Smitty,
Joey, and I sat at the first three stools at the order desk. Separated from us
by two empty ones sat Murray, with thinning red hair stuck in mottled clumps to
his forehead, and always sweating regardless of the temperature. To be fair, he
was aware of the problem and the offensive odor that followed him, so he bathed
twice a day and used plenty of deodorant, which was very considerate, and even if
he hadn’t done this, we still wouldn’t have liked him.
He
probably weighed about two-seventy but always claimed it was two-ten. Between
mouthfuls of donuts he claimed he had a glandular problem. Thyroid or something
like that. He was an expert on guns and had several degrees in
something-or-other. I don’t know about the degrees or most of the other stuff,
but at least to my own limited experience with guns he sounded like an expert.
He talked about them constantly, spewing back the contents of every article and
book he had ever read on the subject. Every day he came to work with a huge
gray lunch box with an NRA bumper sticker on it, and under his arm would be
tucked the latest edition of Guns N’ Ammo or Soldier of Fortune
or some other magazine that usually had a picture of some square jawed Rambo
type, covered with mud and sweat, pectorals jumping out of torn camouflage,
holding some wicked looking weapon. The arsenal he claimed to own would have
made a terrorist think he had died and gone to heaven.
All
in all, I figured he was probably a harmless, although rather annoying book-fed
know-it-all, who, when it came down to the real thing, could aim at the ground
and miss.
Smitty
didn’t figure that way at all, so when Murray asked to go to Mojave with us
that weekend, Smitty promptly told him to go fuck himself. He softened up a bit
when Murray offered to supply as many free rounds as we could use for the
entire trip. He got them from a brother-in-law who owned a gun shop. Besides, Smitty
still owed Murray the twenty bucks he lost on the Broncos, and Murray said they
could call it even if he could go.
“Alright,”
Smitty said. “But stay downwind of us.”
Contractors
all bought their materials during the week. The only ones who came in before
the weekends were the do-it-yourselfers, most who didn’t know the difference
between a stud and a fence post, so Fridays always dragged. Listening to Murray
yack about the trip all day like a kid going to Disneyland made it that much
worse. He didn’t quite ruin my enthusiasm, but it was close.
Around
midnight that Friday, the four of us finally piled into Smitty’s four-wheel
Ford shortbed. Smitty and Joey rode in the cab. Murray and I climbed into the
bed and leaned against the cab wall among the necessities: the guns in their
leather cases; a cooler full of beer; another full of fruit and
sandwiches; and Murray’s cooler, which contained four bags of potato chips, a
dozen donuts and two six-packs of Diet Pepsi. I set a bottle of Southern
Comfort between my legs and rested my arm on the steel ammunition box to keep
it from rattling around, then took a shot of the whiskey and made myself
comfortable for the long ride.
We
had been on the road for a couple of hours when Murray finally spoke.
“You ever been out with these guys before?”
“I’ve
never been hunting.”
“You’ll
like it. It’s exhilarating. Just you and them. Man versus--”
“Oh,
shut up, Murray,” I said. “It’s just rabbits.”
He was
quiet then, so I hoped the conversation was over. I wasn’t in the mood to talk
because I wanted to simply enjoy the ride. A warm wind blew across the bed as
we traveled along the dark two-lane highway, and out in the open like that, I
could see a million stars in the moonless sky and smell the desert rushing
past, and the only thing I wanted to hear was the wind and the purring of huge
mud tires on the pavement.
“Why
doesn’t Smitty like me?”
“What?”
I had started to doze off.
“We
like the same things. We both hunt. And I played football in high school too. I
wasn’t all-city like him or anything but...”
I
compared Smitty’s muscular two-twenty to Murray and tried to picture Murray in
a football uniform. I decided that the closest Murray got to a football was the
cut of his clothes--wide in the middle and small at the top and bottom. As far
as I could tell, the only thing Smitty and Murray had in common was that they
both worked for the same company.
“Why’d
you come along if you don’t think he likes you?”
“I
don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it was stupid but I just thought that maybe this
trip...if we both...well, you know.”
“That
he’d get to like you?”
“Yeah.”
He clasped his hands together across his belly and dropped his chin. “It was a
stupid idea.”
What
I wanted to say was, “You’re right,” but I could hear in his voice that he was
about to cry. I sure as hell didn’t want to deal with that. “Don’t worry about
it. You can hang out with me,” I said, then mentally kicked myself in the ass
before I fell asleep.
A
bump and a rattle woke me as we decelerated and turned off onto a dirt road. I
rubbed sleep from my eyes and watched the eastern sky turning orange as the sun
began to rise.
