From Chapter 12. Vision Quest - my first Novel A Time Ago & Then

Brian gave me a leather pouch with three, or four buttons in it. “Take this medicine and go on a fast. Head up the arroyo to the wilderness area. When hunger hits you take a bite or two from one of these.”

“Yeh, how long do I go?”

“Go until you have a vision.”

I wondered aloud, “I’ve seen some pretty amazing things… like at the Peyote Ceremony and all… all the coincidences on the way here, but visions? I can only admit to a calm and serene love… a love was at-one with other people... with the prickly pear cactus and the sage… and, of course, the goats.”

I had a feeling that what Brian was talking about wasn’t just some more hippy bull-shit. He was talking about a vision… a real vision that you don't have to play Indian to get, and it seemed that if anything would make that happen perhaps peyote might.

“There is only one way to find out, eh?” Though Brian was slightly rotund in physique, he possessed an intrinsically mischievous elfish quality about him whenever his face took on a sly smirk like it did then.

I went back to the goat pasture with my pouch of buttons... er, he insisted I call them Medicine. I figured I ought to get the booze and the acid out of my system a few days before doing anything as serious as a vision quest. I was about a day into a fast when, in the morning just before sunrise, a commotion with the goats broke out. There was bleating and some rather furious noises that could have only come from a cat… a big cat. I went out to where I’d heard the ado and saw the evidence of big cat tracks, fur on the ground and a little blood here and there. Charlie had some deep gashes between his horns but he escorted me to the spot where I put two and two together. I didn’t like the idea that a cat could take one of my kids. I did a count and, sure enough, one was missing.

Having no rifle, I sorely needed one now. I figured Mason might have one because I’d seen a deer hide stretched out for tanning at his place on the island.

Smoke coming from the chimney of Mason’s place told me he was home... or nearby.

“Howdy, stranger!” Mason called out from a rock above the cabin behind me.

Startled, I spun around to see him coming down off the rock.

Calling out to him, I watched this wildman bounce gingerly down towards me, “I need to ask you something kinda irregular.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up. We need to sit down and smoke a bowl over it then.” Mason went inside and came out with what looked like a classic Indian peace pipe, beaded and adorned with feathers... like in the movies. The pipe was packed with Bull Durham tobacco, herbs and sage, but no pot. We smoked and passed the pipe between us prayerfully before I brought up the goat and the cat.

“What do you want to do about the cat?” Mason asked.

“Huh?” How did he know? “I was wondering if you have a rifle.”

“I know… You want to kill the cat?”

“Yeh, I can’t see letting the goats get picked off one by one.”

“You know anything about cats?” he whispered, leaning towards me like he wanted to keep a secret.

“Not really. Just that one of ‘em is eating my kids.”

“Shhh. Didn’t we eat one the other day?”

“Yeh, we did.” I took his whispering as a rejection of my request for the rifle. More disturbing however, I was afraid the whole idea... his mocking... was sour to Mason and I respected his judgment.

“If you gotta do it….” Mason paused a few minutes as though he were weighing my character. “Big cats, they kill in the hour before and after sunset and the hour before and after sunrise.”

“Very well, then all I have to do is stay up an hour after sundown and get up an hour before sunrise… maybe throw rocks or sticks at ‘em if they go for any of my goats?”

“That's Charlie's goats, my friend. And it's likely it is only one, probably a female cat this time of the year. Rocks and sticks? Wouldn’t you rather have a rifle?”

“Yeh.”

“You know how to use one?” he asked earnestly. I liked the idea that he asked me these questions. It was one of those things I have about guns. I’d been raised using them and learned to respect and use them safely.

“You know the rifle that Angelo came into the Peyote Ceremony with?”

“Winchester .44, lever action, I thought it looked like it was old enough to be at Little Big Horn.”

Mason went inside and came out with the rifle. I wondered if Mason knew Angelo would show up the way he did at the ceremony. Mason handed me the rifle and a box of ammo holding only five bullets. I checked it out to see if the chamber was empty and was pleased to see it was well maintained, oiled and clean. I found the stamp with the date: 1886 on it. I said, “It looks like this rifle could’ve been handed down from Custer’s Last Stand.”

“If it was there, this rifle would be almost a Vatican relic to the Ogalas, but Little Big Horn was in the ‘70’s, I think, and you see the stamp. It sure wouldn’t be in my hands if it was there,” Mason snorted before he continued, “Now, cats have a range of seventy or eighty miles. But they will carry their kill only as far away as their den. You probably won’t find her anyway.”

Mason went back inside his cabin and turned to say, “Go do what you must and nothing more.”

“With five bullets… I’m pretty safe on that account.”

  Going back to the pasture, I put together a small kit. The vision quest would be combined with the hunt. I had to get going while the trail was still fresh. Not all that sure I was good enough at tracking to find and follow it, I set out anyway. My coat and good Army Surplus boots I’d nabbed while in Spokane, as well as a warm flannel shirt and jeans, would keep me warm. I only carried a small day-pack.

I launched out at sunrise the next morning. At first there were signs of blood and unmistakable goat hairs on bushes that led towards the arroyo between the Hondo and the mesa. I lost the trail several times as it progressed up through some farm land higher up on the mesa. Pausing in the draw I had been following up, I opened my pouch of peyote the first time since I’d begun the trek. There’d been no sign for at least a half a mile and now I was to cross some acreage owned by ranchers who would not take kindly to a hippy toting a rifle on their property.

Sitting there for over an hour, resting after taking a bite from the medicine, I was inspired to head over north to the Rio Hondo. Peyote cat-thinking, perhaps the cat would not like crossing farm land either, my feet moved. Crossing the rim road that coursed its way towards the Carson National Forest above the Rio Hondo, I saw several perfect paw prints in the dusty shoulder of the road. Where there had been dust on the weeds, it was clear to see a trail. The weeds were bent and absent of dust too. My vision was sharpened, “I see where you are going now, mama,” I said softly to the winds.

