To my grandson, Aidan Connor Dungan Duty, Honor, Country
Wanted Poster, Hermosa City Limit, Circle K Convenience Store, Sanderson's Café, Crown Vic Police Cruiser, Target Practice, Sheriff's Badge, Abandoned Mines Poster, Bison Drawn by Caveman, Pump House, Cadillac Escalade Truck, Deputy Sheriff's Badge, Studebaker Pickup Truck, Beth's Promise Ring, Bellagio Fountains, Airplane Lavatory, Canadian Gold Coin
Introduction
Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Since school starts tomorrow, this is my last chance to sleep in late. Shortly after 10 AM, I head for the kitchen and, passing a portable radio nestled amongst potted plants on a shelf in the garden window, I flick it on.
At 8:45 AM this morning a hijacked Boeing 767 airliner struck the north tower of the World Trade Center in downtown Manhattan, setting it ablaze. A half hour later, a second hijacked 767 slammed into the other tower. Both have collapsed and continue to burn. The number of casualties is not yet known, but is thought to be in the thousands. Shortly after the attack on the World Trade Center, a third hijacked airliner crashed into the Pentagon, tearing a huge hole in the west side of military headquarters. Despite severe smoke and flames, the living, injured, and dead are being pulled out from beneath the rubble. For more on this hellacious calamity, an unprecedented three-pronged attack by terrorists on our eastern seaboard, we take you to Washington, D.C., where . . .
"Not very plausible," I say to myself. This must be an updated War of the Worlds broadcast. Hadn't Orson Welles fooled millions in the 1930's with a breaking news version of H.G. Well's classic science fiction yarn? I wasn't about to be taken in by a dusty trick and, reaching for the knob, somewhat indignantly turned the dial to what I thought to be a reliable all-news-all-the-time station.
. . . a fourth hijacked plane, United Airlines Flight 93 crashed near Pittsburgh. There are no known survivors. Police and firefighters are combing through . . .
Oh my God! It's for real. Thousands of Americans—civilians for the most part—mangled, crushed, burned, and buried alive in a sneak attack that by comparison rendered Pearl Harbor a scuffle in a bathtub. Organized terrorism, the kind that involves lots of money and planning, had been confined to the fringes of our collective radar; a daily occurrence in Beirut and Tel Aviv, but not perceived as a pressing domestic problem. This was a wakeup call, a reminder that we are part of a shrinking world where a fire in our neighbor's house needed to be put out lest it spread to our own.
But why? Why us and why now? Was it God's punishment, a prelude to Armageddon? I just couldn't buy that. New York and Washington, D.C. weren't Sodom and Gomorrah—as a matter of fact they weren't anywhere near as decadent as Amsterdam and Bangkok. No, despite the shrill rasping of mullahs and Osama bin Laden, the United States was no Great Satan. If anything, we were simply too complacent, too trusting.
I switch off the radio and eat my bowl of cereal in the living room where I can watch the news on television. The screen portrays the heart-breaking exodus of refugees in business suits and ties fleeing Manhattan on foot. Dust fills the air, coating everything and everyone in shades of gray. It’s as if the tragedy is being broadcast in black and white. Unable to pull myself away from the tube, I repeatedly view footage of the planes crashing into the Twin Towers. It can’t happen here, not on American soil.
In the days to come, many of my older friends will enlist in the military. Flags fly everywhere and it is not unusual to see Old Glory attached to everything from car antennas to fence posts. Never before in my life have I witnessed such a spontaneous display of patriotism. In the heat of the moment, not knowing where and when the terrorists would strike next, is it any wonder that false reports of nonexistent terrorists would lead a number of vigilantes and super patriots to champion an "America for Americans" in which there would be no place for immigrants or those of foreign birth?
September 11 would soon come to join December 7 in the public mind as a "Day of Infamy." In the aftermath of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, General DeWitt, commander-in-chief of the West Coast, declared, "A Jap is a Jap." United States citizens of Japanese descent were rounded up and moved to inland concentration camps. Chinese businesses had their windows smashed by mobs of roving vigilantes who mistook Chinamen for being Japanese. It has been said that those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them. Prejudice is no substitute for studied deliberation. That said, we did our utmost best. May God forgive us for any mistakes we may have made in our initial knee-jerk response to the gruesome carnage of 9/11.
Chapter 1
Although it looks rather barren, this place is a desert resort. Snowbirds—that's what the Canadian tourists call themselves—drive down here in their RV's to work on their tans. Most are working class families with children who can’t afford the Caribbean. But what the travel brochures fail to mention is that the temperature drops when the sun goes down. I never liked the cold. If God had meant for humans to live in cold climates, He would have given us fur coats like animals. It's simply not natural to be bundled in layers of clothing. Slows you down. Better to be cold than clumsy.
There's not much to do for a young stud seeking adventure in a small town in the high desert. Most of the good-looking local girls go elsewhere to get their kicks. Chugging a 12-pack of beer has been known to make a less-than-stunning chick seem sexy, but that's not really practical when you live at home and your father is the sheriff.
So that's how I came to be plinking pebbles off our next door neighbor's second story window. I had read somewhere that glass is a liquid rather than a solid; a congealed substance with such graceful moves that not even a slow motion camera can capture its act. Those stained glass windows in old European cathedrals are thicker at the bottom than at the top—proof positive that glass moves in its own sweet time. I figured that a small rock at the top of its trajectory wouldn't have enough force to break a window unless it hit dead center. So far my hypothesis had proven correct. I had selected seven smooth pebbles of approximately the same size and weight from a terrarium on the patio with which to conduct my experiment. The first six had performed beautifully, striking at the edges near the frame without so much as a hairline crack. Perhaps I had grown overly confident or, more likely, I should have dispensed with the quilted coat I was wearing. Anyway, it wasn't as if I had intended to break the window. It was an accident—more like an Act of God than that of a vandal—science gone wrong. A similar mishap had led Alexander Graham Bell to discover the telephone. But while Alex became a millionaire, I became a fugitive. Dumb luck. How was I supposed to know that Old Man Grady slept with his clothes on to save a couple of pennies on his heating bill or that his bed stood directly under the window?
Fortunately for me, his arthritis slowed him down and I was almost to my own driveway by the time he came bursting through the front door with an over-under 12 gauge shotgun. Ordinarily, the sight of a weapon would make me freeze in my tracks, but I remembered that my father had confiscated Grady's ammo several weeks before after catching him taking pot shots at some raccoons that had been rummaging through the trash cans. Besides, in the excitement he had forgotten his glasses. Everybody looks pretty much the same from the back side. Unless I turned towards him to go up the lighted driveway, he wouldn't be able to finger me.
Instead, I ducked behind a shrub and tore off the heavy blue jacket and black baseball cap that even an elderly man as myopic as Grady could not help but notice. When he drew even with the shrub, I struck him with a body block that would have done a NFL lineman proud. Grady and the scattergun flew in opposite directions, the stock having splintered upon impact with the concrete driveway while the old man landed flat on his back atop the shrub with his mouth open as if in disbelief.
A cursory glance at the weapon confirmed my suspicions that it wasn't loaded. Wrapping my arms around his body, I gently lifted Grady and placed him on his feet, being careful not to relinquish my grip lest his shaking knees would suddenly buckle and send him sprawling to the ground. Making a pretense at dusting the dirt from his clothing, I kept my head turned towards the street as if I was searching for someone who had got away. Evidently, Grady was still in shock because his jaw was still agape.
"Oh God, don't let this old fart have a heart attack," I mumbled under my breath. Half-dragging, half-carrying, I managed to get Grady back to his house and onto the bed. While removing his shoes, I fed the feeble geezer a cock-and-bull story about how I had been walking down the driveway when I had seen a mean-looking hombre in a blue quilted jacket and a black cap run from his yard and had given chase and probably would have caught the crook if I hadn't collided with Grady. After covering him with three blankets, I went home, tossing the broken shotgun into a trash can on my way up the driveway. Undoubtedly, my father, being the sheriff, would be getting a phone call from Grady in the morning. And my father was nobody's fool. I must have gone over what I would say to him a dozen times before I finally fell asleep.
Evidently Grady didn't phone my father because I didn't hear anything more on the subject. Maybe he was still mad about having his ammo confiscated or maybe he didn't figure it would do any good to file a complaint. When I came home from school the next day, I noticed that the broken window pane had been replaced with plywood. But instead of cutting it the size of the glass and inserting it in the frame, he had nailed a thick 4 X 8 sheet over the opening. It looked like those pictures on the evening news of homes on the Gulf Coast being prepared for a hurricane. Grady was weird. Rumor had it that he had never married because he was having an incestuous relationship with his younger sister who had been his housekeeper until she had gone to live with another relative. Word was she had had an abortion and most had assumed that Grady was the father. But I knew different. Latent homosexuals like Grady can't father children because their sperm dries up. At least that's what our assistant water polo coach had said at practice and he's usually right about these things. Deviates from the shallow end of the gene pool can't get it up. It's nature's way of improving the breed. If you don't believe me, read Darwin.
By the way, I'm Ryan. Hermosa—that's what they call this town—being so small, everybody knows everybody and there isn't normally any need for introductions. In Spanish hermosa means beautiful. If you like sand, this place is positively gorgeous. Sand is everywhere: on the ground, in the air, in your shoes, in your hair—a constant wind forces fine grit through weatherstripping, making it almost impossible to keep it out of vehicles and houses. Like God, sand is omnipresent, but it is more of a curse than a blessing.
Romero is my last name. That sounds Spanish too, but we're not. By giving something a Spanish name, you add a touch of class. It has to do with English being a guttural Germanic language while Spanish seems to flow off the tongue. How else to explain why people are willing to pay upwards of a dollar more for a bottle of cerveza than they would for beer?
The official language is English, but due to a flood of illegal immigrants from Mexico what is spoken on the street is Spanglish, a mongrel mixture of Spanish and English, which resembles the Frenglish spoken in certain parts of Canada. Por ejemplo, a blurb on AM radio for a used car lot gives the directions in Spanish followed by ‘certified quality pre-owned vehicles.’ The addition of English legalese is supposed to make their worn-out rust buckets sound better than they actually are.
When I was a little kid in second or third grade, I would lie awake at night listening to my inner voice whisper, "nobody likes you." While that might sound crazy, I can assure you that I have never gone so far as to allow anybody other than myself to berate me in any way. In effect, my ego was simply letting me know that I needed to keep my own counsel. Since it is impossible for a rational person to put someone else's interest above his own, it follows that friendship only goes so far. If you don't hold part of yourself back, you risk getting hurt. That's why I'm sharing these insights into my inner self with you, someone with whom I am having a superficial relationship that extends no farther than the pages of this book, instead of with a close personal friend. This way we both benefit. Think of it as that rarest of occurrences, a win-win situation, in which I vent my frustrations in order to keep my sanity while you get your jollies by playing the voyeur. Judge me however you want since it matters naught whether you are with me or against me. Feel free to rip pages from this book and use them for toilet paper as it won't affect me one way or the other. Remember, it was you that came to me seeking entertainment and not the other way around.
Chapter 2
Take a look over there. That's my father, the sheriff, having a difference of opinion with a local rowdy shortly after closing time in the parking lot of Sonny's Saloon. No, he's not the big fellow pulling the slide back on the chrome plated 9 mm loaded with bye-bye pills. The other one—the little guy in the starched khakis and badge with the barrel of the gun pointed at his head . . . .
But don't be alarmed. That's just the way he works. Let the crook think he's got the advantage and then turn the table on him. It works every time (well, almost every time). You see, law enforcement officers have MO's just the same as criminals. Early on, they establish a repertoire of tactics and it accompanies them for the rest of their career. It was exactly this type of risky behavior repeated ad infinitum that drove my mother to divorce him. But it doesn't bother me a bit. Following the Second World War, my grandfather served as Hermosa's first sheriff. It's in the blood. My father is the type of man who lives his job. He instinctively knows how to talk down the bad guys. Listen and learn:
"I ain't goin' back to no prison. Wasn't doin' nothin' but havin' me some fun. Don't come no closer."
