September’s sun glared against desert landscape.
Sparrows fluttered in underhand loops from mountain holly to redshank, skimming over a Dodge pickup oddly pitched on worn springs. Old and dilapidated, the half-ton rested against a live oak like an invalid, oblivious to the wind-driven branches that clawed its sides. Rust swirled along its dented panels and small circular holes perforated the cab. A ring of red corrosion circled each puncture where the tan paint had blown away. A 9mm round would have been a perfect fit. But the owner would have shaken his head; eyes fixed on the ground and kicked the sandy soil with his boot.
“That’s bullshit, why everyone around here likes me.”
It was a ramshackle tableau that existed beyond the grit-frosted window of a cottage. Inside an overturned washtub served as a coffee table. Lofty Sheeney, wearing black T-shirt and jeans, sat on a tattered sofa, long black hair hung down his face. He pored over
a gritty assemblage lying on the tub, paper pesos, a few American dollars and Mexican centavos. An ashtray marked “Tuna Club Mexicali” held a three-inch clasp knife and several expended .45 caliber brass casings. Lofty’s battered Colt lay next to its clip that held three rounds. With sleight of hand nonchalance, he flipped a shield shaped medallion between his fingers. Quartered by black, red stripes, fletches and surmounted by a black rearing horse. A battered car badge, it had been a keepsake from his father. He picked up a plastic bag bulging with cannabis. Purchased from a local farmer who had guaranteed its potent power.
“One toke and this’ll bring you face to face with the blessed Holy Ghost, man.”
Lofty opened the transparent container and crumbled oily buds that formed a haystack shaped pyre on tissue paper and rolled a cigar-sized tube. During the construction process, amber vials had rolled and clinked on the pitted surface of the tub. He opened one and dabbed a large gold drop of hash oil on his finger. Smearing the oily fluid along the paper seam, its viscous properties acted like glue. Lofty twisted the ends, sticky with golden residue.
Stretching out his six-foot, four-inch frame, he celebrated his craftsmanship with a lengthy pull from a bottle of mescal. He grinned at the corrugated ceiling, lit his homemade, and held the smoke. Dust, blown through chinks in the walls, hung like a screen. License plates, rusty oil signs and photos were nailed and tacked, as an attempt to eliminate the trespassing particles. He stared at one photo in particular. Three people stood in front of a sports car. One wore torn and greasy overalls and held the hand of a small boy, a boyish Lofty. The third wore a shy smile; driver’s coveralls with turned up collar and smoked a cigarette. Lofty thought about that day; pretty girls, coke in a bottle, white bread sandwiches and handing his father tools. Lofty exhaled. His lungs had held smoke so long that little came out. Then through the haze he heard the hollow rip of a 4-cylinder air-cooled engine. He felt his eyes leave his face to look out the window. A ’55 Porsche 550 Spyder sat next to his truck. The script on the driver’s side door read, “Little Bastard.” Lofty exhaled another a deep drag that he had been holding.
“Hey, I got company.” He said out loud.
Like a desert mirage light and shadow gathered into human shape on the sofa. Blond hair ran in a wave to the back of the neck. Khakis with creases like a knife blade, penny loafers, white T-shirt, and leather tank jacket that creaked when hands rummaged the pockets for a cigarette.
Lofty turned to his guest.
“Hey man, what’s the haps?”
“Nothing but grooves man nothing but grooves.” The vision replied, then lit a cigarette, smiled and exhaled smoke with a feline grace.
Lofty grinned back vacantly.
“How’d you get here this time? Weed, coke, what?”
“I got here by nature’s own natural way. It’s singular. I’m talking mushrooms man. Mexican mushrooms. Got ‘em from the guy supplies Tyrone Power and Errol Flynn. Those two are cool cats, who really like to groove.”
Lofty looked slightly wistful.
“Cool, mushrooms, that’s a mellow high man. Good with sex. Yeah. Those guys would know.”
The hazy figure blew lazy smoke rings from his cigarette.
“How’d you get here tall guy?”
“Got a combo going and it’s working real good. Mixture of hash oil, demon bud, that’s marijuana man. It’s really kicking in. I can see you real good.”
Lofty leaned back with a mischievous grin,
“So where you are you’re still alive uh, man. Else you couldn’t be getting the stuff to make the trip, right?”
“Yeah man I’m alive. September ‘55. You?”
“1999 man. And it’s fine. Real fine.”
The shaded figure leaned forward, elbows sliding on his knees.
“Driving up from Hollywood tomorrow man. Gonna race the load in Salinas. Where you groovin’ man?”
Lofty’s panatela glowed red as he pulled on it.
“Sittin’ down here in Jacumba dude, rockin and rollin’. I’m running drugs, wets and anything I can sneak in or out the Mexland Border.”
“You’re the old pro; I gotta come down and see you. We’ll cruise the boulevard together.”
“Yeah that would be awesome but right now you’re in1955 and I’m here in 1999.”
“Oh yeah. Hey hipster, you’re getting thin on me. You’re starting to fade. I’ll catch you on the rebound man. Adios till next time.”
Lofty shot bolt upright in his seat.
“Hey, you with a couple of babes? I swear I saw a couple of babe’s pop in. Then they disappeared.”
The voice was distant and hollow.
“Yeah, they’re just taking a couple of bites off the schroom. Not enough to do any traveling. Dig you later man.”
Sadly, Lofty conceded his companions departure.
“OK dude I guess we must be fading. Yeah that was cool.”
Lofty thought about the girls.
“Stone foxes I bet. Yeah Jimmies the man. He’s the one with the babes. Damn.”
He looked at his watch. His legs were like rubber. The Swatch window said September 29th. He reflected a moment then picked up the clip and tried to insert it into the Colt. He stared at the empty end of the sofa.
“Yeah Jimmy had the babes.”
Lofty fumbled with the clip, unable to insert it into the .45. Drug sweat seeped from his forehead and spittle rimmed the corners of his mouth. He tossed the pistol and clip onto the filthy sofa and fell back.
“Man, too bad about my buddy Jimmy. But how am I gonna go to work? I can’t even put the damn gun together.”