I followed that trail down a draw into the arroyo. The landscape awoke with a most pleasant clarity. It wasn’t so much that I saw colors that weren’t already there, but I saw in the colors a heightened intensity while my spirit passed the junipers and pinions. Their presence was extended out from them with an aura or vibration that was actually felt as I passed... melded into that flow. Like a wake left by a boat through water, the path the cat had taken led me. Near the waters of the Rio Hondo I cupped my hands and swallowed the fresh cold molecules that tweaked my senses all the way down my throat. The rocks took on an aura too and I sensed what was meant by the biblical prophets declaring; “the rocks would preach if I don’t.

By night fall I found a comfortable spot to curl up on my haunches but didn’t sleep. I listened instead to the sounds of the night. The coyotes in the distance and the soft flutter of an owl swooping down to grab a field mouse. Indeed, the hills were alive around me.

Vision... perhaps... I saw, or dreamt... Pleiades in the clear sky above... but I was awake... it was one of those Kachina dolls dancing... a cat in a ceremonial coat open to Pleiades, all seven sisters, standing... stomping a rhythm... the drum in the peyote circle... chanting.

The second day I had finished off one piece of the medicine and started on the second. The wake of a trail left by the cat led me up a steep canyon. I felt as though my boots were too harsh on the earth. It was as though the earth was lifting up to cushion my feet; they found their way around the sharp edges of the stones or gently folded around them like a snail would on the razor’s edge. The higher I went the more snow was on the ground but I rarely saw any sign of the cat in the snow. The cat knew better and I sensed that the cat knew I would follow her. My feet felt no chill or cold and I kept following slowly through the next night up into the forest.

The third day, after a night of sitting and listening, I approached on the far side, down-wind of the canyon. The Kat-china told me to strip off the rest of my clothes wearing only a rope sash to hang my medicine bag and the rifle sheath strapped over my shoulder.

I felt the presence of the Kat.

She was very near me.

There was no fear.

Coming to a place on the shady side of the draw, I could see a collection of rocks that had an overhang making a sort of entrance to her den. The rifle came out of the sheath strapped over my shoulder. Looking down the sights I saw Mama Puma looking straight into my eyes from her spot in the cave. She crouched and turned suddenly to give her attention behind her. There I observed one cub, then another. She gently pawed them back out of sight. Mason’s words came to me then, “Do what you must but nothing more.”

The chamber of the rifle was loaded and I had a clear and easy shot. She was no more than a hundred feet away but my heart saw mama and I understood: She’d killed the goat-kid to feed her cubs. The kid carcass was probably stashed somewhere nearby. Her breasts had done the job up ‘til now but it was time to feed her cubs some meat. I lowered the rifle and stood… not being sure what she would do at that juncture... whether she would attack me to protect her brood.

 Not able to do anything but turn my back to her, I walked away. Throughout the day, I hiked down the canyon and felt her presence behind me at times… ahead or along side of me. I caught a glimpse now and then. She let me know she was escorting me away from her den. A special affection grew, like the love that filled my heart after the peyote ceremony. That love never left me for that cat. After all, as Mason said; we, at the communal feast, had eaten one of the kids too. As far as I was concerned the score was even.

I neared Mason’s cabin. Mason was standing at the door grinning. Fully dressed now, I handed over the rifle to him. Reaching into my day pack, I passed over the box of ammo.

“Still five in it,” Mason observed.

“Yeh, still five in it.”

“You found her though?”

“Yeh, I found her.”

“Did you have a vision?”

“Yeh, you might say so.”

“You might write it down someday.”

“Yeh, once I figure out what it was, I will.”

“That might take some time.”

“It will.”

Chapter 13: Going to Jamaica!

I was able to breathe in the experience of the vision quest at my A-frame in the goat pasture. The rest of the time I was there I never lost another kid to mama cat. It was as though some sort of cosmic agreement had been made between us on that spring day in the canyon. Some people would say that it was just a coincidence but I felt that I knew better. I drew pictures with lines in the dirt near my fire pit of the cat and the two cubs. I filled in the lines in with different color soil and offered up a prayer. I thought about it after that and, as time passed, felt a bit embarrassed at the superstition. I could never shake the impression that a special bond had been formed with that cat in particular, but with the spirit of cats in general. Years later I see a cat; whether it is a mountain lion, a house cat, or a tiger, I sense a bond. I came to understand this was a bond with a form of spirit-guide: like the ones spoken of by shaman and medicine men or healers almost universally. It was most certainly the high point of my stay at Risingstar.

Something else had happened to me on this quest. I wasn’t compelled to tell anyone about it. Part of the way out into the wilderness I had taken note of all the wonders I had experienced and couldn’t wait to get back to civilization to tell someone about it all. There was a point where I had merged so totally with everything around me… that I was in it so deeply… there just wasn’t any way to describe it with words. Once I did want to tell someone and I went to Brian to sit with him an hour… I couldn’t say much of anything.

I would start, “Uh… yes. Trees breathe… I saw them.” And Brian would simply nod in agreement: he’d already been there.

“I was there breathing with them.” I picked up where the nod left off.

“Do you think this experience will amount to anything that will affect the drinking we talked about?” Brian seemed to be curious about it himself. For so many at that time, LSD and psychedelic experience was the cure-all for everything.

Brian seemed to have gone past those surface beliefs and I appreciated his experience since he had been around acid from the beginnings in the early sixties. He had been right there with the “Beats” in North Beach and had been in the Haight when the psychedelic revolution began before Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters.

