Connie Grote 2805   words

1502 S. Owens St # 106

Lakewood, CO 80232

303-358-0580

email: connie_grote2@msn.com

SOUL DANCE

By

KANI

           Streaks of melting rubber ribboned the Wyoming highway as a rusty truck jolted to a standstill on the edge of the road. Under a tar-black mop of disheveled hair, intense dark eyes sparkled from a weather-beaten brown face hanging out the window. “Need a lift amigo?” The voice was rich and full, almost boisterous, but friendly.

           Neal couldn’t believe how many dark-skinned bodies were crammed into the bed of the sagging red Chevy pickup that was sprinkled with dents and chipped paint. It looked like somebody had beaten every fender, the hood and tailgate with a baseball bat.

           “Sure could use one, you got room?”

           “Amigo, trust me, there’s always room for one of our friends. Where you headed?” Juan’s red bandanna lay lopsided across his brown forehead. His face was smooth skinned but with strong high cheekbones and a jet-black mustache over full sensuous lips. Muscled arms burst out of a green and yellow striped tee shirt. He seemed to always be smiling.

           Neal climbed into the front, clutching his duffel bags to the outside of the door, resting them on the running board. “Terrance. Need a place to stay for the night. Broke camp this morning, started hiking out, but some mouthy rancher ordered me off his land. Hell, (scuse me ma’am) I didn’t even know I was on it. Thought it was a shortcut. The bastard (scuse me ma’am) stuck his cowboy hat out the window and barked at me like I’m a dog or something. ‘Who are you and what ya’ doin’ on my property?’ Told him I’m headin’ for town and thought this was a shortcut. ‘Not on my property, it ain’t’, he says, spittin’ in the wind. Bout this time the highway curled like a black snake through some of the driest, most desolate stretch of this Nevada desert I’ve seen. Didn’t want to hitchhike, but I got loose skin hangin’ on my feet from blisters, a miserable cotton-mouthed thirst and my belly’s growlin.”

           “Them snooty ranchers don’t like strangers for sure. They only like us poor Mexicans as long as they can wring some work out of us for pauper’s wages. My name’s Juan - this is Maria - our kids and a few friends in the back. We’re field hands and we been weedin’ plants all day. It’s a heck of a life but at least we eat. Can we offer you a place to sleep? Maria, here, she cooks up a mean mess of tortillas and you’re welcome - unless you’re in a hurry?”

           “Neal, Neal Rainey,” he said, not sure what he was getting into but sticking out his hand to shake Juan’s bulky one, “Thanks a million, man. I’ll take you up on your offer; I didn’t think there were any friendly people left in this part of the country. Sounds great, but I’ll pay you. Don’t like to take charity, but my feet feel like raw meat. Won’t take me much further today. Have to admit, I’m mighty hungry.”

           “No, amigo, no pay.”

           Dry little swirling puffs of dust burst from the tires as Juan swung the truck off the blacktop and maneuvered over a dry, bumpy lane through a field toward a weather-beaten stucco dwelling. Like a marshmallow with blisters from a campfire, paint peeled from the small adobe house awash in streaming blades of sunshine. Scraggly chickens pecked in the barren yard while a mangy black and white speckled three-legged dog lay in the scant shade of a small nearly leafless bush.

           “This is our home, my friend. Make yourself comfortable. Git them boots off. I gotta get a fire goin’ for Maria.”

           “Let me help? It’s the least I can do to repay your kindness.”

           “No, no, no my friend, you take care of those feet.”

           Relief flooded through Neal as he gratefully sank his hard body onto the cracked ground and began to gently pull off his boots and socks. Nausea welled up into his throat when the blood-soaked socks stuck to raw sores. He wasn’t a large man. Rather intense with a wary look, a high forehead with receding hair although he wasn’t yet thirty. He could step more quietly than an Indian when need be and come up behind you without you knowing he was near. Didn’t normally say any more than necessary, but something about this family eased him, made him comfortable. Small and wiry; he could hold his own when need be. Mostly he avoided confrontations. Didn’t talk much, kept to himself, did what was needed to survive. He trusted animals more than people and was happier when communing with a wolf or racing one across the fields. Solitude was his greatest, most trusted companion. He didn’t see a need to own “things”. Just held him down. He wanted to be free to wander at will, to sling a backpack on and go wherever his longings dictated. No corporate 9 to 5 jobs for him. He could cook anywhere in any town so never worried about the next job. He knew he’d always have one when he needed it.

           “Stick em in here, amigo.” Juan set a water-filled chipped enamel basin on the ground, handed Neal a plastic glass emblazoned with a Pepsi logo, and poured half a bottle of beer into it. “I’ve only got one cerveza we can share for now, but we’ll have some iced tea with our tortillas. How does that feel on your feet - sting a little?”

           “Yikes, feels like a nail goin right through.” Pulling gently, keeping his foot under the water, little by little he coaxed the cloth from his raw flesh until the sweat-soaked socks released their hold.