“You
hungry?” Murray asked. “Want a donut? I brought enough--”
“Thanks,”
I said and took the donut. I took a sip of the whiskey to wash it down and
offered him the bottle. He shook his head. He was already working on a bag of
Doritos, and there were two empty Diet Pepsi cans at his feet and another one
in his hand. We ate breakfast and watched the sun slowly climb out from behind
the rocky hills of Mojave.
I
turned and poked my head through the open back window. “How much longer?”
Joey
was using a flashlight to read a topographical map.
“About
an hour,” he said.
Joey
had a weird sense of humor, and I liked him alright, but mostly he hung out
with Smitty. Usually, it was just the two of them on the hunting trips. It
always seemed a little strange that they were such good friends because Smitty
hated Mexicans. Joey’s real name was Jose Villanueva, but he liked everyone to
call him Joey. His parents had emigrated from Mexico City before he was born,
so technically he was as American as the rest of us. He knew every movie John
Wayne ever made, and dressed like a cowboy, all the way down to the white
Stetson and a belt buckle the size of a trashcan lid. I could speak a little
Spanish, so we’d sometimes strike up a conversation just to piss off Smitty.
Joey got a kick out of that.
With
the sun up, it was getting warmer, and I was hoping we would be there soon
because, moving slowly along the dirt road, there was very little breeze and I
was beginning to smell Murray. Forty-five minutes and several pounds of dirt
later, the road ended in a wash. Joey got out and locked the hubs, and then we
followed the dry riverbed for another fifteen minutes or so until Smitty jammed
on the brakes and we slid to a stop in the soft sand.
“Are we
there?” Murray asked. “Is this it? Where’s all the rabbits?”
Joey
got out of the cab and went over to a Joshua tree to piss. Smitty killed the
engine, then headed for the brew. He downed the first in three gulps, burped,
then grabbed another. I pulled out one for myself. Joey came back, pretending
to have difficulty buttoning his fly. “Get in there, big hombre,” he said. “If
you were not so big--”
“What
do we do now?” Murray asked. “And where are all the rabbits? I
thought you said--”
“Maybe
the rabbits are afraid you are going to eat them when you run out of chips,
no?” Joey said, still fussing with his fly. “C’mon Don Pedro--get in there.
Think small.”
Smitty
laughed and handed Joey a beer. I grabbed the brown leather case that held the
twenty-two rifle. Murray picked up a long belt and strapped on his .357.
Joey buckled on his Colt.
“Are
you sure this is legal?” I asked.
“Sure,”
Smitty said. “They carry diseases that kill livestock. We’re doing fucking
everyone a favor.”
“Bet I
get the first one,” Murray said. “I’m a good shot, you know, and I brought my
best--”
“Twenty
bucks says the Pillsbury Doughboy doesn’t hit shit,” Smitty said.
“Don’t
do it, mi amigo.”
“Why
the hell not?”
“Because,
mi amigo, you always bet stupid.”
“What
the hell do you know, you fucking beaner?”
“I
always beat you at poker.”
“That’s
because all you fucking beaners cheat. You’re all a bunch of goddamned liars
and car thieves.”
Joey
unsnapped his holster, pulled out the Colt and spun it on his finger a few
times. He tapped it with his other hand, and it stopped upright with the
cylinder open. He pulled a box of shells from his vest pocket and filled each
chamber. “That’s right, amigo. And our fathers are burros and we rape our
mothers.” He clicked the full cylinder back in place and winked at me. “Is sad,
no?”
Smitty
was in too good a mood to let the Mexican crap bother him, so Joey let it drop.
Joey had told me once that he was not allowed to speak Spanish in his parent’s
house. The only Spanish he knew came from three years of high school and from
exchanging letters with a grandfather who lived deep in the jungles of Mexico
where great rattlesnakes eat children whole. Right.
We
decided to split up. Smitty and I headed east toward the hills, where the scrub
grew a little thicker. Murray and Joey went further down the wash. Smitty
figured it was better that way--hopefully, Joey would keep Murray from shooting
himself or one of us, and Smitty could spend some time showing me how to shoot
the twenty-two.
Smitty
was probably in as good of shape as when he was first-string varsity high
school, and he carried the buckshot loaded twelve-gauge like it weighed
nothing. To me, even the twenty-two felt heavy and awkward, and I moved it from hand
to hand as we walked.
About
a mile from the truck we finally stopped near a patch of yucca, their white
stalks standing six feet high and spikes at the bottom all dead and brown. We
used them for target practice as Smitty taught me how to shoot. The twenty-two,
he said, was difficult to shoot because, with the bullet being so small, you
actually had to aim well in order to make a kill. There was not much recoil,
but he still cautioned me to keep the stock tight in against my shoulder. It
was a good habit to learn right away, he said, and that way, no matter what you
shoot, you won’t hurt yourself.
