Chapter 32 — Kickapoo
A little after 8am, while standing by a bus stop near the corner of Agua Fria and Lopez Lane, Tennessee Sandoval slipped into a mild trance that had both surprised and unexpectedly pleased him.
He had simply been standing there with his hands lightly clasped behind his back, mindlessly gazing into space, when a chilly breeze swept across him and, in its wake, imbued the garrulous senior with a curious dose of serenity that left him feeling as blissed out as a Bombay mystic on a steady drip of morphine.
Tennessee decided to let the peculiar, yet pleasing feeling ride, and he smiled softly, still facing the steady automobile traffic droning along only a few feet from the toes of his brown leather Florsheims.
A passing driver, perhaps an acquaintance, upon seeing him may have wondered if the wizened old goat had somehow been transformed by Santa Fe's combo of high altitude and hippy-dippy vibe from a loquacious firecracker into the curious case of the Pale-Faced-Buddha of New Mexico. But all of Tennessee's friends were so old they probably would have just blamed it on their unreliable eyesight.
Tennessee stood steady, taking in the murmur of crisscrossing traffic humming like background music set to low, and he was suddenly feeling so damn relaxed that he slipped a gloved hand into one of the pockets of his old wool coat, took a fifth of whisky out, and had a snort right there on the corner, forbidden public boozing be damned. Then he eased back and slowly set his rear end down on the bus stop bench behind him, right next to a bundled and scarfed older woman about his age. She had a nice, friendly face, and a nice name, too. Hildy.
"Welcome back, old timer," she teased him lightly. "I thought I'd lost you to that bottle of rye for good."
Tennessee and Hildy were old friends, active among Santa Fe's sizable senior community — that's where they'd met. The communication dynamic between the two was always friendly and always, more or less, carried out the same way: Tennessee did the pontificating and Hildy did the listening, occasionally offering up a pithy remark of her own. Hildy was married, and when her husband was around, they called themselves the Polydent Three. Once Tennessee got to talking, it was difficult to slow him down. His favorite topic was classical music, and he was just now thinking of something. Hildy liked lots of subjects but only knew a little about most of them, and enjoyed talking about them anyway.
"I never played the violin, dear." Tennessee drawled like Duke Wayne at a bar after he'd had a few, his gray-blue eyes still gazing but a little more focused as he tracked a shiny '57 Chevy rumbling along, a distorted conjunto instrumental blaring away inside the cab. "Indeed," he continued when the departing music had subsided sufficiently for him to carry on in his normal voice, "I have never even held a violin, and am certainly no expert in that most exquisite of all musical instruments, with apologies to the cello and the French horn. But I am about to make a statement that I believe to be true, woman. The first movement of Vivaldi's 'The Four Seasons' — the very first one, La Primavera — may possibly be the most challenging and sublime violin piece ever composed."
He turned to Hildy and passed her the bottle, adding, "I saw it performed by the Santa Fe Pro Musica on senior night, that was the winter you and Sandy had gone to Florida. God-damn remarkable."
Hildy tipped the bottle into the opening of a steaming thermos, paused the pour when Tennessee started up again.
"How — that damn Italian — composed those four movements is something of a miracle that's best left unexplored. If we try to comprehend it, we may never recover."
Hildy splashed a little more booze into her Folger's and handed the fifth back to her companion, added offhandedly, "Every now and then, we human dummies lift our knuckles off the ground long enough to accomplish something special that really benefits mankind." She paused to think for a moment, then added, "Like the invention of the heating pad, the big one. And the TV remote control. Not getting up to switch between Search for Tomorrow and As the World Turns sort of changed my life, mister. Pretty sure it saved me from a hip and knee replacement, and that's just for starters."
Tennessee gave her a kindly sideways glance.
"Indeed. Every little bit helps," and he trailed off. "Indeed. Every little bit..."
"However. How-ever..." he suddenly declared, "When you add it all up, then zoom all the way out and apply a strictly objective analysis, mankind sure is a goofy, and I must say, frequently stupid lot. From the very beginning, we began to make up stories out of some psycho cult's collective imagination, adding phony mystical meaning and giving it some lofty name. The number one example's gotta be religion — which specializes in the tallest, phoniest tales. By far. Concocted from the bottom up by self-important, hopelessly confused dudes. And it's always men leading the disinformation charge, wouldn't you know it. That dumbass macho who proclaimed for the very first time, 'It's a man's world' left out a few key words. What he should have said was, 'It's a — big fat liar's — man's world.' Sure, I tell a whopper or two here and there, but it's only for my entertainment. Never for profit or power. Shit, I barely have power over my bladder."
