CHAPTER 11: PADRINO

I am currently working on a novel and here is chapter 11. I recently took two chaotic road trips from Seattle to south central Texas over the past few months with my lovable lunatic of a Godfather. The trips were exhausting and beautiful. Since getting back to Seattle, and digging my hands in I've been able to churn out a good 150 pages. The damn thing is humming along, so I thought now was a good time to post an excerpt and finally update my page. Give it a read! (It's rough -- I think. Also, the formatting didn't translate %100)  

11.

I awoke with the clang of an empty bottle of Pendleton slipping out of Tom’s drunken grasp, and falling onto the linoleum floor, which is where I had unfortunately found my bed. “Where’s the whiskey?” Tom yelled half asleep. “It’s all gone. You’ve drunk Canada dry.”

“You’re drunk!” Tom grumpily replied. The early morning sun came cutting through the blinds of the motel and I jumped up with my boots and jeans still on although my shirt not, and I snatched my camera capturing the only worth while moments of the early golden New Mexico sky and gentle morning heat bouncing, and dancing off of the rough pavement.

I lit a cigarette and gave my father a call while walking around the parking lot of the motel. “How’s his drinking?” My father asked. I kicked a rock and took a sigh. “How bad?” He asked. I had to take a step back and really analyze things. When you’re locked in a large vehicle for an extended period of time moments can sort of congeal and form as one. “I guess, pretty bad.”

“You can’t let him drink.”

“I’m not stepping in the way of that old pit-bull.”

“But, you have the keys to the truck.”

“I’m giving him to the border of Texas, and then he’ll have to shape up.”

“And when is that?”

“Soon, I think.” We hung up, and I started back to the motel room. I now was on edge with the thought of Tom drinking more. It all seemed fine and okay on the road but now that we were closing in on Texas my concerns started to strengthen. My father had instigated my pondering of if things were going to work out, and how? Were we going to be able to go to Austin? Or The Gulf? Or anywhere for that matter? Or was Tom going to lie around and do the tango with the brown poison of the north the entire time? These looming questions morphed into the dangerous animal of anxiety, and as it usually happens with me the animal will fuck or perhaps make love with Goddess Lyssa and it’ll all roll into a ball of rage waiting patiently to be sparked. It was only a matter of time I thought as I walked into the dank and dreary motel room. Tom was awake and getting dressed. “Look on your phone and see if you can find the nearest liquor store.”

“The hell man? It’s nine AM! Get a fucking handle.”

“Did you talk to your father?”

“You need to talk to The Good Lord!”

“You may be right about that. Oh, you can be a cocksucker.”

“Let’s get going.” I said. We started up the orange brute and made our way out of town and into the flat open fields. “How are the vitals?” Tom asked.

“Fine.” I replied. From what it looked like on the map we were going through one of the few remaining towns of New Mexico, and one of them happened to be Fort Sumner. Fort Sumner is famous for one thing, which is Billy The Kid’s burial site. It’s plastered on sides of empty buildings, banks, the museums, and the shops. The entire town’s economy is reliant on a dead gun slinging serial killer. “This is strange, Colter, right?”

“I suppose.” I replied. We drove by a large sign with one of the few actual photos of Billy the Kid on it, and he was artificially pointing his .45 down an empty nearby road. I took the turn, and looked over at Tom, “Want to go?” I asked.

“God didn’t create man equal, Colt did.” Tom replied. We were almost to the gravesite when we came drove past a dead adolescent fox in the middle of the road. “Holy shit, Colter. Pull over!”

“We will on the way back. It’s just road kill.”

“You better stop.” We drove to Billy The Kid’s gravesite and there were a handful of other sad tombstones in the stone walled site. One of them was a family and it had a chain link fence around the entire clan. Billy’s however was black cast iron. There was a sign near by that described the linage and the few times the tombstone was stolen and heroically retrieved. The location of the tombstone was a hardened mystery from the early fifties clear to the mid seventies. It was recovered in Granbury, Texas by the great and largely unknown Joe Bowlin. Then in the early eighties it went missing again, yet was found four days later in the salty coastal town of Huntington Beach by trusty Big Jim McBride who really saved the day according to the chatter in Fort Sumner. The Huntington Beach thief really intrigued me for some reason. First off, I’m assuming the person had money, hence living in Huntington Beach. It was also the eighties, which made it sexier for some reason, and I assume more drug fueled. I tried to picture the person who stole the tombstone in my mind, but all I could picture was Burt Reynolds in Boogie Nights.

