The Water Museum Page 7

  “Bud,” said Horses. “You drove six thousand miles and never checked your oil!”

  Hubbard sneered.

  “It’s, like, a Volvo,” he said. “Built to last. Duh.”

  Horses slammed the hood.

  “I tell you what, kola,” he said. “You done toasted this engine dead.”

  Hubbard, fully into his crash now, hung his head.

  “Graveyard dead.” He said.

  * * *

  What Don Her Many Horses did not want to do was to give this clown a ride to Colorado. He could either head on out, or stall long enough for somebody else to come along and take over the rescue operation. Ol’ Mr. White Bread could hop in their car and be on his way.

  Hubbard had started in on his recent domestic crisis again.

  Horses said, “Hey, get over it.”

  “Excuse me—it’s only been a week. Not even a week.”

  “Yeah, and a week ought to be long enough for you to get over it. Way I see it, you came out ahead.”

  “I. Was. Abandoned.”

  “You was set free. She set your spirit free, man. You ought to say a prayer for her.”

  Hubbard was silent.

  “You owe her,” Horses said.

  He was looking south. He might have seen a windshield sparkle down there. You never knew. Deliverance seemed at hand.

  He was dismayed to see the sparkle veer left and cut across the plain, trailing a vague dust cloud.

  “Mind if I borrow your rifle?” Hubbard blurted.

  Horses blinked at him.

  “Your rifle. Can I use it? Just for a minute.” Hubbard was riding back up the slope.

  “What for?”

  “I’m going to put my war pony out of its misery.”

  “You can’t shoot a car. It’s a felony or something.”

  “I already stole the damned thing.”

  This was getting interesting again. Horses had seen a lot of things, but he’d never seen a guy kill a car with a rifle.

  “You know how to work a rifle?” he said.

  “Sure. I got a marksmanship merit badge in the Scouts.”

  “He got a merit badge,” Horses muttered.

  He retrieved the rifle, loaded a few rounds from a box under the seat. Worked the lever.

  He handed the rifle to Hubbard. “One thing,” he said. “You even begin to aim that thirty-thirty at me, and I’m going to run you over.”

  He trotted to his rig, jumped in, locked the doors, and fired her up.

  Hubbard sauntered to the Volvo and tried to control the weapon. It wobbled and drifted. He braced the rifle against his shoulder and popped off a round. A headlight exploded. The car barely rocked. He turned to Horses and grinned. Gave a big thumbs-up.

  Crack!

  Hole in the windshield.

  Horses tooted the horn.

  Crack!

  * * *

  A rusted-out Datsun pickup with wire bundles and tools piled in the bed rolled up and sat there as Hubbard bushwhacked the Volvo.

  The driver got out and tapped on Don’s window.

  “Yep?”

  “Sir? What’s the deal with this here?”

  “Guy’s killin’ his wife’s car.”

  “Dang.”

  “Yep.”

  “What she do, step out?”

  “Ran, sounds like.”

  The driver called back to his bud, “Butch! Guy’s killin’ his wife’s car.”

  “Sweet!” hollered Butch.

  Crack!

  The kid spit some chaw and said, “There goes the mirror.”

  “Yep.”

  Butch joined the party.

  “How you figure in this?” he asked.

  “I am an observer of life’s many pleasures,” Horses said.

  “Shee-it.”

  “Sir?” the first waddy said. “You think I could get in a shot?”

  Butch laughed.

  “Sure,” said Horses. “Why not.” He fished out a few more rounds from his box. “Knock yourself out.” The kid went over to Hubbard and shook his hand. Horses and Butch watched the rifle change hands. Hubbard slapped the kid on the shoulder.

  “This’ll be good,” said Butch.

  “Some days,” Horses said, “it pays to get up.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  The kid worked the lever like the Rifleman and blasted the crap out of the car, shredding its tires and puncturing its flanks. Hubbard clapped and hopped around.

  “Doin’ the bunny hop,” noted Butch.

  The kid came back to Horses and handed him the rifle.

  “Thank you, sir. ’Preciate it.”

  “Hey,” said Horses. “You boys want to give this guy a ride?”

  “Hell no,” they said and hopped back in the Datsun and banged away.

  When Horses looked back at Hubbard, he was passed out on the road, smiling at the sky.