After
thirty rounds or so, I started to get the feel of it and knocked the tops off
five yuccas in a row. He let me try the twelve-gauge, one barrel only, because
letting off both barrels at once would be doing my shoulder a great injustice
by relocating it about a foot behind my body. I took his advice, braced my rear
foot, exhaled slowly, eased back the trigger, let loose one round, and
instantly decided that hunting jackrabbits with a twelve gauge was like driving
a finishing nail with a sledgehammer.
I
thanked him for lending me the twenty-two.
Two
hours passed without seeing anything larger than the lizards sunning themselves
and doing pushups on the rocks. Smitty blew several of them away, but I
contented myself with shooting at yuccas, purposely choosing my targets a
little further away each time. By eleven-thirty the sun was directly overhead,
and the air was so hot that it burned your nose when you breathed. We had water
in the canteen, but it was so hot that it brought little relief. It
seemed like a long walk back to the iced beer. Smitty was pissed because we
hadn’t seen one jack all morning, and for the next few hours every living thing
in the desert would be hiding in what little shade it could find.
We
started the long walk toward the truck. At six-four, Smitty had such a long
stride that I grew winded just trying to keep up. I tried as best I could but
finally had to swallow my pride and ask him to slow down.
He
stopped. “Sorry. Just want to go get a cold one and wash the dirt from my
throat.”
“Fine.
But let me catch my breath first.”
“Sure,”
he said and untucked his shirt. “Shit. I’m sweating like goddamed Murray.”
Maybe
it was the heat or something, but it pissed me off. I mean, I didn’t like
Murray much either, but I at least tried to treat him civilly. “Why do you
treat him so bad?”
“He’s
a wimp.”
“Not
everyone in the world is built like a steroid overdose.”
“Fuck
you.” He mopped his forehead with his sleeve. “It’s not that, anyways.”
“So
what is it?”
“He
talks too much. He stinks and he’s got a wimpy attitude. It’s his attitude,
just a fucking wimpy attitude.”
I
took a long pull from the canteen, then handed it to Smitty. “So what about me?
How do I weigh on the Smitty scale?”
He
gave me back the empty canteen. “Shit. You’re alright. Murray should be home
jacking off and stuffing his fat face. But you’re alright. You belong here.”
Here,
I supposed, meant in the middle of the desert, far from anything more civilized
than a beer can, armed like a bunch of drunken mercenaries.
“What
about Joey?”
“Joey’s
an asshole. Thinks he’s Pancho Villa. He's alright.”
“Murray
likes you.”
“I
think he’s a fucking queer.”
We
started walking again, slower this time, while he talked about his high school
football days. He didn’t say much about his first and only year of college
ball. I got the feeling it wasn’t really the injury that made him quit. I don’t
think he liked the idea of not being the biggest or the strongest anymore, but
I kept that to myself.
When
we got back, Joey had his shirt off and was leaning against the front of the
truck, arms crossed over his chest. I asked where Murray was, and Joey pointed
toward the bed with his thumb. Smitty and I walked around to the back and
saw him, curled up into a ball on his side, sound asleep.
“Get
anything?” Smitty called up to Joey as he hefted the cooler up and out of the
bed. He took it to the front of the truck. I looked at Murray again. He looked
alright, so I went to join them.
“What’s
with the Pillsbury Dough Boy?” Smitty asked. “Did he hit anything?”
“No
hay nada. Nothing to hit, so we came back. El gordo drank half a beer and said
he had a headache and was going to lay down. Said he promised his mother he
wouldn’t drink.”
“His
mother?” Smitty asked and handed us both a beer. It was cold from sitting in
the ice, and I rubbed it across my forehead. I finished it and took another.
“Es
verdad, mi amigo. El gordo vive con mamacita.”
“Y
tu madre es gorda tambien,” I said.
“Cool
it with the beaner shit, ladies.”
“Your
accent sucks,” Joey told me.
“So
does your mother,” I said
Joey
closed his eyes and rubbed his crotch. “Yeah, but she’s good.”
“You
are one sick beaner, Speedy.”
“Yeah.
Don’t you love it?” Joey took off his Stetson and shook the sweat from his
hair. “How’d you guys do?”
“He
wasted a lot of yuccas,” Smitty said.
“And
Smitty helped rid the world of several lizards.”
Joey
finished his beer and threw the can into the air. He drew his Colt, nailed the
can twice, and had the pistol back in its holster before the can hit the
ground. He looked at us like maybe we should applaud or something.
