Charles - in the works

Since birth Charles had always been an introspective creature; Looking at his siblings and wondering how all the differences could occur. They were all birthed from the same mother, yet it was astounding; the variety. Some had blue eyes, others brown, but the majority had green. "Some type of magic," Charles thought.

It was made clear early that Charles was unlike any cat ever born. He thought, pondered, rolled around and played with yarn. His sisters and brothers would sleep, and he wandered in to rooms undiscovered. Charles liked to see knew things and he tried to experience a bit of fear every day, just to remind himself that he was alive. It was not clear where little Charles was heading, but he seemed to be a bright little prince destined for grandeur.

The only thing about Charles that bothers me is that he was sometimes picked on by his siblings or peers. It was not because of his appearance or the way he mew'd, but the way he saw the world. All of his brothers and sisters were cats; They survived because it was instinct. Charles, on the other hand, did not just survive, he excelled and thrived in a world full of unknown. He acted more human than some people I had the displeasure to know.

Charles had green eyes and peach colored skin. His paws and ears were white, except for his back right foot. He was not the best at walking, but it made his personality that much more appealing. Though his footing was loose, his personality was strong and vivid, even for the cold heartened and aloof individuals. Charles was the guiding light for some of his peers, and they looked up to him so, nearly bending over backwards to get a glimpse at him. Yet he was not overly confident, in fact, he was nearly lacking the confidence to have such admirers. Charles was quiet, inquisitive, thoughtful, strong, in body, mind, and soul, and a natural leader. He did not lead with power, but humility. Some took advantage, as mentioned previously, but others saw his soft demeanor as a strength that others had never and would never know. Such a positive young cat.

The real story starts before Charles was even born. His mother, Balenta, spent her younger years perusing the towns closest to the ocean. One of her favorite places to spend time was in Monterey, where the mice ran free. During the 1940's, cats ran the town, or at least they thought they did. Anchovies would come into Cannery Row, and the hoards of cats would come down from the neighborhoods, being lured by the stench of fish being pulled from the ocean. They would sit across the street from the Tin Cannery and wait, until the fish had been processed, and the leftovers were available for consumption. OH what a life it was. Balenta did not like to gorge herself every night on the leftovers of humans, she learned about rationing and being humble from early on. Balenta had been born in Carmel Valley, but had made her way along the beautiful, cold beaches of Carmel and Asilomar. She had been the runt in the litter, just as Charles, but she was left for dead and somehow scratched and clawed her way back to life. Having struggled to stay alive, nearly dropping to one kilogram at one point, she made good company with a small group of older cats that seemed to attach to her. They would always say, "Balenta, are you sure you are only 2 years old, you are wise past your years, meow." On a side note, cats meow to show or grant approval, in case that fact slipped past anyone reading.

For years Balenta spent her days with these older cats. She would hunt, and bring back sustenance, while the old timers would talk about the good years. "I remember when I could chase down a mouse in the dark." The outrageous words of Karl, an old tabby colored brown, black, and gold with some of the most brilliant blue eyes any human or cat had ever seen. "Karl, you couldn't catch your tail if it was behind you..." The rousing and constant cat calling would never end. Every night, these cats ate, drank, and purred together. One humble, gentle group of lovers. Everything changed on a night that Balenta and Karl would never forget. It was a night of human celebration. Animals were terrorized by the loud explosions, except Karl and Balenta. They took off from the group of cats, now referred to in Carmel as The Salmon Boys, and walked down to the beach where the trees stop. Huddled under the trees, watching the explosions in the sky above them, the two cats mew'd in approval, of the colors and each other.

This could be the beginning of a romance or a terrible tragedy but in reality it is simply a tale of two cats that loved each other with such selfless emotion, that good came from their love. Unfortunately, Karl did pass, but not after granting Balenta with the seed of our hero in this story, little Chalres.

Charles was introduced to The Salmon Boys at a very young age, and from the very start they took to him like the had with Balenta. She would sit in with the group now and again, but the liter had taken a toll and she found herself with her paws full of hungry kittens. Charles reminded everyone of his late father, not because of his markings, but of his intelligence and humility. The Salmon Boys would always say that Charles was just a reincarnation of Karl. Charles knew that deep down, they actually believed it.

