The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales (22 page)

“Didn’t you want to take them home? Didn’t you want to—” 

“Aw fuck. What the hell are you doing with that? Don’t take it out here!” 

I snatch the gun and stuff it back into her purse. 

“Hey. Easy there,” she says. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re not going to. You said.” 

She’s much too calm. It’s that calmness that scares me. 

“I know I said and I’m going to,” I say. 

“When then? Tomorrow?” 

“I already called Larry. He’s in. Not tomorrow, but soon. Real soon. For real. I promise.” 

“Take it, then.”  

She kisses me. This time for real. And she deftly slides the gun into the waist of my slacks. It feels horrible against my skin, but I let it stay, savoring the floral shampoo smell of her hair and her hot alcohol breath on my ear before she pulls away.  

**** 

Larry flips through my stack of pictures stopping at a black and white landscape of a lonely mesa.  

“That’s a good one,” Larry says. 

“Is it?” I ask. 

“Yeah. Fuck, yeah.” 

This is where
he
tends bar. I brought Larry because he is strong. A black-belt now. And smart, but just dumb enough to listen to me. We’re both in from the City for Rosh Hashanah family obligations.  

“What the hell were you doing out there?” Larry asks. 

“Dworkin was looking for the place on the map farthest away from everything. The place the farthest away from any city—the place with the least sky glow so we could see the stars. He wanted to fulfill a dream to lay on his back in the middle of the night in the desert and play the guitar as loud as he could. I wanted to take pictures, so I was in.”  

That’s what I say but really I was doing everything I could to avoid coming here. Now that I’m back, Jamie’s having no more excuses.  

**** 

Dworkin found the place on the map, a secluded campground near the Reservations on the Arizona-Utah border. He said to meet him in the airport in Flagstaff. He’d take care of the rest. He rented a little Honda four-by-four and packed it full of his instruments, camping gear, and a gas generator.  

The place on the map turned out to be a crowded trailer park. So much for the power of Triple-A. I mean we were so freakin’ tired we just drove on in, pulled into our spot and went to sleep. We woke up in the morning and realized we were surrounded by RV’s. What a nightmare. 

(“That must have sucked,” Larry says. 

“It did.”) 

So we just rolled on, figuring we’d hit the scenic drive through Monument Valley, cruised the Rez, and found a new spot. 

Highway 166 turned into County Road 75 and took us into the heart of the Rez. Signs admonished that we were leaving the U. S. of A. and entering Navajo-land, to stay on the road unless given permission. 

The road snaked into the deep, wide chasm that is Monument Valley, a white line weaving into hundreds of ancient red-rock formations. Two Native American dudes waited at a roadblock, a two-by-four laid across the road, collecting a toll. We paid and followed the road and pulled off at the most awesome little vista as it began to wind its way down. 

Two mini-buses took up all the spaces in the small parking area. A few dozen wheelchair-bound people were jostling into position for a group photo. Two aides were helping them line up. One of them, a blond, in denim shorts and a white cut-off shirt, was walking backwards, looking into a camera instead of where she was going.  

Dworkin hit the brakes but she walked right into us. 

“Move,” she said to Dworkin along with something in German that I took to be curse words.” 

(“Dworkin Spreken-ze Duetsch?” Larry asks. 

“No. But you know Dworkin. He doesn’t like to be told what to do.”) 

So I told him just to chill, get his guitar, and to trust me. I jumped out of the car and asked the woman if she’d like to get in the photo. The wheelchair crowd was watching the exchange like a television program.  

She handed the camera over to me. Since I couldn’t fit them all in the frame, I climbed on top of the Honda, noisily going right over the hood and onto the roof. They all cheered. And it was a hell of a photo. The blond. All the wheelchairy people. And in the background one crazy-ass bird’s eye view of Monument Valley and its majestic mesas and winding roads snaking into the corners of Navajo Country. It’s the kind of sight that makes you believe in God. 

So Dworkin lightened up and is posing for pictures with everyone, hamming it up doing Elvis impersonations and windmills on his guitar, just getting them to be silly and shit.  