           “So, where you headed?” Juan asked.

           Neal winced as the second sock let loose, “Canada’s final destination. Wanted to do this for five years. Didn’t plan on hitch hiking but hadn’t counted on this damn problem either,” he said as he swirled the cool water around his tortured feet. “Course I didn’t bring bandages either; guess I’ll head into town tomorrow for supplies, maybe spend a couple nights there and then take off again.”

           Juan lazily leaned on his elbows, “we’ll take you in; going there anyway. My daughter, Rosa, works in town, so I’m gonna drop her off on our way to the fields.” Juan gestured toward the house as a young girl came out the door.

           Neal’s eyes locked on a bronzed young girl with coal-black eyes fringed in long soft lashes. Blazing sun highlighted her crimson dress and accented her glimmering pitch-black hair. The scoop-necked bodice fell off one shoulder and gathered in folds to a tiered skirt the deep color of ruby-red peonies. Each tier was edged with a strip of fading black velvet ribbon. As she handed Neal and Juan their plates heaped with tortillas and beans, she glanced at Neal from the corner of her eyes. A shy smile revealed an innocence, which clutched at his heart.

           “Rosa, this is Neal.”

           “Hi,” she whispered, not daring to look directly into his eyes. In the scant second their hands touched, the warmth from this encounter was like cuddling a kitten and felt smoother than a newborn’s flesh.

           Neal stared. “She’s a beautiful girl, Juan,” trying to sound nonchalant, hoping Juan wouldn’t notice his struggle to conceal his reactions.

           Neal’s taste buds exploded. Unlike any Mexican food he’d ever eaten, a delicate pungent aroma, with zesty flavor but not tongue-burning heat, burst inside his mouth. He couldn’t eat fast enough. “Man, this is good. What the heck’s in it?”

           “Don’t know, man. That’s Maria’s department. She cooks it; I eat it. Maria has a special touch when it comes to cooking. I don’t know what she does.

           “Neal scooped up the last savory bit, “Well, wouldn’t mind takin cookin lessons from her. Love to cook. Hey, Juan, is there a sporting goods store in town where I can get some stuff I need?”

           “Yeah, but it’s small; one side is a grocery store. There’s a hotel, too. Park and campground on the edge of town. Has showers. Cheap.”

           The sun dropped like a falling star behind the horizon and a faint fragrance of sage wafted through the night air. Along with it came a soothing coolness. Thousands of points of light sprinkled the inky-black sky.

           “Juan pulled himself up, grabbed the two plates, “Afraid you’ll have to stretch out under the stars again tonight, my friend - our house is burstin at the seams. You can use the pickup if you want.”

           “Thanks, I’ll stick with Mother Earth, I’m used to it; she’s pretty used to me too. Thanks for everything, man,” Neal said as he grabbed Juan’s hand. “G’nite.”

           “Nite.”

           Wolves howled in the distance as he drifted into a deep sleep and dreamt of a gorgeous shy girl, adorned in fiery billowing silk as if a celestial being.

           Neal awoke to wet slobbers across his bearded face from the three-legged mongrel whose whining accompanied the morning wake up call, his tail furiously swishing back and forth in his excitement at meeting a new friend. Neal rumbled about a bit with him, then shoved him off, smoothed out his tee shirt and patched jeans and folded up his sleeping bag just in time to see Juan and his brood heading for the truck, breakfast in hand, dressed in yesterday’s working clothes. Except Rosa. Her raven hair was bound in one thick braid across the nape of her neck, accented with a turquoise blue silk hairpiece. A high ruffled white blouse framed her velvety smooth mahogany face, with a belt whittling her wasp-like waist and a short raspberry colored cotton skirt surrounding her body. She wore flat strappy sandals. She climbed in the front seat, middle. Neal jumped into the back and settled among various sized chestnut bodies staring and grinning at him. The sun already burned across the land, scorching everything in its path. The Chevy bounced over the lane, onto the highway and into the tidy little town of Terrance.

           Trees lined and shaded the meticulously clean streets. Expertly placed bushes, fountains, trees, picnic tables and children’s playing paraphernalia decorated the block-sized park. Storefronts were painted endless hues of bright colors, trimmed neatly in whites and grays, while perfectly appointed flower boxes competed with one another for Mother Nature’s most brilliant artistry.

           It was just beyond the tidiness that the tarnish began, very subtly at first. The storefronts lessened their plumage block by dry block. The edge of town opened out into the dryness with the campground stuck square on a flat piece of hard earth, a straggly tree struggling here and there. A few permanent run-down campers and trailers sat at the edge. Someone had tried to build a few cabins in the past, presumably to entice more customers, but they were bleached by the relentless sun, screens torn and doors hanging by one hinge on some of them. Still, they were for rent if you were desperate enough. Right at the center of the campground near the office, the miniscule front yard held a square of carefully watered and fenced grass, a green spot in the middle of an oasis with a muddy little pond beside it and a forlorn looking windmill tilting in the water.