As he grew up with these Salmon Boys  he was introduced to many cats older than he. This prompted him to ignore his younger cats, he found them less developed and slow to understand, whereas the old cats were quick in mind and wit. Of course, if Charles was interested in a chase or a run, the younger cats would do for his physicality. This went on for years, and again he was ridiculed because of his interest in the older crowd and conversation rather than going down to Point Lobos to check tide pools for crabs and mollusks with his siblings. He was an intellectual, just as his father had been before him. He didn't hang out with many other cats but there was no doubt that he was capable of being social. This led to a kittenhood with very few friends, but ones that were very much attune with their own existence and being.

As Charles grew, his mother continued to spend time with the Salmon Boys and eventually started to spend a great deal of time with an older grey tabby named Merrick. He was a renegade, had been on many sailboats with his person, and faced dogs and seals with the courage to stop a hawk with one paw. He was unlike many of the other cats. He had quit catnip years before they met and had never once looked back. Charles thought very highly of this Merrick cat, but was always on guard, for his mother had raised him to be the cat he had been, when this situation took place.

Years passed without much change in routine. Everyone seemed content and well.  There were no fights between the ranks of the Salmon Boys. Everyone got along well, and were staying healthy with their daily walk to the beach to check for fish that had washed up on shore along Carmel Beach. These cats, what a sight to behold. 

From the human perspective, to see a group of seven or eight cats walking along the beach in the morning, mewing and bumping into each other was the oddest yet most soul warming thing to see on any foggy morning. Who would have ever thought cats create groups of friends like humans? Rhetorical, of course, but still a mystery. I personally had my thoughts that they were all reincarnations of a group of men and women, that were once humans and very close throughout their lives. The odds of ending up in the same area, as the same genus of animal, was astronomical, but anything is possible.

Snipets of the Past

The Beginning 

It was dark at the time of our departure, and the moon was not out. The ominous and cold clouds that night, in mid-march 2013, marked the beginning of an unknown feeling towards an experience only imagined.

Walking out the backdoor of the kitchen I said one word to my companion, "Ready?" "Onward," he replied as we walked up the strenuous hill from the place of our employment. Sweaty and tired from the footwork and attention paid to our guests, we reached the car and began to take inventory of our essentials. It was here that our journey began, in a parking lot, settled in the oaken mountains of Carmel Valley, CA.

As we pulled off property, there was a sense of urgency to get away from the area we had become so accustomed to over the past decade.  It was apparent that the anxiety and excitement were mixed with feelings of fear and uncertainty and made a wonderful blend that was settling. A sense of peace flowed through my body as I took the wheel towards our first way point.

My companion's name was Mark Collins Vasquez.  From a broken family, came an authentic gentleman that may not have been raised in the most peaceful of households but that upheld traditionalist ideals of loving your family and if you have a problem speak up, no matter the outcome.  He was a mid-height man but of a slender build, very much like a boxer, and with the speed of a hummingbird's wings. He was quite the ladies’ man and had a way about him that I only know how to describe as mysterious.  Anytime at a lounge, women would get caught in his yellow-green eyed gave and have no chance.  Jet black hair and a descendant of the Aztecs he was a man, through and through.  No bullshit, not much to say, but when he spoke you listened. His morals were loose, but if you were to hint at a wrong doing, he would correct it that moment. This made him a good companion that would pay attention to our surroundings and speak when necessary. Not pig headed, like myself, but ready for anything that we may face.

We took highway 68 to Blanco Road and then to the 101 south. Passing through Gonzales we sparked up conversations of past lovers. "She was the love of my life," I said.  "I doubt that, you haven't even graduated college," retorted Mark. "I know, I know, but it's one of those feelings you get that binds you up and won't let go," I said in response to his brutal honesty.  "You won't know, until you know and you may never know," said mark, as plainly as the moon shining in the sky. By this time we had made it to Soledad and were making good time. We had begun measuring our trip in fractions. "We are 1/42 of the way there," I mentioned. Mark, as pissed as an old woman whose oven had stopped working, said, "It’s not even morning of the first day of our travel.  Settle in, it's going to get tough." 