As we were backing out to leave the parking lot of Billy The Kid’s gravesite I heard a loud thud and I looked in the rearview mirror. The visitor informational sign that read, “THE GREAT BILLY THE KID’S GRAVE! IT’S REAL!” In bold audacious letters was broken nearly in half. “Fuck.” I muttered to myself. 

“We gotta vamonos, Colter.” Thankfully the gift shop wasn’t open till eleven and it was only nine-thirty in the morning at this point. I stepped on the pedal of the orange brute, and we went flying out of the parking lot spraying gravel in odd places feeling like the modern bandits of Billy’s past.

I slowed down and pulled over just past the dead fox. Tom hopped out and scurried over to the dead furry soul. He picked it up by the tail and closely stared into its eyes while kneeling down. “Just a pup.” Tom walked over to the lightly swaying tall grass on the side of the road leaving a running trail of blood on the hot pavement. I looked at the fox and there was a steady stream of blood coming out of his mouth. All the blood had flowed to his small brain and drained through his sparkling fangs. Tom pet the fox slowly. “He’s still warm, Colter.” I took a few photos, and lit a smoke while walking back to the truck. I turned around and Tom was standing over the fox shaking his head sadly, and in a disapproving manner. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry little guy.” Tom whispered to the dead fox.

“We didn’t kill him!” I yelled as I exhaled from my cigarette.

“Can you have some fucking, oh pardon me Lord.” Tom made a cross on his chest and looked to the hazy blue sky and praised The Father, Son, and The Holy Ghost. “Can you just have a little respect? I was apologizing on behalf of the human race.”

“The entire human race? You have that kind of power?” I asked. Tom shook his head and gave me the middle finger. I returned the favor.

We started to finally motor out of town, assuming to never return again. The sun started to creep higher, and I could feel the midday’s blazing heat arriving gradually. Praise The Lord I thought to myself, shine it all down on me from whatever heaven you reside. Tom grabbed my arm in a sudden twitch of excitement and directed my attention away from my sunny dreams to an old abandoned church. “Let’s go say a prayer for that little guy.” I turned hard down a mixed dirt and gravel road, and skidded aggressively in front of the church. “Really? Nobody has made an entrance to a church like that. You know he’s watching, and it has to be us?” Tom said. “Who is watching us?” I looked around quickly and with a face full of concern. “Fucking, God, Colter.”

“Jesus.”

“Well, we’re not in there yet.” Tom said with a smile, as we exited the orange brute and walked up into the ignored, and run down place of worship.

All the windows were gone, as well as the front door, and a few floorboards. It looked like the church in the film, There Will Be Blood, and as Tom walked up onto the stage set for only the preacher himself I imagined him dramatically dropping to his knees; sweating, screaming, and scorching the heavens with his repentance, and honest intimidation from The Lord above. Instead all he did was look at me with an empty stare with his arms stretched out, and causally shrugged. “This is pretty cool, right? We’ve done some pretty cool shit? Oh Jesus, oh gosh, forgive me Lord.” Tom said.

“I’m surprised you haven’t burst into flames, yet.”

“You either cocksucker, and I can say that one.” I shook my head at him. “Colter, he knows. All that drug dealing, gambling, adultery – several times, shooting guns, stealing horses, killing fuckin gooks, damnit.” Tom stomped the rickety church floorboards in frustration unable to control his cowboy tongue. “Fuck, cunt, bastard, Jesus Christ, son of a bitch, BLESSED BE GOD!” I yelled while twirling around in circles in the middle of the church. Tom stood there on the stage with his hands on his hips, shaking his head with a grin. “When the bolts of lightening come, they won’t be striking me down, young man.”

