Mojo - 34. Chapter 31: A Journey Inland

.

Chapter 31: A Journey Inland

The way the exposed strata of cliff faces angled sharply in the afternoon sunlight reminded me of bolts of fabric seen from the folded end.

Darker layers of stone were probably the bottoms of ancient seabeds, but now ribboned themselves through berms of softer sandstone to form vistas and valleys. On the floor of these hollows, scrubland plants fought tenaciously for life, refusing to give up hope on the monsoons yet to arrive.

The sky behind this scenery of green and rock was plate-glass blue, and held on jealously to little wisps of parched clouds. These formations were not enough to provide shade down on the ground, so despite knowing how silly we looked, I was glad Sadeeq had picked up some broad, workman sombreros for our journey at the public market.

And what a journey it'd been. My aching backside could tell you stories of sore. It turned out the mode of transportation Squiffy Wellington had in mind were donkeys. His friend had lent us the pack animals, which although slower, allowed us to avoid the main road and its patrolmen. We cut straight across the desert, and keeping my eye on the subtle changes in landscape took my mind off my discomfort for the most part. Especially the differing forms of the towering saguaro cactus; arms of two, three, and sometimes four, housed intrepid birds who’d peck out cozy nesting cavities amid the barbed-wire line of vertical needles.

Clumps of paler-green paddle cacti littered the canyon floor here and there, and although the wrong season, I knew the tops of each healthy ‘pad’ would produce a shower of red flowers in celebration of the life-renewing rain.

Some other, even lighter colored plants popped up singly from the sandy soil. They grew taller than the paddle cactus, which they seemed to congregate around, but looked for all the world like spiky sea coral, sprouting serpentine branches from a crinkle-crankle stalk.

Despite my best efforts to keep my poetic mind occupied with the slowly passing environment, I couldn’t quite shut out the endless inane patter the former celebrity chef and current-day mad poet kept up from the backs of their burros. No amount of ambling or dry heat seemed to rob them of speech, unfortunately. I’d come to regard Squiffy’s manner of expression unpleasant – mouth parched for loquacious moisture seemed apt analogy – for with this British man, his word choice aimed to sting, but more than that was the way a certain acid tinge inflected emphasis on certain syllables which tended to be languid in the mouths of others. But not in his, either passing under or over his sharp tongue.

I glanced to my side, to my boy. We had nothing, but it felt good to travel light, and he looked cute on the back of his mouse-colored donkey.

“Are you all right, honey?” He looked tired.

“Wish we were there, that’s all.”

Squiffy shouted back: “It’s not far now. As the nooseman said to the condemned, ‘Hang tight.’” He laughed and laughed; did so to the point of needing to pull out his canteen, which we knew was full of firewater. The man took a swig, raising squinting eyes to the sun slowly but surely retreating in the west, or back the way we’d come.

Just then my burro stiffened his muscles below me, and a great horned lizard scurried lightning-fast off the narrow trail in front of us.

Following the way it ran, I was surprised to see large-eared coyotes peppered along a nearby ridge. Brazenly, they just hung out like medium-sized dogs commanded to ‘sit’ and watch our little party pass. They were well within sight, but clearly out of reach if one or all of us decided to go after them.

If the sun hadn’t broiled my brain yet, I might have persuaded myself that their canine eyes stayed locked on the TV chef; it crossed my mind how every stray seemed interested in the food sophist-savant.

“And this mysterious place we’re going to, where poetry and poets are admired, does that extend to some of the more ‘eager’ young men?”

Squiffy bounced a hard laugh off the canyon walls; it was delivered at Sadeeq’s expense. “You mean, randy old sod, to stir the creative juices?”

“Precisely,” replied the poet in all due seriousness.

Wellington bounded back on his donkey for a moment in silence, then used his panama hat as a fan, saying, “I’m sure you won’t have trouble finding eagers of both genders.”

“I was just thinking,” enthused Sadeeq, “what with ‘the cure’ in the waters and the availability of the genuine Spanish fly, I should be more than ready to accommodate any willing young acolyte looking for a mentor.”

“Oh, I know, dear chap. I know. There was a time young women threw themselves at my feet, or kitchen clogs, to be more accurate. Why, I remember a time in Rio, this fine young senhora had bundled herself on the bottom shelf of a room catering trolley. Let me tell you, the service at the Ao Almofadinha Hotel was exquisite.”

