the surreal day Henry and I spent with Maria and Armando, Cookie, an unnamed prostitute, and Bishop Bart in Big Bend National Park:
"DON'T GO," HE SAID. "DON'T GO...
"DON'T GO," HE SAID. "DON'T GO...
BAD THERE. SHOOTING THERE." He was speaking to two female tourists from Des Moines, Iowa named Irma and Eileen. The shooting had all begun the moment after my friend Henry, a former rodeo-rider, began to make his way up the hill to use the Men's Room with the uneven trudge of a man with a permanent limp, due to a bucking-horse accident. Henry and I had driven here from Houston, and I was now sitting on a rock next to a man squatting on a small pile of dirt to my left, who happened to be the guy who had just said Don't go. Don't go. Bad there. Shooting there, and I took a moment to watch Irma and Eileen run rapidly back up the hill to their car with twin looks of fear etched across their faces, then turned my attention back to see what was happening across the river.
About 50 yards across the Rio Grande on the Mexican side of the river, I was looking at what I thought to be a lone United States Custom Agent who was still firing his pistol in the direction of a man running away from him wearing a white shirt and barefoot with what appeared to be a ham-and-Swiss sandwich clutched in his hand. This seemed odd, although I was aware that every day as new drug dealers entered the village of Boquillias del Carmen, innocent tourists crossed the river from the Big Bend National Park on the Texas side of the great river, unaware of the danger that might lay ahead, leaving safety behind in order to see the magnificent sunset for which the village was famous.
It was then that I took note of the woman on my left. She was also sitting on a rock with a 6-month-old loosely cradled in her arms. She had cinnamon-colored skin, and high cheekbones, and hard white teeth. She just sat there, making a low moaning sound like women do when they are overwhelmed with fear, but the look on her face seemed to be one of casual disinterest. She was, however, moaning rather loudly: My husband...my husband...he will die! The man who was being shot at would turn out to be her husband and the father of her child, and the man sitting next to me on the small pile of dirt saying, Don't go. Don't go. Bad there. Shooting there, turned out to be her brother, Armando; who was a small man with a glass eye, which made him look as if her were glancing past you. I felt as if I were watching a badly scripted movie. It got even more peculiar when the woman said, My name is Maria. My husband is the barefoot man. His name is Pedro. The man in the uniform of a Custom's Agent is my cousin Gilberto. Pedro has pretended to take Gilberto's sandwich from the seat of his car, she said that as if that explained everything. Which it didn't.
They are playing a game for the tourists, Senor, Armando said. Both Armando and Maria were obviously very proud of Pedro. A group of teenagers crowded around. They were a small Kansas town named Bison. It looked like an invasion had started when more middle-aged people began to gather. I could still hear the snapping of small arms fire. Pedro was still running up a hill and Gilberto was still chasing him. It was then that Armando added: You need not worry, Senor. It is only a game we play for the tourists. The bullets are not real. Gilberto, he is firing what you Americans call 'blanks.' He gave a wan smile. Tomorrow morning, the tourists will return. They will want to see what has happened. To find out if Pedro was killed. I will be there with my canoe. My canoe will take them across the river and back. I will charge $20 for the trip. It is the way we make our living.
In order for you to understand what a different sort of day it had been thus far, I must now go back to earlier in the day when Henry and I had initially driven into the Big Bend National Park and stopped for breakfast in a ghost town called Terulingia, which was the former home of the Chisos Mining Company and famous for having been the quicksilver capital of the world, as well as being the town in which the first chili cook off was held.
This was where we met an older string-bean-of-a-fellow with wrinkled skin from too much sun wearing a white and somewhat stained Stetson hat and cowboy boots colored dark-green, who said his name was Cookie.
Cookie indicated that had once been a prospector, but was now the proud part-time bartender and regular customer of The Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe. He then added: Come on in, sip a cool drink, enjoy th' shade of th' front porch, hang out, an' when you go back home you'll have some stories to tell. When we stepped inside, he smiled and added, I know I look like a ol' lummox, but I saw Elvis once in Vegas. I've been around...That ain't to say that everything breaks my way, I've also been arrested a whole bunch o' times for loiterin' an' for bein' drunk-an'-disorderly, an' once for inhalin' Mary Jane's. He then gave a small smile and added, How'd you two guys like to go to th' whorehouse. It's just down th' street. Th' 3 girls there are uglier than sin, but usually at this time o' day there ain't much of a waitin' line, an' they won't nickel-an'-dime you to death...