"The fun ended when you pulled that gun. Shoot me and the good people of this state will do to you what the animal shelter does to mad dogs. But first you'll rot on Death Row. When you're strapped to a gurney and they raise the curtain at your execution, my family will be sitting ringside. They will be the last thing you see when the second plunger drops and you shit your pants."
"Don't make me kill you."
Neither man blinks. But the sheriff banks on taking the initiative and makes a lunge for the gun. He almost got it right. If it hadn't been for the knife in the big guy's other hand, he would have come out on top. A swift upward swing buries the blade in the sheriff's shoulder. A good move, but a gun still beats a knife and the sheriff puts it to good use by pistol-whipping the daylights out of his opponent.
The fight has gone out of the big fellow. But the sheriff isn't taking any more chances and, swinging him around with his good arm, throws the bad guy through the windshield face first. No use reading him his Miranda rights before putting on the cuffs. This guy is out cold.
* * *
We've got an old male dog who is gentle enough but, not being neutered, gets into fights when there is a female in heat. The vet sews him up—sometimes without an anaesthetic—and by the next day he is up and running. Dad's the same way. When he woke up in a hospital bed, he got dressed as quickly as his one good arm would permit and walked out the door with the doctor yelling at him.
With Dad being so busy, I try to help out around the house. Doing the laundry is one of my chores. But what am I supposed to do with a bloody khaki shirt with a gaping hole in it? Surely, he wouldn't have tossed it in the hamper if he didn't believe it was worth saving. I'm about to load the shirt in the washer with the rest of his uniforms when the phone rings.
"Hello?"
"My car keeps stalling. It's got 5,000 miles on it. Do you think I need to replace the fuel injectors?"
Recognizing the voice on the other end of the line as Thelma Perkins, who runs the only dress shop in town, I reply, "You dialed the Romeros by mistake. It happens all the time. Brothers' Auto Parts ends in 96 and our number ends with 69. Did you gas up on a Sunday at the Circle K? They've got water in the bottom of their storage tank and the tanker truck doesn't come until Monday."
"Why don't they get that fixed? I bet that's the reason they are two cents a gallon cheaper than any of the other stations."
"I don't really think it's intentional. When it gets really hot, the water vapor that is in the air starts to condense inside the storage tank. It's not a problem until they run low on gas."
Thelma's tone freezes as she says, "You're darned right they do it to us on purpose. We're paying two dollars a gallon for watered-down gasoline!"
"Put a tankful of premium in it and I'd be willing to bet it will run as good as new."
"Thanks, Ryan. You're just like your father, a real lifesaver. I just wish there was something I could do for you."
"Maybe there is. I'm trying to get a blood stain out of one of my father's khaki shirts."
"Rub the stain with soap—don't use detergent—brush it briskly and then soak the shirt in cold water for several hours. Repeat the process until the stain disappears."
"It's also got a hole in it."
"What kind of hole? Is it ripped? Is the fabric intact?"
"It's sort of V-shaped and I'm afraid it will pucker when I sew it shut"
"Turn the shirt inside out and tape the V together so it won't pucker when you sew it. Cut away any excess tape when you're done. If you have any trouble with it, bring it to me and I'll do it for you."
"You're one-in-a-million, Mrs. Perkins."
"So are you, Ryan. Use a toothbrush so you can't do any harm to the material. And tell your father he's got my vote in the next election."
"I'll do that, ma'am."
That's one of the benefits of living in Hermosa. Since we all know each other, there is no such thing as a wrong number. Whomever you dial, you stand a pretty good chance of reaching someone who cares.
Chapter 3
In the confusion following 9/11, the Sheriff’s Department gets a hefty increase in phone calls, mostly from crackpots and Nervous Nellies who are convinced that there are al-Qaeda agents and wild-eyed terrorists hiding in the bushes. These reports have to be carefully recorded and checked for veracity which takes time and energy. No sooner does Dad finish filing one, then the phone rings with another. Let’s listen in:
"Sheriff’s Department, Sheriff Ryan Romero speaking. Please help us to assist you by giving me your telephone number and address."
"It doesn’t matter who I am," says the voice on the other end. "What matters is that you guys aren’t doing your job. Last night, I did three loads of laundry and hung my sheets out to dry. When I got up this morning, the Arabs had stolen them off of my clothesline."
"What makes you think it was Arabs who did it?" Dad inquires perfunctorily.
"Who else makes robes from sheets? These were 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets; no finer sheets are to be had. I paid $25 each for them," complains the unidentified caller.
"Did you see anyone lurking around your property last night?"
"I don’t have to stay up at night guarding my property. That’s what my taxes pay you to do." And with that parting piece of wisdom the anonymous caller slams the receiver in my father’s ear. He gets up from his desk and goes out on patrol so as not to have to take any more crank calls. I can’t say that I blame him.
I know better than to start dinner before Dad pulls into the driveway. Like crooks, sheriffs don't keep regular hours. Tonight we are having fish sticks because it was all that was left in the freezer plus it is one of the few foods that doesn't give either of us indigestion. Fish sticks are not made of ground fish like some people think. Actually, they are cut from blocks of frozen whitefish. They cost about the same as hamburger and are much better for you. I digress. The chief reason we are having fish sticks is that I can get them on the table before Dad can open his second beer.
I put dinner on the table—literally, since the tablecloths departed with Mom—and the first thing Dad asks when he comes to the table is "where's the tartar sauce?" There isn't any because he didn't remember to buy it the last time he went to the store. But to avoid being labeled a "smart ass"—a "smart ass" is anyone my age who points out the obvious—I smile dumbly and pass the bottle of Tabasco sauce which is what he put on his fish sticks the last time we had them for dinner and will almost certainly be what he will put on them the next time. What's with this tartar sauce business, anyway? For as long as I can remember, Tabasco sauce has been my father's condiment of choice, dashed liberally on eggs in the morning, chili at lunch, and meat at dinner. Could it be that Dad's tastes are changing? I will believe that the day we go out to eat something other than Chinese or Mexican. To say that we are stuck in a rut when it comes to cuisine (I use the word in its broadest sense) is putting it mildly.
As usual, I am the one who starts the conversation. I tried waiting him out once and neither of us said a single word. We just ate like two strangers sharing a table in a crowded restaurant. It gave me the creeps. Besides, he is my father, he has just put in a 14 hour day, and, as corny as it may sound, I really do want to make our home life as pleasant as possible. So, I begin by asking, "Hard day?"
"Winch broke down. Third time this week. Canadians aren't desert drivers. Get stuck in a patch of sand and they keep spinning the wheels until they are buried up to the hub. I told Mayor Tom that a Crown Vic was never meant to be used as a tow truck. Those RV's get longer and heavier every year. Let them call the Auto Club like anyone else. But he says that the snowbirds are our bread and butter."
"Adelanto's Police Chief has a 4 wheel drive vehicle. So does Victorville."
"Victorville is twice the size of Hermosa with three times the budget. They actually have a police force. I've got to make do with part-time deputies."
I am tempted to bring up the fact that Victorville's City Manager had offered him the job of Police Chief the last time it became vacant, but think better of it. We are firmly rooted in Hermosa. My grandfather was this town's first sheriff and my father took over after he died. Might as well go to Los Angeles or New York City as to move to Victorville.
I allow the conversation to die a natural death. Since Dad appears to be preoccupied, I put down my fork and start eating with my fingers. The last time I did it, it got me a lecture on proper table etiquette. What I don't understand is why is it alright to eat fish and chips with your fingers, if you aren't supposed to eat fish sticks that way? Who makes up these stupid rules? I'm feeling rather brave as I'm reaching for my sixth fish stick when out of the blue comes:
"Got a call this morning from the night watchman at Pipeline Construction. Sometime last night, a hasp was pried off a shed and a case of dynamite is missing. I faxxed Homeland Security and they are assigning an FBI agent to the investigation."
Terrorists in Hermosa? I get the visual image of an al-Qaeda commando busting a hasp with a blow from his rifle butt. Nothing this big has happened in Hermosa since the time they cordoned off Main Street to film a nude scene in an Adam Sandler flick. Despite being totally stoked, I manage to ask in what I hope is a not-too-emotional tone, "Any leads?"
"Night watchman noticed a young fellow loitering near the gate earlier that evening. Said he couldn't get a good look at the face, but he is relatively certain that the suspect was wearing a blue coat and a black baseball cap."
I didn't think it was possible to choke on a fish stick. I mean, it's supposed to happen with beef and chicken, but never with fish sticks. That unfortunate mishap with Grady was long forgotten; so what made me swallow hard and wedge an entire fish stick where my tonsils would be if they hadn't been taken out when I was twelve? Gasping for air, I lunge for my milk, but the glass slips from my hand, and it spills all over Dad's khaki shirt as he springs up to come to my aid. Anyone else might have first tried to dislodge the fish stick by pounding me on the back, but Dad, being experienced in such matters, goes straight for the Heimlich maneuver. The fish stick flies out of my piehole and lands in Dad's food. He calmly walks back to the table, forks the fish stick to the side of his plate, and goes on eating, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Only a parent could do that. And he didn't even wait for me to thank him.
Chapter 4
With no radio or television (other than cable and satellite), we depend on the Hermosa Herald for our local news. Sam Peterson is the newspaper's owner/publisher/editor/reporter who has gotten everyone's respect by calling things as he sees them for over 40 years. Since there isn't always a lot to report, Sam gives in-depth coverage to what little of interest does happen, which is a nice way of saying he strings it out for all that it's worth. Just as I figured, the stolen dynamite was big news. It dominated the front page for a solid week. For three consecutive days, a drawing of the suspect wearing a heavy jacket and a baseball cap ran with the lead story. As artist's sketches go, this one was pretty good. I would have liked it better, however, if it didn't make everyone think of me. My Dad ribbed me about it, as did my friends. But they didn't know the half of it.
Grady phoned the Herald to report that the man in the drawing was the burglar who had fled from his house after breaking an upstairs window. The old fart liberally embellished his tale until I was tackling the burglar while he broke the stock of his shotgun over the guy's head, only to have him get up and run away. Of course, it was a complete lie, but when Sam asked me about it, I wasn't in a position to deny it. The story ran on Wednesday with my yearbook photo alongside a picture of Grady with slicked back hair that must have been taken before I was born. Naturally, Dad was furious that I hadn't bothered to mention it to him. But why didn't he yell at me like he usually did when I pulled some bonehead stunt? There was something different in the way he looked at me. Although he didn't come out and say it, I got the distinct impression that he was proud of what he thought I had done. It looked like I was off the hook. Mrs. Perkins told the mayor that I deserved a medal. Beth, who up until now hadn't acknowledged my existence suddenly wanted me to take her to the prom. If pats on the back were a penny each, I'd be worth a whole dollar.
About Beth. Beth doesn't walk; she glides like a Hovercraft, almost as if there were a cushion of air beneath her feet. You probably think I'm some lovesick puppy. That's not how it is. All I'm doing is making an independent observation. Bipeds are the biological equivalent of a two-stroke engine—we jerk along. Beth, however, has somehow overcome this innate defect of homo sapiens, evolving into gracefulness. That makes her superior, which explains why I am attracted to her. It's all in Darwin's Theory of Evolution. Don't believe me? Go read it for yourself.
Fifteen minutes up the state highway, the joshua trees give way to scrub oaks. It was to these hills that the forty-niners migrated to when the gold played out in the Mother Lode. Few, if any, struck it rich and all that remains today are abandoned mines. Being secluded and spooky makes it a great place to party. There is one nameless mine in particular that has drawn the high school crowd from Hermosa since before I was born. In fact, I found my father's name painted on a nearby outcropping of quartz and granite along with the date, 6-11-76. It's also where I first got close to Beth. She was with some guy who was puking his guts out, so it wasn't all that hard to steal her away. We talked and she didn't object when I put my arm around her. That was last weekend. I ran into Beth at the library yesterday and now we're on for the prom. Maybe I'm growing up. It hasn't been all that long since I had nothing better to do with my free time than to toss pebbles at Old Man Grady's window.