  * * *

  Horses hung his rifle back on the rack. He slipped a Redbone CD into the player. He didn’t like all that Carlos Nakai stuff—all them twiddly flutes. He liked guitars. He found Zep II and slotted it in next to Redbone. Going to be some Page and Plant kicking in before he hit the state line. Hubbard was flat on his back in the road like a fried egg. Horses rolled on down the lonesome highway.

  He pulled over and said “Shit” and got out. He collected Hubbard, hefted him in a fireman’s carry. His back hurt like hell. He piled Hubbard into the backseat. Dug a screwdriver out of his toolbox. Went back to the assassinated Volvo and unscrewed the license plates. He pulled the paperwork out of the glove compartment. Tossed it all in with Hubbard, who was snoring softly.

  He drove on.

  Had hours to go. He’d get there late, thanks to this little adventure. But wait till the Oyate guys found Hubbard passed out in the truck! Aw, hell. They’d think of all kinds of crazy shit to do to him.

  It was a good day. Ten miles ahead, on the port side of the highway, there was a buffalo herd Horses liked to look at. And beyond that, to the starboard, a llama ranch amused him when he passed it. And ostriches. It was like a free zoo all of a sudden. And he knew the Rockies would appear out of the blue haze to his right. Bright and vivid on the horizon, looming as he veered nearer. Growing taller.

  Horses remembered when he and the Brewer brothers had duct-taped Yellowhorse to the ceiling at his birthday party. Over to Porcupine. He’d shouted, “Get me down, you bastards!” Little skinny guy up there like he was floating. Horses couldn’t stop laughing.

  He looked at Hubbard in the rearview.

  Yeah. Tape. Those Oyate boys, a hundred years ago they might have staked him out. Naked on an anthill. But tape. That was funny. Hubbard would wake up over their heads. Looking down at crazy Indians in nerd clothes dancing to B-52 records. Whooping. Smoke. Noise. Hubbard, unable to come down. Eyes like plates. Hubbard, caught up in the sky. Hubbard, learning to pray.

  Six

  Amapola

  Here’s the thing—I never took drugs in my life. Yeah, okay, I was the champion of my share of keggers. Me and The Pope. We were like, “Bring on the Corona and the Jäger!” Who wasn’t? But I never even smoked the chronic, much less used the hard stuff. Until I met Pope’s little sister. And when I met her, she was the drug, and I took her and I took her, and when I took her, I didn’t care about anything. All the blood and all the bullets in the world could not penetrate that high.

  The irony of Amapola and me was that I never would have gotten close to her if her family hadn’t believed I was gay. It was easy for them to think a gringo kid with emo hair and eyeliner was “un joto.” By the time they found out the truth, it was too late to do much about it. All they could do was put me to the test to see if I was a stand-up boy. It was either that or kill me.

  You think I’m kidding.

  * * *

  At first, I didn’t even know she existed. I was friends with Popo. We met in my senior year at “Camelback”—Cortez High. Alice Cooper’s old school back in preh
istory, our big claim to fame, though most of us had no idea who Alice Cooper was. VH1 was for grandmothers.

  Still, you’d think the freak factor would remain high, right? But it was just another hot space full of Arizona Republicans and future CEOs and hopeless football jocks not yet aware they were going to be fat and bald, living in a duplex on the far side, drinking too much and paying alimony to the cheerleaders they never thought could weigh 298 pounds and smoke like a coal plant.

  Not Popo. The Pope. For one thing, he had more money than God. Well, his dad and his aunt Cuca had all the money, but it drizzled upon him like the first rains of Christmas. He was always buying the beer, paying for gas and movie tickets and midnight runs to Taco Bell. “Good American food,” he called it.

  He’d transferred in during my senior year. He called it his exile. I spied him for the first time in English. We were struggling to stay awake during the endless literary conversations about A Separate Peace. He didn’t say much about it. Just sat over there making sly eyes at the girls and laughing at the teacher’s jokes. I’d never seen a Beaner kid with such long hair. He looked like some kind of Apache warrior, to tell you the truth. He had double loops in his left ear. He got Droogy sometimes and wore eyeliner under one eye. Those li’l born again chicks went crazy for him when he was in devil-boy mode.