The sun shined through the borrowed openings where the glass windows used to be casting shadows. I took advantage of the natural framing, which was materializing. I crouched down and snapped photographs of the old church and the nature past the old weathered wooden walls. Beyond the perimeter of the church were emerald studded plains, small shrubs, and miniature trees for miles as far as my naked eye or camera lenses would carry me. Tom tapped the single hanging light in the small humble church, which began to sway creating more shadows within each other, that wouldn’t occur otherwise. “People were put to rest here, people were baptized, wedded. I regret a lot, but I can’t.” He started to tear up slightly and began murmuring prayers to himself. He was a roller coaster of emotion and I would hate to sit next to him in an actual functioning church. He would probably cuss and pray to himself animatingly swaying from one feeling to the other, reflecting his true colors and persona. Most people can’t handle that, especially the dial tones that you usually find in your neighborhood pew.

As I made my way to the truck Tom was hanging outside on one of the window frames shaking his head, continuing his murmurs. He backed away from the window frame and held on tight and moved back and forth still clinging to the aged wood. “This better be here forever. This is religion.”

“Perhaps. It’s made it this far.” I said.

“I’ve sinned a lot. This was special. Really, Colter.”

We made our way down the interstate in a solemn silence for a few miles. Tom let out a long sigh and tapped his foot rapidly on the floor of the truck. “I need some whiskey, Colter. I need it now.”

“No.” I said coldly.

“Really? I’m very emotional right now, Colter. We were just in church!” I looked at him as if he had slapped me across my face. “What?” I asked quickly. “Colter, I’m an alcoholic. I need it. I don’t like to admit it, but please.”

“No.” I repeated.

“Motherfucker. Oh there’s a liquor store! I gotta take a piss.”

Twenty or so minutes past by without conversation. Tom requested Muddy Waters, claiming it to be the only real southern blues that has ever existed, and that The Rolling Stones wouldn’t exist without him. I believed him and listened deeply to the words, and the sounds exhibiting from the speakers. It all sounded like how music is supposed to sound like, hard and loud, nearly cleansing. “That spell mannish boy, I’m a man, I’m a full-grown man, I’m a man, I’m a rollin’ stone, I’m a man, I’m a hoochie-coochie man”

“That’s me, Colter. I’m a hoochie-coochie man, I’m done being nice, and cordial. I’m an animal. I’ve had to live humble, but I’m done with that shit. I didn’t like it. You know what hedonist is? As soon as I decided I was retiring, I became a hedonist. I’m living, Colter, okay? I see the end out there in the mist, out there.” Tom tapped the window hard with his finger, and pressed his forehead to the glass. “I’ve been licentious, definitely recalcitrant. You know, I’m like a pit-bull. I don’t listen to shit. I ended up in a jail cell the night before my first wedding. Wait, sorry, my second wedding. Damn cop was a real prick. That was my first DUI, but they didn’t count them so much as they do now. Just where is the damn whiskey, Colter? I’m getting tired, I don’t like to admit it, but I need it.”

“Fuck, no!”

“You fucking cunt.” The road shortened up to a two-lane road, and the speed limit declined as we were rolling into another small town. The car that was behind us turned into the left lane next to us and gassed up to be essentially parallel to the orange brute. Appearing nearly out of thin air was a New Mexico state patrol approaching us from the opposite direction. “Holy shit.” I said as if I had been blazing at an uncontrollable speed. I hit the brakes, and reeled in the orange brute best I could. The cop went down a few more clicks past us and the neighboring car, and flipped right around where the highway made a soft bend. “Motherfucker.” I said quietly to myself. With cops, it doesn’t matter how the other person is driving near you, it always can, and sometimes will be you. Even if you’re the one driving better, and more safely. Majority of the time it’s all bullshit, but if you come away without bullet holes in you, a ticket is better than death. From what I have been able to notice, there are very few occupations that juggle with the air in your lungs.