The German chick is having a smoke behind the bus. She’s staring at this mesa. Fucking beautiful. The mesa. Like Devil’s Tower from Close Encounters. A flat top. Sloping sides. All red rock, the shadows constantly shifting and the tones changing as the clouds crossed the sky. 

“That was good,” she says. Her German accent is thick and she speaks slowly. 

She’s enjoying her cigarette like it’s her last. She looks me up and down and wasn’t shy about it. Really casual and unashamed, like Europeans are. I could sense her sizing me up, deciding what to think. I wished I wasn’t covered in sweat and all the red dust that was everywhere. 

“That was very good, for them,” she says. “They loved it.” 

“How long’s this show been on the road?” I ask.  

“Two months,” she says. “We’re heading to Disneyland and are flying back to Germany out of L.A. Just came from the Grand Canyon.” 

“Fuck. Two months,” I say. “I’ve only got two weeks.” 

“Fuck is right. You Americans need to learn to take more time.” 

“It’s been good?” 

“I get to see the states, for free. But not a lot of people to talk to, eye to eye. Where you staying?” 

“Not sure. Somewhere around here, we hope. My friend brought his guitar to play out here in the middle of nowhere. I’m gonna take pictures.”  

“Cute,” she says. The fine white hairs on her stomach are coated with red dust. She has a faded scar running along the left of it. I wonder if it was a C-section. 

“We’re up at the lodge in the little tourist trap up the road,” she says. “Just for tonight. I’m sharing a room with the other two so you can’t meet me there.” 

“I’d invite you for a drink or something but well, you know. Can I buy you a water?” 

“Just meet me at the mesa. Tonight. After midnight.” 

**** 

“I’d hang with you guys more often if I knew you rolled like this,” Larry says. “Okay. So why don’t you?”  

“I dunno. Work. And I’ve been the one stuck taking Grandpa to fucking chemo.”  

Larry’s grandfather escaped from Dachau. And then went back. Became part of the underground railroad smuggling escapees into Italy. I remember when Spielberg’s people came to the city to interview him and other survivors.  

“He’s become so small,” he says. 

The bartender looks over. It’s him. No doubts at all. I can feel the blows in my gut. See his face as a boy, standing over me. It wasn’t easy for Larry and I being the only Jews in our grade. And there never was any other reason needed to chase us after school. Sometimes they’d catch me. 

“That’s him, right?” Larry says. 

“Yeah.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yup. We gonna do this?” 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“All right. A couple more beers then. We wait till it empties out.” 

“Okay.” 

I think of Jamie out hunting in the city without her new gun and the unlucky fucker who thinks he’s found a hot date. 

Larry’s putting ’em away to mask his nervousness. I keep the beer flowing and the story going to prevent any second thoughts. 

**** 

So we leave the overlook and cruise on into the Valley. We spend the day looking at stuff and taking photos. Dworkin’s getting antsy and has his guitar on his lap in the front seat.  

There really isn’t any place to camp. And we’re not supposed to just pull off on the side of the road but come late afternoon we pull over anyway. Dworkin has to piss and runs off behind a big rock. I walk a ways up the road with my camera. There’s a fence and a little stable. A white horse absently flicks its tail at flies in its shade. 

I raise my camera to take a shot and notice there is a man in a ten-gallon white hat standing in the shadows. The hat and his clothes are stained red from sand. 

“Didn’t see you there. Sorry,” I say. “Can I take a photo?” 

He emerges from the shed without answering. He’s a white guy or maybe he once was. His old skin’s wrinkled, leathery and tan, and marked with spots of age. His shirt is stretched thin to its fibers. 

“I dunno,” he says. His mouth is almost toothless. “I shouldn’t let you but it’s been a dry one. The horse needs hay and all.” 

I think about this for a second. 

“I don’t have any hay, but how about a couple of bucks?” 

“That’d be fine, fella.” 

I hand him a couple of bills and snap the picture of the horse. Dworkin has come out from behind the rock. 

“What you boys doing here?” the man asks. 

“Looking for a place to stay. He wants to play his guitar as loud as can be in the middle of the desert. I’m gonna take pictures.” 

“’lectric guitars? You boys got power?” 

“Yup. A generator. He thought of everything.” 

