High Desert Sonata

“If you could just snap your fingers and make it happen, where would you like to be right now, Trib?” Louie “Panchito” Escovar took another long pull from the rapidly depleting bottle of Ripple Port and smacked his lips, savoring the rot-gut as though it were an exquisite vintage 1985 Chateau Lafitte Rothschild claret; which, of course, he wouldn’t know from a clarinet.

“Oh, hell, Louie, I don’t know…” John ‘Trib’ Banker replied, still staring at the stars, “probably on some tropical beach with my head parked between Sharon Stone’s legs, nuzzlin’ that cute little muff of hers and listenin’ to her beg me to let her ride the pork pony again—for the eighth or ninth time that night. Damn, I’ll bet she’s a maniac when she gets that motor runnin’.”

Reaching to his right, Trib grabbed the bottle from Louie, and drained it in one swallow. Belching loudly, he repositioned his pack under his head and crossed his legs. Their little section of the Sonora Desert southeast of Tucson offered clear skies, a crescent moon and the promise of a chilly night. “How about you? Would you like to be back in your Motherland drinking cactus juice, eatin’ chili and sneaking around the backroom of the local mancebía?”

Without any further hesitation, the small Chicano turned his head toward his much larger tormenter. “Sí, señor,” he began, faking an extreme Mexican accent, “sounds muy gránde… want me to see if I can convince your mama to come home with me for twenty pesos?”

Neither man spoke for a few seconds, staring straight up at the stars, as if time would magically swallow the insult if Trib ignored it. Then, feeling Louie’s eyes burrowing into his right temple, he extended his right index finger toward him, close enough that he could see it, but not so close that Louie might swat it away. Louie began to snicker, under his breath at first, then progressing into a full-bore horselaugh.

Then it was Trib’s turn to join in, filling the night air with the glorious sounds of two homeless men, each enjoying the satisfaction of being blessed with the other’s company.

Rolling on his side, facing away from Louie, Trib Banker pulled his jacket over him as a ward against the cold. “Fuck you, idiot… see if I let you have Sharon’s sloppy seconds.”

“That’s okay, puta…” Louie quipped, “as long as I got your mama, I’ll be okay.”

The men had neither beach nor cantina to warm them tonight, but with the richness of companionship they shared, they wanted for little.