We reached Paso Robles and headed east on the 46. This would take us to the Interstate 5 and would guide us straight down to Bakersfield where we would begin heading eastward on the Route 66. After about 10 miles outside of Paso Robles we got stuck behind a large semi-truck on a one lane highway.  At the time I was eager to get around it and maintain our pace, but then I stepped back and remembered what mark had said.  So I began to settle in, listen to the sound of the road, look into the sky, and prepare for this long journey. It was pupil dark that night as we drove down the lonesome 46.  There is a way to tell that you are at the end of that highway.  Oil wells, hundreds of them, come out of nowhere in the darkness.  They are situated no more than two miles west of the intersection between Interstate 5 and Highway 46.  These would be the last familiar distance markers that we would encounter for the entire trip towards our destination.  From then on, all would be new and foreign.   

After we reached the 5 we continued south and took a turn towards the east onto highway 58.  This road took us past a very large complex, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, but that I'm sure could have been seen from space.  The lights were blinding, and from that you could see the high fencing surrounding the entire complex. Wasco State Penitentiary read the sign in the front, as if they were proud to maintain such a vulgar place.  We drove past without the slightest hesitation, because we both knew that within those buildings lived creatures, derelicts, and yet some innocent men.  A prison is an eerie place to cross paths with, knowing that murderers, thieves, drug addicts, and the like reside behind those walls.

After that there was not much interesting for hours.  Then all of a sudden mark spoke, "red lights," as he pointed out the passenger side window. "I don't know, what could they be," I said?  The lights were literally spread out over miles of space.  They blinked very rhythmically, as if breathing.  As we got closer more and more lights became visible.  Finally, as we drove nearer and east of the lights, we began to see patterns.  Runways.  Turnarounds.  It was Lancaster Air force base, and being that we had never seen an air force base at night, we had no clue what was going on.  Naivety at its finest.

Chapter 2

Now you may be wondering about me but I won't go to far into detail about who or what I am at this point in the story.  I was uprooted at the age of six weeks and moved into a house on a hill in Knoxville, Tennessee.  It was a slow time for my family, and we spent all of our time together.  Whether it was weathering the storms of rain, snow, or heat or just maintaining the yard, there was not much socialization on that hill. We had dogs, cats, and wide open property that was as untouched the forests of the Appalachian Mountains.  Purple and steaming in the morning we could see those mountains.  I spent 10 years of my life in Knoxville.  One of the best parts was leaving and visiting the grandparents in Temple City, California, almost every summer. Don't get my wrong, Knoxville was great, but California had many more perks to take advantage of. I must say though, Tennessee has an old beauty about it that California cannot duplicate.

So come the Arizona border, it was difficult to think that we were going to be leaving our home for some time in order to explore areas that we had never been before. This was the first real traveling I had ever done. We crossed the border between California and Arizona as the sun rose over the mountains southeast of Kingman, Arizona. The highway was surrounded by desert, early morning desert, which is naturally cold and punishing to those that are not prepared. The one thing I was not prepared for was the images that will be burned into my memory for as long as I live. Man amazes and horrifies me.  This time I was amazed.  In the distance, a mile long basilisk slithered through this barren landscape with the ease of water over limestone.  Graceful yet puissant, this Union Pacific locomotive pressed on through the desert, our counterpart, at that moment of this journey.

We stopped off in a small town, with car salesmen and Starbucks everywhere, even in this godforsaken desert.  We grabbed a bite to eat that was nowhere near satisfying, in the least.  I had been behind the wheel for 10 hours and we decided to switch position, Mark as driver and myself as navigator. There is not much after the California-Arizona border. I remember seeing a sign that said, "Property for sale-$750 per acre." Jesus!”  I thought, but then again, why would you ever want to buy land here.  There was nothing.  I finally realized why the United States, so graciously, gave the American Indians, some of their land back... We didn't want anything to do with it.  