“What’s going on with the cop? There’s another fucking liquor store that you’re just blowing right on by! Oh don’t worry about old Tom, he doesn’t need a damn thing. He’s not thirsty. He doesn’t need to take a damn piss. Starve him from lack of liquor! That’s fair!”

“I’m afraid we’re gonna get a ticket, you monkey! The cop flipped around started in our direction. I’m transporting a Goddamn drunken, and recent felon across state lines! I’m a fucking coyote!”

“I COMPLETLEY resent that, I do not agree.”

“The cop is getting closer.”

“This cocksucker. I am not in the mood to talk to a cop! Not at all.”

“What, Tom?”

“I am not in the fucking mood to talk to a damn cop!”

“When are you ever in the mood to talk to a cop? Who ever on the face of the earth has ever wanted to talk to a fucking cop? Oh, hi officer, thank you so much for those hand cuffs around my wrists, or the ticket that’s now in my glove box! Nobody is ever in the mood!” Tom looked over at me with a growing grin. “You’re fucking weird, but you’re right.” I nodded my head as the cop flipped on his lights, and snagged the poor soul in the car next to us. “He got him.”

“Thank God. Now I can drink in peace.”

I looked out in the distance and I finally saw it. The welcoming, freedom filled red, white, and blue gates of Texas. We had made it, I had made it, and from here things would straighten up, and at least my course would be defined. “Fucking Texas!” I yelled with a holler out the window. I already felt different, the smells were different, and I could tell already that the people down here knew how to exist. The speed limits automatically changed, and a sea of automobiles and helmetless motorcycles blew by me breaking every sound barrier. There was a sign that had a minimal speed limit, which I thought to be one of the most gorgeous things I’ve ever witnessed. Tom look over and me and held out his hand. I slapped it and he held it tight. “Good job, Colter. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I’m well aware of that.” I replied.

“God, you’re a cunt.”

“A cunt?”

“You won’t stop for whiskey, you won’t stop for shit! I already asked you three times! Why are you so mean to your godfather? Your padrino?”

“Mean? This is good for you, man! How about you straighten up, and appreciate the landscape and the smells, and everything? We’re in fucking Texas now! I thought I had your word! Really? You want to go to sleep?”

“I’m not gonna sleep.”

“Bullshit.”

“At least let me buy a beer, I’m an old man.” I thought maybe the beer would hold him out till we got more south, and lessen the bitching that was constantly flapping from his lips. We pulled over at the gas station and he slapped a ten-dollar bill in my hand. “Get me some wintergreen too, for you padrino.” I nodded and headed in. As I was making my way back to the truck I found Tom talking to a dusty cowboy leaning on his trailer while the cowboy filled up his diesel rig. Tom spun around as if he was surprised by my presence. “This is my boy.” He pointed at my chest and nodded proudly. “Jesus, sir, his mother must be some tall woman.”

“Right?” Tom nodded enthusiastically. I nodded at the cowboy and got into the truck. Tom half in the truck, half not standing on the held out his arms and yelled, “isn’t it nice to be home?!” The cowboy smiled.

We rolled through a myriad of small towns, some with character some without. There were a few farms here, and there, but for the most part west Texas reminded me of images of the savannah. Long, and open. Tall trees occasionally, although mostly the clash of verdurous bushes, and pale tan rocks, and soil. It wasn’t as harsh as I had thought, and from what I had heard. It was just as lush as anywhere in the northwest, just more flat. “How about the fauna and the flora, Colter?” Tom held out his arms as if he was trying to touch every leaf and limb.

