The Adventures of Latakia Billows

Episode II: Happy Trails


The drive up I-25 to Albuquerque was always a beautiful spectacle of mountains and valleys and mesas and desert, but tedium set in by the time the sign outside Los Lunas warned against picking up hitchhikers that might be escapees from the prison just down the hill. Chris let go of the wheel long enough to backhand his passenger in the chest. “Say, Jose, I still haven’t figured out who takes care of things back home when you’re on the road with me,” he said. The Mexican yawned and rubbed his eyes. “All my family — you know, the hundreds that are up here illegally — come out of hiding to do all the chores for 30 cents a day,” he said. “I haven’t ever lifted a finger for you.” Chris pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, crushing it between his teeth. “One of these days I’ll figure out if you’re joking or serious,” he said, trying to spark his lighter with the windows down and a forceful New Mexico wind passing through the truck’s cabin. Jose reached over and grabbed a cigar for himself, and then, without a steering wheel interfering, lit both of the cheap stogies. “You know how many illegals you can fit into a phone booth?” he asked, settling back into his chair. “About three million, so long as there’s a border to cross on the way.” Chris laughed, more at the joker than the joke. “Now I know you didn’t make that up, so where’d you hear it from?” The Mexican flashed a devious smile. “I heard it from that guy who convinced you no one could ever be successful calling their company Google.” Chris spit his cigar onto the floorboards. Amid clusters of cuss words, the stomping of feet and a few swerves toward the desert, he managed to blurt out, “Dammit Jose, why do I let you set me up for that crap?”

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Chris’s drives to see his grandmother always started the same way, with him standing on the porch getting his cheeks pinched while fielding questions about why he hadn’t settled down and how long it had been since he called his father. “It’s good to see you too; no, I still haven’t found the right girl; I haven’t even gotten in the door yet.” The two men insisted they weren’t hungry, so within 15 minutes, the consummate hostess had filled a pair of plates with ham steaks, mashed potatoes, baked beans and macaroni and cheese, and she was already working on cleaning the pots.

With plates cleaned and stomachs bursting, Chris and Jose pried the matriarch away from her sink. “Granny,” Chris said, “Artie stopped by last night with a package from Grandpa.” His words fell on a distracted woman, already looking back at her dirty dishes. “You don’t say; what could he still have after all this time?” Ten years earlier, this grandmother had been a gracefully aging woman named Estelle, who still turned the head of the occasional cougar hunter, but that was life before her Walter disappeared. Chris tried not to notice her thinning hair, her sunken cheeks or the six inches, at least, that she had already shrunk. “There was a pipe…” “That stinky old thing,” she interrupted. “… and a picture.”

Despite an inner strength forged through years of experience and hard work in family and business, grandmothers have an innate weakness for photographs, especially those of their grandchildren. “You see those booties? I knitted those for you,” Estelle cooed. “You never could seem to keep them on, though. I may have picked them up more than I picked you up.” “Granny, I need to ask you…” “Your Grandpa used to explain every single thing he was working on to you, and he always used the same words for you as he would for anyone else. He said you’d be better for it someday, for him refusing to tone it down for you.” “We really need to…” “You know, there’s one thing I never understood, though. He always said you were the answer. What do you suppose he meant by that?” Chris waited in silence in case she started up again. Neither of them really expected an answer to the question, though, so it just hung there in the air, refusing to go unnoticed. Finally, Chris grabbed the photo. “Granny, where is this room? I don’t remember anything like it here.” Estelle took the photo and this time perched her bifocals on her nose. “Why that, that’s your Grandpa’s office. You weren’t out there very often, though. Too much to break, and the ride was too hard for a child to make very often.” Chris looked at the photo again. “The ride?”