“Fucking
Clint Eastwood,” Smitty mumbled.
After
a few beers, we switched to the Southern Comfort and ate lunch and waited for
the hottest part of the day to pass. About three o’clock, we were feeling fine
and ready to try again. Murray was still snoring in the back of the truck. We
left him and headed south toward some rocks about a mile away.
The
second trip looked like a bust too, but just as we were turning to go we heard
a rustling in the brush. And then suddenly jacks were everywhere, darting in
and out of the bushes, behind the rocks, back and forth and bouncing off each
other. Smitty kept shooting and loading and shooting and loading, and Joey, faster
but more careful, was popping them one at a time. It sounded like the Fourth of
July. I noticed one, staring, paralyzed by the noise, not more than ten yards
off. It was an easy shot. I lined him up and squeezed the trigger while
dropping the barrel so that the ground exploded three feet in front of him. I
clicked off the rest of the rounds, not getting too close, just chasing him
with a spray of dirt.
Then
just as suddenly they were gone. Smitty and Joey were smiling and laughing and
cheering and patting each other on the back. There were at least a dozen dead
or dying jacks surrounding us. They smelled horrible.
“Infuckingcredible,”
Smitty said.
Joey
spun his revolver on his finger and dropped it smoothly back into the holster.
“Remember the fucking Alamo.”
I
felt sick to my stomach and started back toward the truck, leaving them to
gloat by themselves. I hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when another
jack sprinted by me. A moment later, I heard Smitty whoop. His heavy boots
kicked up a shower of dirt that sprayed me as he ran by, the shotgun held down
against his hip. The first barrel went off and sheared away one ear. The rabbit
darted to the left and then the second barrel exploded and the buckshot nearly
severed the back of the jack’s body at the hips. The forelegs kept moving,
slowly dragging the useless back legs along in the dirt. It went three feet
before it died.
Joey
was ahead of me now too, so they didn’t see how close I was to throwing up.
They
left the carcasses for the coyotes. Smitty and Joey talked about it most of the
way back. My stomach was still knotted up and I didn’t join in.
The
truck came into view about a hundred yards ahead. Heat waves rippled and
distorted the scene, but I could still make out Murray at the back of the
truck. The sun was reflecting off something in his hand.
“Hey,”
I said, nudging Smitty on the shoulder.
“Huh?”
He looked at Murray. “What’s that fucking idiot up to now?”
When
we got closer, we could see Murray sitting on the open tailgate. He was
drinking from the bottle of whiskey with one hand, and with the other, he
carelessly waved the .357 around. He hadn’t seen us yet. He popped off a couple
of rounds, not paying any attention at all to which way the bullets went. He
raised the bottle to his mouth and popped off a couple more rounds. The gun
swung in our direction.
“Jesus!”
Smitty slammed the side of my head with the palm of his hand and I went down.
As I fell, I saw him tackle Joey, and the two of them fell to the ground just
as the bullet grazed Smitty’s earlobe. He screamed something, put his
hand over his ear, and started running for the truck. I couldn’t believe that
anyone could move that fast. By the time Joey and I got there, Smitty was
already sitting on top of Murray, pounding his fist over and over into Murray’s
face. Without breaking stride, Joey and I both dove and tackled him. Somehow we
managed to hold him down while Murray escaped, dragging himself away slowly on
his hands and knees. He collapsed in the dirt a few feet away.
“I’m
sorry…I’m sorry,” Murray cried through his bleeding nose and mouth, turning his
face toward us. “I didn’t even see you guys.”
Smitty
got to his feet, walked over to Murray and spit a huge one in his face, then
turned around and grabbed another beer and walked off. Relieved that we
wouldn't have to tackle Smitty again, Joey and I helped Murray to his feet,
brushed him off, and sat him on the tailgate. I rummaged around in the
first aid kit and found some gauze to stuff Murray's nose, then helped Joey
start packing. About fifteen minutes later, we had everything situated in
the bed again, including Murray, who was still sniffling but had managed to
stop crying. Smitty returned, a few splashes of blood on his shoulder,
but his ear still mostly intact. Without even looking at us, he just
crushed the beer can in his huge hand and tossed it into the dirt, then climbed
into the cab and started the engine.
Nobody
spoke as we drove, which was fine with me because I was more than ready to
leave, and there really wasn't anything to say anyway. It was a long
quiet trip home, so I just sat beside Murray, occasionally looking at his
swollen nose with the bloody gauze hanging out, listening to the desert, and
wondering why it was such a big deal that I could nail a yucca at twenty yards.
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