Saturday, June 18, 2011
Captured
They caught me in the Chisos Mountains in the old Big Bend National Park, one of the few remote places left in these United States. I'd been on the run for several years, popping back and forth across the narrow ribbon of Rio Grande near Boquillas, Mexico. But I was tired, my back was killing me, and I was hanging out a lot in the mountains near the South Rim grubbing for food, relieving myself in an old solar compost toilet the Forest Service had put in over a decade ago, and just generally wishing I could will myself to die before they came for me.
They came in the middle of the night while I was sound asleep in my tent. At first I thought it was one of the black bears that had migrated across the river from the Sierra del Carmen Mountains, but when I heard whispering I knew my time had come. It was a SWAT team from the BookForce, and they handcuffed me, confiscated my life savings, and marched me down the trail right then and there, the lead marshall lighting the way with the torch strapped to his forehead.
By morning I was in the courthouse in Alpine, standing before a magistrate of the Lit Commission, listening to him read off the list of charges against me:
One count of failure to have a blog.
One count of failure to post daily on said blog.
One count of failure to have at least 100 Followers on said blog.
Six counts of failure to have Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, Linkedin, OurDiary, and PeoplesHistory accounts.
(And the more serious charges):
One count of failure to write a book.
One count of failure to pay the Federal Book Creation Fee of $30,000.
After listing the charges, the magistrate pronounced me "Guilty," and the baliff ushered me into a holding cell until I could be transported to El Paso the following morning.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Free Again
The van crashed about a mile east of the Border Patrol station near Sierra Blanca. I don't know what happened since I was sitting in the celled-off section in the far back with a black hood over my head. I just felt the van lurch left then right before tipping far right and careening into the desert off the highway. Although the full weight of my body thudded into the grated bars in front of me, miraculously, I wasn't hurt. My first thought was to pull the hood off my head, but try doing that with your hands cuffed together to the belt around your waist. Somehow, though, I was able to crane my neck down just enough to hook the edge of the fabric with my thumb, and drawing my head back turtle-like I slipped out of the hood.
I saw right away that the two BookForce marshalls were dead--or, at least, knocked cold--and the force of the impact had loosened the bars between us so that I could crawl into the front compartment and search for the keys that would set me free. I found them in the pocket of the passenger-side marshall, and with little trouble opened the cuffs and the belt. I figured I had just enough time to change shirts with the marshall behind the wheel, who was closer to me in size, but that turned out to be harder than getting out of bondage. Still, I managed to unbutton his pale-blue dress shirt, get it off of him and put it on myself in what seemed like under a minute. It was easier to get him into my shirt--a white tee with one of those round, red circles with a diagonal line through it, the universal symbol for a BookForce prisoner--and I was just crawling out the driver-side window when a Good Samaritan pulled up.
He was a friendly-looking guy with an expression of genuine concern on his dough-boy face, and without thinking I said, "The best thing you can do for me is drive ahead to the Border Patrol station and tell them about the accident. Tell them two BookForce marshalls are escorting a prisoner--but I think my partner and the fugitive are both dead."
On hearing the word "dead" he made a beeline back to his ruby-colored Crown Vic and peeled out onto the highway. I immediately headed north into the desert, not turning around to look until I had traveled at least a mile. From a slight rise in the flat plane of parched land I saw that a few other cars had stopped near the overturned van. Then I got going again, and it didn't seem like I took a breath of air until I was headed up Sunset Road in Sierra Blanca.
I saw right away that the two BookForce marshalls were dead--or, at least, knocked cold--and the force of the impact had loosened the bars between us so that I could crawl into the front compartment and search for the keys that would set me free. I found them in the pocket of the passenger-side marshall, and with little trouble opened the cuffs and the belt. I figured I had just enough time to change shirts with the marshall behind the wheel, who was closer to me in size, but that turned out to be harder than getting out of bondage. Still, I managed to unbutton his pale-blue dress shirt, get it off of him and put it on myself in what seemed like under a minute. It was easier to get him into my shirt--a white tee with one of those round, red circles with a diagonal line through it, the universal symbol for a BookForce prisoner--and I was just crawling out the driver-side window when a Good Samaritan pulled up.