My main problem is that I don't have any wheels. Nor do I have a driver's license. Dad says he can drive me anywhere I need to go. I suppose that includes the prom. With my luck we'll end up going in a patrol car. Lots of action there. I'll be lucky if she kisses me goodnight. Just because the law enforcement officers' association supports raising the driving age to 18 shouldn't mean that I have to suffer. Why can't Dad be reasonable? Is that all I am to him, a political football for him to score his goals? But I suppose that's not really fair. He THINKS he is being responsible. There is a world of difference between being reasonable and being responsible. Reasonable people use good judgment whereas responsible people blindly follow the rules. Having a driver's license and insurance wouldn't necessarily make me a better driver. Dad's outmoded values are stunting my growth.
Since I could not come up with a reasonable solution, I decided to tell Beth that my grandfather was dying and I wouldn't be able to take her to the prom. To my surprise, Beth bought my lame story. I feel guilty about it but I'd feel even worse if I had lost Beth. Life doesn't care. There are times when the truth won't get you where you want to go.
On July 4th we go all out to celebrate our nation's independence. Even the Canadians participate in what amounts to the biggest bash of the year. At 10:30 AM the parade starts down Main Street led by a Marine honor guard and the Hermosa High School Hyenas marching band. At the last minute the mascot got sick and that is how I came to be wearing the jackal costume. I'm yelling at the top of my voice—half-howling, half-laughing—dancing, prancing, offering my paw to kids on the sidelines when they howl back. With all the activity and it being a hot summer day, it's a sauna inside the fur suit. Most of the crowd is wearing T-shirts, shorts, and sandals. But there is this dark fellow at the back who is wearing a heavy blue jacket and a black baseball cap. Strange, I think, and then it hits me.
THIS IS THE TERRORIST WHO SWIPED THE DYNAMITE! A sudden rush of adrenaline shifts me into overdrive. Moving like a wedge through the crowd, I home in on my target. Shoving past some middle-aged Canadians in Bermuda shorts, I get soaked in beer. But I hardly notice. I'm tensing to spring when a revelation stops me dead in my tracks. Sweltering day + heavy jacket = suicide belt. Beneath the jacket, this jerk has dynamite strapped to his body! No way I'm going to tackle him. If he lets go of the detonator, they'll have to hose us off the roadway. But I've got to do something and fast. Fish sticks. Yes, that's it! I reach out and grab the guy from behind, pinning his arms against his body, sort of like performing the Heimlich maneuver with malice aforethought The band is going by and they are in the middle of a drum roll as I lift Mr. Suicide Bomber off the ground, attempting to squeeze the life out of him. The crowd thinks it is all part of the act and roar their approval. Elbows drive deep into my ribs, but I'm not about to let go. My right knee catches his knee from behind and we both go down hard. But he rolls away and is up and running with me on his tail.
I try to shed the costume on the run but the zipper sticks. In the time it takes me to get across the parking lot, he's up and over the chain link fence at the rear of the Circle K. The barb wire strand on the top snags my much-too-furry crotch which promptly rips as I do a full flip and manage to land on my feet. Turning around, I see him shinny up the drainpipe onto the flat roof. I wrap my paw around an empty wine bottle and hurl it at Mr. Suicide's head. It misses by a mile, hurtling completely over the building to explode on the asphalt below. The crowd hears the glass break and responds with a spine-tingling shout. They have forgotten the parade—we've stolen the show. It's my 15 minutes of fame, but I'm not enjoying it. This is the fight of my life and everyone thinks it's a joke. So much for not being able to fool all of the people all of the time. A drawing of this guy ran on the front page for a week and I'm the only person who recognizes him. This is ridiculous. People see what they want to see.
Normally, I'm slow to anger. But this guy is making me mad. I find a case of empty long neck beer bottles and fire them off like a gatling gun. Mr. Suicide is dodging them left and right. I lob one high and he gets under it and sends it flying back at me. Next comes a dish antennae which would have beaned me had it not abruptly come up short when its coaxial cable went taut.
We've attracted an audience. A Calgary cowboy, his faded jeans embellished with a Stampede belt buckle, is taking it all in from just beyond the chain link enclosure. His jaw has gone slack, as if he is beginning to put 2 and 2 together. But I haven't got time to wait for him to do the math. Instead, I give him a big hyena grin, point towards the sky, and, when he looks up, I stick my paw through the fence and snatch a cell phone off his belt. Stabbing at the miniscule buttons with my clumsy paw, I suddenly realize why animals don't have cell phones.
Meanwhile, our Calgary cowboy has finished the equation and come up with 5. The pointed toes on cowboy boots were evidently designed to assist them in scaling chain link enclosures, because this guy is doing a Jackie Chan on me before I can talk my way out of it. Besides, it's hard to come up with a convincing explanation when you are flat on your back with a cowboy sitting on your chest.
And then he had the audacity to gag me with a handkerchief. You would think that a cowboy would use a bandana. His snot rag stuffed in my mouth! No wonder they call it a gag.
Although I couldn't talk, I could still move my head. I kept staring at the cell phone lying less than a foot away and he eventually got the idea and leaned over to pick it up. Three short taps on the keys and we were connected to the emergency 911 dispatcher. I say "we" because we were functioning as a team despite outward appearances to the contrary. What I mean is that I had intended to dial 911 and the fact that it was the cowboy who eventually placed the call is of small importance. I had an idea and he acted upon it. That makes us a team, doesn't it?
By the time Dad arrived in the black and white and I got my chance to explain what happened (Dad, for some unexplicable reason, did not immediately remove the gag), the terrorist had made good his escape. Two days later, a team of special investigators went over the roof of the Circle K with a fine tooth comb and came up with nothing. They hung around for the rest of the week, asking questions and looking for clues. Although several hundred people had seen the terrorist, they couldn't seem to agree on what he looked like. Lots of people had videotaped the parade and the agents confiscated everything they could get their hands on, including a camera belonging to the Hermosa Herald along with four rolls of undeveloped film. What it showed, I don't know. The feds whisked it away and that was the last we ever saw of it.
Chapter 5
I'm thinking about having some business cards printed: RYAN ROMERO, HERO. That's what they are calling me. Yesterday, I did a phone interview with a talk show host from a college radio station in Adelanto and today Mrs. Stevens from two doors down came over to show me a clipping from the Los Angeles Times. As luck would have it, they spelled my name wrong. If I had given the reporter a business card, maybe that wouldn't have happened.
The hyena costume was in shreds when I turned it in. Mrs. Michaels, the band instructor, who is in charge of such things, looked at the big rip down the middle (I never did get the zipper unstuck) with a frown that made the Grinch look like Santa Claus. The thought ran through my mind that she was going to make me pay for the damage. Instead, after staring at it (and me) in a threatening manner, she evidently thought better, and, tossing the ruined garment aside, said, "Since the band is getting new uniforms next year, I don't see why we shouldn't do the same for the mascot. I'm just glad that you didn't get hurt." Then, as I was about to exit through the doorway, her sternness melted into a girlish grin and she blurted out quite unexpectedly, "That was very brave of you, Ryan. You did us proud!"
Dad is worried that by going up against this terrorist fellow twice I may have made myself a target. I don't have the guts to tell him that I made up a story the first time to cover up for breaking a window. How was I supposed to know that the bad guy I invented would turn out to be real? Besides, if I told the truth now, it wouldn't change anything. I did everyone a favor by alerting them of danger before it actually happened. There are no two ways about it. The whole town is saying that I am a genuine, 24 karat solid gold hero. After what they've said, It wouldn't be right of me to let them down, now would it?
What amazes me is that the one person I most wanted to impress took a dim view of what I did. Earlier today I was walking down the sidewalk thinking about ways to spring a trap on the terrorist when Beth drives up in her mother’s Mercedes, pulls over to the curb, and rolls down the window. She is wearing dark wraparound sunglasses and has that look on her face that women get when they are about to unload. I glance around for some way of diverting her attention, but it’s too late.
“Ryan Romero! How could you? Whatever made you spoil the parade? That enormous ego of yours almost got us all blown to Kingdom Come. All you needed to do was to ask someone with a cell phone to dial 911. But, oh no, being conceited, you couldn’t pass up a chance to show off in front of a crowd, could you? And, to top it off, you picked a fight with an innocent bystander. Thank God, he kicked your ass. Maybe this will teach you a lesson.”
“He barely laid a hand on me. Why, I . . .”
“And you’re a liar to boot. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”
I desperately wanted to defuse the situation. These kind of things need to be discussed in private. I’m about to say something to put her in her place when she steps on the gas and speeds away before I can get a word in edgewise. Women! No matter what you do, they always take it wrong.
I need wheels. The difference between an adult with an active social life and a kid that is going nowhere is a driver’s license. No wonder Beth talked down to me. Walking down the sidewalk, I must look like I’m down and out. It only goes to prove that you can’t be a real hero without a set of wheels.
Even terrorists have wheels. He had to have a vehicle to steal an entire case of dynamite. Since he hasn’t been seen that often, it stands to reason that he is holed up somewhere out of town. I bet he hides in a dark cave during the day and only comes out with the vermin at night.
What makes these people function? How could anyone be so mad at the world as to want to blow themselves and everyone near them to smithereens? Strapping dynamite to one’s body must be the ultimate desperate plea for attention. What good is martyrdom going to do this guy? So he goes to Islamic heaven and is greeted by dozens of dark-eyed virgins. A lot of good that is going to do him without a penis.
Why didn’t he push the button on his suicide belt while he was in the crowd watching the Fourth of July parade? Is he having second thoughts? Do terrorists go to baseball games and eat pizza? Maybe our way of life is rubbing off on him. Maybe if he stays here long enough, he will come to realize that Americans aren’t as bad as the militants make us out to be. But then, that’s assuming that he’s a human being. Dad says that terrorists are like cockroaches. You’ve got to stomp on them hard before they spread.
Speaking of cockroaches, that’s Melinda Grant coming out of the lobby of the post office across from City Hall. Look close, and you’ll see the strawberry blotch on the side of her neck. Most people think it’s a birthmark, but I know different. When Melinda was still a toddler, her mother got fed up with her constant whining and threw a pot of boiling water at her, scalding the left side of her body. If you ask me, she should have done a better job because Melinda didn’t learn anything from it. She’s a crybaby and a snitch. In 6th grade I snuck off to get a soda during a school assembly and Melinda told on me. The principal suspended me for two days and Dad made me spend them shoveling sand in a ravine that runs alongside our yard. It took a week for the blisters on my hands to heal.
Normally, I’d avoid Melinda like the plague she is. But today is different. Melinda lives next door to Beth and they play tennis together on weekends. I’ll saunter over to the post office, turn on my patented Ryan Romero rico-suave sex appeal, and see if I can’t get her to put a good word in for me with Beth.
“Those pleated shorts really look good on you, Melinda. They make you look thinner.”
“You calling me fat? What’s it to you what I wear?”
“Nah, it’s nothing like that. I was thinking of getting something like that for my sister.”
“You don’t have a sister. What are you trying to pull?”
“Actually it’s for Beth. She’s always talking about how well you dress and I thought you might help me to pick out something for her. I know we’re not exactly the best of friends and you don’t owe me anything, but I could use your help right now.”
“You’re asking me?”
“No, I’m begging you. Beth means the world to me. You know her better than anybody. I don’t know of anyone whose opinion she values more than yours.”
“All right, Ryan. Seeing as how it’s for Beth . . .”
“Thanks, Melinda. You won’t be sorry.”
I turn away quickly and hurry down the steps so as not to give her a chance to change her mind. Besides, I’m not feeling very good about the way this turned out. Sure, I got what I wanted from Melinda, but it cost me more than I had planned. Since when do I humble myself before someone I despise? This isn’t like me. Love makes you do strange things, but this is ridiculous. I go for rico-suave and come off as a charity case. Got to get those hormones in check. They’re driving me up the wall. Every time I try to think of a way to capture the terrorist, I think of Beth instead. Women are such distractions. Only trouble is that I like them.