After this we had gotten into Flagstaff. It is called high desert, but the snow and pine trees would suggest otherwise. This is where we stopped off for a drink. There was no question about it, we needed one. Mark spoke, "Whiskey." "Yes indeed my friend, what happened to not drinking?" "Fuck that noise, do you really think id make it across America without sampling spirits?" I had no response. We pulled up to one of our favorite types of bars, the dive. The worse possible looking bar from the outside, the best type of fun on the inside. We broke through the door like starving and thirsty, malnourished refugees, and immediately eyes fell upon us. We sat. "Jameson and a beer, two times."  The best drink I'd had in some time. The eyes strayed, to focus on things other than the newcomers. We sank into the bar and became oblivious to the all Seeing Eye. What a relief. 

We left the bar and drove to the university. We wanted to see the lifestyle of the Arizona student. It turns out, from our point of view, that there isn’t much difference between California and Arizona students. Yea there's a "boundary" that divides states but does it divide the way we live. Nobody knows really. America has never been a whole like Germany or France. We are a people of immigrants. We all moved to this beautiful piece of land. Only American Indians are true Americans.

As we approached the Arizona-New Mexico border, I realized that I had brought a good amount of Marijuana with me on our excursion.  Remembering a story a bartender, by the name of Jackson, had told me, New Mexico police were very strict when it came to illicit "drugs." For some reason I got extremely paranoid by the thought of police searching our bags, and car.  I told Mark to pull the car over and I began to rip the back of the car apart, searching for my ganj.  I found it, took a couple of real large rips and then left the weed on the side of the road and continued down the road.  After we got on the road, "What the hell was that Thomas?" "Sorry man, I got really paranoid, I know I will regret this a few days in the future." And we did.

As we pushed forward on our trail through the desert of the southwest we crossed the "boundary" of New Mexico. God I hate that place. There was aridity and struggle. I assume that is how America lives. Survival, that's what you call it. I remember the deserted freeway towns. Maybe population of 600 and just a hotel, Taco Bell, and a Chevron. Damned corporations taking over even the poorest of settlements in America. We stopped off for gas about 120 miles outside of Albuquerque. I phoned my dad. I told him of the desert and the mountains we had crossed.  He assured me that he had been there before. As he explained his experience with this godforsaken land I couldn't help but realize how fucking awful this place was. How could someone live here?  There is nothing. There isn't even a grocery store. Fuck.

We made our way over to Albuquerque and finally it seemed as though we were entering into a place where people actually lived.  It was populated and Mark and I were grateful for the sense of breaking into a place that was bustling and moving.  It was opposite of the freeways through Arizona and New Mexico. There were beautiful pieces of artwork along the freeways as we set our aim on the very center of the city.  Albuquerque is a city, set up against a large range of hills.  I wouldn't call them mountains because they were not tall enough.  It did create a backdrop for the city and cast an odd feeling over the city.  It wasn't a place we could call home, even though we were happy to enter it. We continued to get closer and closer to the heart of the city and I remember driving down the streets of Albuquerque.  It seemed old, a bit run down outside of the city center, but because we had never been there it was all new.  There was nothing old about it. 

We decided to stop off and grab something to eat before we continued on. We found a small place, pushed up next to a strip club.  All we got were sandwiches, chips, and drinks. After eating we walked outside and a gentleman approached us from the strip joint.  "You gentleman want a two for one special?" I immediately remember the drinks from Flagstaff, but retorted, "We are on tight schedule that we must stick to." That was all that had to be said, as he walked to another pair of gentlemen walking in the opposite direction.  Mark hadn't said a word or even looked at the man.  I feel as though if the decision had been left to him, we would have been sitting there with some New Mexico women on our laps. 

Chapter 3

 People often mistake change for circumstances in life that are not chosen. I believe that is why people are afraid of change, the different, the new.  I have always tried to embrace it. So when we finally got through that desert of New Mexico and into the panhandle of Texas it was an immediately different feel. We pulled over about 4 miles into Texas and we stepped out of the car. It was dusk then, late dusk. The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, but the colors, from sky and golden orb, had blended into a whirlwind of colors on an expansive canvas over the Texas plains. Shortly after, Texas became very dark. Our second night on the road.