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Estelle’s brittle fingers spread a map over the hood of Chris’s Jeep, which was still warm from the drive into the desert. The paper was wrinkled from years of use and improper re-folding. Chris laughed at the broken line that led, treasure map style, from the dot marking where they were standing to a bold “X”. “It’s your Grandpa’s idea of a joke,” Estelle said. “Each time he left, he said he was hunting knowledge… even the last time.” Estelle tried to catch her tears, but a few managed to avoid her fingers, falling on the map. Chris squeezed her frail shoulder. “Granny, it’s been ten years since he died. Don’t you…” “He’s missing, and I’d miss him the same either way. I don’t want you ever to feel this way, but I hope you love someone enough that you could.” She wiped her eyes, coughed a few times, and put on the same brave face she’d perfected over the last decade. Chris tipped his hat and tried to fold the map. “Hey, is this Grandpa’s writing? ‘Rule No. 1.’ What does that mean?” Estelle looked it over and smiled. “Oh, you remember your Grandpa’s silly rules, don’t you? Let’s see, No. 1, which one was that? Ah, yes.” She straightened up as much as her curved frame could handle and put on the deepest voice she could muster. “‘The greatest respect you can give a man is to look him in the eye when you shake his hand.’” The memory was worth the laugh, and Chris hugged her as tightly as he dared. The rancher picked that moment to show up with the horses, two beautiful animals with plenty of shine in their hair. Chris had strapped a revolver to his hip and was pulling a machete sheath around his shoulder. He tested the blade in his hand, spinning it and swiping it to remember its tendencies before sliding it into its leather home. “Why’d Grandpa build this thing so far away from everything? He’d spend more time traveling than working, and the trip couldn’t have been good for his artifacts.” “Well,” Estelle said, “he always said you can’t understand the past if you’re surrounded by the present. That’s why he built in the middle of nowhere. He said even the most sophisticated equipment couldn’t find his hovel without that map.” “Yeah, but I live like that,” Chris said, “and I still have a road to my house.”

“Chrissy, you built a ranch between the Trinity site and the Very Large Array, the atom to the east and the stars to the west, and you expect us to believe you’re not still a city slicker in a pair of boots? You may still find something out here worth keeping, but you definitely showed up running away.” The woman had given her wisdom and was satisfied to let it go at that. Chris mounted his horse; Jose was already on his. The cowboy popped a cigar into his mouth and went to light it. “Chrissy, you better quit that nasty habit,” Estelle said. “Not ‘til I die or find something better,” said Chris, hoisting his cigar into the air as if it was a flag or the exclamation point on an argument he was sure he just won. “Take care of my Jeep, Granny,” Chris yelled out. “I’ll be back for it soon.” The horses and the Jeep waved goodbye with the dust they kicked up. The sun was already beating down, but the rains from the night before made the desert uncharacteristically muggy. The breeze helped, but even a little moisture in the air was oppressive in the blistering heat. The sounds of the wind, the buzz of the odd insect, the rustling of what few leaves where nearby, it all amplified a deepening silence, even more so than the home Chris had built to escape all the noise. He set his breathing to be in time with the beating of hooves on the hard desert floor. He closed his eyes and prayed that he would never hear another sound again. Jose was not praying the same prayer. “On the road again. Just can’t wait to get…” Chris took a swipe at him that had no chance of connecting, so he looked for something to throw. Jose looked for another song. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer. You take one down… Ok, ok, Chris, just put the machete away.” Chris finally allowed a laugh, sheathed his blade, and decided to pick the song himself this time. “Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above. Don't fence me in.” Jose joined in with some nearly tuned harmonies. “Let me ride through the wild open country that I love. Don't fence me in.” They drew the horses as close together as they could muster and threw their arms around each other like two drunken cowboys heading home from the saloon. “Let me be by myself in the evening breeze, listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees, send me off forever, but I ask you please, don't fence me in.” Chris looked at Jose, and Jose looked back at Chris, and they silently agreed there was no point in pretending, so each pulled a flask out of their saddle bags and they set about getting a little liquored up, not intending to drink much but just enough to make sure they had a good ride. Jose started the next song. “Happy trails to you until we meet again.” Chris took another swig and took up the second line. “Happy trails to you. Keep smilin’ until then.”