“I don’t know… truthfully. I would have believed so after my first experience but I can’t say that hitting on the godhead at the mountain-top is enough to do the trick. I can’t drink and I can’t stop. No matter what spiritual reality I encounter, eventually I forget and then it is all over. I no longer even want to quit.”

Mueller Investigation: A David vs Goliath Moment

David, win or lose - right or wrong always comes out
ahead in public opinion.

For what it's worth. People, we are being manipulated by the national media. Who owns the major cable networks? Why was this Russian collusion narrative pushed? Who benefited from two years of constant harping?
You think it might've been a convenient foil to keep us distracted? We had all the corporate middle-of-the-road and progressive leaning cable and mainstream broadcast networks poised against one admittedly right-wing one; thus, creating a David vs Goliath scenario towards manipulation and distraction of both the progressives and conservatives. 
   What were we being distracted from? 
   Can we look at that before we jump on one bandwagon or the other.
   I've been saying all along, withhold judgment until the much touted Mueller team completes its investigation.
   Not one of my friends wanted to do that. Like the Cyclops in the cave, not one of them wanted to look under the sheep of the Democratic Party's collusion let alone allow the investigation to be completed before they took to the streets with pitchforks and torches.
   Hating the President isn't enough. It is another distraction. Promote a better idea instead of the same old tired Saul Alinski tactics that divide and divert our energy.

How I met Black-Jack Fingernails

If Black Beard enameled his nails,
he would've colored them black.

I have an aura about me that draws the freaks of nature out of the woodwork to confront, confuse, and sometimes amuse me whenever I wait more than fifteen minutes at a train or bus station. 

   I know, they say it's safer and flying is more convenient, and faster, and crying babies need be tolerated for far less time, but perception-warps sponsored by the likes of Black-Jack Fingernails, rarely happen at airline terminals.

   I had my carry-on bag, laptop, and Mom’s guitar case with me twelve hours before my train’s ETD in the early morning. Sitting on the hard-wooden bench, I made myself as comfortable as I could and opened a Tana French novel to pass the time when I saw him come in the door.

This was how I met Black-Jack Fingernails.  He was wearing sweats, I later saw that his hoodie had CCC Firefighter printed on the back. He had a red windbreaker tied at his waist over a studded leather belt over his sweats. He looked the part of a regular Black-Jack Sparrow… but not at all as fem as Johnny Depp.  Though he could pass for any sub-tropical ethnic with mocha complexion and brown eyes, I call him Black-Jack because his fingernails were enameled black. The enamel flashed when he tossed back his hoodie to expose his head of wild hair in beaded braids and dreds that sprung out around a bald pate at the top too messy to be real notty-dreds... not quite Rasta. And his black beard was accented by whited streaks down the middle of his chin that gave off the appearance of a rabid dog foaming at the mouth and his dark eyes darted about as though seeking out prey.

I knew he would soon zone in on me soon after my 15 minutes of allotted nut-cases immunity at the train station. Not that he’s a nut case, I’m not one to judge, or to diagnose, his mental state. But he approached as a whirl of erratic motions. I felt that crazy vibe about him that could be violent and went inside to samadhi-land where shelter’s balance can find its head in the sand. At least that’s what I thought originally. No, he was looking for a friendly face… that’s all I think.

He opened a conversation with a set of questions, “I’m Jack. What time does your bus leave?”

I grunted, “I’m taking the train.”

Excited, he exclaimed, “Oh, me too, do you know what time? I need to get to Redding?”

My thought was, oh shit, he wants to be buddies. I didn’t want to tell him I was going on that same train but to be polite I did my duty to civilized behavior on the behalf of this wild-man and said, “That train leaves at 02:45 in the morning.”

"Oh, military time. Me too. You in Nam?"

Maybe so he'd think we had nothing in common, I attempted to distance myself, and said, "Not combat. Navy. Off-shore, never touched dirt there."

"So, makes no diff, you were there. So was I, Screamin' Eagle, Hamburger Hill."

I wasn't so sure he was old enough but anything's possible, so I acted impressed, "Hat's off to you."

He wasn't done with me because I'd opened my mouth. Now we were as good as brothers and he continued as though I'd said nothing, “I axed the bus lady and she said they have a bus going before then… I don’t remember when, but sooner than that. But I think the train’s cheaper.”

Hoping to ward off his enthusiasm to be best pals, I said, “I don’t know about that. It’s been my experience that the train costs more.”

As though it was established we were buddies for the next twelve hours, he either didn't here me, or it was bound to be a one-way conversation. After discussing of and on several times the difference between bus fares and train fares, he dove into his tale, “Say, you know, a bit ago I was hungry, you know.”

Oh hell, he had a story he was aching to tell someone, and I was it. I played with the pages of my book to signal that I’m already engrossed in a story and said, “Yeah?”

He wasn't at all going to allow me to hide in the pages and began, if it is true, a mildly shocking diatribe, saying, “And I went out to the parking lot where I meet this guy that says a taco stand comes by every day. So, we walk out there around the corner to where he says it parks. I says, I’m from California, I can smell a taco truck a mile away, you know? He says I can’t smell it cause it’s not here yet.”

Black-Jack had me hooked with "smelling a taco truck," and I was listening to him now. He gave me no time to answer anything more than an, "Uh huh," because his delivery was not to be interrupted.

