Fistful of Reefer: scene 68 & 69

Still dripping wet from his laborious swim across the river, Chancho had been grateful to find the Harley where he’d left it. He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt and secured the bag of coins to the back of the bike. For the first time he stood back to admire the machine. Brilliant in design, two cylinders fed constant power to the back wheel through a simple chain. Wide handlebars provided for easy balance.

Simple. Two cylinders, two wheels and a few gallons of gasohol could carry him almost 200 miles in a single day. The thought of the places he had been over the previous week chilled him. This day, and how ever many days followed, would extend the distance between now and then.

Fuel reserves running low, he needed gas. Occupying his conscious thoughts with one task at a time, he divided his present from the future one gold coin at a time. Within the hour he reached a paved road heading northwest of Del Rio, the Rio Bravo snaking back and forth just south of it. Sputtering to a stop he pushed the bike for a few miles before a passing motorist pulled off onto the shoulder.

“Outta gas?”

“Yessir. Still getting used to the machine.” Chancho lowered the stand and mopped the sweat from his brow.

“I know what you mean. Ain’t quite like riding a horse, is it?” A burly man reached into his back seat for a gas can, his untamed beard wearing him. “I always carry some spare.”

Gracias, señor, but I don’t want you to run out a few miles down the road.”

“Nonsense. I got more than enough to get me to Langtry.” The man wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and overalls without a shirt. The hair spilling down his chest and shoulders had been rubbed bald by the straps. He hefted the can so that gas sloshed audibly. “Ain’t doing nothing in the can but sitting there.”

This reasoning resonated with Chancho and his new found mission. “I’d be much obliged.” The man approached with the can while Chancho removed the gas cap on the bike.

“Never tried one of these two-wheelers myself. Adjusting to four was hard enough, but the missus never liked horses.” He leaned closer. “I think she don’t like the feeling of giving up control. Slow to trust, that one.” He finished tipping the can and removed it. “It ain’t a lot, but it should help you find more.”

“I’m grateful, señor.” The two men shook hands, the stranger’s grip calloused and thick like a work glove. Chancho started to release, but the man continued the grip past comfortable convention. He looked back and forth between Chancho and the Harley with narrowed eyes before finally letting go.

Chancho smiled, opening the silk bag on the back of the bike without an attempt to hide what it contained. The man’s eyes widened further than Chancho would have thought possible as he flipped him a single gold coin.

“What’s this?” He held it away from his body, inspecting it in his open palm.

Chancho rubbed the missing notch of his earlobe. “Something I’ve had for a while, but don’t have use for any longer.” He re-secured the bag, giving the strips of cloth a good yank. “Let’s just say, they ain’t doing nothing in the bag but sitting there.” Chancho mounted the bike preparing to go when a beefy hand rested on his shoulder.

“Mister,” the man looked him in the eyes. “I reckon I’d stay off the main roads, if I were you. I think I’ve heard something about law men looking for a Mexican on a motorcycle. I’d hate for someone to mistake you for him.”

Chancho nodded. “Gracias. I think I will.” They shook again. “It was nice to meet you…”

“Grady.”

“Chancho. My friends call me Chancho.” He said the words by habit, but after they left his mouth he wished they hadn’t. “Or they did, anyway.” He kick started the bike and pulled away, one coin lighter.

Chancho stuck close to the river, and the border, for another hour, as if all of Mexico was a dying friend. Leaving hung in his throat like a final goodbye. Indeed his beloved Mexico gasped for its dying breath, unable to bare up any longer under the burden of cruel men. Finally he pulled off the pavement, heading north along a substantial dirt road.

By noon his stomach growled as loudly as the Harley. Approaching a village named Santa Polco, he gauged stopping for supplies an acceptable risk. The town sprouted from its natural surroundings like a sand castle on the beach. The majority of the buildings were composed of mud and earth brick unadorned with color. Rough timbers and boards speckled the few retail buildings along both sides of the road. A simple church occupied the most prominent position at the end of town. Wooden timbers jutted from the adobe plastered walls supporting an ornamental second story narrowing to a parapet and a bell housing, topped with a cross.

The square buildings and flat roofs of the town reminded him of his childhood and the field trips from the orphanage to the nearest village market. He coasted to a stop in front of the only building resembling a café. A wooden sign hanging from the veranda read, “Tortilleria La Esperanza.” Completely isolated, Chancho saw no signs of electricity, telephones or even autos. A few horses anchored to a hitching post swatted flies with twitching tails. As much as he loved machines and modern devices, the quiet that enveloped him as he cut the engine nourished his soul.

The surrounding hills winked back at him. Behind the hills to the west rose proud mountains, the beginning of the Davis range. Nothing like the Sabinas, still, they invited him. He stamped feeling back into his feet while slapping dust from his back and shoulders. This was a good place. If he could quietly gather information about sources of water, he might roam the area for a while.

About to enter the cafe, he changed his mind and headed instead to the church. Opening the large wooden doors he could hear his grandmother’s voice echo in his thoughts, “Man cannot live on bread alone.” But the old woman was Muddy’s grandmother, not his own. He dropped to his knees, resting his head on the back pew and cried out to God. He prayed his best friends were okay. He prayed he had not caused Muddy’s death or capture. He prayed God forgive his narrow vision and the selfishness that had caused so much suffering to those he’d claimed to love.

As his thoughts turned to Primitivo and then the rinche, the crunch of footsteps on the earthen floor aroused him. He turned to face a boy, no older than eleven, smiling down at him.

“I like your motorcycle.” Chancho stood, dusting off his knees. The boy continuing, “you should leave the dust, so that people will know you’ve been praying. It works with my mother.”

Chancho followed the natural course of introductions. “How’s that?”

