Stable

By: Ron Stover

2013

     

              For Tony Sunday morning is a time to be lazy, drink chicory coffee and solve crossword puzzles. He dislikes interruptions. When the phone rang this Sunday he groaned and muttered a curse. He knew the call would ruin his entire day and never believed he would become bewitched by spirit legends.


     “Tony! We need a ride. It’s Stable’s birthday. Meet us at Donavon’s #666, at the Saddleback. From there we go to the Weeds Park for a party.”


        Tony was especially annoyed because the voice on the phone could only be Maxi. “Hold on! Maxi, what’s going on?” This is a call from a patron of Father Tom, Tony’s brother.


        “Tony, please we need a car to get Stable to the park for his birthday party. Everyone will be there. Stable is old, this may be one of his last…Please Tony.”

 
          Tony met Stable once and Maxi speaks of him like a father. Tony is not certain if Stable is his first or last name. He only knows him as Stable. As with most of Maxi’s family Stable is a conundrum. Tony knows that Maxi has the last name of Globe. Where Stable fits into the family tree is uncertain. Most of her relatives and friends are in jail or are wards of the state; all of their names may be aliases. Tony knows Stable as a local cowboy legend. In the early days the valley was scattered with cattle ranches. Stable rode line for the Bar R Ranch and lived in a line-shack out by Coyote Buttes. All Tony knows that “Stable” does not define Maxi’s family.


       Maxi is a recovery project of Father Tom’s. Once redeemed Father Tom consigns projects, such as Maxi’s, to Tony and delegates him as their god-guardian. Tony has helped Maxi integrate back into society. Her one blunder is to associate with a crowd of miscreants who live in Saddleback Trailer Park: a dilapidated, low rent settlement catering to rogues and vagrants.


          There has been times Tony was hailed by Maxi to rescue her from ruckuses at trailer park space #666—a lair for a parolee named Donavon and his hoodlum roommate Virgil, Maxi’s boyfriend.


           Tony arrives at the trailer park. It is a normal morning at the Saddleback, derelict vehicles strewn about, men passed out on the greens, and babies wailing for lost mothers. He parks close to #666. He finds Maxi sitting on a chair, her long legs fitted into capris and wears red sneakers. A youthful face is disguised with makeup and red lip stick, her face is framed with short cropped hair. Around her neck A Templar’s cross hangs down to her chest.


           “Hey Tony, Virgil will be out soon. Sorry, he had a bad night.”


             Tony wonders what makes a bad night for Virgil. Every time he sees Virgil he is lame or suffers from substance abuse. Tony decides it is time to have a talk with Father Tom. Of course Father Tom will convince Tony to be tolerant. The good Father will remind Tony they are all children of Christ. Then the Father will tell Tony to harken back to when Tony wandered the streets with long hair and no underpants and he, Tony, also ended up on Father Tom’s doorstep.


             Finally Virgil stumbles out the door. As normal he is in a stupor and raunchy. He tumbles into the back seat and passes out.


             “Sorry Tony.” Poor girl always makes excuses for her friends.


             “He looks normal to me Maxi.”


              She grins and sticks out her tongue.


           They leave the Saddleback and on the way out of the park Tony observes toughs snarling at Tony the intruder. In a doorway a haggard mother holds a baby. By the entrance a thug raises a fist at Tony. They spot Donavon carrying a pack of beer; a bedraggled girl is attached to his arm. All of these characters will be the same hooligans at the Weeds Park. Tony is committed, he wonders how he gets into these muddles—he needs a talk with Father Tom.


         Tony pulls up to Stable’s house. Stable’s home sits on a large plot. It is desolate of foliage except for a few native bushes, a cottonwood and an out-building. The fence line is strung with sheep wire and supported by manzanita stakes. At the rear of the fence line a gate facing east opens to the desert. Far in the eastern horizon Coyote Buttes rise from the desert floor, a solitary cluster of bluffs with craggy reddish-brown slopes. A one-horse barn is the lone out-building. Next to the barn is a farrier’s work area, a work bench, tools, and an anvil anchored to a stump. Most of the gear is rusty and covered in dust. A cottonwood shades the area. Hung from a railroad spike stuck in the tree is a scythe, its finely honed blade reflects the sun. To one side of the tree two metal tulip chairs face Coyote Buttes.


         In the late afternoon Stable watches the Buttes. Prior to the ranchers who settled the desert valley it was inhabited by Native Americans. Their central spirit is the Coyote Man. Legends tell that the Coyote Man haunted the Buttes along with spirits he captured empowering him to control the universe, land and sea, and man. Shamans roamed the Buttes conjuring up these spirits for protection and reverence. The desert sun, wind and sand create ghostly shapes on the Buttes generating life to the legends of spirits and shamans.