"Sandy's thrown in the towel when it comes to peeing, especially all night long," Hildy said, then added in a hushed tone, "Don't tell him I told you so, but he's sleeping on a cot inside the toilet now. It's a little tight in there, but I'm not complaining."
Tennessee acknowledged with an understanding nod, paused to fill his lungs, and picked up where he'd left off.
"Yessir, those pious pranksters cooked up some dandies. Parables, allegories, even throwing in numbered rules like the ones everyone's heard of — the Big Ten, that fella Moses carved up with the help of the big cheese himself. And all kinds of strange, downright bizarre rituals to go along with all the rest. Sitting, standing, bowing, kneeling, and rocking back and forth only inches from massive stone walls stuffed with notes that Mister Big Stuff," and Tennessee jerked a thumb toward the sky, "is supposed to collect and peruse later that evening. And that's just off the top of my head, Hildy. Never mind those dipshit Scientologists, weird sons of bitches. Really, how a bunch of wild fiction made up by sentient beings not any different than you and me — a long, long time ago, or even just recently — has somehow gone on to control nearly all of mankind into going all in and forking over their time, money, even their goddam souls, is one of the great mysteries. Someday, visiting aliens thousands of times smarter than we are will learn about so-called 'religion' and even those brainy creatures will probably do the classic palms-up, 'beats me' shoulder shrug. Probably pity us, imagine that."
Tennessee looked at the whisky bottle resting on his belly, then wet his whistle and smacked his lips. Breezily, through a decompressing sigh, he added,
"None of it matters anyway, dear. Forgive me and my impromptu diatribe. We're all just passing through. Along the way, some of us will surely club one another to death, screw our neighbors, cheat at cribbage and checkers — every one of us at the ready to make mistakes, big and small. Yessir, we're just passing through, not much different than folks who die peacefully and deeply fulfilled, satisfied with their life right up to their last breath because their favorite sports team finally won some big football game that year, or their favorite PTA president or lieutenant governor got elected. But wouldn't you know it — passing through or not, man always finds time for trying out new and strange ways to get themselves off, which is a twisted offshoot of the biological imperative, procreation. Countless examples, and a fair number downright bizarre. You were once a nurse, so I hope I don't offend you, dear, but I read somewhere that guys masturbate while partially hanging themselves in order to restrict their oxygen intake, for that extra-extra out-of-this-world orgasm, but miscalculate the angle of the dangle of the binding noose and end up on an embalming table with an insane look of pleasure that the undertaker gives up trying to turn into a regular dead-man look and demands it be a closed-casket visitation for fear of laughter, which is a big no-no at most parlors. You don't see perversion like that in the wild, I don't think, except maybe in chimps. Those disgusting apes will pass up a perfectly good banana to finger themselves. I saw it once at the San Diego Zoo in '66 while on shore leave. It was Tarzan's very own Cheetah, pleasuring itself in front of a crowd of onlookers like he was in some African cave, all alone, with a pile of Monkey Penthouses."
"I was about to say I'll drink to that," Hildy looked mournfully into the opening of her thermos. "But that last part about Tarzan's monkey has discouraged me. Temporarily."
Tennessee chuckled silently, letting his bobbing shoulders do the laughing. "But good lord, a large brain has not always worked in favor of the most remarkable living thing to ever traverse planet earth — the one and only Homo Sapien, who lickety-split figured out an infinite number of ways to dick ourselves around and kill each other, one at a time or thousands all at once. Let us praise humankind, huh Hildy — the most destructive creature to mess with what Sagan called 'the pale blue dot.' No other way to put it: self-inflicted pain and agony, every fucking evolutionary step of the way, hurrah."
"Tennessee… can I call you Ten? You know how I like to call you 'Ten' for short?"
"Sure. But don't make it a habit, dear. I'm making an exception, today only." He smiled while tracking a slow-moving city bus, the driver slumped over the wheel and a young man at the rear door trying to kick it open.