Hanging around the house all summer isn’t doing me any good. Dad set the thermostat at 85 degrees to save electricity. It’s hotter than blazes in here. I must have gone through a case of Pepsi this past week. There are only 2 cans left in the refrigerator. I’d go out and buy some more, but I’m flat broke.
What I need is a job. The RV parks sometimes hire summer help, but I heard it’s mostly shoveling sand and pumping human waste from storage tanks. My cousin did it last year and he says that you put on a pair of grimy gloves and shove a four inch rubber hose onto the tank. When the hose clogs, you’ve got to shove your arm inside, feel around for what got stuck, and then pull it out. All the way from Edmonton some snowbird family with 6 kids have been sharing a chemical toilet. Did I mention that the foul mixture is 3 months ripe and baking in the desert heat? They all had burritos for lunch and little Timmy got a tummy ache and heaved his into the toilet. Sister Tammy disposed of her tampons in the toilet and when older brother Tommy got lucky with a female hitchhiker, he got rid of the condom in a similar manner. Yes, that’s what you’ve got in your hand, Tammy’s tampon and Tommy’s condom. They’re tied together with dental floss and wedged so tightly that it takes you 15 minutes to dislodge them. Oops, did it splash in your face? Well, no one said it was going to be easy. What do you mean, this job stinks? You’re fired!
I’m not cut out to be a laborer. I can picture myself answering phones for a talent agency on the 32nd floor of a towering skyscraper. But the nearest talent agency is in Los Angeles where they don’t build tall buildings due to earthquakes. Here I am, brimming with talent and ambition, stuck in a small town in the middle of the desert. It’s not fair, but then what is? I’d be lucky to land a job as a dishwasher at Sanderson’s Café.
Chapter 6
“Hi, Jenny. Is Mr. Sanderson around?”
“How are you, Ryan? I was at the parade and saw you go after that madman. He ought to be shot on sight. Sanderson is working the grill. The door’s over there.”
Every bit as tough as she looks, Jenny has three large plates balanced on her forearm and a glass pot filled with steaming hot coffee in her other hand. Two of the fingers holding the coffee pot go straight as she points toward a swinging door that leads to the kitchen.
As I push my way through the door, the hinges complain noisily, and Mr. Sanderson looks up frantically from the five orders of hash browns sizzling on the grill. He’s attempting to grin, but it is obviously forced. I’m inching backwards, thinking that maybe this is not the best time to approach him for a job, when he blurts, “What do you need, Ryan?”
“I thought maybe you could use a dishwasher.”
“What I could use is more customers and a few less annoyances. This place doesn’t make enough business during the off-season to justify hiring a dishwasher. Ever since they built the bypass for the state highway, I’ve barely managed to make ends meet. Those Canucks sit for hours, nursing a cup of coffee and then expect a free refill. If I was Jenny, I’d pour it in their laps. Those coins they leave her as tips aren’t worth half what they are supposed to be worth. They have this bogus two dollar coin that’s got a penny inside of it. The first dollar is OK, but the second goes for a cent.”
All the while he is talking, Mr. Sanderson is slapping patties on the grill. He’s got to be at least 80 years old, but you could never tell it from the way he moves. Years of working at a grill have singed the hair off the back of his right hand, a hand that deftly turns a spatula through maneuvers that resemble an aerial dogfight. I’m thinking he’s a borderline racist, so it surprises me when he says, “It’s about time I sold this place and retired. I bought two acres in Alberta. Nothing but pine trees and blue sky. And it’s got air that’s fit to breathe. Trout can’t wait to take your bait. I don’t understand why the Canucks want to come here when they got it so much better there.”
“Thanks anyway, Mr. Sanderson.”
I’m turning around as if to go. But Jenny’s coming through the door with a plastic tub full of dirty dishes. I sidestep, flattening myself against the wall and the door misses me by an inch.
“Quick reflexes,” says Mr. Sanderson, flattening a hamburger patty against the bottom of the spatula. He leans into it hard, pressing the grease out. Jenny is placing the tub into the sink at the other end of the kitchen. She has something on her mind and is oblivious to the conversation. A fly lands on a nearby counter and I smash it to death with the palm of my hand. This time the grin is for real: “Your grandfather had quick reflexes.”
“You knew my grandfather?”
“He washed dishes for me. In fact, he did lots of odd jobs before he became sheriff. Your grandpa worked his way up from the bottom. Not afraid of hard work or anything else for that matter. Nowadays, self-made men like your grandfather are rarer than Republicans in a breadline.”
I toss the carcass of the fly into a wastebasket and turn again to go.
“What’s the rush? I said I didn’t need a dishwasher, but I didn’t mean I couldn’t use some help. Ever run a buffer? Been a while since the linoleum had a shine. Come back around nine when I’m closing up and I’ll put you to work.”
“Thanks, Mr. Sanderson.”
This time I don’t see Jenny coming as I push through the swinging door. She’s moving so fast that she can’t stop. But instead of colliding, she sweeps me up in her arms and carries me through the door. Without losing a beat, she sets me down gently and pulls a pad from her pocket to take a customer’s order. Blushing, I slink around tables and chairs, trying to look nonchalant and wishing I was invisible. Out, onto the sidewalk I stumble. Graceful I may not be, but at least I got the job
Walking home, I come across a broken down motor home. It’s a new 30 footer with three bicycles tied to the rear. The hood is up. Mom, dad, and their teenage daughter are sitting on the curb, looking dejected. I’m guessing that the fully endowed daughter isn’t wearing a bra beneath her sequined T-shirt. I want to take a closer look without being too obvious. So, I stick my head in the engine compartment as if I know what I am doing. The dad gets up, walks over, and says they are waiting for a tow truck.
Since it is well over 100 degrees today and a lime colored liquid is dripping down the side of the plastic overflow bottle that connects to the radiator, it doesn’t take a genius to guess that the engine has overheated. I know just enough about it to sound knowledgeable.
“You know, they make three types of thermostats: low, medium, and high. When you buy a recreational vehicle up north, it comes equipped with a high-range thermostat. But what you need for desert driving is a low-range thermostat that cuts in before the fluid comes to a boil.”
He buys my explanation—what the heck, for all I know, it could be correct—and offers me a can of Pepsi from a cooler packed with ice. We shoot the bull for a while and he lets me know they are staying at the RV park on the north end of town. I get introduced to the rest of the family and the daughter, Angelique (isn’t that a delightful name?), flicks her auburn hair from side to side and smiles invitingly... She is sitting on the cooler and I am standing there looking down upon her abundance in all its glory. I’m sucking it all in when the tow truck arrives and I say good-bye. Good Samaritan that I am, I make a mental note to drop by the RV park the next chance I get in order to make certain that the mechanic did a good job.
After dinner and a long shower, I head back to Sanderson’s Cafe, where I bump into Grady as I’m going in the door. The newspaper he has folded under his arm drops to the floor. When I stoop to pick it up, the headline screams, “FIRES SWEEP ACROSS ASIA” I’m thinking it’s not any hotter there than it is here. Grady grunts as I hand it back to him. That’s likely about as close as he can come to saying thank you. Off he shuffles into the night, a lonely man with no one waiting for him at home—no wife to hug and no dog to pet. I certainly wouldn’t want to be Grady.
Mr. Sanderson locks the door behind me and flips the sign in the window over so it now reads CLOSED. We go into the kitchen. The grill is cold and there are tubs of dirty dishes stacked in the sink. He has me take out the trash. When I come back inside after hosing out the cans, Mr. Sanderson is pushing a block of porous stone back and forth over the grill. He hands it to me and I scrape the grill while he washes the dishes. The air-conditioning is off, I’m sweating like a pig, and my arms are starting to ache. I’ve been scraping for an hour and don’t seem to be making any progress. Back and forth, back and forth until my arms feel as if they’re going to fall off. This is senseless, mindless drudgery. Surely, there must be a better way.
"Do you always scrape the grill like this," I ask innocently.
“Each and every night,” Mr. Sanderson replies, “going on 50 years now.” He‘s hard at work, scouring a blackened aluminum stock pot and hasn’t been paying me much attention.
“Couldn’t we do this with power tools,” I boldly venture.
“What’s the sign painted on the building say?”
“It’s Sanderson’s Café.”
“When it’s Ryan’s Café, you can stand atop that grill with a jack hammer and pound away to your heart’s content. But while it’s my café, we will continue to do it my way. Is that alright with you?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Sanderson.”
It’s another half hour until he tells me to stop. My right hand has two blisters, one of which is broken. A considerate employer would have provided gloves. But I know better than to open my big mouth and say so.
Mr. Sanderson tells me to get a stepladder from the broom closet. The big screens in the hood over the grill have to be taken down. They are clogged with yellow grease. By the time I can carry them to the sink, my pants are soaked with the nasty stuff. It’s my own fault. Had I not removed my apron while I was scraping the grill, it would not have happened. But it is hotter than blazes in here and I thought I would be better off without it. I would put the apron back on, but it would be like putting on a condom after sex.
Mr. Sanderson brings out a galvanized mop bucket and fills it with hot water and disinfectant. Mopping a floor is no big deal. I do it all the time at home. If I waited for someone else to do it, the ants would have taken over by now. I go over the linoleum with a vengeance, stopping here and there to scour a hard spot on my hands and knees with a scrub brush. Mr. Sanderson is obviously impressed, but no words of praise are forthcoming. Perhaps he only speaks when he has something bad to say. I sure hope I never get to be like that.
I mop us both into a corner booth where Mr. Sanderson has two mugs of coffee waiting on the table. We have been working hard for several hours and I definitely need a break. My joints ache and my muscles are sore. Besides, the floor has to dry before we can buff it. I take a sip from my mug. The coffee is strong and hot, but there is a cooling breeze blowing through the open windows. One of them has an air conditioner in it that is seldom if ever on. No need for me to ask why. Electricity is expensive in Southern California. Dad says we could easily run up a $300 bill in a single month if we left the air conditioning on all the time. The Circle K is the only store in Hermosa that sets its thermostat below 80 degrees. I guess that explains why the owner won’t allow kids to hang out in his store on hot summer days.
I place my hand beneath the table and feel a wad of gum. In fact, the underside of the table is layered with rock-hard, dried-up chewing gum. Give me a hammer and a chisel and in a year or so I might be able to chip it off. I’m wondering how long it has been building up when Mr. Sanderson looks up from his coffee and says:
“You look a lot like your grandfather. First time I ever set eyes on him was right after World War II. Came in here looking for a job. Some slick real estate agent had sold him some sand and he was trying to make a ranch out of it. Said he needed money for a well. I told him that I could think of better things to do with money than putting it into a hole in the ground. Then he flashed me that big grin of his. Said he was doing the work himself, but needed the money to buy the materials. I said I’d try him for a day, but if he broke any dishes, they would come out of his wages.”
I can’t count the number of stories people have told me about my grandpa. Maybe they think I was too young to remember him, but I do. He taught me to appreciate life for what it is. To me he was very real—flesh and blood real— infinitely more real than the legend. For Hermosa he’s a hero and everyone needs a hero. It’s the family business. Grandpa was a hero, Dad’s a hero, and I’m going to be a hero, too. It’s what we do. People are free to embellish it anyway they please. I don’t mind. In fact, I would rather listen to a tale about my grandfather than to buff the floor. Fortunately for me, Mr. Sanderson is beginning to warm to his subject:
“Your grandfather works for me for three or four weeks. Then I don’t see him for a week and I figure he gave up on the ranch and moved on. But then I hear he’s got a tripod and a pulley rigged up and is digging himself a well, one bucketful at a time. Since the soil is mostly sand, there is a big chance that the hole could collapse on him before he reaches the water table. He is about thirty feet down when the rope breaks and he has to come to town to buy another one.