“When I am supposed to come to church for morning prayers I play outside instead, but when I’m finished I make sure my knees are dirty so that I don’t get in trouble.” The boy grinned proudly.

“That is very clever, but what excuse do you give God?”

The boy looked insulted. “God doesn’t need any excuses, he knows my heart.”

Bested, Chancho had to agree with the child’s logic. “You are very clever, indeed.”

Still grinning, the boy rocked onto his toes. “That’s what my mother says, but she doesn’t think it’s a good thing.”

Chancho tussled the boy’s dark hair. “Oh, it’s a good thing. Just make sure you remember, your mother will always be at least as clever as you.” He brushed the remaining dust from his knees. “She knows you play outside instead of praying in here.” The boy was about to argue when Chancho cut him off. “Come. I’ll show you the motorcycle.” He pushed the hulking door open letting the overexposed sunlight flood temporarily into the dim sanctuary. “My name is Chancho.”

The boy shook his outstretched hand. “I’m Pepe.” They walked hand in hand for the few blocks back to the cafe. “Chancho is a funny name.”

Chancho nodded. “I’m a funny man.”

After he’d explained the workings of the bike sufficiently to satisfy Pepe’s significant curiosity, and fended off several questions about what the silk bag contained, the two entered the cafe together. Noon had slid past by an hour. Chancho preferred not to ignore his grumbling stomach any longer.

“Pepe, where are the eggs?” A short, plentiful woman with the same smile as the boy spoke from behind a wooden counter. “And who is this?” Upon turning she realized her son was not alone.

“This is Chancho.” The boy beamed at his mother. “He drives a motorcycle.” She frowned. “And he prays!” This caused the adults to laugh.

“Is this true?” The woman asked.

Chancho raised his brows. “On both counts, but I don’t do either very often, I’m afraid. Chancho Villarreal.” Chancho extended his hand. The woman stood on tiptoes, resting her breasts on the counter as she reached across to shake it. The view reminded him of God’s genius in creating woman. At the same time he thought of Daisy and Chloe, regretting having never seen a woman as anything other than a romantic fantasy.

“Esperanza.” She bowed slightly, fixing her apron. “Are you hungry, Mr. Villarreal? Because I can make you a wonderful black bean frittata with fresh tortillas, if my son would cross the street and get me a dozen eggs.” She glared at the boy who immediately darted out the door.

“I’m starving, and whatever it is, I’m sure a frittata would be great.” Chancho sat at the nearest table, stretching his legs out in front of him. The small cafe contained four or five small tables and a dozen handmade chairs.

“You’ve never had a frittata?” The woman plopped a scoop of lard into a frying pan.

“I’m not certain.”

“Well, you will be when my son returns, if he returns.” She feigned exasperation while tucking a ringlet of loose hair behind her ear.

“He seems very bright.”

“Oh he is, but he can be a handful. And my hands are so small.” She held one up for Chancho to inspect.

“I see.” He paused, wondering if he was about to overstep polite conversation, but the intimacy of the village and his need for human connection drove him on. “And his father?”

She covered the tiny hitch in her voice quickly, “No. No father to speak of.”

Lo siento.”

“Don’t apologize. It seems like another life. I was a different person then.” With vigor and experience she diced a chile and several sprigs of cilantro. “Where is that silly boy?”

“I myself am in search of a different life. Is this a good place to find one?” Chancho watched her work across the top of the counter.

She turned to face him, still holding a knife in her right hand, and nodded. “It can be. Life is simple here.” She looked at him more closely than she had so far. “When you have little, there is little to be taken, and much to defend.”

Chancho took a moment to ponder her words. “Are there those who would take away the little that is so much?”

She turned up the heat under a pot of beans, stirring them slowly. “Some.”

Pepe burst through the front door depositing the dozen eggs on the counter. “Mr. Gomez asked for two dozen tortillas at closing.”

Bueno. Now get yourself washed up for supper.”

“Then can I play checkers with Chancho?” Pepe scooted around the counter to the sink.

“Mr. Villarreal,” she prompted.

“Can I play checkers with Mr. Villarreal?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” Pepe peeked over the counter.

“I would be honored to match wits over a game of checkers. Just take it easy on me.” Chancho smiled.

“No way. I like to win.” Pepe shook his hands off in the air.

Chancho stood. “But maybe I should wash my hands as well.”

“Please, help yourself.” Esperanza invited him around the counter to use the sink.

After losing a game of checkers to Pepe, dinner was ready. After another minute of debate Chancho convinced Esperanza to join him and Pepe, and the three of them enjoyed the closest thing any of them had had to a family meal in a long while. They finished the frittata and a dozen homemade tortillas with mango for dessert. The food lifted his spirits, as did their company. The boy so bright and unassuming, his mother such a tender spirit, bathed in the scents of butter and flour. He was not worthy of their kindness.

“If you need a place to stay—”

“No.” Chancho shook his head. “I can’t stay. I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean, I only meant that…” Chancho rested his hand over hers, a gesture that startled her with its intimacy.

“I’m sorry. I only meant that I have to keep moving. But I will need some camping supplies.”

Pepe piped in. “Mr. Gomez has everything. His store is right over there. I’ll show you.”

Chancho raised his eyebrows and looked at Esperanza, asking her permission.

“Go, go.” She shooed Pepe from the table. “But you have school work, so come right back.” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Chancho stood. “What do I owe you?”

“Honestly, we ate most of it.” Esperanza straightened her apron nervously.

“Hardly. I insist on paying, but I’ll have to get change from across the street.”

“Really, Mr. Villarreal—”

“That way I can make sure Pepe comes right back afterward.” Chancho stepped through the door as Pepe held it open. When they reached his bike he convinced Pepe to wait for him across the street as he slipped two gold coins from the bag, one for Mr. Gomez and one for Esperanza and her son. Ninety-seven left.

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