  And the day we connected, he was wearing a Cradle of Filth T-shirt. He was staring at me. We locked eyes for a second and he nodded once and we both started to laugh. I was wearing a Fields of the Nephilim shirt. We were the Pentagram Brothers that day, for sure. Everybody else must have been thinking we were goth school shooters. I guess it was a good thing Phoenix was too friggin’ hot for black trench coats.

  Later, I was sitting outside the vice principal’s office. Ray Hulsebus, the nickelback on the football team, had called me a faggot and we’d duked it out in the lunch court. Popo was sitting on the wooden bench in the hall.

  “Good fight,” he said, nodding once.

  I sat beside him.

  “Wha’d you get busted for?” I asked.

  He gestured at his shirt. It was originally black, but it had been laundered so often it was gray. In a circle were the purple letters VU. Above them, in stark white, one word: HEROIN.

  “Cool,” I said. “Velvet Underground.”

  “My favorite song.”

  We slapped hands.

  “The admin’s not into classic rock,” he noted. “Think I’m…advocating substance abuse.”

  We laughed.

  “You like Berlin?” he asked.

  “Berlin? The old band?”

  “Hell no! Lou Reed’s best album, dude!”

  They summoned him.

  “I’ll play it for ya,” he said, and walked into the office.

  And so it began.

  Tía Cuca’s house was the bomb. She was hooked up with some kind of Lebanese merchant. The whole place was cool floor tiles and suede couches. Their pool looked out on the city lights, and you could watch roadrunners on the deck cruising for rattlers at dusk. Honestly, I didn’t know why Pope wasn’t in some rich private school, but apparently his scholastic history was “spotty.” I still don’t know how he ended up at poor ol’ Camelback, but I do know it must have taken a lot of maneuvering by his family. By the time we’d graduated, we were inseparable. He went to ASU. I didn’t have that kind of money. I went to community college.

  Pope’s room was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Tía Cuca had given him a detached single-car garage at the far end of the house. They’d put in a bathroom and made a bed loft on top of it. Pope had a king-size mattress up there, and a wall of CDs and the Bose iPod port, and everything was Wi-Fi’d to his laptop. There was a huge Bowie poster on the wall beside the door—in full Aladdin Sane glory, complete with the little shiny splash of come on his collarbone. It was so retro. My boy had satellite on a flat screen, and piles of DVDs around the slumpy little couch on the ground floor. I didn’t know why he was so crazy for the criminal stuff—Scarface and The Godfather. I was so sick of Tony Montana and Michael Corleone! He had an Elvis clock—you know the one—with the King’s legs dancing back and forth in place of a pendulum.

  “Welcome,” Pope said on that first visit, “to Disgraceland.”

  He turned me on to all that good classic stuff: Iggy, T. Rex, Roxy Music. He wasn’t really fond of new music, except for the darkwave guys. Anyway, there we’d be, blasting that glam as loud as possible, and it would get late and I’d just fall asleep on his big bed with him. No wonder they thought I was gay! Ha. We were drinking Buds and reading Chic and Hustler mags we’d stolen from his uncle Abdullah or whatever his name was. Aunt Cuca once said, “Don’t you ever go home?” But I told her, “Nah—since the divorce, my mom’s too busy to worry about it.”

  One day I was puttering around his desk, looking at the Alien figures and the Godzillas, scoping out the new copy of El Topo he’d gotten by mail, checking his big crystals and his antique dagger, when I saw the picture of Amapola behind his stack of textbooks. Yes, she was a kid. But what a kid.

  “Who’s this?” I said.

  He took the framed picture out of my hand and put it back.

  “Don’t worry about who that is,” he said.

  * * *

  Thanksgiving. Pope had planned a great big fiesta for all his homies and henchmen. He took the goth-gansta thing seriously, and he had actual “hit men” (he called them that) who did errands for him, carried out security at his concerts. He played guitar for the New Nouveau Nuevos—you might remember them. One of his “soldiers” was a big Irish kid who’d been booted off the football team, Andy the Tank. Andy appeared at our apartment with the invitation to the fiesta—we were to celebrate the Nuevos’ upcoming year, and chart the course of the future. I was writing lyrics for Pope, cribbed from Roxy Music and Bowie’s Man Who Sold the World album. The invite was printed out on rolled parchment and tied with a red ribbon. Pope had style.