“At that time, the summer of ‘47, there was a general store where the Circle K is now. At one end of the store there was a bar. The previous weekend there had been a hill climbing contest sponsored by a motorcycle dealership in Adelanto. When it ended, some of the bikers stopped here to celebrate. Only the celebration began to get out of hand. In those days we didn’t have a town sheriff. Since they had thought to cut the phone lines, we had no way to summon help from the county or the state. They were doing pretty much as they pleased, getting drunk and roaring up and down Main Street on their cycles, scaring the dickens out of people.
“Your grandfather walks into the store and asks for a coil of rope. There are several bikers at the bar and one of them is wearing a denim vest with a swastika painted on the back. There I am standing at the counter, paying for a sack of flour, when this big guy with tattoos covering his arms asks me to buy them a round of drinks. Not wanting any trouble, I go to get another bill out of my wallet when your grandfather looks him straight in the eye and says, ‘He don’t drink with Nazis and neither do I,’ at which point they laugh and throw an empty beer mug at him. Your grandfather catches it in his left hand, smiles, and takes a deep bow. They go wild with applause.
“He walks slowly over to the bar, sets the mug gently on the counter, and grabs the biker with the swastika by the vest and rips it off his back. It’s six against one, but he seems to welcome it. Wrapping the vest around his forearm, he uses it to shield himself from their knives. They are all over him now, so he drops to the floor and makes a leap for the door.
“I got knocked cold by a flying barstool, so I missed the rest of the fight, but I heard later that when he got out the door, he grabbed a sawed-off shotgun from a leather holster hanging from the nearest bike. Because all of the bikes were parked in a clump on the wooden porch, when the first one fell over, the rest followed.
“They were mad as hornets when they swarmed out the door, but they weren‘t about to go up against a shotgun. He told them to go back inside and finish their beers. They proved slow to follow orders, so he got the bunch of them moving by blowing the porch steps to splinters. By the time they mustered the courage to take a peek out the window, he was long gone.
“That night we had an impromptu meeting of concerned citizens and local ranchers right here where you are sitting now. Sam Peterson had just returned from the county seat where he had tried to get us some assistance. The deputy on duty had told him that he couldn’t be bothered by ‘transients whooping it up in a one horse town unless a shooting has occurred.’ It was the last straw. We formed a Citizens Committee. My head was still throbbing and I wanted to go and lynch the bunch of them. Sam said that wouldn’t do. We needed to incorporate and elect our own sheriff. But that could take months. So we decided to appoint an interim sheriff who could run the riffraff out of town.
“Next morning we went over to your grandfather’s ranch to offer him the job. He said he was busy digging a well and couldn’t go until it was completed. So we helped him finish the well. I put on some coffee and the others took turns at the shovels. Didn’t need to dig far. With all of us working, we were done by noon. Sweetest water you ever tasted—clear like a mountain spring. Never went dry—not even in ’78 following three years of drought. When a horse gets loose, it heads straight for the trough that’s fed by that well. You might say as how horses got horse sense.
“Of course, those outlaws skedaddled as soon as they set eyes on your grandfather coming up the street with the rest of us behind him. I was carrying a big cast iron skillet and you can bet I was plenty disappointed when I didn’t get to brain them with it. Went with their tails tucked between their legs. They weren’t half as bad as they thought they were.
“
What motivates people to tell me this tale? I must have heard it a thousand times. It’s almost as if they figure my grandfather never told me the real story. Since Mr. Sanderson was one of the few that were actually there, his version is more accurate than most. I had a Canadian tell me that the Hell’s Angels burned down Hermosa. Legends grow with time. Sooner or later, I expect we will demolish the Circle K, rebuild the General Store, and turn it into a tourist trap. It probably would have been done long ago if it weren’t for the fact that outsiders tend to refer to the town fathers as vigilantes. That’s being mean. The Citizens Committee was composed of decent, law-abiding, God-fearing citizens who, considering the circumstances, had no other choice than to take the law into their own hands.
What puzzles me is why Mr. Sanderson insists on referring to the man who saved this town as “your grandfather.” Could there have been some animosity between them? Or does he want to make it abundantly clear that I couldn’t find a better role model? My grandfather was on a first name basis with everyone in this town. His name was Ryan Romero, the same as me and my father. And no, I’m not Ryan Romero III or Ryan Romero, Jr. Plain Ryan Romero; plain as the nose on your face. Nobody has any trouble telling us apart. You can always tell by the inflection which one of us someone is talking about. When they speak about my grandfather, the tone is one of respect bordering on reverence for a historical figure. My father tends to get grudging respect and I get…well, sometimes I think I would rather not be noticed.
Mr. Sanderson glances down at his watch and gets that surprised look on his face that tells me our 10 minute break was over 5 minutes ago. I dispose of the coffee mugs and wipe the table off while Mr. Sanderson goes to get the buffer. It’s a rather imposing machine with two giant round bristle brushes on the business end. When he turns it on, the lights dim ever-so-slightly for a fraction of a second and the motor begins to hum. Together, they glide from side-to-side in a graceful imitation of ballroom dancing across the linoleum floor, leaving a brilliant shine in their wake. This is the grand finale, the last task to perform before we call it a night and go home. If we had an audience, no doubt Mr. Sanderson would have gotten a standing ovation.
He’s a hard act to follow, but now it’s time for me to shine (pun intended). Firmly, I take his partner into my hands. It veers to the left. I pull hard to the right. The buffer responds as if it came equipped with power steering, almost getting away from me. I glance down and, horror of horrors, the cord is wrapped around my left foot. Deftly, I lift my foot, allowing the cord to slide safely to the floor. Precariously posed on one leg, I am the personification of perfection. Why does the stupid buffer have to pick this vulnerable moment to run amok? Down it goes, taking me with it.
Mr. Sanderson smiles at me. “Same thing happened to me, first time out,” he says. “It’s a bit like learning to ride a bicycle—it takes a while to get your balance.”
I crawl over to the buffer on my hands and knees and switch it off. Mr. Sanderson must think this is amusing because his eyes are gleaming like a freshly buffed floor. As I’m struggling to get up, he tosses me the keys. “Lock up when you’re done,” he tells me. And without further adieu, he disappears through the open front door into the dark night, leaving me to stew in my own juices. It takes me all of an hour to give the floor the appearance of glass, the purpose of which escapes me. If a customer slips on it and sues Mr. Sanderson, does that mean I’ve done a good job? If it was my restaurant, I ‘d sprinkle sand over the floor in order to provide some traction. As I’m locking up, I see the sign painted on the building. Yep, “Sanderson’s Café,” is what it says, plain as the nose on your face.
Chapter 7
By the time I get home, it’s 3 AM. Although I’m thoroughly exhausted, I can’t seem to get to sleep. No matter how many times I punch it, this stupid foam pillow won’t fluff. Didn’t they used to stuff pillows with chicken feathers? As I recall, Dad’s bed has pillows that fluff. I bet he wouldn’t mind if I traded one of mine for one of his. But he’s sound asleep, so I tiptoe into his bedroom and am about to grab the pillow from the opposite side of the bed when his hand slips under the pillow and comes up with a gun. I about wet my pants.
“What the hell are you doing sneaking around my bedroom?,” Dad demands.
“I need a pillow,” I answer, my voice quivering with fear.
“What’s wrong with the one you’ve got in your hand?”
“It won’t fluff.”
“Fluff for brains nearly got himself shot. Don’t ever sneak up on me like that again.”
Dad turns over and goes back to sleep. How was I supposed to know he kept a gun under his pillow? Seventeen years I have been living in this house with my father and I still don’t know everything there is to know about him. Lesson learned: law enforcement officers are on duty 24 hours a day. This is one mistake I can guarantee you I will never make again.
What makes me pull these dumb stunts? Could it be that I am harboring a subconscious urge to self-destruct? Perhaps I have more in common with the suicide bomber than I realize. No, that’s not it. Everybody makes mistakes. The important thing is to learn from them. I’m not getting anywhere beating myself over the head.
Where there is a will, there is a way, or so my mother used to say. I solve the pillow problem by tearing the foam into little pieces. It’s not feathers, but it does fluff. Satisfied, I finally fall asleep.
The heat wakes me up around noon. Nasty, ungodly heat, such as only desert dwellers know. Unforgiving, searing heat that penetrates your bones and bakes the marrow. Give me a ticket out of this place. What I need is a swim.
Lake Witt is just outside the city limits. It's where we get our drinking water. There's a chain link fence around it with “No Swimming” signs posted at regular intervals. That’s a bit like dangling candy in front of a baby and then telling him he can’t have any. Anyway, there isn’t any other place to swim.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank the faceless bureaucrat who in the name of some obscure governmental agency took it upon himself to ban the public from swimming in a lake which belongs to them. If it weren’t for him, the lake would be too crowded for me to enjoy a swim.
The 10 foot fence may look imposing, but it’s not really that much of a barrier. Wire is much safer to climb than a stepladder. A stepladder can wobble and make you fall, especially when you are standing at the top. But a chain link fence is supported by strong steel poles anchored in concrete. The links are just the right size for tennis shoes. It couldn’t be by accident. This fence was meant to be climbed.
Since there isn’t anybody around, I take my clothes off and swim in the nude like real athletes did before commercial interests and promoters ruined amateur sports. There’s nothing wrong with swimming in the raw. Although it may not be in the Bible, it stands to reason that Adam and Eve took off their fig leaves when they went for a swim.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re imagining what you would do to me if you ever caught me doing the breast stroke sans Speedo in your drinking water. But it’s not as if I’m dipping my private parts in the glass of water you just poured. Water gets recycled, same as any other material. It’s a complicated process, but I’ll try and keep it simple. The snow melts up in the mountains and flows into Lake Witt where it gets a dose of chlorine and fluoride before being pumped to my house. When I flush the toilet, it goes to the municipal sewage treatment plant where it gets aerated and somewhat purified before being dumped into the river. Downstream of Hermosa is Adelanto. By the time the river gets to Adelanto, most of it has soaked into the ground where it replenishes the water table which happens to be where Adelanto gets its water from. This process gets repeated four or five times before the river reaches the Pacific Ocean. That’s right, the water gets flushed down four or five toilets before it comes out of the kitchen faucet of a posh mansion in Beverly Hills. And, since it is no worse for the wear, why should I feel guilty about going for a swim?
Taking a deep breath, I plunge beneath the surface. The water is so clear that I can see a long way even though I’m not wearing a face mask. A seemingly limitless liquid paradise beckons me to explore its wonders. How could I say no? After all, you’re only young once. Might as well go for the gusto. Go skinny dipping at 17 and you’re a mischievous kid. Do it at 40 and they’ll call you a pervert. Better now than later.
Thoreau should have had it this good. According to what I read in English literature, Walden Pond wasn’t much more than a mud puddle. Imagine what he would have penned if they had given him a decent lake to write about.
After nearly having been shot this morning, I’m in no rush to go home. Sunsets in this region are second to none. I understand it has something to do with the smog. Evidently, particles in the air act like a prism, diffusing the sun’s dying rays into a virtual riot of colors ranging from pastel orange to fluorescent burgundy and beyond. The show goes on for nearly an hour, 300 days per year. I’m for demolishing Disneyland so that tourists can have an unobstructed view of Southern California’s spectacular sunsets. Nothing that is manmade will ever rival Mother Nature.
Like an idiot, I forgot to bring a towel. Not important. If a dog can shake himself dry, so can I. I’m doing a pretty good imitation of a wet retriever when I spy a big plastic barrel lying on its side behind an oleander. Maybe a technician forgot to haul it away after adding chemicals to the water. I would report it to someone, only I’m not supposed to be here. It seems strange that anyone could misplace an object this large. I guess some people would lose their heads if they weren’t attached to their shoulders.
When I get home, there’s a message from Beth on the answering machine. While I am happy to hear from her, I’m in no rush to return her call. Right now, what I want most is to be alone with my thoughts. I go to my room and shut the door. Although I am lying motionless on my bed in the dark, my mind is racing backwards through the day’s events. I’m outside of myself looking inward. The tape rewinds, then jerks to a halt when it reaches the last frame. I’m not prepared for the gun in my father’s hand. Was that me screaming? I’m flying out of control. Got to get a grip on myself. What scares me more than the gun is that Dad may have detected fear in my eyes. He tested me and I failed miserably. Dad would never let himself get caught off balance. It makes me wonder if I’ve got what it takes to be a Romero. Anyway, this is no business of yours. Whatever you’re thinking, keep it to yourself.
