friends, coffee buddies. I wanted nothing to do with anything.”

He turned placed the knife on the table. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at him with dark sleepless eyes.

“Right. Coffee buddies.”

“We were fighting a lot. I was lonely, vulnerable. You weren’t around and that didn’t help. Pierre… he just made me laugh. He made me feel good about myself.”

“Pierre? What kind of name is Pierre anyway?”
 

“I never meant for it to happen.”

He leaned forward.

“When did it?”

“Six months ago.”

“You didn’t have to go to New York. You could have just worked here.”

“Al, it’s not that simple. I’ve been unhappy here, not with you but here in general…in suburbia. I’ve felt like a caged dog.”

Silence ticked away between them.

“Why didn’t you say something… when you started feeling… so disconnected? We could have faced it then.”

 “I’m sorry.”

He had known it all along he realized that morning. She had bided her time. Maybe New York would be her Pulitzer, a prize that would come at the cost of friendship. Her career was her true love; he was secondary, a stepping-stone.

“Did you sleep with him?”

She looked away toward the window and closed her eyes. He picked up the butter knife and scraped at another coffee stain. The pain was too heavy and weighed on him like a toxic blanket.

“Just leave. Go.”

“I am…I just wanted to say that I’m sorry… and that I will always love you.”

“You said it. Now, leave. Please.”

“Goodbye Al.”

She closed the door and the cold resonated in the room. He rose to his feet and wearily reached and parted the drapes. He watched with a depressing finality as she walked out of his life; so beautiful and sure of her future on that cold, deceitful road. She hopped into her Camaro. He saw a silhouette, a large framed body, a man. He felt himself choking on his spit. His chest hurt as if he were falling into the pressurized bottom of the black ocean.

It all seemed like a bad dream now. In retrospect, it was just the beginning of an even worse nightmare.

 

                                                              Chapter 4              

After the movie, Mystic River, Alec and Sandra Dee walked to nearby Rattlesnake Bar and Grill. They ate chimichangas, tostadas, laughed and kidded each other. Alec mocked his Boston accent, quoting dialogue from Mystic River. Sandra Dee smiled and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I was just pahking the cahr in Hahvahd yahd.”

After a few beers, they walked back to his motel room where they fell on the bed, snuggled and kissed. He was out of practice in romance etiquette; his hands groped, all over her chest. It aggravated more than it pleased her. Her shirt and bra tossed on the floor. He was ready to explode in his jeans.

“Slow down. Easy,” she said, smiling.

“Sorry.”

“Patience.”

She unzipped his pants and stripped them to his ankles. She climbed on top of him, her breath warm on his thigh. She sucked on his cock and he came in thirty seconds. Just like that, he was all done. His stress floated off; the world was one peaceful unified rhythm. He sighed. He massaged her breasts softly.

“That’s more like it… relax,” she said.

He loved her attitude, confidence and the way she made him feel like a man. She observed great humor, with an edge he related to. A feisty, loyal tribesman, she harbored no bad feelings toward whites, unlike her family and most of the tribe. She measured a person, not by color or politics but by the size of their heart.

“You look like a little boy,” she said.

“What?”

“Your little bad boy smile. You are so cute.”

“Ha— it’s because I just came.”

“Oh. And I thought it was because you liked me. I get it. You’re using me.”

“Right. I secretly hate you,” he said.

“You repulse me very much.”

“Whore.”

“Pimp.”

She cackled.

“So why are you in Tucson? Of all the places you could go why here?”

“I… I woke up one morning, sick of my life. I just sort of… left. I didn’t know where I was going. I hopped in my truck and just drove. It was like something guided me here.”

“What made you leave?”

“I guess I was just overdue, long overdue. I guess I needed a road trip.”

“I’m glad for it.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time doing nothing. Just wasting away. Here— with you, I don’t think of the past. It’s like you make me forget. I feel reborn.”

She kissed his chest.

“Have you ever wanted to leave?” he asked.

“I love the land here… it’s very old, very dangerous. It’s the only land I know.”

“You never wanted to see how others live?”

 “Where else will I go? I was born on the reservation. My mother died here. My grandfather raised me.”

She turned her face toward the cracked ceiling.

“I like it here. It’s home. I have cousins here you know. My grandfather. He was a great man. He taught me about our heritage. He taught me about America.”

They lay on the bed a long time. She rested her cheek on his chest. Her breath warmed his skin. He had never met a woman so open, free, and crazy. Good crazy, he thought.

“Besides I make good living.”

“Oh right, super waitress.”

 “Well, many of my cousins run illegals across the border.”

“You mean like Mexicans?”

“I mean like Mexicans, Brazilians, Puerto Ricans, Nicaraguans… the list never ends.”

“Isn’t that… very dangerous?”

“It’s just a day in the life here, honey.”

She lived on the Santa Rita Ranch in the Tohono O’Odham reservation, west of Tucson. The reservation covered 90 miles across the southern boundary of Arizona— its boundaries lay in the US as well as Mexico. Most of her family disliked Mexicans as much as they disdained whites, she said. Mexicans were invading their land, destroying homes and cemeteries. They smashed fences, doors and ravaged barns and sheds often disposing trash, clothes and sometimes, dead bodies in their yards. Their reservation sat right smack in the hot spot— on the frontline of drug smugglers, robbers and illegal alien crossings. It was commonplace practice for many Indians— smuggling was simply part of the economic atmosphere.

“That’s crazy shit,” he said.

“Which part?”

“Everything. Sounds like a mean business. And a good way to get killed.”

“It is what it is,” she said.

She rolled her hips on top of his. She stroked him until he got hard again.

“Ok. Let’s do this, sweetie. Just relax, ok?”

“Ok.”