The Monkey Wrench Gang (28 page)

“Deplorable.”

“Electrocuted some sheep before they got the power shut off. Now the Indians are mad.”

“At who?”

“At who? At whoever cut the fence.”

Pause. The juniper crackled nicely in the fire. The night chill sank deeper. The stars burned brighter. Bonnie turned up the hood of her parka. Doc chewed on the dead stub of his stogie.

The ranger waited. When there was no reply he went on, “Of course it might have been an Indian who cut the fence.”

“They are a feckless people,” Doc said.

“The railroad lost two million dollars in damage, according to the radio. The power plant will have to shut down for a few weeks.”

“A few weeks?”

“That’s what the radio said. Till they get the bridge replaced. Of course the plant has a big stockpile of coal on hand. Mind if I have a look inside your car?”

“Only a few weeks,” Bonnie mused, staring at the flames.

“You go right ahead, young man,” the doctor said.

“Thank you sir.”

Bonnie woke from her reverie. “What? Wait a minute. Let’s see your search warrant, buddy. We got rights.”

“Of course,” the ranger said. “I’m only making a request.” Suavely he added, “If you’d rather I didn’t see what you have in there …?”

“You need a search warrant. Signed by a judge.”

“You seem to be familiar with these legal technicalities, miss.”

“Miz to you, pal.”

“Miz, pardon me. Miz who?”

“Abbzug, that’s who.”

“Sorry. Thought you said you were married to a Mexican.”

“New Mexican, I said.”

“Pancho Abbzug,” Doc explained.

“You better believe it,” Bonnie said.

The ranger pulled a portable battery-powered radiotelephone from the case on his belt. Where he also carried his can of Mace and a five-celled flashlight. (Not too good for the kidneys, Doc noted.) “If you wish,” he said, “I’ll go ahead and see about getting a warrant. Of course I’ll have to detain you while we’re waiting.” He extended the telescoping antenna.

“Where do you get a warrant?” Doc asked.

“Since this is U.S. Government property we fall under the jurisdiction of the nearest Federal district court, which happens to be in Phoenix.”

“You’re going to wake up the judge?”

“He’s paid forty thousand a year.”

“I thought you said this was a national park,” Bonnie said.

“Strictly speaking, a national monument. Like Death Valley or Organ Pipe. There’s a technical difference.”

“But anyway it’s the property of all Americans,” Bonnie said.

The ranger hesitated. “Technically speaking, that is correct.”

“So,” Bonnie pursued, “this place is really a people’s park. And you’re going to search our car in a people’s park.”

“It’s not a people’s park, it’s a national park.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

The ranger blushed. Then he scowled. “Well I’m sorry but I have to do my duty. Since you refuse permission to search your car I’m going to get a search warrant.” He raised the walkie-talkie to his lips.

“Wait a minute,” Doc said. The ranger waited. Doc said, “How long is this going to take?”

“How long?” The ranger did some computations in his head. “If they bring the warrant up by car it will take about eight—ten hours, if the judge is home. Only an hour or two if they fly it up.”

“And we have to wait all that time?”

“If they bring it up tonight. You might have to wait till tomorrow.”

“May I ask,” said Doc, “what is the purpose of this unwarranted search?”

“Just a routine investigation, sir. Won’t take a minute.”

Dr. Sarvis looked at Bonnie. She looked at him. “Well, Bonnie … ?”

She rolled her eyes and shrugged.

“All right,” Doc said. He pulled the soggy cigar butt from his mouth and sighed heavily. “Go ahead. Search the car.”

“Thank you.”

The ranger sheathed his radio, unsheathed his flashlight and moved briskly to the car. Bonnie followed. Doc remained slumped on his folding canvas chair by the fire, sipping at his bourbon and branch, looking forlorn.

Bonnie opened the dust-covered back door of the station wagon. A dome light went on. Cascades of red sand and floury silt dripped on the ranger’s shiny boots.

“Been out on the back roads, eh?” he said. Bonnie was silent. The ranger switched on his flashlight to take a close look at the stack of boxes in the cargo compartment. Heavy, waxy, fiberboard boxes of uniform size, closely packed. He read the labeling. Then he leaned closer and read it again. Hard to mistake that famous name in its familiar oval brand. Hard not to recall the famous slogan, “Better things for better living….” Hard to ignore the pertinent descriptive data clearly printed on each box: 50 lbs…. 60% strength … 1½ … 8, etc. etc. etc….

It was the ranger’s turn to sigh. Again he pulled out his handy little Motorola, while Bonnie looked sullenly on.