He was a friendly-looking guy with an expression of genuine concern on his dough-boy face, and without thinking I said, "The best thing you can do for me is drive ahead to the Border Patrol station and tell them about the accident. Tell them two BookForce marshalls are escorting a prisoner--but I think my partner and the fugitive are both dead."
On hearing the word "dead" he made a beeline back to his ruby-colored Crown Vic and peeled out onto the highway. I immediately headed north into the desert, not turning around to look until I had traveled at least a mile. From a slight rise in the flat plane of parched land I saw that a few other cars had stopped near the overturned van. Then I got going again, and it didn't seem like I took a breath of air until I was headed up Sunset Road in Sierra Blanca.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Spotted Duck
Before I'd gone too far north on Sunset I saw a sheriff's squad car up ahead of me, so I turned west onto Farm to Market Road 1111 until it intersected with Cavendar Street, and I cut down that way until I ran smack into the Hudspeth County Sheriff's Department. That's when I did a sudden about-face and went into the nearest establishment, an eatery that had a big white sign with hand-painted red letters over the front door: MEL'S SEEFOOD DINER.
There were two Hispanic men drinking coffee at the front counter, the other side of which was a young woman with dishwater blonde hair and two volleyball breasts that were putting a serious strain on a solitary button at the neckline of her sage-colored waitress uniform. When I walked past she looked at me like I was a dessert she hadn't tasted in years, her mouth hanging open to reveal a plump, pink lump of tongue glistening with saliva. I slipped into a booth at the end of the diner across from the bathroom door, lifting my butt over a swatch of mummified duct tape that had been used to suture a split in the red vinyl seat. The menu I removed from the holder next to the small jukebox was ancient, the paper severely yellowed beneath its plastic binder. I knew I couldn't order anything because I had no money, but when the waitress jetted over and said, "What can I get YOU this fine morning, hun?" I said, "Coffee."
While I waited I examined the old black-and-white photo in a beat-up metal frame hanging on the wall next to me, a picture of a large man standing behind the diner counter, the word "SEELION" stencilled across his white t-shirt. A moment later the older version of this same man emerged from the kitchen through a swinging door, sat on a high seat behind a computer monitor, and stared at it with interest, not reading, I hoped, any breaking-news reports about an escaped prisoner. But when the waitress delivered my coffee, Mr. SEELION was right behind her, and just as soon as she returned to her station back of the counter, he smiled and sat down across from me.
"Now, you look like man with a story to tell," he said.
"Why's that?"
"People on the run usually do."
"What makes you think I'm on the run?"
He raised slightly out of his seat and pulled his t-shirt up enough to reveal the handle of the pistol tucked into his waistband. "Let's you and I go into the back room, sport."
"Can I finish my coffee?" I said, taking a quick sip of the stuff, which had the unmistakable flavor of cardboard.
He just nodded with his head toward the back room.
It was a storeroom with an old green radiator against the far wall. He took a length of sisal rope, tied my hands behind my back, and secured me to the radiator. Afterwards, he said, "I ain't got nothing against you, Mister, but the reward is 100,000 clams, and I need the bread."
He left to return to the diner, presumably to call the authorities. I was trying to wriggle my hands out of the spiky sisal, and paying the price for my efforts, all the while examining the rear door that had huge gaps all around that let beacons of daylight in. Suddenly, the door swung open wide, and the blonde waitress burst in holding a large kitchen knife, which she used to cut the sisal away from the radiator. Grabbing my hands, she said, "Come on, hun, we're making tracks."
An old red Chevy pickup waited for us, rumbling like it had no muffler. She hopped behind the wheel, saying, "Hurry it up." I'd barely got my ass in before she took off up a back alley and then onto Cavender toward Sunset. There must have been a big question mark on my face when I looked at her because she said, "I've been meaning to get away from that prick for years, and now seemed as good a time as any."
