Saturday, April 12, 2008

The Good Gun

Juan had grown up in poverty. He had since shrugged it off, grown up and moved far away from his poor family. He would have only been a farmer had he stayed. He would have married some bucktoothed girl out of practicality. Even that sounded good now.
There had been famine that year. Everyone was holding on to what they could. The gang had fallen apart, Juan had been their leader. Most of his companions had been shot by people trying to defend themselves or jailed where they would soon die of starvation.
Juan had a reputation of a very hard man. The story that was circulated was that Juan had come to town with a pair of six shooters. This wasn't anything of merit, most people carried guns. Juan walked right in shot down the mayor, the sheriff, four deputies and the old white catholic father all without switching his a beer to the other hand. He quickly conscripted some goons and the town was his. It was also legend that he killed his competitors and then threw their daughters(and sometimes wives) into his brothel. Parts of his infamy were unfortunately true.
The town was full of his slaves. All of them doing exactly as he wished or he or one of his lackeys would shoot them. No one wore chains, but everyone feared the Juan of Morita.
The problem of being surrounded by slaves and lackeys is there is no room for friendship. How could he have been so careless to have lost everything? And now it came down to his life and his sidearm.
It wasn't anything exceptional. Just an old .38 special. There was no beer or liquor to be had to numb the pain of hunger. Or was it failure that hurt so badly? Juan didn't know. The barrel of the pistol was raised to his head, he almost didn't care enough to pull the trigger. And imagined what would happen the moment after he mustered the courage. He dropped the gun. Maybe if he practiced pulling the trigger without bullets he could...
He heard something and with a whimper picked up his gun again and ducked into the shrub along the dusty road. It was a farmer leading his mule drawn cart out of town. Juan recognized him. He had stolen his daughters for his brothel. He had shot him in the leg in the process of acquiring his women so the farmer walked with a limp. The farmer had gotten his daughters back when Juan's gang had fallen apart. Juan was not bitter about this, he just wanted some food, or drink. He needed a drink badly.
He would wait until the farmer had past and then rob him. Or should he kill him outright? Juan felt he had a right to. He looked at his pistol again. No, he decided he had better save the bullets if he could. The police might find him after all.
The slow creak of wheels approached. Juan felt himself begin to shake with excitement. It was like conquering Morita all over again. Just the power of his hand to hold the pistol steady, and the resolute little finger to execute. Maybe he would draw blood after all.
Just as he crept out onto the road, something unexpected happened: he froze in terror.
It was not at prospect of killing. It was at a Mountain lion springing upon the farmer and mule its savage maw open. The farmer did not see!

Two shots rang out. The great cat fell in front of the farmer. Juan advanced on the cat, his mouth open in amazement. It was still writhing on the ground. He put a third slug in its deathly skull and it lie still.

The heat, the hunger, the angst; he took a breath. It all dissolved into the heat of the afternoon.

The farmer looked at him, recognized him, and eyed him cautiously. Juan laughed, for the first time since he was a child. Something like the first time his father gave him his own firecrackers. Or when he had won a bicycle race as a boy.

The farmer stood there in fear, shocked at the mountain lion, but not trusting the man with the gun.
"That was a near thing."
"Yes it was. It was an incredible shot"
"Thank you, I've never hunted big game before."
"Would you like for me to carry the carcass on my cart?"
"I don't need it."
"The skin is fairly valuable."
"You may have it if you like."
"That's very generous. Could you give me a hand with it?"

Together the two men hefted the lion onto the cart.

"I owe you my life." said the farmer.
"No, you owe me nothing," said Juan.
"Where are you going to?"
"I don't know."

They stood looking at the ground.
"If you have any food, I would like some, if you can spare it."
The farmer produced a small piece of cheese and a tortilla. Juan took them and handed the farmer his pistol.
"I can't take this!" said the farmer.
"I have no money. Please, take it."
"What makes you think I wouldn't shoot you?"
Juan just looked at him and dropped the gun. The farmer caught it deftly. Juan began to walk away North. At every step he expected to hear the shot that would take his life. He walked for miles without looking back, every step he thought would be his last.
Night fell and he made camp and ate the provisions the farmer had given him. He fell asleep thinking he would not wake up again.

He did not die. Nor did he change significantly. He went to America. Spent many years there. But even the wealth and freedom could not blot out what had happened in Morita. He had been a king there. In America he was just another illegal immigrant in a land that was made of kings. He began to think about going back. He cashed in his savings, bought several guns, and a truck. He would go back and make Morita his again, and it would be better than the first time. Or he would die trying.

He pulled into town at dusk, to find the town completely different to the one he had run ruined and left. Electricity lit street lamps and houses down the main road, where only lanterns and candles had before.
There was a loud noise and whine. Juan ducked and then laughed. There was a fiesta, along with the fiesta was a dance and fireworks. Juan tucked a pistol into the back of his jeans, he didn't know what kind of reception he would get, but he would be ready for whatever went down. The dance was in full swing a mariachi band crooned and played and everyone danced. It was a wedding. He wondered if it was anyone he had known.

Upon the wall of the post office was his picture. His heart skipped a beat. He looked closer to discover that it wasn't a wanted poster. It did not bear his name. It just said: "The First".

He shook his head as to what that meant and stepped onto the dance floor. One by one people stopped dancing, and the band eased to dis harmonic silence. A collective gasp.

"Juan the first has returned!" Someone yelled and with the exclamation went a general hurray.
Juan did not recognize most of the people. A few of his old gang were in the crowd, most of them however, were the people he had stolen from. But there they were all smiling at him.