Have you ever noticed that the weak moments—those times when your doubts and fears strike full force—always occur when you aren’t doing anything important? That’s why the idle rich have shrinks. You might cry yourself to bed at night, but in the morning you’ve got to get up and go to work. By staying busy, you stay sane.
Duty calls. It’s time to make dinner. If you’re like me, you would rather not spend too much time in the kitchen. Forget the cook books. I’ll show you how it’s done. First, get a package of meat out of the refrigerator—pork, beef, whatever—cut it up with a butcher knife and toss it into a large cast iron skillet along with soy sauce and a dash of Worcestershire. Chop onions, green peppers, and garlic. Throw in an egg or two. Mix it all together and put it on the stove. Turn on the heat. Stir occasionally. When the meat turns brown, it’s done. Congratulations! You cooked an entire meal in less than 15 minutes and only dirtied three utensils. Show me a chef who can do that.
Chapter 8
I got my first paycheck today. Since it was only for one week and I’m only earning minimum wage, I wasn’t expecting much. And that’s precisely what I got—not much after the state and federal governments took their share. Why do I have to pay for Old Age Survivors Disability Insurance? It sounds bogus. Nobody survives old age. Wouldn’t you have to be immortal in order to collect? There’s also a separate deduction for Medicare. Why should people my age have to pay for Medicare? Please don’t misunderstand me. I do care about the elderly. As a matter of fact, I plan to be there myself someday. But couldn’t they at least wait until I’m out of high school to start charging me for Medicare?
Now that I’ve got some money, I can take Beth to the movies. Or can I? The last time I went to the movies with the guys, it only cost me $5. Of course, each of us paid for our own ticket. Plus we went in the afternoon when the prices are considerably cheaper. It would be different on a date. We would have to go at night and I would have to pay for both tickets. That’s $15 just to get in the door. After we’re in, I’ll have to buy popcorn and soft drinks. Let’s see, two large sodas, $3.50 X 2 = $7. Add the popcorn and I’m out $10. Twenty-five dollars for a 90 minute flick! That’s ridiculous. No wonder my friends go up into the hills to party. Nobody can afford to take a girl on a date at these prices.
Beth is great. I’m sure she would be willing to share the costs, but my pride won’t let me ask. Men are cursed. The older I get, the more I think with my dick. It’s my dick that’s telling me not to let Beth pay her own way. God help me. If I have to go through the rest of my life like this, it’s not going to be worth living.
You wouldn’t believe the dreams I have. Most of them involve Beth. If she knew what I was dreaming about, I doubt she would ever talk to me again. I’ve heard women say that men are animals. It’s true, we are animals. But we also have souls. It’s the soul that takes something brutish and makes it glorious. Why should I settle for mere sex when I can go all the way and have a full-fledged romance? Love doesn’t take you where you want to go unless it’s shared. So why aren’t I telling this to Beth? Because I have trouble expressing myself when I’m near her. My hormones are revving so hard that I can’t function in a normal manner. Anticipation is killing me.
Enough of this. I am beginning to sound like a lovesick puppy. Chasing women is for losers. I need to get my act together. If our relationship is going to last, I need to earn Beth’s respect, not her pity.
Contrary to what you are probably thinking, I’ve never had a problem getting girls to like me. I dress well and have been told that I am fairly good looking. And, most importantly, I know how to carry my end of a conversation. I’m not one of those guys who clam up when they get around women. It’s only Beth who affects me in that manner.
Here, take a look at my high school yearbook. Thirteen of the 21 girls who signed it put their phone numbers after their signatures. No doubt some of them sit on the bed at night staring at the phone, waiting for me to call. I may not be a dream boat, but no way I’m a garbage scow.
Speaking of garbage scows, I ran into Melinda while walking home from work around 4 AM. I was dying to ask her what she was doing out at that hour, but thought better of it and limited my inquiries to a curt, "How is it going?" Since she grudgingly nodded an acknowledgement of my presence rather than stopping to engage in conversation, I took it she wasn’t very happy to see me. Could it be that she had something to hide? Possibly an affair with a married man or perhaps a lesbian lover? Not likely. After all, she’s Beth’s best friend and this is Hermosa, not Hollywood. I’ve got to quit thinking like a cop.
But then, that’s what I am—a third generation cop. Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—there could be no escape. It is what is expected of me by Dad and everyone else in this godforsaken town. They take it for granted that I will be sheriff someday. It’s as if I don’t have a separate identity. When my parents named me Ryan, they pinned a badge on me. I wasn’t born, I was cloned.
Not that I’m whining. I could think of worse things that could happen to me than turning into my father. Although his job may be frustrating at times, it is never boring. There is plenty of action and that suits me just fine. Going after the bad guys with a vengeance is a great way to live life to the fullest. Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Pat Garrett—they brought law and order to the West. They are my heroes. I may not be able to completely fill their boots, but I intend to follow in their footsteps. Hereabouts, people respect the law. That’s a lot more than I can say for big cities like Chicago and Detroit where drugs, crime, and corruption run rampant. Give me Hermosa. Unlike those urban wastelands, we haven’t lost sight of what America is about.
Hermosa is more like what America used to be than what it has become. Evidently, we aren’t large enough to attract a MacDonald’s or a Wal-Mart. Other than the Circle K franchise, our businesses are of the mom and pop variety, family-run and family-oriented, which means that they are sensitive to local needs and tastes. At Sanderson’s Café you can get avocado on your hamburger. Try that at a MacDonald’s. When you order a Coke, the waitress brings you the real thing—a bottle of Coca-Cola and a glass rather than handing you a flimsy plastic cup and telling you to get your own drink from a machine which dispenses cola-flavored syrup diluted with carbonated water. When it’s 100-plus degrees, you can’t help but appreciate that the ice cubes in your glass are full-sized. What’s with those pathetic little ice cubes at MacDonald’s, anyway? If they can’t keep your drink cold, what good are they?
Not that there is anything wrong with MacDonald’s. In fact, I would love to own a franchise. I suppose their burgers aren‘t so bad if you are in a rush. They make money—lots of money—which is better than I’m doing. Once in a while, when I make Dad angry, he says, "If you are so damned smart, why aren’t you rich?" I didn’t used to know what he meant. Now that I’m cleaning grease bins for minimum wage, it’s starting to make sense.
Dad told me he got a report from the FBI on the suicide bomber, but he wouldn’t tell me what it contained, other than that they had made a positive identification. In law enforcement lingo that means they know his name. I would give my next 3 paychecks to find out what else they know about him.
Why is Dad and/or the FBI being so secretive? Maybe they are afraid of scaring people more than they already are. Snowbirds are the life blood of Hermosa. If they ever stopped coming, it wouldn’t take long for this town to dry up and blow away.
There’s Dad now, pulling into the driveway. If I can talk my way into accompanying him on the job, I might get a chance to sneak a peek at that report.
"Hi, Dad. You’re home early."
"I’ve barely got time to get a shower and eat. There is this prisoner that has to be delivered to county lockup for a court appearance tomorrow."
"Can I come?," I ask as disinterestedly as possible, trying to hide how much it means to me to come along.
"You feeling alright? Didn’t you say something about being too old to go on a ride along? As I recall, the last time I asked you, your exact words were, ‘I’m not a cub scout trying to earn a merit badge.’"
"You know me, Dad. I was just joking."
"Well, you can’t come tonight, it’s too dangerous. This redneck tried to kick his way through the screen the last time I loaded him into the backseat."
"Actually, I’d like to see what you do at your desk. You said there is a whole lot more to law enforcement than patrol work. ‘No job is complete until the paperwork is done.’ That’s what the sign says on the wall in your office."
"Glad to see you’ve been paying attention. Let’s make it Saturday morning. That’s the day I catch up on the paperwork. We can go eat lunch together."
Doing my level best to convert a smirk into a grin, I reply with genuine affection, "If it wasn‘t for you, Dad, I don‘t know what I‘d do."
See, that wasn’t so hard. He doesn’t even remotely suspect what I really have in mind. Show a little respect and parents will give you almost anything you want. That report is as good as in my hands. This is going to be a breeze.
I’m thinking that it might not be such a good idea to walk out the door with the file concealed somewhere on my person. That’s out-and-out theft, which is way out of my league. Far better to make a copy on the photocopy machine. Or perhaps I could simply memorize the essential data. That would eliminate the paper trail and nobody could ever trace any leaks back to me.
This is terrible. I’m beginning to think like a criminal. It’s almost as if I am planning a heist. No, crooks do robberies for the money. I’m doing this for all the right reasons. Let’s think of it as a covert operation. That gives the whole thing an entirely different perspective. Being a FBI report, there is every likelihood that some of the contents were obtained by covert means. I’m simply doing what the FBI did. Surely, they would understand—maybe even approve—of what I’m going to do.
Finally, Saturday arrives. We’ve got some venison in the freezer from Dad’s last hunting trip and I make venison and eggs for breakfast which goes over big with Dad. That’s right, folks, Bambi tastes good. Sort of sweet with no gamey aftertaste.
After breakfast, we get in the black and white Crown Vic and are backing down the driveway when we hear a loud metallic thud. Thinking that he hit something, Dad slams on the brakes, jumps out of the vehicle and runs to the rear where he sees the lightbar lying on the driveway. It doesn’t seem damaged. Evidently, the clamps were loose and the wiring was the only thing holding it in place. When the wires finally broke, the lightbar slid down the roof. Dad shrugs his shoulders. Considering that the car is 12 years old, it’s to be expected. He decides to wait until Monday to get it fixed and carries it back up the driveway. Meanwhile, I’m rummaging under the front seat. I pull out a pair of galoshes, a ski mask, and a raincoat— winter weather gear—before I find the portable 12 volt flashing red light that he keeps there. Placing it on the dashboard, I plug the cord into the cigarette lighter and have the pleasure of seeing Dad’s face light up as he gets back into the car. Although he doesn’t thank me, I know he likes it when I show initiative. He wants me to do things without being told. I’ve discovered that the way to get along with Dad is to carry my end of the load.
We have maybe gone a half mile when we pass a Winnebago with Manitoba plates parked by the side of the road. Dad slows down to check it out. It doesn’t seem to be in any trouble and we are about to leave when something about it makes him reach over and turn on the flashing red light.
"What’s wrong, Dad?"
"It’s almost 9 AM and the curtains on that RV are drawn."
"Oh, come on, Dad. It’s the weekend, they drove through the night, and they decided to sleep in."
"I’ve never seen anyone from Manitoba who didn’t get up with the sun. See that big wet spot in the sand over to the right? They stopped to dump their waste tank. "
Why hadn’t I noticed that? If I had my way, anyone who knowingly spoiled the desert would be shot on sight. Dad removes his mirrored sunglasses from his shirt pocket as he steps out of the vehicle which gives me the impression that he intends to make an arrest or issue a citation.
Dad covers the 10 yards between the Crown Vic and the Winnebago in an even stride, glancing around at the passenger side before approaching the driver’s door. Three raps with the side of his palm brings a bald head through the curtains and the window slides open barely enough to permit conversation.
"Who the hell are you?" demands Baldy.
"Sheriff Romero. Open that door and step out slowly with your hands where I can see them."
"You’re not the law. I bet you got that beat up, stripped down patrol car at an auction, rented the costume, and are trying to shake me down. You can’t fool me with that phony red light; I can see the wires sticking out where they took off the lightbar," Baldy boldly replies, pointing a bony finger at the roof of the Crown Vic.
Dad winces imperceptibly, instantly recovers his acumen, and raises the ante: "You either get down or I put you under arrest for dumping your dung on the side of the road."
"I’m not about to get down. I’ve got a deer rifle lying across my lap. The only thing between you and this 30/30 is a one-sixteenth of an inch painted aluminum door. So you’re a cop, eh? Then why is your partner wearing a ski mask?"