He continued his narrative, “Well, there’s no taco truck and I’m thinkin’ okay, what now? The guy says, I know where there’s a hot-dog stand down the street. Right then and there a light came on you know a red-flag thing… when he starts goin’ on ’bout Mexicans bein’ here and no respect for the way things go. Bing-bing-bing and another red-flag pops up in here!” he slaps the side of his head with his palm flashing black fingernails and says, “Duh, I’m thinkin’, the guy’s a racist or sumpin and wonder what he’s up to about that fuckin’ hotdog stand down the street talking racist shit when bing, bing, bam... another red-flag goes off. What do I look white, like Donald Trump, to him? Then we pass an alley. He says, hey let’s take that shortcut. I start to walk in with him, you know, only a few feet, you know just outa sight from anyone, you know. Bing, bing, bing, bing, all the dashlights in my head are lit. I’m sayin’, Naw, an’ I says, I ain’t goin’ no further down no alley. The guy grabs my arm, right here at the shoulder, you know and says, the alleys here are safe. Naw, I jerk my arm loose and say, an alley’s an alley. What do you mean this alley is safe you fucker? But he just repeats himself and then I think fuck him, and I plant a round-house on the side of his head… man my wrist hurts like I broke it.”

When Black-Jack said, "a round house," amused, I thought, I hadn’t heard that term since Archie Moore’s day. But now Black-Jack Fingernails has my full attention and I check to make sure my walking stick is kung-fu near-by.

Fingernails kept talking, gesturing with both hands swearing, “I ain’t into violence, you know. So, the mother-fucker hits the ground and is layin’ there like he’s dead. So, I goes through his clothes. He don’t move the whole time, and all I find’s a twenty. Well fuck him. I take the twenty and then I have to piss so I yank my prick out and piss on his head. He still didn’t move but I gots his twenty, and so I went to that convenience store and bought this.” He dangled his prize; a styro-foam sandwich box in a plastic bag and laughed a hearty pirate, “Har-dee-har! Made the fucker buy me lunch sorta and then I pissed on his face!”

Black-Jack Fingernail's story, while mildly amusing at first, had gone darker than night and all I wanted to do was run, but I stayed steady inside my head where there’s no fear… exhale, breathe… calm… steady… inhale, steady, calm, breathe.

The Amtrak ticket window wasn't open until ten pm because ours is one of two trains takes passengers out of Spokane and that's one eastbound at 01:30 and another southbound at 02:55. Black-Jack Fingernails was in and out of the station several times until then. Plopping down on the bench in front of me he rubbed is forearm with one hand and moaned, “Shit, I think I broke my wrist. So, you think the train costs more? I don’t think so man. I don't care, I’m gonna get a ticket.”

He came back from getting his ticket and when he saw my Mom’s guitar case he asked, “Shit, it did cost more. Too late for the bus though. You play guitar? So do I! Hope I still can with this wrist, you know. What is it, a Martin?”

I answered, “Yamaha, it’s a Japanese guitar. But it's a damned good one."

He got more excited and shouted, "Kinda like tellin' a Harley rider that my bike’s a Honda. Hey, you ride? I can tell. You ride, huh. A biker don’t give a shit what the fuck what anyone on two wheels rides and git-players don't either. From the looks of that case, I bet you been playin' it a lot. You been around too... must be good, eh?"

I agree but I’m more concerned that he might want me to play. Mom’s guitar is in a cheap, beat-to-shit, case and that makes it look like an equally beat-up old fart my age ought to be the best damned guitar player on the planet after years of playing it around campfires. I was ready to admit that appearances are deceiving at times and that I’d never played a lick on it or any other guitar. I’d merely promised my Mom I’d try to learn at her memorial and took it home with me. My inheritance.

My anxiety was relieved when he babbled on, “I’m good… played with the Ramones. Joey Ramone gave me this guitar-strap. Worth some money… see,”

He reached under his shirt and pulled a studded black leather guitar strap from the layers of sweats and I see it has a KISS belt buckle. He tries to cover it with the hand adorned with black enameled fingernails but sees that I’m looking at it and before I can say anything, he asked, “Do you smoke?”

I’m thinking that it’s a threatening gesture… the belt with studs is a perfect weapon to whack the fuck out of someone and that someone could be me.

He asks again, “Do you smoke pot?”

“Naw, quit, can’t afford it.”

“I wish I could find someone that can sell me some.”

“There’s pot shops on damned near every corner around here.”

“Really, where? Can you show me. I gots money to buy?”

I was waiting for an invitation to leave the station out of view from the public where he could use my face as his private urinal.

Declining the offer, “Just check it out, man. I gotta stay here with my stuff.”  and he got-up off the bench.

"I gotta get some pot, I'll be back, ha, like Arnold, you know. I'll be back, get it?" then he left out the door and came back several times to bounce his stories off the walls and other folks... of Rock Stardom and giving-up fortune and fame to take care of his kids and baby-mama. He was full of shit, maybe some of it was true... and maybe he played with Kiss, or the Ramones, or thought they were the Ramones... Maybe he didn't knock out the taco guy, or piss on him, and maybe he did, and Most likely, the CCC Firefighters Hoodie came from a thrift-store. But I have a feeling he was at Hamburger Hill because he never spoke of it, and it turned out that he was a sweet guy who told a good story.

Later on, while in line to check in our baggage he saw me and, like a child greeting a long-lost friend, he hollered, “Say, I met you before... when I first came in, remember?”

Innocent, see what I mean?

Every time he saw me on that train ride from Spokane to Redding his eyes lit up and he exclaimed, “Hey, remember me, we met in Spokane.”

“How could I forget, of course I remember you.”

So that’s how I met Black-Jack Fingernails and that's why I like waiting at train and bus stations. You just never know when someone is going to become an adventure.

  

Chapter 19. Modigliani Eyes

Arrogant or confident?

Casey and Anna were cozy at the helm where they'd been watching the action when I came out of the cabin. Her eyes were riveted on me while I walked back to the stern to sit and air out what had transpired. The Blatva… it was something I’d heard of but hadn’t paid much attention to. The LSD affects were at that stage where my brains felt fried and my eyes burned from the light reflecting off the seas.