"Hello," he mumbled. He was introduced to the bride and groom. The bride used to be one of the girls he had pimped out. He felt awash with shame as she kissed him on his cheek and the groom shook his hand warmly. A wave of familiar faces encroached upon him, asking him how he had been, where he had gone, he did his best to smile and reply. The farmer with a limp took him by the arm. "Hello Juan."
"Hello," said Juan his heart sank even lower with guilt, "I- I'm very confused... I wasn't expecting anything like this."
"Let me show you something." the old farmer said and took him to the town hall. Above the mayor's seat hung a Mountain Lion's skin. It had three bullet holes in it.
"Is that?"
"Yes."
"You didn't sell it?"
"I wanted to. But I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"I took the time and tanned the hide. And when I was going to take it to market the weather turned cold. We piled on the blankets, but couldn't stay warm enough. I put the lion's skin over my family and we were warm. I told them the story that went with it. The following days my wife told me how happy she was and that she had all she needed. You must understand, she had been griping for years about not having what she wanted. I realized that I too had everything I wanted. Indeed I had more than I wanted. That night, in the cold of winter my family said they were warm. And we thought about our neighbor and how hard it must be for him. So, in the middle of the night, I took the food I could spare, blankets, and the lion skin. I found my neighbor in pitiful state. His whole family would have starved, died of sickness, or died of cold. Only after they were fed, and wrapped in blankets and the lion skin dared I go home. When I returned the following evening, I was amazed by what I saw. They were all healthy. The house was warm and food on the table.

"'How did this happen' I asked,

"'Why this morning I was warm, and no longer felt sick, you left your pistol here, and I went out hunting and found a jackrabbit. I hope you don't mind, I will reimburse you for the bullet I used.'

"We ate together, and he related to me how fulfilled he was with life, his wife and children too, seemed happy. And soon we were talking of our next neighbor. And the lion skin and pistol was passed to them. Sure enough he too found all he needed.

"Wait," interrupted Juan, "This is impossible. You speak as if the gun and lion skin had power in them."
"I don't know that they don't," said the farmer, "Magic, miracle, it's all the same in my eye. Every man woman and child who slept under the lion became better for it. Every man who raised that pistol never missed and fed his family, not just for that once but forever." the farmer opened a case against the wall. "The most amazing thing, is that not one of them wanted to keep it to themselves. Each one took aid to their friends and neighbors not out of duty, but out of love."
Juan looked up from the floor to see the farmer handing him his old .38. He began to cry.
"I was going to kill you that day. I was going to rob and kill you." He blurted.
The farmer didn't look surprised, "This is why I think there is magic in these things. You could have chosen to watch the lion rip me apart and then rob me. The instant you saw evil, even though you were an evil man, you stopped it. You for a fleeting second did something right and all the good you could have done with your life left into this gun and that lion skin."
Juan was weeping on the floor.
"Why doesn't everyone hate me?"
"I did for what you did to my daughters, and what you did to my leg. But that is passed we cannot change it."
"Just because you can't change the past doesn't mean you forgive!" he yelled.
"No we have forgiven you because you gave a gift, you may not have realized what it was but the gift was greater than everything you've taken."
Juan fell into a heap on the floor, suddenly tired, weary of his exploits. He looked into the cylinder of the .38: One bullet left. He pressed it against his head but knew he couldn't pull the trigger. He felt the farmer put something around his shoulders. And then he was alone, in the town hall of town he had come to conquer. He came to be king not a man of charity. Charity, he thought and felt the lion's skin on his shoulders, has made me greater than any king.

That night Juan died. A different man inhabited his face, and it smiled, like a boy who just won a bicycle race.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Death of a Capitalist

This is a story not commonly told:

There was an individual, of industrious sort, of shining example. It seemed from the moment of her birth she was working. The cold out of doors provided for her simple needs and she used every opportunity to move up in the world.

The struggle against her environment left no room for relationship. Men offered themselves, but she chased them away, there was better to be had, and there was no resting until she had it. There was no time for tears over bloodshed. Only the jockeying for a life of ease.

She began small, unnoticed by the large and dominating. She ran when she had to. She took her winnings when she could and looked for a place to settle down.

She grew and began to take out her competitors one by one. Each gave her a small thrill, with each triumph her confidence was boosted. Finally her black eyes glimmered upwards, and there she saw her home and her job at the peak of a towering building.

An old hag occupied it. All the riches of earth flocking to her. She was blind, and half crippled but a great deal more powerful than our girl.

She rested, studying the hag, eying her strengths. Watching her movements, her advantages, her weaknesses. There was fate: the goal, the prize, the last hurdle. Her heart pulsed with purpose.

The hag had the greater resources, but her movements were slow. The strength and speed of youth burned the hag, stinging her not one deathly blow, but many harmless advances and prods that could not be avoided sent the hag backing down and away. The hag knew she was meeting her end. She bowed out and disappeared.

The now ascended held her head high, and turned away the others that came to challenge her. She grew larger, larger than even the old hag but remained quick and bright. She could find a mate and raise a family now, the dream had been realized.




Time passed. Maybe a day or a year. No one could remember.




The light of the lamp shone upon the corner of the room.
"Honey" called a woman, "when did that get there?"
"Its been there for awhile, I've been ignoring it."
"And you didn't do anything about it?"
"It wasn't hurting anything. So I left it."
"I don't want it in the house. Would you please?"
The man of the house got a broom and deftly swept the young spider from her nest to the floor. She made a mad dash for cover. The man looked at it's bright colors and admired it before he reluctantly crushed it underfoot.