           Juan dropped Neal off, wished him well and drove off in a conglomeration of rattles and noisy children. Several sagging pickups passed by every few minutes heading the same way.

           Neal inquired about accommodations. Real cheap to pitch a tent here, but the showers were broken. Deciding to check on a hotel, he limped the few blocks toward the nicer side of town.

           No screaming siren; no warning. Just the harsh, drawling remark slithering out the half-lowered window of the town’s official blue and white sheriff’s vehicle, “I’d suggest you git outta town, real quick like now, yew hear? “ Popping eyes stared from a leathery lined frog-like face behind the grimy glass.

           Neal hopped sideways to avoid a shooting wad of chewed tobacco that spattered onto his boot from the mustachioed mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. Neal’s eyes swiveled up and down the white-hot sidewalk, “Me?”

           “Yep, yew. Been gittin calls bout a raggedy lookin’ creep wanderin’ round. Gotta keep our lil ol town tidied up.”

           Neal, exhausted, skin itching under a straggly beard, stood tenderly on the oozing blisters burning inside his boots. “Just looking for a hotel for the night. You recommend one?”

           “Don’t got none fer the likes of yew. Don’t git in front of my eyes agin, hear?” Retreaded whitewalls squealed his importance as he sped away.

           “Damn you old redneck,” he muttered, “I gotta get off these feet or I’m gonna drop dead. No use looking for a hotel, I better keep moving.” Heisting the leaden duffel bags off the curb pressured his blisters and caused spasms of pain

           Back toward the scrubby side of town, several crusty old men sat on benches, chewing tobacco, mumbling to each other and staring at Neal as he walked by. He came to the park with sun-dappled, inviting shady spots. His hands let go of his bags as he fell down, stretching out beside them. Ah, the cool green grass soothed his body. He pulled his hat brim over his face, breathed in deeply, and closed his eyes. Dreams of Rosa immediately interrupted his thoughts, making him oblivious to his aching joints and half-healed blisters.

           The encounter with the sheriff enraged him. Where the hell am I going to stay? At that piss-ant camp ground with no shower?

           He jumped as a booted toe kicked him in the side, “This park ain’t for vagrants; git goin’.”

           Damn, that damn sheriff again, he thought. Without a word, Neal pulled himself up, grabbed his bags and shuffled toward the so-called campground. He checked in. Pitched his tent. Found a basin and pumped some trickling water into it. Poured most of the water over his head and washed as best he could with the rest. He fell into the softness of his sleeping bag and slept for nearly five solid hours. Waking, and starving, he pulled out what dried packaged food he had left, shoved it in his mouth as fast as he could and washed it down with his last warm soda. Gotta get to town before everything closes, he thought. He ran a comb through his hair and beard, pulled out a clean, wrinkled tee shirt, smoothed it out with his hands and headed to the hardware store.

           The sidewalk was cracked here and split in front of the building. It was built of bricks. Mostly decayed, unpainted wood outlined the windows and door. A squeaky wood floor let everyone know where you were. Inside, the shelves were metal and rusted in spots, but everything was neat, stacked in perfect little rows. And best of all, a doorway opened into the small grocery side. Neal quickly filled his grocery needs first, then stepped back into the hardware side to get desperately needed butane bottles for his cook-stove; one luxury he hated to forego. His camp stove stood on a wire-like tripod and folded into nothingness, taking hardly any packing space, but it used little butane bottles that always seemed to be available in these small, nondescript towns. He got two off the shelf and headed for the cashier.

           A familiar voice boomed in the next aisle. “Yep, got rid of another one of those durn hippies today. Wish they’d all go back where they cum from. Don’t need to have ‘em exploring our part of the country. Don’t need any changes round here. Got enuf with all these Mexicans runnin around. Next thing ya know they’ll be settin up artist colonies and the like. Hard to keep this town cleaned up. Ain’t got no need fur em. I booted im out though; don’t think he’ll be back. See ya, Joe.”

           “Yeah, sheriff, see ya later.” Joe replied.

           Neal froze in his tracks, keeping his head down until the officer went out the door. Spose I do look like a hippie, he thought. Can’t blame him much for thinking that.

           He still had his cap brim pulled way down over his lowered eyes as he lay the butane bottles on the counter and reached into his pocket for his wallet.

           “That’ll be $5.50, please.” A soft shy voice spoke from the full red lips of a dark-skinned girl. Rosa’s hand lingered on is as she slowly counted out his change.

           “Thanks, Rosa, thanks, be seein ya.,” he said as he slowly slid his rough, calloused hand under her soft brown one to catch the coins. Perhaps the sheriff hasn’t seen the last of me yet, he thought as he smiled widely at Juan’s beautiful, blushing daughter. “Yeh, be seein ya one of these days.”