That evening we both began to get twangs of hunger.  From the passenger seat I heard, "Let’s stop in yellow."  Confused I said, "Yellow? What do you mean," until it hit me and I realized the connection, marks wit precedes him. As we approached that city there was not much to choose from around 1am. We pulled off the freeway and drove south on some boulevard. There were law enforcement vehicles racing up and down the street, which made for an uneasy feeling as we approached the only food establishment open for miles. As we ordered and got our food from the drive-thru window I couldn't help but notice the tone of the man’s eyes gazing at us through the window. A young man, Caucasian and angry. His eyes said, "What are you doing here? Why do you mock me? Get on." It saddened me, but we listened. Driving away you could feel the burn of someone watching you, staring on at the vehicle California plates. We ended up eating in a parking lot just south of the 40. Let me tell you, that food was awful. I have never had worse sustenance in my life. I have even eaten spoiled food, and this was worse. We didn't even finish the "meal," threw everything in the closest garbage, and continued on our journey. 

At this point in time, I was driving, and for some odd reason my eyes began to burn, and I had a headache and sneezing.  It had been a long time since I had caught a cold. "I think I may be coming down with something," I said turning to Mark.  "Same, I can't catch my breath," Mark responded.  By this time we were just on the outskirts of Oklahoma City.  At around 3 am, this city is abandoned and all you can see are the lights from some small skyscrapers.  There is one that stands out among the rest.  It was called the Devon Energy Corporation.  The company built a structure that towered over the rest of the buildings in the city. It was funny because most of the buildings are brick, originals, while this one was modern and designed by, I am assuming, a very large, ambitious team of engineers and architects.  I thought it an eyesore at the very least.

We drove around the city for about 30 minutes, and then parked on the street across from the Dev Corp.  Still feeling sick, Mark mentioned, "Maybe it's just allergies."  "Let's get some drugs from Seven Eleven," I said. Partially blinded by our puffy eyes we walked into the store immediately in search for an over the counter allergy medicine. Mark got to it first but it was eight dollars for one pill, supposedly with the strength to knock out allergies for 24 hours and not make you sleepy. I can't believe how much that passage sounded like an advertisement. 

We picked up some other items from the convenience store and pressed forward. At that point it was about three am, maybe four. We began to leave Oklahoma City, because of the lack of life. We were the only things that had been moving through that city’s veins.  It was so quiet, almost maddening. I never imagined of being in a city that I would not like, until I was in OKC. What an awful place at night.

Chapter 4

You may look into this writing trying to decipher a secondary meaning; if that is your end goal this is the wrong story for you.  What I write is what I mean; there is no in between the lines here.  There is no subliminal message or anything of the sort. I want to say this and reiterate it, time and time again.  Not because I have any problems with the reader or their intentions, but to be open and honest about what you have in front of you.  This is my life, with some additional fictitious scenes, that I wish, had happened on the way.  I have started describing a wonderful and fulfilling journey.  I am currently on another.  MY muse is my eyesight.  I see and I write, I hear, and I write.  I love everything about living. I know nothing else. 

As I sit here on the Amtrak, heading north from Salinas to Portland I find myself asking the same questions.  Who am I? What am I doing? Is this the right choice? I am complacent.  None of those questions matter anymore.  What I do is what I am. In order to live a happy life, I must do what I want to do.  Emphasis on the I.  If someone wants to share my journey, they are more than welcome to accompany me.  But it’s my journey.  Selfish as it may sound. 

 This chapter is number four.  And this part of my writing is completely different from what has been prior.  But at the same time it is all the same. I take the stance that when starting a new chapter; we are taking a new journey.  Join me in stepping out of our comfort zone, thirsting for El Nuevo.

Chapter 5

The majority of our journey past Arizona became a dream. There are only small snippets that actually stood out, worth mentioning. After Oklahoma City, we took an hour break along the freeway, where we tried to sleep, but the little auto we had chosen restricted even your slightest attempt to stretch out for comfortably. This was around 6 am and not only was the car awfully small for anyone to sleep in but it was cold outside, something near 28 degrees Fahrenheit.  No chance of sleeping outside.

We jumped back on the freeway and ended up in St. Louis around 2 pm the day we were supposed to arrive in Chicago. We stopped here and took in the Mississippi River as well as the famous stainless steel arch. Other than that, St. Louis hadn't much to offer us. We had our eyes set on something completely different, and we would reach that idea soon. We set out and by about 7:30 pm reached Chicago an our hotel, the Lincoln. 