She took Sunset back to the freeway, turning east toward Van Horn. "They'll think we're making for El Paso because that's where my sister, Ginny, lives," she said, "but we're heading to Marfa. Ever seen the Marfa Lights, hun?"
There were two Hispanic men drinking coffee at the front counter, the other side of which was a young woman with dishwater blonde hair and two volleyball breasts that were putting a serious strain on a solitary button at the neckline of her sage-colored waitress uniform. When I walked past she looked at me like I was a dessert she hadn't tasted in years, her mouth hanging open to reveal a plump, pink lump of tongue glistening with saliva. I slipped into a booth at the end of the diner across from the bathroom door, lifting my butt over a swatch of mummified duct tape that had been used to suture a split in the red vinyl seat. The menu I removed from the holder next to the small jukebox was ancient, the paper severely yellowed beneath its plastic binder. I knew I couldn't order anything because I had no money, but when the waitress jetted over and said, "What can I get YOU this fine morning, hun?" I said, "Coffee."
While I waited I examined the old black-and-white photo in a beat-up metal frame hanging on the wall next to me, a picture of a large man standing behind the diner counter, the word "SEELION" stencilled across his white t-shirt. A moment later the older version of this same man emerged from the kitchen through a swinging door, sat on a high seat behind a computer monitor, and stared at it with interest, not reading, I hoped, any breaking-news reports about an escaped prisoner. But when the waitress delivered my coffee, Mr. SEELION was right behind her, and just as soon as she returned to her station back of the counter, he smiled and sat down across from me.
"Now, you look like man with a story to tell," he said.
"Why's that?"
"People on the run usually do."
"What makes you think I'm on the run?"
He raised slightly out of his seat and pulled his t-shirt up enough to reveal the handle of the pistol tucked into his waistband. "Let's you and I go into the back room, sport."
"Can I finish my coffee?" I said, taking a quick sip of the stuff, which had the unmistakable flavor of cardboard.
He just nodded with his head toward the back room.
It was a storeroom with an old green radiator against the far wall. He took a length of sisal rope, tied my hands behind my back, and secured me to the radiator. Afterwards, he said, "I ain't got nothing against you, Mister, but the reward is 100,000 clams, and I need the bread."
He left to return to the diner, presumably to call the authorities. I was trying to wriggle my hands out of the spiky sisal, and paying the price for my efforts, all the while examining the rear door that had huge gaps all around that let beacons of daylight in. Suddenly, the door swung open wide, and the blonde waitress burst in holding a large kitchen knife, which she used to cut the sisal away from the radiator. Grabbing my hands, she said, "Come on, hun, we're making tracks."
An old red Chevy pickup waited for us, rumbling like it had no muffler. She hopped behind the wheel, saying, "Hurry it up." I'd barely got my ass in before she took off up a back alley and then onto Cavender toward Sunset. There must have been a big question mark on my face when I looked at her because she said, "I've been meaning to get away from that prick for years, and now seemed as good a time as any."
She took Sunset back to the freeway, turning east toward Van Horn. "They'll think we're making for El Paso because that's where my sister, Ginny, lives," she said, "but we're heading to Marfa. Ever seen the Marfa Lights, hun?"
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Ghost Lights
As it turned out, I had seen the Marfa Lights, way back on wife #2 when we were tooling through the Big Bend country, staying at a rinky-dink motel in Alpine, from where we had driven over to Marfa at sunset to find out for ourselves what those mystery lights were all about. We parked in the lot near the viewing area, where about ten other people had already gathered for the spectacle. In truth, I didn't expect to see any lights, but just after the sun disappeared north of the Chinati Mountains, there they were, the damnedest things I'd ever seen, looking like distant car headlights, but red and blue and pale yellow, and sometimes moving in concert with one another, but at other times turning white and shooting into the air like some kind of jet-propelled flood lamps.