  I went over to Tía Cuca’s early, and there she was—Amapola. She’d come up from Nogales for the fiesta, since Pope was by now refusing to go home for any reason. He wanted nothing to do with his dad, who had declared that only gay boys wore long hair or makeup or played in a band that wore feather boas and silver pants. Sang in English.

  I was turning eighteen, and she was fifteen, almost sixteen. She was more pale than Popo. She had a frosting of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and her eyes were light brown, almost gold. Her hair was thick and straight and shone like some liquid. She was kind of shy, too, blushing when I talked to her.

  The meal was righteous. They’d fixed a turkey in the Mexican style. It was stuffed not with bread or oysters, but with nuts, dried pineapple, dried papaya and mango slices, and raisins. Cuca and Amapola wore traditional Mexican dresses and, along with Cuca’s cook, served us the courses as we sat like members of the Corleone family around the long dining room table. Pope had seated Andy the Tank beside Fuckin’ Franc, the Nuevos’ drummer. Some guy I didn’t know but who apparently owned a Nine Inch Nails type synth studio in his garage sat beside Franc. I was granted the seat at the end of the table, across its length from Pope. Down the left side were the rest of the Nuevos—losers all.

  I was trying to keep my roving eye hidden from The Pope. I didn’t even have to guess what he’d do if he caught me checking her out. But she was so fine. It wasn’t even my perpetual state of horniness. Yes it was. But it was more. She was like a song. Her small smiles, her graciousness. The way she swung her hair over her shoulder. The way she lowered her eyes and spoke softly…then gave you a wry look that cut sideways and made savage fun of everyone there. You just wanted to be a part of everything she was doing.

  “Thank you,” I said, every time she refilled my water glass or dropped fresh tortillas by my plate. Not much, it’s true, but compared to The Tank or Fuckin’ Franc, I was as suave as Cary Grant.

  “You are so welcome,” she’d say.

  It started to feel like a dance. It’s in the way
you say it, not what you say. We were saying more to each other than Cuca or Pope could hear.

  We were down to the cinnamon coffee and the red grape juice toasts. She stood behind me, resting her hands on the top of the chair. And Amapola put out one finger, where they couldn’t see it, and ran her fingernail up and down between my shoulder blades.

  Suddenly, supper was over, and we were all saying good night, and she had disappeared somewhere in the big house and never came back out.

  Soon Christmas came, and Pope again refused to go home. I don’t know how Cuca took it, having the sullen King Nouveau lurking in her converted garage. He had a kitsch aluminum tree in there. Blue ornaments. “Très Warhol.” He sighed.

  My mom had given me some cool stuff—a vintage Who T-shirt, things like that. Pope’s dad had sent presents—running shoes, French sunglasses, a .22 target pistol. We snickered. I was way cooler than Poppa Popo. I had been down to Tucson, and I’d hit Zia Records and brought him some obscure 70s LPs: Captain Beyond, Curved Air, Amon Duul II, the Groundhogs. Pope got me a vintage turntable and the first four Frank Zappa LPs—how cool is that?

  Pope wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t blind, either. He’d arranged a better gift for me than all that. He’d arranged for Amapola to come visit for a week. I found out later she had begged him.

  “Keep it in your pants,” he warned me. “I’m watching you.”

  Oh my God. I was flying. We went everywhere for those six days. The three of us, unfortunately. Pope took us to that fancy art deco hotel on the west side of Phoenix. That one with the crazy neon lights on the walls outside and the dark gourmet eatery on the ground-floor front corner. We went to movie matinees, never night movies. It took two movies to wangle a spot sitting next to her, getting Pope to relinquish the middle seat to keep us apart. But he knew it was a powerful movement between us, like continental drift. She kept leaning over to watch me instead of the movies. She’d laugh at everything I said. She lagged when we walked so I would walk near her. I was trying to keep my cool, not set off the Hermano Grande alarms. Suddenly he let me sit beside her. I could smell her. She was all clean hair and sweet skin. Our arms brushed on the armrest, and we let them linger, sweat against each other. Our skin forming a thin layer of wet between us, a little of her and a little of me mixing and forming something made of both of us. I was aching. I could have pole-vaulted right out of the theater.