Upon arrival, exhaustion had set in, but the blustery and blistery city wind woke us into a dream like state of wonder.  We had made it.  It was at this time we rejoiced, with our drinks of choice, mine a Manhattan on the rocks and my companion's, a beer of his choice, as we sat in the bar looking northwest down North Lincoln Avenue.  

The next four days were our reward for making it across a majority of the United States, in a single take.  47 hours, straight, switching drivers whenever possible.  The below freezing weather we wandered into was taken in and enjoyed, by myself.  Steam coming from manholes, and every man and woman's nostrils or mouths. Watery eyes, hidden skin, and invisible ears were expected here. The reward was an experience into how other humans lived, their environment, their quirks, their city.

For those few days it was our city too.  We partied with locals, took public transport, perused the shops, drank the beer, ate the food, met old friends, and got in touch with ourselves.  We rooted in four days to that beloved city, or I rooted, I should say. Relatives of mine have always said that the cold is what keeps people away from their homes, almost like their protective moat from outsiders. I was the long lost resident that had finally made it through, and I was welcomed back with wide cobblestone streets, so familiar, I hadn't the slightest remembrance of leaving.

In reality, I had never been to Chicago, but it felt like a place I could be.  It was more of a representation of what was possible, and what I longed for in my life.  From the day we set out from the rugged country of Carmel Valley, I knew that I would not be returning the same.  And after our return trip through the grueling snow covered roads of Utah, Wyoming, and Nevada, we made it back to our homeland of California's Central Coast.

When arriving home there is always a feeling of unfulfillment or that your voyage had not been enough to forget some of your daily regimens.  Eight days is not an eternity, but the journey gave me the stimuli I needed to make my next expedition.  It would create an innate yearning for the travel required to find a place or person that is your home. I have been following that path ever since.

To the dollars spent, memories created, and longing for something different.  Chicago changed me in a way no person ever could. 

The Cowboy and The Bartender

More diaries of a traveler.  Moving North, South, East, or West. Wherever the wind blows, however much money I have.  Sell a pair of socks in Montana, work in a dish pit in Oregon. Of course we have set plans.  We have an idea of where we want to go, and where we want our souls to be. Nothing is set, except for death.  Everything between birth and death is not predetermined. Make your own path.

I learned this the hard way as a young child. I would always follow the herd and make friends based on what the norm was. All the boys played football, I joined.  We ran away from girls, as did I.  It was not until I reached my college years, or after my real first break up with a longtime girlfriend, did I start doing things my own way.  To this day I have people, including close friends and family, telling me I am “random.”  I have always been looking for that type of recognition.  I blaze my own trail.  Fuck the rest. 

I once ran into a cowboy northeast of San Francisco.  His name was Peter; I had always thought that a weird name for a cowboy.  Aging rapidly but only 32, his leathers had shown his consistent, hard work. His gloves hinted at the long hours of work put in since his decision to live off the land.  The discoloration of his teeth was consistent with long years of cigarette smoking or chew, I needn’t ask which. He was about 5’5 with a well-trimmed beard that could only be that perfect with a straight blade razor. His hat was a beige color and had a small rawhide rope around it. I do not know anything about hat materials or how they are made.  All I know is what I saw and the rawhide rope was tied off with a brass piece shaped like a star, but not a regular star but similar to the shape you would find on the key or compass of a map.  It really was a beautiful hat. His dark brown eyes suggested strength but loss in the past.  His demeanor was very humble, happy, but not boastful, in the least.  

I had met this gentleman in a bar called Matilda’s.  I had wandered in after a trip up to Petaluma for some beer drinking and debauchery in San Francisco. I was only years into being legally obliged to consume alcohol in the United States.  I always thought the drinking laws in the US were complete bullshit, I still think a majority of the laws are outdated.  Time for a makeover, US.  Anyway, I plopped down for a drink at this bar top, there were only six stools, no tables, that was it.  I had always wondered about small places like this, how they ever made it.  I had a background in business and from what I was taught, there was hardly enough business to have this place open year round, to pay anyone to run it, or to restock the shelves. The way I figured it to still be open is that the building was owned, the owner ran it, and the stock they had was so limited that it was only suited to the neighborhood regulars, like Peter.