              At the front of the house a man sits on the porch. He rocks in a chair, his saddle chaffed boots rest on the railing. He smokes, chews, and drinks whisky. A Borsalino fedora rests low over his brow. As Tony stops the man stutters down the steps with bowed legs. He glares from under his hat. Maxi greets him and the old cowboy climbs into the back of Tony’s car.


          “Hey Stable, how are you today? Happy Birthday.” Tony took a chance, Stable seldom enters into conservation.


          Through cracked lips Stable growls. “Yup, get’n along.” He turns on Maxi, “What in tarnation, what’s up with this birthday nonsense?”


          Maxi explains to the onetime line rider his birthday is around this time of year and everyone has planned a picnic to celebrate. “Stable, you might not be around much longer. Let’s celebrate.”


                Lifting the brim of his hat, “Yup, let’s bury the old fart. Yah bunch of crappers.”


          Tony figures his day is on the verge of disaster and he just as well coax Stable into conversation in an attempt to annoy the old coot. “Like your western hat Stable.”


            “It ain’t a cowboy hat.” Now he is annoyed, “It’s a Borsalino Panama fedora. In tarnation, don’t you know anything?” To exhibit his discuss he spits a wad of reddish chew tobacco out the window and it splashes across Tony’s rear fender. On the way to the park he repeats his slaver of tobacco juice down the side of Tony’s car.


          “Maxi, you keep this pile of junk away from me. It’s bad enough sharing this here back seat with this crapper. He smells like an old saddle blanket.” With this request Stable spits a gob of tobacco into Virgil’s hair—Virgil doesn’t respond.


            Tony thinks to himself, “Oh great, a family feud. What next?”


           They pull into the dirt parking lot of the Weeds. This park sits at the far end of the county’s jurisdiction; it is neglected and lacks enforcement. For this reason the likes of the Saddleback Trailer Park residents and all of the other local scoundrels congregate here for parties and feuding. There is scant shade and only a few picnic tables. The facilities are unsanitary and water flows from a rusty spigot. Surrounding the park is the open desert. It is not unusual for drunks to wonder afar and become lost. Unattended kids traipse into the desert where gyrating dust devils consume them.


            A few of Maxi’s acquaintances arrived early to claim a spot with tables and shade. Tony and his passengers arrive. Parking lot dust collects on the moist chew splattered over the flanks of Tony’s car. Tony locates the party and sits on a folding chair. A couple of reclusive denizens of the desert sit next to him. Their grey hair tied in pony tails. The old gal’s breasts lay flat on her stomach and the man’s gut protrudes from out of a sleeveless T-shirt. Feet resembling dried dung are stuffed into sandals. Tony attempts conversation, but the two freethinkers were already stupefied on hashish. Oh well, at least Tony was sitting in the shade and away from the rabble.


             Stable brought over a chair and sat next to Tony, “Dang. What a bunch of louts. I’ve hung out with a lot of scum, but this place breeds ‘em. Last time I was here someone got stabbed. At least you seem normal. What’s your name?”


           Tony began to respond to Stable when a man and woman walked up. As they said happy birthday Stable spat a wad at their feet. Tony couldn’t help but notice the two in front of him. The man, more of a boy, was emaciated, his shirt unbuttoned. His chest and abdomen had stab wounds, one arm had been gouged. His mate had that desert look of dried leather and bleached blonde hair resembling straw. She must have been twenty years older than her rag-tag escort. Her deflated bosom was stuffed in a glitzy shirt with no top buttons. The most alarming image was when she spoke—she had no teeth. Gnarled lips fluttered with an intoxicated lisp. Tony decided these two hobgoblins were typical of the flock attending the party. Stable ignored them.


       Tony ate a taco, drank a couple of beers and shared a few drags of whatever the aborigines were smoking, he glared into the desert. In the horizon the Buttes flickered in the afternoon haze. As he looked into the desert there were silhouettes of drunks and tykes as they plodded beyond the park, lost sorts wondering into the heat waves—a typical day at the Weeds.


          As Tony gazed he saw a mirage shimmy towards him. Soon a tall, well dressed lady was standing before him and Stable. Tony blinked, she was real. The enigma stood before them, her long legs covered by Levis, her buckskin moccasins floated over the dust, a tailored western shirt revealed a hard frame. Penetrating hazel eyes were set between chiseled cheeks, thin lips lie across a square jaw, a long braid is held together with a leather cuff, ears decorated with silver and turquoise, a small gold cross swivels around her neck .


     In one hand she held a paper bag. She turned to Stable, “Stable, wake up you old horse thief.” She shoved the paper sack into one of Stable’s arthritic hands. “Happy Birthday.”