Dr. Sarvis set down his drink and rose from his fireside chair.

“Sir!” said the ranger sharply. Doc stepped toward the darkness of the woods. “You there!”

Doc stopped, looking at him. “Yes?”

“Just stay in your chair, please. Just stay right where you were.” The ranger, as noted, was armed only with Mace, and the good doctor was fifty feet away, well out of range. But the firm authority in the young man’s tone made even a middle-aged delinquent like Dr. Sarvis
unwilling to risk direct confrontation. He sat down. Grumbling but obedient.

The ranger, keeping one eye on the girl at his side and the other on Dr. Sarvis—no easy feat, for the ranger was between the two—talked quietly but clearly into the mike of his radio telephone. “JB-3, this is JB-5.”

He released the transmission button and from the built-in speaker came a quick response: “JB-3. Go ahead.”

“Need assistance at Campsite Ten, Old Campground: 10-78, 10-78.”

“Ten-four, Ed. We’re on the way. JB-3.”

“JB-5 clear.”

The ranger turned to Bonnie. An entirely different quality appeared in his voice now. “Okay, miss—”

“Miz!”

“Okay,
miz—
”

His tone sank to a snarl. There was a nasty curl to the smooth-shaven upper lip. All that metal and leather and beaver fur getting in Ranger Abbott’s eyes, in his heart. Park ranger: cactus fuzz: tree pig.

He pulled the nearest of the fiberboard cases onto the tailgate. “Open that box.”

“You said you just wanted to take a look inside the car.”

“Open that box!”

“I object.”

“You … open … that … box.”

Doc watched in sullen gloom from his chair, the firelight playing fitfully on his nose, on the bald dome of his oversize skull. He sipped at his drink and waited for the unmasking.

Bonnie pulled the tape from the cover. Again she hesitated.

“Open it!”

She shrugged, tightened her jaw (one stray chestnut curl lay like a caress along the curve of her glowing cheek; the long dark lashes lowered) and pulled off the cover of the box.

The ranger looked inside. He saw what appeared to be an assembly of jar lids and jars. Odd. He pulled out a jar and read the label:
Death Smith Brand old fashioned Peanut Butter. Very odd. He unscrewed the lid. Inside was an oily liquid. He sniffed, inserted a finger, drew it out covered with a rich brown oleaginous substance. “Shit,” he muttered in disbelief.

“No, peanut butter,” Bonnie said.

He wiped his finger on the box.

“Taste it,” Bonnie said. “You’ll like it.”

He clapped the jar shut and rammed it back. “Open the next box,” he snarled.

Bonnie opened the next, taking her time. And the next. Two more rangers drove up. She opened them all, while Ranger Abbott and his reinforcements stood by and watched, grim and silent. She showed them her peanut butter, her baked beans, her Green Giant Sweet Kernel Corn, her Aunt Jemima pancake mix, her tinned tuna, her pinto beans, her baby clams, her Karo syrup, her tinned oysters and kippered herring, her bags of sugar and flour, her cooking utensils and her toiletries, her flower books and cookbooks and personally autographed extremely valuable first-edition copy of
Desert Solipsism
, her sweet bikini panties and Doc’s foul socks, etc. etc., all neatly packed and stowed in the handy, compact, strong and durable fiberboard dynamite boxes.

“Where’d you get these boxes?” the chief ranger demanded.

“You let her alone,” said Doc from the fire, feebly.

“You shut up. Where’d you get them, girl?”

“We found them by your garbage can,” Bonnie said, “right there.” And she pointed vaguely, with uncertain hand, toward several badly littered but vacant campsites nearby.

The rangers looked at one another in wild surmise.

“It
was
them,” the chief said and snapped his fingers. “Them goddamn crazy Shoeshine Indians.”

“You mean Shoshone—?”

“Shoshone, right, those long-haired bastards. Let’s get going. Ed, you call the SO, me and Jeff’ll get ahold of DPS.” The three men hustled off into the night toward their patrol vehicles, talking fast and low. Something about AIM, the Crazy Dogs, the Shoeshine Tribe and
the Reconstituted Native American Church of Latter-Day Shinola-heads.

“
Red Power!”
Bonnie shouted after them, raising her clenched fist above the peanut butter, but the rangers, roaring off in all directions, never heard.

A pause….

Two rough fellows emerged from the shadows wearing dusty clothes, adorned with sheepish grins, whiskers, holding beer cans.

“They gone now?” says old Seldom Seen.