"Where's Sandy, Mrs. Stern? Did he dump you for Lupita? That hot tamale at the Denny's?"
"He'll be here soon, Ten. He's picking up a salve at the dollar store for his elbow, and some fancy cream for a rash on his crotch."
"No wonder he was walking funny the other day. Like a greenhorn after his first cattle drive," Tennessee said, then turned for a look down the sidewalk when he saw a young man unsteadily veering in their direction, tight-roping the edge of the sidewalk. He was counting some money.
It was Rio.
He was holding a few bills and some loose change right in front of him. When he was about to pass by, Hildy said playfully, "Hey there, money bags."
Rio slowed to a stop and gave the old couple a friendly look and a nod.
"You look familiar, fella," Hildy said. As Rio was about to reply, Tennessee asked, "What's your take on how we humans have evolved, son?"
"I never really thought about it, mister. I can't see that it matters. That is, to me."
"Well, think about it for a moment. Maybe progress does matter to you. Mull it over, why don't you? I'd like to know your answer."
After a brief pause, Rio said, "Well, the only thing that comes to mind has to do with food innovation. I'm thinking of the invention of the Pop Tart. Especially the chocolate one. I don't know for sure, but I imagine most people think of progress as the latest car model, or a better blender. Cushion insoles, stuff like that. And there seem to be plenty of people thinking up new and faster ways to destroy everyone. Like, so-long everybody, boom-goes-the-planet."
Then he added thoughtfully, "I'm not against science or progress or anything, don't get me wrong, but that stuff's not important to me. I do kinda hope that someday some brainy person invents a pill that erases memories — that would be good. I could personally use one of those. I'd even volunteer to try it."
Tennessee extended the bottle toward Rio, like he'd earned a drink. Rio took a modest sip, then another not so modest one, and handed it back.
"Couldn't agree with you more, my boy. Especially regarding the Kellogg's confection." Tennessee quipped, "As for me, I'm partial to the strawberry ones." He lightly wiped the top of the bottle with a palm and added, "However, whenever I have a choice of pastry, I usually reach for a Ding-Dong. First time, every time. I'm a Ding-Dong man, isn't that right Hildy. You can ask anyone at the Golden Sunset Community Center, yessir."
Hildy chuckled, turned to Rio. "What is it about your money that nearly led you to step into traffic? You nearly wandered right into one of them lowriders."
"I was just adding my money up again. I'm a little short. Pet food for my hungry critters, and a beer for me. Hey, you folks wouldn't be able to help me out a bit, pitch in?"
"How much money do you still need?" Hildy asked, and leaned in for a closer look at a name tag Rio was wearing, squinting.
"Marmaduke." She said it a little uncertainly. "Marmaduke, is it? Is that your name?"
Rio remembered he had found and put on a name tag with Marmaduke written on it. He quickly removed it, slipped it into a back pocket. He was gonna see if wearing a fake name tag and some shades might just misdirect the staff's attention at Gibson's, who, it seemed, were all wise to him.
"Actually, my name's Rio. I put the badge on as a sort of disguise. As a misdirection. That way I can do some shopping without attracting too much attention."
"What are you? A shoplifter?" asked Hildy.
"Well. Well, yes, I am. But understand, I only take stuff because most of the time I'm broke. The staff at Gibson's follows me everywhere as soon as I walk in, like right behind me. That's the reason for the disguise."
"Uh-huh. I thought you looked familiar." Hildy smiled knowingly. "I used to work at that dump till I got shit-canned. 'For cause' they called it. But I remember you now. Except you were a redhead back then."
"Oh yeah. That's a wig I used to wear sometimes. Some guy stole it right off my head one night."
"So, what was the 'cause' that got you fired, Hildy?" Tennessee asked. "For getting shit-canned?"
"They never told me, and I never asked. My feet still ache from standing on that awful concrete floor eight hours a day. I'll tell you — I was one giddy broad walking out of that cheap junk store once and for all. More like staggered out."
Tennessee turned to Rio. "You got a last name, fella?"
"Zapata."
"Hmmm. Is that right?"
An elderly man was trudging in their direction. It was Hildy's husband, Sandy, and when Hildy saw him, she waved him over.