“We’re goin’ to the Bay now, the Boss wants us there,” Casey’s voice interrupted the thought.

“What?” I had begun to wonder what Ryan was doing ashore. I knew he would have something planned but I had been in the dark up to then. It would be easy to get Casey to tell me everything he knew of it. I probed, “I know Ryan wants us in San Rafael but you must know more than me.”

Casey was bubbling with joy to be part of a big plan… that he knew more than me, “I have a good friend, Jimbo. He has an old boat I heard he’s been workin’ on. New canvass and paint. Other than that I gots no fuckin’ idea what Ryan’s up to.”

Anna interrupted, “Speaking of fuckin’ ideas, I want to know what the fuck’s going on with Doc, huh? What’s the plan with him?”

“He’s still tripping pretty heavy. I sent him below to chase the bats from his belfry, I suppose. I’m done with him though… got what I wanted.”

Anna entered the cabin and went straight below towards the berths where Doc was quietly sitting on the bunk.

“I gotta use the head and change clothes.”

I wasn’t sure what she would do so I called out, “Wait, Anna. I’m done with him but you and we need to pow-wow,” and followed close inside.

Casey was watching us from the wheel.

The Dinky Dao had a layout similar to the Sherlock’s except that the Casey’s tub was an unmodified working lobster boat. The Sherlock had the same cabin and berthing configuration. Converted to a popular yacht design, it’s stern wasn’t open for hauling in lobster traps. The cabin was a step up from the deck to the galley. It was about three steps forward of that to a level accommodating a small shower and head. Forward of that space and through a hatch were four bunks… two on each side. The helm was outside in the weather on the starboard side but under the same canopy as the cabin.

Everything about the Dinky Dao was the same except it was in dire need of a paint-job and the clutter everywhere. Empty plastic water bottles, empty beer cans and gallon wine jugs, newspapers, doubled plastic bags stuffed with laundry, and junk… fishing line and flasher lures etc. covered every counter and table top. However, a stack of skin magazines was a conspicuous exception. They were kept, covered in cellophane in a neat bundle in a plastic milk crate under the table I’d cleared for our breakfast.

It was noon by the time I was done with Doc but I was anxious to keep him out of reach of Anna. Once paranoia slips into one’s psychedelicized consciousness it is difficult to sort out which fears are justified and which ones are not. I knew a few Lurps (an affectionate name adopted from the initials for Long Range Recon Patrol) that liked to go into the bush on acid to enhance their environmental awareness. This worked well for real reasons to be safe, “left of the bang”, but it might also account for some of the Geneva Accord violations against innocent villagers. My paranoia told me that Anna had a motive to take out Doc beyond mere revenge. He might expose more than she wished of how she fit-in. I had to keep those suspicions in check, however, because they might just as well be chemically induced fears.

Anna was already stripped down and stepping into the shower. I could see why Ryan was in love with her. Her nudity, while my mind was sucked into cosmic reality, didn’t evoke any desire at all to possess her sexually but I was completely in rapture at the sight of her innocent beauty. My mind raced from big questions to wondering whether women got the same depth of sensual arousal at the sight of a man’s naked body. They might but I suspect not because I don’t see women keeping a neat and bundled stack of old skin mags. I million and one such ruminations passed through that transcendent Bardo as she slipped out of sight into the shower. I went from paranoia to awe in less than a flash… the time it takes for a match head to flare upon striking.

Her shout from below snapped me out of that Bardo of reflection, “Hey! There’s no fucking water!”

She came out and up to the table wearing a weather jacket and nothing more. She knew she was going to be grilled and was prepping herself to craft the best defense she had leaving the jacket open enough to expose the partial curve of her breasts. Just enough to keep me distracted. There is a line from the Bible… hell, I don’t know where to find it. I just heard Thumpers quote it in jail. It says the eyes are the windows to the soul. Anna had been trained by someone on more than that Mac-10. Her eyes suddenly became hard to read and that’s a skill known by only a few amateurs that are unwelcome at poker tables or by specialists in trade craft. I knew full well when the subject’s eyes became opaque and unbreakable.

I broke the ice, “We aren’t playing the school-girl now, are we?”

She wasn’t playing alright. She had become robotic and my task was to remind her that she was human; that I was human, and hardest of all, that Doc was human. Her jacket opened to expose more Modigliani flesh but I was transfixed on the opaque eyes. The painter studied eyes. Each portrait displayed a fascination with the deception of eyes. It was as though the painter never quite figured them out. He painted what he saw. There is one painting of a teen with the pupils blurred… there could be a three ring circus behind them but there was no way to get past that matte glaze. No wonder he drank himself to death with absinthe and wine.

Her hands lay flat on the table with her fingers spread as though on display. They were another work of art; long, thin and graceful, a Gothic saint that had just blown away a man with a Mac-10 a few days ago.

I finally saw in them. Her eyes turned sad… full of regret, "Look Crash, I've got nothing more. This tub needs swamping out if we're staying on it for any amount of time. Let's not play cat and mouse for a while and get to work."

"You might be right. Bit we have to talk."

Tourist in another Strange Land

O8/02/16 Twi’s Day (07:56):

I did my laundry yesterday. I enjoyed the whole experience. The first thing that happened was that I had to get change. The lady attendant saw how I was looking for the machine and asked, “Are you looking for something?”

   I don’t exactly know why but I felt just a little intimidated. She was a Hispanic woman and I hate to admit it but it is so. It wasn’t so much that she was Hispanic/native but that she had that natural assurance that Taos was her home… had been the home of her parents, grandparents and so on further back than when the Spanish conquistadors saw the Pueblo and settled the area that had already been settled for over ten millennia. Once more, with only a few exceptions, the laundromat was a mix of varying degrees of that ancestry.