Dad’s right hand automatically drops to his holster at the mention of the deer rifle. His gun is clearing the holster when his peripheral vision confirms the ski mask allegation. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before. Fate is mocking him. He is driving a beat up patrol car and his son is wearing a ski mask. The gun drops back into the holster and he slowly retraces his steps to the Crown Vic.
I see him coming, pull off the gray woolen mask, and place it back where it belongs under the front seat with the rest of the winter gear. The reason I had put it on was because I was about to go on a covert operation to obtain a top secret report and I wanted to feel like a commando. I had taken the stupid thing off almost as soon as I had put it on. Honest to God, I didn’t have any intentions of interfering with the duties of a police officer.
Dad drives the rest of the way to City Hall staring straight ahead with both hands gripping the steering wheel. He has made up his mind not to talk to me. Instead, he is listening intently to the traffic on the ancient Motorola which is tuned to the California Highway Patrol frequency because Charlene, the city’s only dispatcher, whom law enforcement and fire must share, gets weekends off.
Some buildings have character. City Hall isn’t one of them. It’s a no-frills structure built by the lowest bidder. The Sheriff’s Department is on the second floor. We take the rickety stairs because there is no elevator. At least the stairs are on the inside, which is more than I can say for the clapboard cracker box in back of it that houses Hermosa’s Volunteer Fire Department. What they both need most is a lightning bolt.
No taxpayer dollars wasted here. Mayor Tom had the lower half of walls painted forest green and the upper half white, the idea being that since only the bottom gets soiled, only the bottom needs to be painted. That’s all right because paint couldn’t save these walls. They are so thin that when the drunks get to screaming in the holding cell, you can hear them in the Assessor‘s office. Sometimes Dad has to run his baton along the bars to make them shut up.
There are wanted posters and newspaper clippings pinned to the bulletin board in Dad’s office that were there before I was born. A hairline crack in the plaster ceiling came compliments of the infamous 6.6 Sylmar quake that leveled the Veteran’s Hospital 30 years ago. I can’t help but wonder what would happen if the fault line that runs through Hermosa became active, but I certainly don’t want to find out.
Dad sits down at the same desk that his father used and lifts a fat file off the top of the stack in his in-basket. I pull a metal folding chair alongside the antique desk and gaze bewilderedly at my first grade class photo in a gilded frame. Is this supposed to be some sort of joke? If so, it isn’t very funny. Here I am a fully grown man and my own father continues to think of me as a little boy. Doesn’t he realize how I’ve matured? Now I know the real reason why he won’t let me get a driver’s license.
I’m hoping that Dad will get called away for a few minutes to give me time to search through the files, but as the day progresses, it begins to look like that isn’t going to happen. So what if I went into the hallway, picked up a phone, and made it happen? Maybe I could disguise my voice and say that two guys are punching it out in an alley or some other such nonsense? No, turning in a false report isn’t my style. Besides, it would be way too risky. Better to wait and see what develops.
Dad learned to type at Hunt-and-Peck School. In my opinion, people who stab at keyboards with two fingers should be charged with a crime. Nothing could be less efficient. At this rate, there is no way he is going to be done by noon. Dad looks up from a request for state funding for two new black and white cruisers that he is preparing and sees me staring at my watch.
"This is taking longer than I thought," he says. "Lunch might be a little late."
"That’s fine, Dad. I’m not hungry yet anyway," I lie (convincingly, of course).
Dad goes back to his paperwork for several minutes, then stretches and gets up from the desk.
"How about if I get us a pizza with everything on it?," he asks. "Think I can trust you to stay here and answer the phone?"
"Sure," I say a bit too enthusiastically. Good things come to those who wait. I couldn’t hope for a better chance to go through the files. With luck, the pizza won‘t be ready any time soon. I keep watch from the window until I see the battered Crown Vic leave. But I no sooner open the unlocked top drawer on Dad’s desk than the door is flung open and in walks Melinda as if she owns the place.
"What the hell are you doing here?," I demand.
"I get summer school credits for volunteering as a student intern. Does your father know you are rummaging through his desk drawers?"
"I—I’m looking for a pencil," I hesitantly stutter, trying hard not to look as guilty as I feel.
"There’s a can full of pencils and pens on top of the desk. You can’t fool me, Ryan Romero. I know you too well."
Melinda bends over, scoops up the files from Dad’s out-basket, then turns her ample backside to me and strides over to a long row of steel file cabinets. She slides open a drawer and places a bulging folder where it belongs. It irks me that she knows which files are which and I don’t. Why, of all people, does it have to be Melinda? If she makes good on her threat and lets Dad know I have been going through his desk, I’m a goner. There must be some way I can get rid of this malevolent little snitch before Dad returns. I need to think fast.
"Have you ever seen so much dust? Some of those files have been there since before we were born," I casually remark.
"You afraid of dust?" Melinda retorts with a sneer.
"No, it’s the rats that bother me."
"What rats? There aren’t any rats in here."
"Sure there are. They nibble on the folders. Don’t believe me? Take a look for yourself."
Melinda stares long and hard at the file she is holding in her hand. Its manila cover is turning beige with age. The more she gawks at the missing corners and uneven worn edges, the more they look like teeth marks. Melinda cranes her head to peek behind the file cabinet. It’s dark back there. Anything could be lurking. Inadvertently, she lets the file slip through her fingers into the open drawer below. Quickly, she slams it shut. Slowly stepping backwards, Melinda bumps into me and screams.
I didn’t mean to startle her. Nor was there any reason for her to scream at the top of her lungs as if she was being raped or murdered. No wonder Dad dropped the pizza he was carrying up the stairs and came rushing through the door with his weapon in his hand. Melinda slaps me—I’m not sure for what—and goes running out the open door and down the stairs, leaving me to explain what happened.
Chapter 9
"You want to see it that bad? Well, here it is," Dad says pushing an oversized suspension file across his desk towards where I am seated. Considering that he has been interrogating me for more than an hour (it’s against the law to give the third degree to a prisoner, but it’s alright to do it to your kid), I can’t imagine why Dad has changed his mind about letting me in on what he knows about the terrorist. After all the stupid moves I’ve made today and all the grief I’ve given him, Dad still comes through for me. He has always been and will always be the man I admire most. Nobody else would give a bonehead like me a second chance. If I ever amount to anything, it will be because of him.
The first thing I see when I open the file is a small snapshot of the terrorist. He’s smiling and looks nothing like I expected. The shape of the face seems right, but where is the moustache? Maybe he grew it after the picture was taken. The features, however, are unmistakably Arab. It’s him alright. Although I never got a close up look at him, I think I could pick him out of a lineup. I say so and Dad nods approvingly.
I burn his mug shot into my consciousness. Never before have I been so intently focused. My world hangs in the balance. For the sake of everything and everyone I love, I vow to take this terrorist down. It will happen because I will make it happen.
There is an index on the first page. Attached at the top with a paper clip is a summary of vital statistics:
Name: Halim Khaddam Age: 26 Height: 175 cm (5 feet 9 inches) Weight: 77 kg (170 pounds) Country of Origin: Syria Occupation: Mining Engineer Immigration Status: Undocumented alien suspected to have entered US illegally Arrests: None Convictions: None
"That’s his name, Halim?," I think out loud.
"Hal-e-em," Dad corrects me. "The i is pronounced like a long e."
"How much school does it take to become a mining engineer?"
"A lot . . . ," Dad answers, "a whole lot of math and science in addition to something else."
"What else?"
"Mining involves explosives. A good mining engineer would know dynamite the way Bobby Bonds knows baseball."
"That settles it," I eagerly conclude.
"Not exactly," Dad says, warming to the subject. "There are plenty of loose ends to tie before we can prove anything of consequence. All we’ve got is suspicion. Got to fill in the blanks to send him to Guantanamo. Study that file long and hard because when you are done with it, it is going back under lock and key and won‘t be coming out again any time soon."
The trick is to mine some useful nuggets from the mountain of information the file contains. I note that Halim Khaddam is thought to have illegally crossed the border from Canada several months before the dynamite was stolen. So, at least the time frame fits. But some of this stuff just doesn’t seem to make sense. Why did he spend 3 years working for a mining syndicate in the Yukon? It also says that his former employer recommended him for rehire. Not quite the behavior you would expect from a terrorist. But, come to think of it, Osama bin Laden didn’t exactly fit the profile of a terrorist either. One thing is for certain: this guy isn’t your average extremist cretin. Which would make him all the more dangerous and harder to catch. Which explains why he has managed to elude us so far. But nobody bats a thousand. Sooner or later he is going to make a mistake. And, when he does, I intend to be there to nab him.
I go all the way through the file without finding any fingerprints. No way this guy could have immigrated to Canada without them taking his fingerprints.
"Where’s the fingerprints?, " I ask.
"There aren’t any," Dad replies.
"Have you tried getting them from Ottawa?"
"If they wouldn't give them to the FBI, they darned sure aren’t going to give them to me."
"Why not?," I ask with the innocence of youth.
"Because when we nab a terrorist, we do our best to fry him. Canada—and most of the rest of the world—maintain that the death penalty is barbaric. As far as they are concerned, America is 50 years behind the times. They won’t supply information on anyone who might end up on the wrong end of a rope."
"That’s ridiculous," I say. "Give a terrorist a life sentence and there is nothing to prevent him from killing a prison guard. Talk about misplaced compassion. You can’t reform a predator. You either kill him or he kills you."
"Try to tell that to the Canadians," Dad says, his eyes flashing fire. "To them, I’m little more than a hick sheriff. I’m good enough to pull their motor homes out of the sand, but they don’t trust me or any other American when it comes to dispensing justice. We are the ones policing the world—it’s our troops that are carrying the battle to the terrorists, protecting their precious freedoms—and the Canadians have the unmitigated gall to quibble about how we do the job."
My blood is boiling. As far as I’m concerned, any nation that won’t join us in the war against terrorism is against us.
I’ve never met a Canadian I didn‘t like. Our neighbors to the north have always supported us in the past. Don’t they realize how serious this is? On 9/11, terrorism got the upper hand and nearly put an end to civilization. If the United States goes down, Canada won’t be far behind. This is no time to be championing barbarians.
It’s half past two when Dad decides to call it quits for the day. Although he has just put in an 80 hour week and is utterly exhausted, he offers to take me target shooting. I’m not enthused until he unlocks the gun locker and I see him take out a 9 mm pistol rather than the .22 rifle I have always used for target practice in the past. Does this mean that he is finally beginning to think of me as a grownup or is he simply trying to make amends for having drawn his weapon on me? I have been waiting for this moment all of my life. When it comes to rites of passage, they don’t get any bigger than this. Going from a .22 to a 9 mm is for a guy what going from bobbysocks to nylons is for a girl. Too bad my parents got divorced. I could always count on Mom to take pictures.
Police departments in big cities have air-conditioned indoor ranges. That’s nice, but nice isn’t what it’s like out in the field. An officer’s life may depend on his ability to fire under adverse conditions. That (and a limited budget) explain why Hermosa’s firing range is a vast expanse of sand at the bottom of a sheer cliff. In summer the sweat runs down your brow and gets into your eyes, making it hard to aim. When the sand is blowing, you have to be careful to keep it from jamming your weapon Although we don’t have any pop-up targets, what we do have is a radio-controlled miniature dune buggy whose bullet-ridden body was recently replaced with an upside down stainless steel bowl that we dented with a hammer to make it fit the frame. It may look funny, but I dare anyone to devise a moving target that is harder to hit.
Dad starts me out on stationary targets at 25 feet. At this distance a blind man should be able to hit the bull’s eye, but all of the bullets from my first 15 round clip miss the target. Maybe I could do better if I threw the gun at it.