“Hmmmn. All this land is in the care of my boss, Mr. Yiskil. I suppose maybe if you had some gas money or what not it’d be okay for you to stay. You don’t look like trouble. I could ask him.” 

“Sounds good.” 

“’K then. Be right back.” 

He disappears behind the shed and a few seconds later pulls out in the ricketiest pick-up truck you can imagine. 

It arcs across the desert throwing up clouds of red sand behind it. It’s just a far away speck when it stops. I can make out a little trailer in the distance. 

Three vultures are high overhead sweeping around the mesa in long lazy circles. Small holes are everywhere at the bases of all the cacti. Snake holes. Spider holes. Homes for the world of things that come alive at night. 

Fifteen minutes later the pick-up returns. Our host steps out and leaves the door open. The most beautiful long feather hangs from the rear view mirror. It’s white and flecked with a dozen shades of brown, like from an owl. An eagle, maybe. 

“My boss don’t think you’re here for the music, but that’s okay. You can play as loud as you like. You won’t bother nobody. He hopes you find what you are looking for in the desert. You can’t sleep under the moon and the mesa and not be changed, but pitch your tent anywhere you like.”  

In the distance I see a man standing motionless by an old trailer. Mr. Yiskil, maybe. I sense I am in the presence of something very, very old and primal. Not just the ancient stone. I feel it watching. For a second I envision Jamie and me returning here, holding hands, smiling in a normal way. 

“If anyone gives you any trouble just say you have the permission of Mr. Yiskil and you are under his protection. You know, sometimes guys get drunk and might pull that white man can’t be here shit on you. Remember to say that.” 

I pull out a fifty from my wallet. Dworkin takes out a twenty.  

“That’s a lot of gas money. Mr. Yiskil will be pretty happy.” 

I hand the bills to him. 

**** 

My father places a few dollar bills in my hand for my brother and me, crisp ones, good for the vending machines in the basement. 

We spend every other Sunday at the home where grandma is. I hate it there. Even the ocean right across the boardwalk, the tons of bleach and antiseptic can’t mask the smell of old sick bodies. 

I have to kiss grandma hello and stay for a few minutes, then I’m free to go. 

Grandma usually sits blankly, drooling, her old clothes smelling of mothballs. Her scraggy white hair barely combed. Sometimes we play gin rummy. She’s good at gin rummy. She calls out “Rummy” in a thick Russian accent. 

Today she is waiting for us at the door, her coat on, her bag packed. 

“How can you bring the kids here? To such a place like this” she says to my father.  

She grabs my wrist and runs. The strength of her grip surprises me. 

“Let her go. Don’t scare her,” an orderly says. 

She turns the corner and tries to hide us in the janitorial closet. She’s muttering the S’hma prayer. Does she think we’re going to die? 

I see the green tattoo of numbers on the inside of her arm just above her wrist. I don’t want them to touch my skin. 

*
*** 

My arm is red and mottled with little bumps from so much sweating. The heat of the day has gone with the sun—vanished with the warm wind sweeping from the mountains into the valley—a wake-up call to the sleeping creatures of the night. The air is alive with bats. Coyotes prowl on distant mesa tops. I don’t see them but I sense them waiting for the rising moon and I want to hear one howl like in the movies.  

“No glove, no love,” Dworkin taunts as I leave to hike to the mesa. Then he gets serious. “I need this time. Thanks. But come back later, I’d love a photo or two.” 

The moon rises over the mesa, drenching the night in a white glow. The cacti. The scrub. A steer skull with broken horns. A shell of a pick-up truck half buried in red sand. They all take on a new starkness and poignancy. Being here I feel I am like them. A survivor. Even if I’ve done nothing else to earn it besides being born. 

This close the mesa is huge, a monolithic fist rising from the earth. It dwarfs me and the sea of cactus and all the creatures who run the course of their lives at its feet. 

With the oppressive heat gone, the desert is alive with life. Things can flourish in the night. Movement is everywhere. Kangaroo rats scurry to and from their holes. Coyote disappear among the cactus and I hear them yipping and snarling somewhere else nearby. Things rustle in the scrub. Lizards and snakes. I try to watch where I step. A shiny black scorpion crosses my path with a lizard twice its size impaled on its stinger tail.