   I got past this intimidation and remembered how well I had gotten along with the Taos Pueblo people and how I too… just like the conquistadors before me… had eventually gotten along with everyone. I answered, “I’m looking for a change machine.”

   She led me to her little office and asked, “How much do you need?”

   I said, “How much would it take for two washers and two dryers?”

   “Two? Is that bag all you have?”

   “Yes, you know, separate the darks from the whites,” I smiled and once more became intimidated having not thought about any implied apartheid until she returned what I call an Indian smile… a blank face to anyone less perceptive.

   “Two still? That bag is small,” she repeated while she took out a roll of quarters. “Maybe seven… eight to make sure.”

   “Seven’s good. I have a buck’s worth on me.”

A good sized man that looked purer bred Pueblo limped by. I took the quarters and set about with the laundry task when suddenly one of the washers began overflowing. One of the only white women in the laundromat called her attention to it, “The floors are flooding! There’s water on the floor!”

    After that there was a buzz of activity. The man with the limp stood by and watched and the two talked while she squeegeed the floor. While she pushed the water out the door the two of them talked casual, very briefly. She said, “You’re dong better.”

   “Yes, I’m alright… a little better every day.”

   “Time takes time. You look good.”

He left her to her task and sat down on the side next to me.

   I was at home.

   This is the part of Taos I love. The old adobes are one thing but the people are another. Everyone in the room was going about with their own business like people do everywhere else but there is a flavor to Taos that is hard to describe… a not so subtle as it might seem at first. For instance, I had a chorizo omelet that morning too. It was Spanish chorizo… not at all like the chorizo I'm used to. It's a solid sausage instead of the greasy California ones I love so much. Probably mush better for ya too. New Mexico is like California but much better for ya too.

   

   In Taos, I am, at first, just another tourist in another strange land.

Arjuna's Colt 45

Most sailors keep a few books in their cabins. In one of the cupboards was a copy of the Bhagavad Gita. I’d read some of it before but I must have skipped over these stanzas Krishna spoke to Arjuna as the sea rolled under my feet. I read between the lines of these stanzas, “The duties of the Priests, the Warriors, the Merchants/Artisans, and Laborers, Arjuna, are passed along through the genes according to the qualities which arise from their own nature” and “Heroism, majesty, firmness, skill, and never a coward, generosity, and nobility, are the qualities of the warrior, born of their nature.” You can’t help but to be what you were born to.Strap on your 45 Arjuna and get in the mix.

The Brahman, the Kshatrias, the Vashyas, and the Shudras… each are noble. I took a deep breath and sighed the sorrow. We are born the way we are. I had been granted a part in the universe I denied. I tried to find peace between the Kshatrias and the Vashyas where no peace could be found.

I’d settled for the mask of normalcy instead of taking the path. It turned out to be a big mistake. I chose the oblivion of the bottle when I denied the fire… the challenge of creation as an artist. It was the same Warrior/Creator Muse that left me then and this thing in me became numb. Sitting on the deck of the Sherlock in that moment, I understood… it was a flash. When Earhart took his dive off the bridge it was his last chance to get back to his warrior soul. It wasn’t when I chose to drink… it was when I chose to be normal. Creation and destruction, oh Arjuna, are the same beast. This reality shocks normal people with normal lives. Likewise, it’s the karma of most people to live out their lives in peace, to raise families, and participate in society. The merchant/artisan or laborer perfect their own duties to be successful but couldn’t be expected to understand the drive of pro-athletes or Navy SEALs. Nor should they. The odds are a million to one against making it but the drive is there and that drive denied will pull us down the way nothing else can.

There were a few beers in the cabin’s small fridge but I craved a soda instead. I realized I hadn’t the DTs I’d feared since my last drink. I should’ve. I always did when I tried. I had nothing more than the usual hangover and some shakes but it was remarkably easy to quit. It had never been this easy for me before whenever I tried. Shit, it had been a couple years of daily drinking. I’d heard others say the same thing happened to them when they went had gone bat-shit religious. They always attributed it to a miracle… an act of God or Higher Power. It made believers of them. I hadn’t any such an apparition or transcendent experience. I’ve heard it said that positive thinking changes the brain chemistry but that wasn’t quite enough of an explanation for me. It was as though my friends on the Wall had called me to a mission. Maybe Earhart’s spirit was my Higher Power. It did awaken me none-the-less.

Chapter 9. The Inspection

I know how most civilian investigations work. A crime scene is taped off, if there is one, and all evidence on the spot is gathered. No one works alone like Colombo. It takes teamwork. Witnesses are interviewed and from there it goes door to door asking the neighbors; “Where were you when it happened? Did you see anything unusual? Did you recognize anyone?” A list of possible “persons of interest” is compiled and then it’s taken to the interview room at the station. One by one “persons of interest’ are narrowed to a couple of suspects. There’s not much need to go back into the field. Confessions, or leads, are extracted there with varying results.

Sometimes it’s another story with persons of interest who contribute to campaign funds like Doc does. If a simple child molestation accusation comes from an obscure source, like a prostitute, the case might not be filed at all. She is more likely to be arrested and booked for her sins and, added to that, filing a false report. I’ve seen it happen. This isn’t because of overt corruption. More often than not it's a combination of case overload, a simple bias, or bureaucratic laziness. If the witness is corrupt, and that the case has no chance in front of a jury, the matter is complicated.

A murder escalates the concerns of all involved. If the person of interest is a campaign donor and the victim is a cab driver, there is a good chance that the case will go cold. Perry's case would have been lost in a glacier of ice… just another suicide… except that Ryan had a dog in the hunt.