"Your reflexes anticipate the recoil which causes you to jerk the pistol up just before it fires," Dad says in answer to the puzzled look on my face. He waits while I reload and then tells me to "point the weapon down range, lock your elbow in place, sight down the barrel, and slowly squeeze the trigger." This time I do better, managing to group 3 of my shots in the bull’s eye. I pause to take a drink of water and when I look back there is a jackrabbit standing directly in front of the bale of hay to which the target is affixed. He’s up on his hind legs, as if daring me to shoot him.
"Don’t you even think about it," Dad snarls. "The pistol in your hand is a weapon, not a toy. You will treat it as you treat me—with respect."
I fire 4 more clips before moving down range to 25 meters, where I fire 6 more clips. Most of the rounds bury themselves harmlessly in the face of the cliff. If the target could shoot back, I would be a dead man by now. But Dad seems to be impressed. What’s important, he says, is that my shots are grouped. He claims my aim will improve over time. Maybe so, but for now I doubt I could shoot my way out of a paper bag with a Beretta.
Although the jackrabbit is long gone, I can’t seem to get my mind off him. Grandpa made the world’s best jackrabbit stew. Since jackrabbit is tough and stringy, he would mix in okra and hominy and let it simmer all day. Suffice it to say that jackrabbit stew is a darned good chew. Makes my mouth water to think how close I came to having it for dinner.
It’s Dad’s turn to shoot. I tape a target to the antennae of the dune buggy and prepare to have myself some fun. Most of the time Dad comes to the range alone. He sets the controls so that the dune buggy runs in circles around the bale of hay and doesn’t touch them again until he is done shooting. Call that a moving target? When a criminal is shooting at you, does he run in circles around a bale of hay? Of course, he doesn‘t. Although he may not know it, what Dad needs is a real moving target and I’m just the person to give it to him.
I run the odd looking contraption out to the base of the cliff and set it to making its usual lazy circles around the bale of hay. Then, as Dad is about to get off his first shot, I thrust the lever forward and the dune buggy does a wheelie. And that’s just the beginning. In the next couple of minutes, I set the dune buggy through its paces. Sharp left, sharp right, zig up, zag back; if the lever was stirring cream, it would have been whipped by now.
To my surprise, I don’t get a rise out of Dad. He’s ejecting the empty clip as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
I run the dune buggy back and strip the target off the antennae. Swiss cheese should have this many holes. I count twice before announcing in a loud voice, "Fourteen. That’s darned good shooting, Dad."
"Fifteen," he states matter-of-factly.
"I counted the holes twice. You got 14."
"Look closer. One hole is bigger than the others. That’s because I put two slugs through it."
Sure enough, the hole in the middle of the bull’s eye is larger than the rest. Suddenly, I don’t feel so good. Dad deserves more respect than I have been giving him.
"Can you teach me to shoot like that?," I ask sheepishly.
"My dad taught me. His dad taught him. Someday, when you have a son, you’ll teach him." A slight pause and then, "Want to go again?"
"You’re darned right I want to go again."
"OK Let’s do it again. Only this time, we are going to do it left-handed."
"Why left-handed?," I ask.
"Because someday your life may depend on it. The better an officer shoots, the longer he can expect to live."
That’s a sobering thought. Dad always pisses in my Wheaties when I’m feeling cocky. But I bounce back fast. As I am awkwardly wrapping the fingers of my left hand around the 9 mm, I am imagining a showdown at High Noon. Halim Khaddam has a lit stick of dynamite in his hand. But Halim’s dynamite is no match for my gleaming six-shooters. Bang goes the gun in my right hand and cuts the sputtering fuse in half. Bang goes the gun in my left hand and . . .
"What on earth made you shoot in the air? No telling where that bullet went," Dad says as he takes the gun from my hand. "That’s enough for today."
We gather our gear and trudge back to the Crown Vic. Dad lectures me for what seems to be forever on the importance of paying attention to what I am doing. My end of the conversation consists of saying "Yes, sir" every time Dad pauses for an answer. By the time we leave, it is starting to get dark. Dad switches on the headlights but nothing happens. Evidently, we blew a fuse when the lightbar fell off. An 18 wheeler gets on our tail and flips his lights on and off. Dad attempts to ignore him, but the truck driver persists for the next mile or so in trying to get our attention.
Since it‘s hard to see the road ahead, Dad plays it safe and slows down to a crawl. Everybody else follows suit. Nobody, it seems, wants to pass a slow-moving police car with its lights off. By the time we turn off the interstate, all four lanes of northbound traffic have piled up behind us.
Pulling to the top of the driveway, there’s a dull thud followed by a crunch. Dad gets out and pries the lightbar from under the wheels. It’s hard to tell in the dark that the flattened hunk of metal used to flash red, white, and blue. This hasn‘t exactly been Dad’s day.
I cook fish sticks for dinner. We are eating in silence when Dad notices the target taped to the door of the refrigerator. Fifteen for fifteen. Dad gets up and gives me a hug. This time it has nothing to do with Heimlich.
I’m loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher when the phone rings. It’s more than likely a pesky telemarketer, so I’m reluctant to stop what I’m doing and answer the phone. Following the sixth ring, the answering machine takes over. It’s about to do so when Dad yells out from the living room, "Would you get that? I’m expecting an important call." I no sooner pick up the receiver than I have reason to regret it.
"Ryan, Ryan you rat. Say something. I know you’re there."
"Uh, how you doing, Beth? Sorry I took so long to answer. My hands were wet."
"You’re wet, all right. You scared Melinda half to death. Putting a rat in the filing cabinet is the type of stunt little boys pull. Aren’t you ever going to grow up?"
"She gave it to you wrong, Beth. There was no rat. You know how Melinda is. She‘s got an overly active imagination."
"If she imagined it, it must have been because you put it in her head. You’re lucky your Dad called her parents to apologize for you. If you were half the man he is, you would have made the call yourself."
That was a low blow. I wasn’t aware that Dad had called the Grants. Why didn’t he tell me? Ever since Melinda ratted on me in the 6th grade, I‘ve been looking for a way to get even. All right, so maybe I went overboard.
"You think I should take her some flowers or something?," I ask.
"Flowers? You hurt Melinda and then you expect to buy your way out with flowers? Listen, Ryan, it doesn’t work that way."
"No, the way it works is that Melinda gets to take swipes at me and I can’t do anything about it because I’m a guy and she’s a girl."
"This isn’t a gender issue, Ryan. This is about the way you behave. At least that’s what your father told the Grants."
"My father is a public servant who needs every vote he can get in the next election. He has to tell people what they want to hear."
"He certainly did a convincing job of it. I know I believe him," Beth says.
"But you got the information secondhand from an accomplished whiner who no doubt did her best to embellish it. Have you ever thought of listening to both sides of a disagreement before deciding which is right?," I ask, realizing as I mouth the words that I am stretching diplomacy to the limit.
"Ryan Romero, you are impossible."
"Look, I admit to having used less than perfect judgment. I offered to take her flowers, didn‘t I? Even a small bouquet would cost me a couple of hours of mopping floors. How sorry do I have to be?"
"Large bouquet sorry delivered in person with sincere repentance."
I no sooner get off the phone then it rings again.
"Is this the Richardsons?," asks a familiar feminine voice on the other end.
"Hi, Thelma. No, you got the Romeros by mistake."
"Oh, darn. I was so upset that I forgot to put on my reading glasses. Steve, you know—Steve Richardson— Larry and Linda’s oldest boy, mowed my lawn today and didn’t prune the roses like I told him to. They outdid themselves this season and I’m afraid that if they don’t get cut back soon, they’ll go dormant on me."
"Are they still blooming?"
"Absolutely loaded with roses. I think I may have overfed them."
"I owe Steve a favor. How about if I drop by first thing Monday morning and prune them for you?"
"You’re so sweet, Ryan. I really hate to impose on you. If it wasn‘t for my arthritis, I would have pruned them myself."
First there is darkness, then comes the dawn. Thank God I live in Hermosa where I can count on decent people like Mrs. Perkins to come to my aid when I need them most. It may seem to you to be a coincidence, but it happens too often not to be divine intervention. For those of us with faith, He is there when we need Him. I don’t believe in coincidence, I believe in God.
Isn’t Sunday supposed to be a day of rest? When anything happens, why do they always have to call Dad. It’s not like the Sheriff’s Department doesn’t have any deputies. We slept in and we are just sitting down to a nice bacon and eggs breakfast when the telephone rings.
"Let it ring," I advise. "Whatever is on the other end of that line can’t be as important as you getting some peace and quiet."
"The older you get, the more you sound like your Mom," Dad comments. "I darn well didn’t shirk my duties when she was here and I’m certainly not going to start now that she’s gone."
"Go ahead, Clint Eastwood, ruin your day."
"I suppose you think that’s funny," Dad says. He’s reaching for the phone while shooting me a look that would set fire to a bucket of water.
Ever listen to someone talk on the phone? It’s like watching a stripper—all you get is a tease, enough to whet your interest, but never enough to satisfy. It’s a jigsaw puzzle with half of the pieces missing—actually more than half because Dad is a man of few words.
"Hello."
(SHORT PAUSE)
"Yeah, I’m Sheriff Romero."
(PAUSE)
"Khaddam, huh? You sure it’s him?"
(LONG PAUSE)
"Did he put up a fight?"
(LONGER PAUSE)
"I’ll be right there."
(CLICK)
"Someone saw the terrorist?," I ask when I'm certain the call is over.
"Aren’t you the kid who said not to answer the phone?," Dad replies with I-told-you-so gusto. "If you didn’t give a damn who was calling, how can you give a damn about what they had to say? That was the desk sergeant at Adelanto calling to say they’ve got our terrorist on ice but can’t hold him much longer without preferring charges. And for that, they need a positive ID. Seeing as how you are the only person to have eyeballed him, suppose you and I get our butts over there before they have to let him go."
It’s a 20 minute drive to Adelanto, but Dad makes it in 15 without breaking any speed limits. Considering the flashing lights are out, that’s pretty good. Adelanto weighs in at 18,000, four times the size of Hermosa. They’ve got 23 full-time law enforcement officers who get regular paychecks and don’t have to listen to Mayor Tom whine about how the city would like to pay its employees what they’re worth but can’t possibly afford to do so. They’ve also got the only minor league baseball stadium in the region which, according to the fans, makes Adelanto the capital of the high desert. We pass it on the way in, a monument to foresightedness or bonded indebtedness—a glass half-empty or half-full—depending on who is doing the talking. What I like best is the underground parking at the sheriff’s station. We park our beat-up excuse for a patrol car in the space by the elevator reserved for "Sheriff." After all, Dad is a sheriff. I can see by the smile on his face that this is one of those practical jokes that police chiefs love to play on each other.
We go up to the second floor where we sit around for an hour waiting for them to get a lineup together. When they depict these things on television, most of the guys in the lineup resemble the suspect. That’s the idea isn’t it? The witness picks the perpetrator out of a lineup to show the police arrested the right man. But none of these guys look anything like the terrorist I saw on the roof of the Circle K. Number one is much too old, number two is Latino; number three looks a bit like Dad, and number four looks a lot like me. I’m going along with the joke until I realize that everybody is serious. They actually believe they got the terrorist and look vexed when I shake my head no and say "Halim Khaddam’s not in this bunch." We drove here on a Sunday for this? Now I know how Marcia Clark must have felt when the glove didn’t fit O.J.
Dad is as disappointed as I am that Adelanto got the wrong man. He does a few inquiries and finds out that the old man in the lineup was an undocumented Yemeni migratory farm worker who had aroused suspicions because he spoke no English and couldn’t communicate anything to the detective that interrogated him other than that his name was Halim.
"I’m going to have a talk with the Watch Commander. Maybe we can find someone who can translate for us. We’re not leaving here until I’m absolutely sure that their Halim has nothing to do with our Halim."
"Can I tag along?," I ask hopefully.
"This shouldn’t take too long. Go wait in the car."
"Can I have the keys?"
"What the hell for?"
"The Motorola. You didn’t think I was going to drive it, did you?"
Dad tosses me the keys to the Crown Vic and takes the elevator to the fourth floor. I go down the stairway to the underground garage. Being Sunday, there’s nobody else around. I
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