“Crown on the rocks, and a Coors back,” peter mumbled at the bartender. “Never changin are ya Pete?” asked the bartender. “It’s how I have always been since I could remember.” I had never known anyone to order whiskey with a beer back, except my father and myself.  Most men didn’t really enjoy the taste of whiskey and only wanted the forgetfulness that accompanied a few drinks.  I could tell peter was not like that. He liked his smoke strong, his alcohol stronger, and from what I could assume, his women stronger. “I’ll have another Jack Daniels, if you would sir,” I spoke timidly.

 “You aren’t from here are ya, son.” How in the hell do bartenders always know!  I guess it is their job to know. 

“No sir, I am up here on business.” Pete replied, “What type of business are you in.”

“I work in restaurants, some lodging and accommodations. How about yourself?”

Pete looked around at me and the bartender; it was just the three of us.  “Pete runs a ranch about 13 miles outside of town,” said the bartender. “Mainly cattle, some pigs, chickens, horses, some grapes as well. I try to keep it simple,” said Pete, somewhat glaring at the bartender. 

“Hard work I would suppose,” I said this with no idea what I was talking about, trying to be as general as possible to begin a more in depth conversation.

“Yes, it is.  After the years, you begin to get into the habit of waking up before sunrise and falling asleep, tired as all hell, then waking up and doing it over again, it is cyclical.” Pete continued to look around the bar, as soon as he spoke those words it seemed as though something he had not understood resurfaced and he finally made sense of it all. 

It was around 3:30 in the afternoon. Pete, the bartender, and I were still the only ones drinking.  A homeless had wandered in amidst our conversation and settled at the opposite end of the bar, stinking of all hell.  The bartender went up and asked “what’s your poison?” 

“Give me your cheapest, strongest liquor.” Whenever you hear that before 9:00pm, it’s no good.  The bartender poured the drink and walked away to resume conversation with the new companions of the day.  I spoke up, “How do you keep this old place running with such limited seating?” 

“Your speaking like a businessman, don’t. I have owned this place for over 30 years, my pop before that. We have only the essentials and we don’t mix cocktails.  I ain’t no Tom Cruise.” I thought to myself, a bit of an outdated comparison but I get it. 

“You don’t get any problems with break ins or wanders messin with regulars?” He laughed, “I am surprised you walked in, we have a reputation in this town. If we don’t like ya, you don’t stay.”

I figured that this must be a good thing that he was telling me this, otherwise I wouldn’t have stayed, I assumed. “Now Hal stop trying to scare the kid, he barley looks old enough to drink.  Did you check his ID! He could be an undercover,” retorted Pete. 

Jesus, did Hal get angry damned quickly. He turned a bit red, infuriated, I was sure. He let his big fist slam down in front of my whiskey, a small portion actually spilled out of the glass. He was a big man and I was somewhat intimated about what was going to happen next in this very small bar.  I scanned for my exits, but there was only one way out.  Through Pete.  “You trying to run me out of business, kid?”

“I’m just here for a drink, I’ll be on my way if you want, or I could stay for another whiskey,” I said rather coolly for the situation at hand. 

Hal straightened up, walked over the homeless thing, I couldn’t tell gender, and he told it, “Get out and never come back.” His voice was so shrill when he said this. For a big man like Hal, weighing well over 300 pounds, it was not the most intimidating voice, but usually, you obey when a man three times your size tells you to get. Slowly the homeless walked out, never making eye contact with any of us. In the pit of my stomach I felt somewhat bad for the lonesome looking creature, but I was sure glad it was not me.

I finished my drink and began settling up with Hal when Pete looked over with his brown eyes and inquired, “What’s your name traveler?” “George Harring, but my friends call me Thomas.” I am not sure why I said that but Pete knew exactly what I meant. Keeping my anonymity but at the same time giving some slack on the line. Hal being the big and kind of dumb oaf he was said, “It’s been a pleasure George.” As I began walking out of the bar Pete swiveled on his chair and with a tip of his hat said, “Enjoy that life of yours Thomas."