I flatter myself to think that this dog was me but I believe that my friend was in love with Anna.

I had to leave the sanctuary of Anna’s studio to pick up my VA check at the Virginia. Spiderman was at the desk holding up the foldout of the newest Pethouse to the light. I had to slam the ringer to get his attention. He damned near fell out of his chair. Recovering his composure, he said, “I see you Crash, but I’d rather look at this. What do you think, is she a ten?”

I looked at the fold-out a second but asked, “You got my check yet?”

“Say, Crash. Have you been takin’ vitamins or something? You don’t look so bad.”

“I didn’t come here to get married sweetheart, I just want my check.”

He put the magazine aside and pulled the government envelope out of a drawer and slipped it across the counter, “You ain’t drinkin’ are you?”

“It’s only been a week. You think it shows?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“I just have to keep my head clear for a while. At least ‘til a few things get straightened out.”

“I gotta tell you. A PD Detective was here lookin’ for you. What kind of shit did you get yourself into, Crash?”

“Not sure, what did he say?” I knew it had to be Ryan.

“He just asked if I knew where you were stayin’ and if I knew that Anna chick. Man-oh-man, I sure do wish I knowed her better.”

“Hey, you’re starting to drool.” I stepped back and started to walk away. “But thanks Spiderman. You don’t have to tell him I was here.” The thought came to me that Ryan didn’t know where I was hiding out. Anna hadn’t let him know either. I supposed there was no reason to let him know until I had a better idea what I was up against.

I went to the corner to cash my check. John had been doing that since I first moved into the Virginia. I always paid up my tab on the first of the month. I had him cut it off at fifty bucks so that I wouldn’t use up my reserves. That was my way of budgeting a monthly hundred twenty-dollar check. It was a thirty percent disability… the pittance the VA threw my way to delay paying off at a higher rate. It seemed as though the VA was betting most of us wouldn’t have the stamina to endure the delays and obstructions before an appeal came through. Most Vets gave up and walked away… went to prison, committed suicide, or died before an appeal was ever awarded.

John cashed my check… counted it out. I passed fifty back.

“No Crash. You can get me later… when you’re back on your feet.”

I looked at my feet, peeled off fifty bucks, “I’m on my feet John. Here, take this. I’m okay, really.”

John took the money, “You know; that cop friend of yours, Detective Ryan, was here first thing this morning… banged on my door before I opened. He says it’s urgent.”

“I know. I’d appreciate you don’t know anything… right.” I passed three quarters over the counter and he passed back a pack of generic unfiltered smokes.

“I can’t lie to a cop, Crash.”

“You don’t have to lie except by omission.”

I was halfway to Gutierrez Street before I realized I hadn’t bought a pint from John. It felt good. Two more steps and I wanted to turn around… Maybe go to the Ofice to see Nancy. I didn’t have to struggle much though. It felt like a big hand was on my shoulder guiding me away. It wasn’t long before I was on the breakwater lighting up a smoke and listening to the surf pounding away under me as I sat on the concrete bench taking in the sun. I knew what the big hand was and the feeling was vivid… like the way I felt watching Adrian breech and come out of the Elaine’s vagina fighting. It was a feeling of awe, fear, and beauty. That’s when I saw Ryan coming towards me from the Yacht Club.

I patted my hand on the wet spot where the spraying surf left a puddle as he approached, “Don’t sit here unless you want to get your butt wet.”

“Walk with me to Mizz Sherlock, Crash. You in the mood for some fishing?”

Mizz Sherlock was a clean boat of about forty-five feet… nothing fancy about her. The old Chrysler marine engine that powered her could be pushed to twelve knots max… cruises at ten. The cabin was big enough to squeeze in a gateleg table for eating that dropped down for a third berth and a chart table for plotting a course. It even had a shower below next to the head.

Under the forward hatch was the usual two berths. The most modern feature on it was a marine radio scanner and 1950’s radar screen. There was no fish-finder sonar, or RDF. A compass, sextant and clock was good enough for him. It was a comfortable cabin and the boat was made to hold up under the conditions of damned near any seas.

We didn’t need to talk as we boarded and cruised out of the harbor. I knew he was going to fish for something more than Yellowtail and that he would be patient. The sea-air away from the harbor was different… just as fresh and all… but there was something about it. It was fresh in the nose… like the sweet smell of freedom. I’d sailed a skiff around the sloughs of the Sacramento River and San Francisco Bay before I was drafted. The Navy wasn’t taking high school drop-outs and draftees back then. I could have been on Swift-boats. But the Army took anyone then and I found a home there.

I tossed the pack of smokes into the churning wake. It was a compulsion. I don’t know why I did it but it felt right… something like pouring out that beer.

We set up our poles and took turns at the helm. Ryan opened a cooler and pulled out two cans… a beer for himself and offered me one.

“You got a soda or something?”

“You quit drinking too.” He wasn’t asking. It was like he was reading it from a report.

“No. Just laying off a bit. Who told you that?”

“A little sparrow… ‘sides, smokin’ and drinkin’ go together.”

“Shit, you get around. So does fishin’ and drinkin’.” Not knowing how to drink one, I gulped down the soda and tossed the can off the stern. “I didn’t really quit. I’m just putting some time between drinks, if you know what I mean.”

Ryan scowled and pushed five-gallon bucket next to me, “Put ‘em in here next time.”

He cut the motor and we just drifted with the current. He continued to look at me with a scrunched brow.

A weight pressed my chest and caught in my craw, so I let it out, “Anna’s in trouble.”