       “Well tarnation! Mavis you old crapper, what brings you out to this dump.” Stable attempted to stand, tuckered out joints sent him back in his seat. “Did you say it’s my birthday? Oh yah I guess it is?”


       He opened the bag and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. “This is the best birthday present. I tell you Mavis, thank goodness you came. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies. And Tony here is fall’n asleep on me.”


        “Wouldn't have missed it you old coot. Com’n and open that bottle, I’m thirsty.”


     Stable passed around the sour mash whisky. Tony took a few sips and became mesmerized by Mavis’s voice as she recounted ranch stories with Stable. Tony ascertained from the conversation that Mavis is the daughter of the man who owned the Bar R Ranch and had Stable has a ranch hand. Too many accounts of rustl’n and bronc break’n, plus the whisky tranquilized Stable, his eyes became glossed over.


           Tony opened his eyes and noticed Stable was still, he stared out towards the Buttes. The setting sun painted the ridges a pink-purple hue.


         Mavis spoke up, “You know Tony those Buttes hold a spell on Stable. When he was my dad’s linerider he would rustle cows and calves out of those canyons and crags. Stable says when the wind whistles through the rocks and walls it begins produce’n voices of shaman who are conjur’n spirits who dwell in the Buttes. Shadows and whirling sand form mounted phantoms wearing coyote head dresses. They prance about Stable as he rides away. When he reaches his line shack he would sit and wait for the spirits. Whisky and the night banish them back to the Buttes.” Mavis holds on to her cross as she brings life to the legend.


         She continues, “Now days he as the sun setd Stable sits in his chair under the cottonwood drink’n his whisky and smok’n. He watches and waits for the phantom clutch’n a scythe. The wind sings shaman chants. Shadows and sundowner winds create apparitions rid’n Indian ponies. Old cowboys call these spirits the Four Horsemen. As in biblical tails one of the Horsemen is the Grim Reaper and he can be tricked or bribed from smit’n a poor soul with his scythe. As Stable ages he believes his time is near and he will face the Reaper. Stable’s honed scythe is his bribe hop’n to send the Reaper on his pale horse back to the Buttes. Stable will wait for the Indian Spirits to return with another sundown” Mavis pauses, “Tony, the Buttes are magical.”


              Tony isn't’ sure he believes the story, “Are you serious?”


             Mavis looks into Tony’s eyes and nods her head, “Ever been out to the Buttes during the afternoon sundowners?”


           “No, and I don’t think I ever want to.”


          The three are lost in thought or sleep when two loud reports sound from out in the desert. A woman screams. Someone yells to get out fast. People scatter and evacuate the park.


        Tony sits frozen, not sure if this is for real. He believes he’ll be shot or stabbed. Stable doesn't seem to care. Mavis gets out of her chair and grabs Stable’s hand. “Tony, we have to go. Now! I’ll get Stable you rustle up Maxi and Virgil. Follow me to my pickup. I’ll get these guys out of here.”


           Tony is confused, “What about me? Is there enough room in the truck for me?” He begins to trundle along—Tony doesn't move fast.


           Startled Mavis shouts, “Tony, look at me! You drove here! Get into your own car!”


           “Oh my, that’s right. Sweet Mother of ….!” Tony believes he will die and be whisked away on a pale horse.


          Mavis stows Maxi and Virgil into the bed of her truck and guides Stable into the passenger seat. She zigzags her truck through the congestion of vehicles and disappears down the road.


            Tony locates his vehicle, stops for a moment in thought, “Where are they? Oh, that’s right, Mavis took them away.” He reels from the whisky and legends of spirits donning coyote head dresses carrying ceremonial sickles.


                Finally Tony finds the road and dashes away. The rest of the cavalcade disbands and scatters into the desert. No one remains to investigate the gun shots or collect any of the vanished souls who wandered away. Another Sunday closes at the Weeds. Next week at the park these escapades will repeat. Tony arrives home and wonders what happened and is glad he is safe. He calls his brother.


           Stable and Mavis arrive at his house and sit under the cottonwood. They pass the whisky between them. Stable fetches his scythe and leans it against his chair. He stares towards the Buttes. The sunset paints the Buttes crimson, the shadows deepen, and spirits arise. Stable lights a Camel. He watches hooded riders gallop out of the haze towards him. Shaman chants fill the air. A phantom with a coyote head dress bearing the sickle of death rides a waxen pony, the steed’s nostrils flare out discharging a vile mist, crimson eyes rivet on its victim. Mavis grabs one of Stable’s jagged hands; his other hand grabs his scythe. He closes his eyes and waits for the Spirit of Death. Mavis clutches her cross and prays.

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