Turns out some people were sure they were reflections of car lights, but records predating the invention of the automobile detailed accounts of the phenomenon, which folks back then called the "ghost lights." Some people said they must be reflections of campfires, but if you ever saw campfires moving around like that I'd have to say you were on some kind of hallucinogen. Some people thought the lights were nothing more than static electricity or swamp gas, both theories failing to take into account the erratic movements. #2 and I left the area the next morning, confounded about those damned mystery lights. Over the years I'd simply forgot about them.
Oddly enough, I didn't really get a chance to see them again this time. That's because Dolly, my new waitress friend, did something that purely distracted me. Just as soon as we had parked at the far side of the viewing area lot, she said, "I been aching all day to get my hands on you." She grabbed my ears like they were protruding handles on a jug and jammed my face smack dab into the middle of her ample cleavage, shimmying her shoulders as if she were being electrocuted, nearly slapping me silly with her heaving breasts. Immediately afterward she went deep-sea fishing, doing things to me that no woman had done before, things that literally caused my eyes to cross, making any chance of seeing the Marfa Lights impossible. As if that weren't bad enough, she climbed on me like a cowgirl mounting a mechanical bull, a ride that lasted long after the last group of mystery lights viewers had driven out of there.
When it was over, I passed out, waking later when the truck stopped in front of an old adobe house that looked blue in the light of a full moon.
"This is my friend Mindy's house," Dolly said.
I trailed her to the front, and after she knocked we waited two whole minutes before the door opened a crack. Mindy shrieked. "Well, I'll be goddamned," she said. "What are you doing down here, Dolly Girl?"
"My friend and I are on the lam, looking for a place to spend the night."
"You two get your asses in here right now."
As soon as we were in, and Mindy had shut the door behind us, she turned to me, cocked her head, furrowed her brow, and said, "Now where have I seen that dark handsome face before?"
There were beers all around, but I couldn't keep my eyes open, so Mindy showed me into a spare room and told me to get some shuteye. I laid down on the bed right away. For one brief moment I could hear them catching up, and there was something reassuring about listening to their voices. Then I crashed.
Turns out some people were sure they were reflections of car lights, but records predating the invention of the automobile detailed accounts of the phenomenon, which folks back then called the "ghost lights." Some people said they must be reflections of campfires, but if you ever saw campfires moving around like that I'd have to say you were on some kind of hallucinogen. Some people thought the lights were nothing more than static electricity or swamp gas, both theories failing to take into account the erratic movements. #2 and I left the area the next morning, confounded about those damned mystery lights. Over the years I'd simply forgot about them.
Oddly enough, I didn't really get a chance to see them again this time. That's because Dolly, my new waitress friend, did something that purely distracted me. Just as soon as we had parked at the far side of the viewing area lot, she said, "I been aching all day to get my hands on you." She grabbed my ears like they were protruding handles on a jug and jammed my face smack dab into the middle of her ample cleavage, shimmying her shoulders as if she were being electrocuted, nearly slapping me silly with her heaving breasts. Immediately afterward she went deep-sea fishing, doing things to me that no woman had done before, things that literally caused my eyes to cross, making any chance of seeing the Marfa Lights impossible. As if that weren't bad enough, she climbed on me like a cowgirl mounting a mechanical bull, a ride that lasted long after the last group of mystery lights viewers had driven out of there.
When it was over, I passed out, waking later when the truck stopped in front of an old adobe house that looked blue in the light of a full moon.
"This is my friend Mindy's house," Dolly said.
I trailed her to the front, and after she knocked we waited two whole minutes before the door opened a crack. Mindy shrieked. "Well, I'll be goddamned," she said. "What are you doing down here, Dolly Girl?"
"My friend and I are on the lam, looking for a place to spend the night."
"You two get your asses in here right now."
As soon as we were in, and Mindy had shut the door behind us, she turned to me, cocked her head, furrowed her brow, and said, "Now where have I seen that dark handsome face before?"
There were beers all around, but I couldn't keep my eyes open, so Mindy showed me into a spare room and told me to get some shuteye. I laid down on the bed right away. For one brief moment I could hear them catching up, and there was something reassuring about listening to their voices. Then I crashed.
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