Henry and I quickly sipped our Pepsi's, thanked Cookie, rapidly departed, and drove into the adjacent town with the population of 162 called Study Butte, which was located at the Junction of Texas Highway 118 and Farm to Market Road 170, where we decided to have lunch instead of breakfast at The Roadrunner Deli in the Study Butte Mall. The mall consisted of the deli which had a 'Picnics To Go' sign hanging above the door, and stood adjacent to The Needful Things Country Store and The Cottonwood General Store, all three of which were ramshackle buildings with fading white-and-blue paint and looked as if the wooden steps would creak every time you stepped on them. By the time we arrived in Study Butte, rain was pelting the windshield and the wipers were on. Out on the small veranda of The Roadrunner Deli was a huge American Flag hanging right next to the 'Picnics To Go' sign held in place by rocks.
About 10 yards ahead, we saw a woman running through the rain in our direction. She dived into a ditch the moment she saw us. She looked around again, peering at us through the rain. Henry was driving and rolled down his window to get a better look at her. It was then that she said, Do either one of you guys have a towel?' Henry answered, 'I think I have one in my suitcase.' And she replied, 'Either you do or you don't. I've got a whole bunch of Texas Rangers out looking for me. I'm what you might call a whore -on-the-run. She then eased herself up and was now standing in the ditch, wiping the rain from her stringy-blond hair and off of her almost see-through dress, as she slowly began walking toward us through the downfall of rain. I need to get to Marfa, she said as she bent down to look at us through the car's side window. I think that I may have infected a couple of Rangers with syphilis and need to get myself checked-out before I'm hauled-off to jail.
Henry said Let's find somewhere else to eat. He quickly switched-on the ignition and we sped down Farm to Market Road 170 through the torrent of rain toward the border town of Lajitas. I was looking at the map and said, I think we need to be on State Highway 118 in order to get to Boquillias. Henry quickly turned the car around and as we once again reached the familiar Junction of Highway and Farm Road, he said: May as well stop for gas.
I'm sorry if I'm confusing you folks, so let's take a moment-or-two t0 go back to where this whole thing began: Henry and I were on vacation. He was single and my girlfriend had gone-off to visit her family in Minneapolis. So Henry and I decided it would be a real hoot to take a trip down to The Big Bend National Park and to do a little hiking along the Lost Mine and Emory Peak trails in the Chisos Mountain Range and dine at the Chisos Mountain Range Restaurant, with a side-trip to Boquillias which was famous for its glorious sunset.
We both thought that this would be truly a great trip.
We were now, however, turning off of the Farm to Market Road 170 and onto Texas State Highway 118 and about to pull into Bishop Bart's Gas ' n Eats 'n a Pillow or Two in a downpour of early afternoon rain. We then both thought we saw inside of the large building a small altar made of wood with a white cloth draped on top, and a painted plaster statue of the risen Jesus and a serene Mary. To the right of the entrance there was a man of middle-age standing there with a grin on his face looking out at us. He was a squat compact man with gold-rimmed glasses, garbed in purple and scarlet over a cassock. I said, Maybe we should go get gas somewhere else. I feel like we've just driven into The Twilight Zone. Henry replied: We're almost completely out of gas. And it looks like we can eat something too. We don't have a choice. There was a rap on the window of the passenger seat. I looked out. There he was, smiling at me. I rolled down the window as he shielded his eyes from the still falling rain: Hello, he said. He then smiled and added: Pardon the garb, but I am the former Bishop Barton Barringer, but since I'm now defrocked, you may call 'Bart.' Why don't you fellows come on in and get out of the rain. I don't get much business, and I could use a little company.
We exited the car, trudged after him through the rain, followed him through the front door, and he switched on the lights. It was a vast space, much larger than it had appeared from the Farm Road or gas pump. Behind the altar made of wood and the sculpture of Jesus and Mary, was another room filled with paintings. All mauve's and greens and yellows and blues, with great bold structures on this one and lush coloring on that one. Some had matte surfaces, thinned with turpentine. Others were glossy. They were bright, but most had a dark brooding power. He smiled, I would assume you need gas. Am I correct? You are, Henry replied. It that your artwork? It is, Bart replied. Henry smiled, You are quite talented. Thank you, he said. After I pump your gas, please allow me to fix you a couple of hamburgers. If you're tired, I've got a small motel out back that I call 'The Bishop's Basilica.' Before your curiosity gets the best of you, I was defrocked for bedding a Nun by the name of Mary Grace, so I departed the archdiocese in Pittsburgh, came here, took up painting just to pass the time, and wear the clerical garb in order to see the looks I get while I'm pumping gas. I hope I've answered all of your questions. He then put on a raincoat and went out to fill our tank.
We then ate our hamburgers and paid him for the gas and bid him goodbye. As we drove away, Henry said I really hate to say this, but he's the most normal person we've met today.