"About time, Mr. Stern," she said to the elderly gentleman. "We were about to ring up the E.R. to see if they had an Abraham on one of them rolling beds behind a curtain." She moved over to make room for him and pointed at Rio. "That's our new friend, Rio. We've been chatting him up."
Sandy nodded a hello and creakily lowered himself onto the bench, wheezed a greeting. "Nice to meet you, young fella. Howdy gang." He was holding a white paper bag in front of him like it was an Easter basket. "I know the pink-haired gal behind the counter at the Sweetie-Roll, Brenda, I think it is. Anyway, she lets me have their old cookies at a discount. How about a cookie?"
Tennessee and Hildy each took one, then Sandy extended the bag toward Rio, who politely declined.
"What was it you were muttering coming up, Sandy?" Tennessee asked.
"Nothing really," replied Sandy. "I was a bit chilly, and it got me to thinking of something. A saying I heard once, read somewhere, maybe made up — I don't remember."
"So, what was the saying?" Hildy asked. "Hey, there's coconut in this cookie, Sandy. You know how I like the coconut."
"I'm a coconut man myself," added Tennessee. "You can keep your chocolate chips. I can't remember, Sandy — do you like Vivaldi?"
"Yes," replied Sandy, "but before I forget, let me share my saying. It goes as follows: 'If you're cold, get out of the shadows and find a sunny spot. If you think about it, this does not necessarily only apply to the temperature.'"
Tennessee turned to Rio. "How about you, Rio. You like Vivaldi?"
"Vivaldi? What is that, some kind of pasta?"
Sandy cleared his throat and said to Rio, "Vivaldi was a classical music composer, young man. He was extraordinary, but if anyone's interested, I'm partial to Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky. I have a friend who is an expert on the topic, and he seems to think Tchaikovsky never earned more than an A minus for anything, even 'The Year 1812.' That he was second tier. I disagree. Vivaldi and Tchaikovsky I consider equals. Bach and Mozart are certainly tippy top. Bach was a prolific badass and played himself right into chapter one of the classical music history books because, well, he was a badass. Could Amadeus compose, you may ask? That wunderkind Mozart was a goddamn virtuoso. He was showing off most of the time, dazzling history along the way, getting himself in the same category as Bach just by noodling the keys, cackling like a madman. Died young as geniuses often do."
"As for Beethoven, I have created a special category for Ludwig Van. He stands alone. No one can convince me otherwise. His Ninth is one of classical music's singular, most supreme achievements."
Tennessee was looking at Sandy like he was about to say something but directed a question at Rio instead. "Where do you hail from, Rio Zapata? I think I detect a familiar accent."
"Laredo. Texas."
"Well, I'll be damned," Tennessee said cheerfully. "I'm from down there myself. Nearby anyway. Ever heard of Eagle Pass? You wouldn't know it by looking at my washed-out, pink complexion, but I'm Kickapoo, fourth generation." He paused, thought, and said, "Speaking about Eagle Pass has recalled a memory. I'd like to share with you folks something I hadn't thought of in a very long time. Kinda strange, so go along with me everyone. Grandpa was in the army. Stationed somewhere near Roswell, in what all the UFO nuts call Area 51. He'd been sworn to military secrecy, but there are no secrets among the Kickapoo. I was just a boy. A rascal. And when I heard grandpa and grandma talking in whispers I snuck up behind the couch, hunkered down, and listened in. And grandpa said, in Kickapoo" — and here, Tennessee began to speak in a deeper tone, in a pitchy cadence that was singsongy, speaking in genuine Algonquin. Even his facial expression changed. But Tennessee forgot himself and went all Big Chief, like some caricature on F Troop, huffing and puffing and grunting the language out.
Sandy formed a T with his hands and interrupted him.
"Time out there, Sandoval. If it had been Yiddish you were speaking, I would have been all ears. But me and Hildy, and I imagine young Rio here, we have no idea what you're saying."
"Sorry, folks..." Tennessee grinned an apology. "Sorry. I'm afraid I got carried away. What he said, and I'll translate to English, was: 'There are listening devices in this house. I believe there is a tracking device implanted inside of me, inside my brain. I saw a ship once. It was enormous. And perfectly round, smooth. Not a single rivet. Anywhere. It looked nothing like one of our airplanes. I was allowed access to view small men with large heads and hands and slits for eyes — they had requested my presence. They knew I was part Native American and heavy in the Great Spirit department on account I was a Kick. I was not afraid. With thoughts alone, they communicated the following to me: Your dreams are a Time Preview from people like Us. We are The Kind Ones.'"