“They’re gone,” Bonnie says.

“Took you long enough,” says Hayduke.

Time for logistical maneuvering. All agreed (including Doc) that Doc
should return to Albuquerque and tend his patients for a while, cash their checks (the patients’ checks) and replenish the supply column.

Bonnie didn’t want to go back to the office and who could blame her? She wanted to stay with Smith and Hayduke for the next adventure. Whatever it might be.

But Doc cannot drive a car, or pretends he cannot, or is at any rate unwilling to drive a car. It was necessary, therefore, to drive him to the nearest airport—Page, in this case—for the flight back to New Mexico. He left reluctantly, grumbling, drinking too much, eyes wet with sentiment, embracing his three comrades each in turn, Smith first.

“Smith,” he says, “old Seldom Seen, I’m counting on you to look after these children. They’re both crazy, you know, and innocent and absolutely helpless. You’re the grown-up in this
ménage
. Take care of them.”

Smith pats Doc on the back. “We’ll do all right, Doc. Don’t you worry none.”

“Try to keep George from getting himself killed.”

“I’ll do that, pardner.”

“Keep a sharp eye on Bonnie too. I think she’s catching Hayduke’s Disease.”

“I’ll keep
both
eyes on her, never you fear.”

“Good man. Remember this: Though the way is hard, the hard is the way. Our cause is just (just one damn thing after another) and God’s on our side. Or vice versa. We’re up against a
mad machine
, Seldom, which mangles mountains and devours men. Somebody has to try and stop it. That’s us. Especially you.”

“You bet, Doc. You make some money now and hurry back.” Smith grinned. “Don’t forget the houseboats and the trained dolphins.”

“My God,” says Doc, “you’re all crazy. Next!”

George Washington Hayduke,
muy hombre, muy macho pendejo
, steps forward. Dr. Sarvis draws him somewhat away from the others. “George,” he says, “step aside here for a minute.”

“It’s all right, Doc, I know what you’re going to say.” Hayduke, burly as a beer barrel, reeking of sweat and dust and beer as always, looks almost … well, anxious. “Listen, Doc—”

“No, you listen to me.”

“No, listen, this wasn’t my idea. I never wanted her to come in the first place. She’s nothing but trouble.”

Doc smiled, his arm around Hayduke’s brawny shoulders. Like hugging a linebacker. The bear and the buffalo, buffaloed. “George,” he says, “listen carefully. I am forty-nine and a half years old. Over the hill. Bonnie knows it. You take her. It’s your turn.”

“I don’t want her.”

“Don’t lie to me, George. Take her. If you can, that is. If you’re man enough. Take her and my blessings on you both. Don’t give me any argument.”

Hayduke stared at the ground, silent for a moment, actually embarrassed. “Old Seldom, he’s the one really wants her.”

“Smith has a head on his shoulders. He’s a man of taste and good sense. Not a fool like you. Let him take her then. Make a real ass of yourself.”

Hayduke flushed. “I’m sure as hell not going to fight over her. I got more interesting things to do than that.”

“There’s nothing more interesting than a woman, George. Not in this world.”

They marched around again in a second small circle while Doc’s plane had its fuel tanks topped, turbochargers checked, tail stitched up and ailerons wired back on.

The Arizona summer sun blazed down on them all—airport, power plant, airplane, the citizens of Page, the passengers, parked cars, bystanders and loafers, and of them all the fairest that it shone upon by far was Ms. B. Abbzug.

Doc Sarvis, he knew; he knew the meaning of such a treasure. Why, any man of sane natural piety would get on his knees before that holy shrine, whimpering like a sick hound, and lick the tips of her ten pink toes with the abject slathering adoration of his tongue.

Smith knew; he was melting like a popsicle. Just like his daddy always said, you could eat that with a spoon. The Indians knew, lounging in the shade, watching her like hungry rabbits, laughing, telling their Pleistocene jokes (the best kind). Only Hayduke, stubborn and stupid, seemed oblivious to the Higher Knowledge.

“All right,” Doc said. “Everything is settled. I’ll say good-bye to Bonnie now.”

She cried, a little.

“Now now, sweetheart, you’re losing your mascara. Don’t cry.” He’d have been pained if she didn’t, of course. He stroked her hair, the sweet curve of buttock and flank. The Indians giggled. To hell with
them
—Stone Age savages riding around in pickup trucks, eating Rainbo Bread and Hostess Twinkies, wearing bolo ties, their TVs tuned to
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
every fucking afternoon.