I was still looking across the river and thinking about the events of the day when Henry limped back. He paused for a moment to give a final zip-up of his pants, looked across the river and asked: What's been going on over there? A pretend shoot-out, I replied. He did not seem at all surprised. You look a little confused, he said. You want to back to Bart's place, eat, get some sleep, drive back to Houston in the morning? We can spend the rest of our vacation fishing by ourselves in Matagorda Bay drinking beer and eating fish we caught. How does that sound? Great, I replied. Maybe we can ask Bart if he could close-down his place for awhile, and if he'd be up for something like that...
...Which he was...
...And the three of us had a wonderful time.
About 50 yards across the Rio Grande on the Mexican side of the river, I was looking at what I thought to be a lone United States Custom Agent who was still firing his pistol in the direction of a man running away from him wearing a white shirt and barefoot with what appeared to be a ham-and-Swiss sandwich clutched in his hand. This seemed odd, although I was aware that every day as new drug dealers entered the village of Boquillias del Carmen, innocent tourists crossed the river from the Big Bend National Park on the Texas side of the great river, unaware of the danger that might lay ahead, leaving safety behind in order to see the magnificent sunset for which the village was famous.
It was then that I took note of the woman on my left. She was also sitting on a rock with a 6-month-old loosely cradled in her arms. She had cinnamon-colored skin, and high cheekbones, and hard white teeth. She just sat there, making a low moaning sound like women do when they are overwhelmed with fear, but the look on her face seemed to be one of casual disinterest. She was, however, moaning rather loudly: My husband...my husband...he will die! The man who was being shot at would turn out to be her husband and the father of her child, and the man sitting next to me on the small pile of dirt saying, Don't go. Don't go. Bad there. Shooting there, turned out to be her brother, Armando; who was a small man with a glass eye, which made him look as if her were glancing past you. I felt as if I were watching a badly scripted movie. It got even more peculiar when the woman said, My name is Maria. My husband is the barefoot man. His name is Pedro. The man in the uniform of a Custom's Agent is my cousin Gilberto. Pedro has pretended to take Gilberto's sandwich from the seat of his car, she said that as if that explained everything. Which it didn't.
They are playing a game for the tourists, Senor, Armando said. Both Armando and Maria were obviously very proud of Pedro. A group of teenagers crowded around. They were a small Kansas town named Bison. It looked like an invasion had started when more middle-aged people began to gather. I could still hear the snapping of small arms fire. Pedro was still running up a hill and Gilberto was still chasing him. It was then that Armando added: You need not worry, Senor. It is only a game we play for the tourists. The bullets are not real. Gilberto, he is firing what you Americans call 'blanks.' He gave a wan smile. Tomorrow morning, the tourists will return. They will want to see what has happened. To find out if Pedro was killed. I will be there with my canoe. My canoe will take them across the river and back. I will charge $20 for the trip. It is the way we make our living.
In order for you to understand what a different sort of day it had been thus far, I must now go back to earlier in the day when Henry and I had initially driven into the Big Bend National Park and stopped for breakfast in a ghost town called Terulingia, which was the former home of the Chisos Mining Company and famous for having been the quicksilver capital of the world, as well as being the town in which the first chili cook off was held.
This was where we met an older string-bean-of-a-fellow with wrinkled skin from too much sun wearing a white and somewhat stained Stetson hat and cowboy boots colored dark-green, who said his name was Cookie.
Cookie indicated that had once been a prospector, but was now the proud part-time bartender and regular customer of The Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe. He then added: Come on in, sip a cool drink, enjoy th' shade of th' front porch, hang out, an' when you go back home you'll have some stories to tell. When we stepped inside, he smiled and added, I know I look like a ol' lummox, but I saw Elvis once in Vegas. I've been around...That ain't to say that everything breaks my way, I've also been arrested a whole bunch o' times for loiterin' an' for bein' drunk-an'-disorderly, an' once for inhalin' Mary Jane's. He then gave a small smile and added, How'd you two guys like to go to th' whorehouse. It's just down th' street. Th' 3 girls there are uglier than sin, but usually at this time o' day there ain't much of a waitin' line, an' they won't nickel-an'-dime you to death...
Henry and I quickly sipped our Pepsi's, thanked Cookie, rapidly departed, and drove into the adjacent town with the population of 162 called Study Butte, which was located at the Junction of Texas Highway 118 and Farm to Market Road 170, where we decided to have lunch instead of breakfast at The Roadrunner Deli in the Study Butte Mall. The mall consisted of the deli which had a 'Picnics To Go' sign hanging above the door, and stood adjacent to The Needful Things Country Store and The Cottonwood General Store, all three of which were ramshackle buildings with fading white-and-blue paint and looked as if the wooden steps would creak every time you stepped on them. By the time we arrived in Study Butte, rain was pelting the windshield and the wipers were on. Out on the small veranda of The Roadrunner Deli was a huge American Flag hanging right next to the 'Picnics To Go' sign held in place by rocks.