"Ten, I just elevated you to Eleven," said Hildy playfully. She took a bite from the cookie and said, "Dammit dude, you and Crazy Horse are boss. I always knew Indians had special dream access. As for me, the best I ever did was like in the '70s song — I dreamed I was in a Hollywood movie. And I was the star of the movie."
"I know, honey," Sandy added playfully. "And it really blew your mind."
"So how much you need, Mr. Shoplifter?" Tennessee asked Rio flatly. "How much to get your pet food and a brew?" He was holding his wallet on his lap, ready to pitch in.
"I need exactly two dollars and sixteen cents," Rio told them. He decided not to be greedy — tell them some modest, random amount, precise to the penny, to make it seem genuine. One of them was a Kickapoo after all, and he might be able to tell he was lying. Then Rio had another thought. Maybe the old man with Native American access might be able to crack his dream.
"I dreamed of my dead mother. But she was alive. More like half alive. Anyway, she was just sitting on the edge of a granite slab in a mausoleum, and she whispered something to me which I can't remember. It's been bugging me all day."
"Little out of my league, son." Tennessee considered. "However, I happen to know a woman who is an expert on dreams. Her specialty is putting them into deep focus, so you can see them better, like Toland photographed in Citizen Kane. That's Kane with a K. But no arc lights required. She uses a special technique with the aid of rubbing alcohol and breath mints — Altoids, if memory serves. Far-out broad, wears tie-dye from head to toe. Smells of a combination of cinnamon incense and body odor, which, surprisingly, is quite pleasing to the nostrils."
"You've shared some strange stuff before there, Mr. T.," Sandy said playfully. "But you're sort of pushing it, señor. Keep going and you may leapfrog harmless eccentric straight into a padded rubber room for one."
"Citizen Kane happens to be one of my favorite movies," said Rio. "I also think it's somewhat overrated. If someone held a water gun to my head, I could list twenty movies I think are better. In that list of twenty I would include Caddyshack. And Dr. Strangelove."
Hildy said, "Get on with it, Ten. So who's the broad that can help this guy with his dead mother's dream?"
"Luna Pearl is new-age-hippie weird, OK. Let me begin with that. I recommend you keep a wide-open mind, young fella."
Tennessee gave Rio her address and instructions on how to get her to open the door without even knocking. "All you gotta do is walk to her front door and stand there and concentrate — and it'll be like that Aye-rabb command, open sesame."
After Rio left, Hildy said to Tennessee, "Ten, I didn't want to embarrass you in front of that fella, but all that stuff about your grandpa being a Kickapoo and Area 51 sounded like a bunch of kooky old-man hooey."
Sandy said, "Your fabulist side seems to have kicked up a notch. What's the matter? Have you been reading those silly Jeane Dixon books again?"
"Oh, I just forgot to take a valium before my Sanka this morning, that's all. You know how I get when I forget my morning smooth-out."
He looked around, felt at all of his pockets, and said, "What the hell happened to my wallet?" Hildy took the bottle from him and pointed at his crotch. "It's right there sitting on top of your peter, sweetie."
When Tennessee saw his wallet, he grinned sheepishly, folded it closed, and slipped it into one of his pockets. He began to wind down, they all began to wind down, and the Polydent Three, having nothing more to say, lapsed into an extended silence. The only noise that remained was the steady murmur of rolling tires and crisscrossing cars doing the doppler.
Tennessee glanced at his wristwatch. It was nearly seven AM. He would have to leave his companions soon. He did not want to be late for early mass.
Across the street, he saw a young woman staring at him. She had closely cropped hair, was outfitted in an old pair of corduroy pants and bundled inside a dirty men's jacket. She was standing tall. To Tennessee, she looked brave, courageous even. He thought about his most beloved saint, Saint Joan of Arc, and something began to well up inside him. When he leaned forward and took his face in his hands, Sandy and Hildy glanced at their friend. And when he began to weep, they let him.