“I know,” he dropped his beer in the bucket as his line went taut and his pole bent nearly to the waterline. He yanked the pole from its rod holder and hollered, “It’s fishin’ ya know. Sometimes the little ones fight harder than the big ones. You don’t know what you’ve got until you pull it in.”

The reel on the pole zinged the line out…. Ryan’s body leaned back with the pole in both hands… “It’s not a Yellowtail!”

“How can you tell?”

“A Yellowtail won’t take it to the bottom. Gotta be a shark. We’re fishing with too light a line.”

“What do you have, the Loch Ness monster?”

“I might as well… we might be in for a long… long… haul.” Ryan didn’t look as excited as I thought he would be. He was calm, “Damn. I was looking forward to some sushi.”

“The day isn’t over yet.”

“I was fishin’ for bait. This bugger is going to take more than we’re rigged for. Fortuitous… let’s talk about that.”

“About Anna, or this fish?”

Ryan pulled the line back from the tip of the rod, took out his Buck knife, and cut the line. The pole snapped back upright, “You tell me. Anna’s too smart to get big headed. She’s in a trap she got into as a small fry and now she’s upped the ante.”

Anna hadn’t told me enough to know how much Ryan knew or how much I should let him know. I wasn’t comfortable between these two loyalties. No wonder I drank. The beers in the cooler started to look damned good. I cracked one open but didn’t take a sip. I just held it in my hand like Linus’ security blanket.

Ryan’s eyes were on my beer, “Your old boss is into some pretty sick shit. Worse than that, he took that bimbo with him and now it’s starting to cave in on all of them.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Perry.”

“Anna told me. I was in jail at the time… you know?”

Ryan busied himself re-rigging his gear, “I think I’ll put some live squid on it. Change it up. You probably don’t know what’s been going on. I don’t think you even cared until a week ago. Am I right?”

“That I care? Yeah, I suppose I do. Ryan, I think I’m coming alive. I feel it. I’m done with all this bullshit… it isn’t self-pity and all. I just didn’t give a shit.” I watched Ryan finish hooking up the squid and cast out with only a light flick of his wrist. I set the beer in the holder on the gunnel and took the helm. Ryan didn’t have to tell me to take the helm and I began cruising just fast enough to create a wake. I looked back in time to see a Marlin clear the water. It was a good sign the day would be a good one. I shouted over the throbbing motors, “So, Anna’s the live bait? Why are we fishing if you already have a bead on Doc?”

Ryan reeled the squid towards the boat in front of where we saw the jumper and, as an aside, he shouted, “You know there’s Great Whites out here too. Funny thing about them. They have some sort of instinct… At the Farallons, a friend… a marine biologist, told me. I don’t know what it is but, if you kill one… well, the old ones… the big ones… they skedaddle and don’t come back for a long-assed time. Maybe all you got to do is kill one. Folks don’t know that.”

“You aren’t going to let me know more?”

“About fishing? Crash Craszhinski, you’ll know more when I know more. Try to remember, this crap will take time and patience. You stay close to Anna; she can help us out but we don’t want to scare off the big ones. I don’t trust her story. Her heart is good but she’s a compulsive liar.”

“Then, I take it that you’re not going by the book this time?”

“I am. But the book we’re going by hasn’t been written. Circumstances always warrant an exception. I have to tell you, something smells bad at the station. Might go up near the top of the chain of command in the DA’s office. Someone’s stepped on my earliest attempts to investigate.”

“So, Ryan,” I was intrigued now. Ryan was going rogue. That wasn’t his style. I had to probe, “I need to know what we’re getting into.” Still not sure what anything he said was about, I added, “I’ve never liked working with ARVN’s commanders in the Embassy. Too much like catch and release.”

Ryan’s rod dipped a couple of times, “Sometimes they tease the crap out of ya.”

I cut the engines as soon as I heard the reel’s shrill r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r’s. He yelled, “That ain’t a Great White!” He planted the butt of the rod under his belly and the fight was on. I could see why Hemmingway loved Marlin fishing so much. It could be compared to a fifteen round boxing match. It looks like I had a ringside seat for this bout. The line went straight down, pole bent… keeping the line taught, Ryan reeled and released it… brought it closer and letting it go further. The line changed directions a dozen times before the fish breached in a graceful leap coming back down on the line as sure as a fencer’s parry and lunge. The pole sprung back straight and the line went slack… the fight was over… the Marlin won.

Ryan laughed, “That was one smart asshole! Took lessons from Douglass Fairbanks for sure.”

“It was more like Liston and Clay… over in the first round,” I sniped, but one of the things I especially liked about Ryan was his quick acknowledgement of his adversary’s prowess. My stomach started to churn and I realized how hungry I’d gotten.

Ryan pulled up his line and relieved me at the helm. “Yeah, but don’t it give you a rush? Let’s go over to the oil rigs and get us some lunch.”

All in all, it wasn’t a bad day. Ryan had snagged one and let it go. Another just plain got away.

He snuggled the Sherlock idling in the shade under Platform B casting distance from the stanchions where we lobbed our lines to the bottom. Within minutes we were both hauling in a couple of nice rockfish and calico bass. I was afraid we were going to have sushi but Ryan pulled out the propane Hibachi from a space under the deck. We filleted our catch and had them on the grill on the spot. I couldn’t remember a time in the past several years when I felt life had been so sweet.

After eating, Ryan stood at the helm, fired up the old Chrysler and said, “This isn’t catch and release. We’re dealing with great whites and Anna’s our bait.”

Mizz Sherlock rounded past the sand spit buoys, sea landing jetty, and into its slip on Marina One. I dropped the bumpers, jumped off and set the bow line to the cleat when Ryan stopped me. “Don’t tie up the stern. You’re not staying.”

“What’re you talking about, Ryan?”