About 10 yards ahead, we saw a woman running through the rain in our direction. She dived into a ditch the moment she saw us. She looked around again, peering at us through the rain. Henry was driving and rolled down his window to get a better look at her. It was then that she said, Do either one of you guys have a towel?' Henry answered, 'I think I have one in my suitcase.' And she replied, 'Either you do or you don't. I've got a whole bunch of Texas Rangers out looking for me. I'm what you might call a whore -on-the-run. She then eased herself up and was now standing in the ditch, wiping the rain from her stringy-blond hair and off of her almost see-through dress, as she slowly began walking toward us through the downfall of rain. I need to get to Marfa, she said as she bent down to look at us through the car's side window. I think that I may have infected a couple of Rangers with syphilis and need to get myself checked-out before I'm hauled-off to jail.
Henry said Let's find somewhere else to eat. He quickly switched-on the ignition and we sped down Farm to Market Road 170 through the torrent of rain toward the border town of Lajitas. I was looking at the map and said, I think we need to be on State Highway 118 in order to get to Boquillias. Henry quickly turned the car around and as we once again reached the familiar Junction of Highway and Farm Road, he said: May as well stop for gas.
I'm sorry if I'm confusing you folks, so let's take a moment-or-two t0 go back to where this whole thing began: Henry and I were on vacation. He was single and my girlfriend had gone-off to visit her family in Minneapolis. So Henry and I decided it would be a real hoot to take a trip down to The Big Bend National Park and to do a little hiking along the Lost Mine and Emory Peak trails in the Chisos Mountain Range and dine at the Chisos Mountain Range Restaurant, with a side-trip to Boquillias which was famous for its glorious sunset.
We both thought that this would be truly a great trip.
We were now, however, turning off of the Farm to Market Road 170 and onto Texas State Highway 118 and about to pull into Bishop Bart's Gas ' n Eats 'n a Pillow or Two in a downpour of early afternoon rain. We then both thought we saw inside of the large building a small altar made of wood with a white cloth draped on top, and a painted plaster statue of the risen Jesus and a serene Mary. To the right of the entrance there was a man of middle-age standing there with a grin on his face looking out at us. He was a squat compact man with gold-rimmed glasses, garbed in purple and scarlet over a cassock. I said, Maybe we should go get gas somewhere else. I feel like we've just driven into The Twilight Zone. Henry replied: We're almost completely out of gas. And it looks like we can eat something too. We don't have a choice. There was a rap on the window of the passenger seat. I looked out. There he was, smiling at me. I rolled down the window as he shielded his eyes from the still falling rain: Hello, he said. He then smiled and added: Pardon the garb, but I am the former Bishop Barton Barringer, but since I'm now defrocked, you may call 'Bart.' Why don't you fellows come on in and get out of the rain. I don't get much business, and I could use a little company.
We exited the car, trudged after him through the rain, followed him through the front door, and he switched on the lights. It was a vast space, much larger than it had appeared from the Farm Road or gas pump. Behind the altar made of wood and the sculpture of Jesus and Mary, was another room filled with paintings. All mauve's and greens and yellows and blues, with great bold structures on this one and lush coloring on that one. Some had matte surfaces, thinned with turpentine. Others were glossy. They were bright, but most had a dark brooding power. He smiled, I would assume you need gas. Am I correct? You are, Henry replied. It that your artwork? It is, Bart replied. Henry smiled, You are quite talented. Thank you, he said. After I pump your gas, please allow me to fix you a couple of hamburgers. If you're tired, I've got a small motel out back that I call 'The Bishop's Basilica.' Before your curiosity gets the best of you, I was defrocked for bedding a Nun by the name of Mary Grace, so I departed the archdiocese in Pittsburgh, came here, took up painting just to pass the time, and wear the clerical garb in order to see the looks I get while I'm pumping gas. I hope I've answered all of your questions. He then put on a raincoat and went out to fill our tank.
We then ate our hamburgers and paid him for the gas and bid him goodbye. As we drove away, Henry said I really hate to say this, but he's the most normal person we've met today.
I was still looking across the river and thinking about the events of the day when Henry limped back. He paused for a moment to give a final zip-up of his pants, looked across the river and asked: What's been going on over there? A pretend shoot-out, I replied. He did not seem at all surprised. You look a little confused, he said. You want to back to Bart's place, eat, get some sleep, drive back to Houston in the morning? We can spend the rest of our vacation fishing by ourselves in Matagorda Bay drinking beer and eating fish we caught. How does that sound? Great, I replied. Maybe we can ask Bart if he could close-down his place for awhile, and if he'd be up for something like that...
...Which he was...
...And the three of us had a wonderful time.
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