Whenever we would go through a town similar thoughts would placate my mind with enigma, and the annoyance of thirst, and desire to study them without truly being able to. I wanted to drive down every road, and look in the windows of every lonely, and grubby abandoned stone or brick building. There were stories that had to be told, sounds I wanted to hear, people’s voices and dreams I wanted to remember. It reminded me of Hemingway, the old sweet gin filled boy and supposedly what drove him to the edge by the hand of his firearm. Places that had it and were lost one way or the other. Forgotten or eaten, regurgitated or consumed whole. What really stood out to me while driving through the many, and for the most part forgotten breezy west, and eventually central Texas towns was that there had to have been money here at some point. There had been something here at some point. There were elderly buildings that took time to build, and took care, and consideration. What had happened for them to appear, and to be constructed, and then what happened for them to be forgotten, and eventually crumble away into the earth that birthed them? Why? Did anyone in the town care? Or did they accept their reality as a town that once was, or that thought it was going to be, and never did? Did individuals with somewhat deep pockets invested because of something off in the distance that had been slowly appearing, yet never did? The people had been left behind just as much as the old stone and brick buildings the only difference was that the people died, and they were buried down the street in the ever-expanding cemetery. The building decayed but mostly just existed awaiting another heyday to betide that never will. They’re all waiting, and probably praying on a dream.

My strategy with Tom and his beer didn’t flourish and work the way I had hoped. He bitched and complained just as before only with a brief beer buzz to expand his vocabulary. “You’re really just a fucking turd, Colter. You’ve been torturing me from the early parts of the road, and it’s not very nice NOR is it APPRECIATED ONE BIT!” Tom’s angry side started to creep up his spin and poison his brain, and my patience had left me about a hundred miles in the past. “Fuck you, old man! They don’t sell Canadian whiskey here! This is America! This is fucking Texas, you brute!”

“I don’t give a fuck, I’ll rip your face off.” I looked over at him with a disappointed sort of look, hopefully to display my tiredness from this entire charade, and humiliate his complaints. Tom threw the mostly empty Modelo can in my direction, which bounced off my driver side window, and the remnants splashed throughout the interior of the cab. “What the fuck? Our truck smells like beer now, motherfucker!”

“Why won’t you just stop for whiskey?” Tom pleaded.

“Because you’re a lush, and I’m tired of it, you moron! You threw your beer!”

“Live a little, you little prick! I’m giving you something to write about. All that hate in your heart, and you think you can be a real writer? Fuck you, and your shit.”

“You know what? I’m gonna kick your fucking ass, old man. You want to see hate? I’m going to fuck you up.”

“I’ve been waiting for this!”

I turned hard onto a dirt road and skidded into some farmer’s crop. I took off my watch, and my sunglasses and rounded the front of the truck to meet Tom. The old terrier charged at me full steam. I planted my back foot, and laid my shoulder into him at about half the strength I could, just to test the waters. Tom stuttered back, and shook his head, which trembled down his entire body. The man needed to be defeated; I needed to send him into the soil, into the salt of the earth. Only then he would rest, and shut the hell up. “You’re really a fucking asshole, Colter. Beating up on an old man?” Tom lowered his shoulder and charged me again. I side stepped the top-heavy old fool, grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved with all my might. Tom toppled into a pathetic heap in the doughy dirt of somewhere central Texas. I stood over him, and looked up at the sun, and held out my arms feeling the hot streams of the Texan sun. I looked around some more and placed my hands on my hips, and watched the passing uncaring cars and trucks, and the wavering crops in the persistent breeze. I lit a cigarette and studied Tom. He rolled over on his back with his elbows into the dirt, and smiled at me. “You’re fucking strong, Colter. Now I know I can count on you in a bar fight. You know if we get into some trouble in our little town? But we won’t. Give me a hand.” I held out my hand, clasped his, and heaved the old sack of Canadian whiskey out of the churned soil. “That was fun, right?” Tom smiled at me while he fraternally smacked my chest. “Yes it was.” I said. The scuffle seemed to cleanse Tom back into some realm of his reality. He seemed more grounded by being humbled and facing age and time head on. “I’ve never fought a guy so much younger than me. I was kind of scared there for a second. I don’t get scared.” Tom said.

“I thought about sending the lefty hook your way.” I said. Tom looked stunned, mouth agape as if I had not only struck him, but his soul as well. “You wouldn’t fucking swing on me? On an old man?”

“No, I wouldn’t, you’re right. But I thought about it.” We made our way back to the orange brute, Tom stopped and pointed at me. “Still a cunt.”