‘Yeah,’ I thought, ‘and I’m sure the girl’s services were duly included on his room tab.’ It was the kind of story that sounded made up anyway. As such, Sadeeq felt honor-bound to try and top it.

“That’s nothing!” exclaimed the mad muse-abuser.

“Nothing…?” The chef was astounded.

“Indeed. Here’s a hotter incident that happened to me. When I first started my social media blitz, this boy – underage boy – contacted me from Israel. He was a real kosher firecracker, this kid, and started flirting shamelessly with me. Anyway, comes his summer break, and his family in Israel are shipping him off to relatives in Seattle. The crafty bugger booked a lay-over – if you know what I mean – for six hours in L.A. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say the boy’s flight to the Pacific Northwest was a hard one to sit through, but I’m sure he was grinning the whole way.”

‘More made-up rubbish,’ I thought. ‘Total BS.’ I bet these guys had never been even halfway close to an honest brush with the law.

Sadeeq cried all of a sudden, “Who wants to hear another one of my masterpieces?”

Since he was looking at me, I shrugged, with both Gordon and his donkey turning accusatory eyes on me. I guess I should not encourage him; our mad poet had been droning out his own lamentations and elegies for most of the afternoon.

“This one,” he announced with pride, “I call the Reykjavik Rainbow:

“From besieged Moscow and Washington they came,

To a barren strip of volcanic sand,

Close by Reykjavik, before it had fame

As the place two troubled leaders would stand

Halfway between their capitals in Iceland;

Great opportunities came so seldom,

Especially those of equilibrium.

Old men in overcoats, there the two stood,

Amidst October winds and a bleak sky,

A shot at peace seemed a real unlikelihood,

For forty years of stalemate could belie

Neither side was willing to give peace a try

Because the military industry

Said concord was nothing but a travesty.

The Hofdi House, a charming gingerbread treat,

Hosted this unusual world event

In a home so charming it seemed obsolete

For a world of nuclear weapons bent

To propose no less than Man’s extinguishment;

To say we teetered on the brink is true,

As minutes on the Doomsday Clock did accrue.

Handshakes for cameras, Gorbachev already

In the house, anxious to begin the talks,

And soon the scope would prove Reagan unready –

At total peace on the table he balks –

Threatens that the Americans and he walks

If such high-faluting stakes are at play

As changing the course of the world in a day.

Inside then, and settled in the dining room,

The Soviet laid it all on the line:

His people suffered the Cold War’s deepest gloom,

Plowshares beat to swords seemed no longer fine

If privation and hunger were to consign

The future they had to a distant past;

And leave the skies permanently overcast.

Unready was Reagan, on that gray-cloud eve,

To trust his so-called enemy at all,

So nothing was accomplished one could believe

Proved a new world was born this day in fall,

Yet something like Fate’s writing was on the wall:

‘Encourage the bold and let it be your guide;

Never seek war as a cozy place to hide.’

Unable to sleep, the tired man sought counsel.

George Shultz was cagy, uncompromising,

But even he thought this accord might chronicle

A change others might be recognizing

As a great diplomatic thaw before spring.

Armed, the next day’s meetings would rearrange

The distrust among men and bring about change.

Agreements flew fast and steady all that day

As Gorbachev saw four decades of neglect

Be patched up one by one without delay –

And all the misconceptions made correct

Where man to man two opinions could connect.

Great the will of man when it’s put to use,

Free of bias, prejudice and all abuse.

And to seal the peace, then the gray skies parted,

Showing over Reykjavik a rainbow,

Reminding us how God’s vow started

Post-flood, when new life had a chance to grow,

That never again on Man would He bestow

The threat of our destruction if not our own;

If not ready for our own sins to atone.”[1]

Sadeeq was far from done, but as he drew in a breath and contemplated what came next, Squiffy interjected.

Swaying lightly on the back of his burro, the man said nonchalantly: “I met Reagan once.”

Gordon perked. “Oh, really?! We learned all about him in History class: how he bankrupt the country by giving arms dealers free rein, and trickled up all the tax benefits to the rich. So what did you say to him?”

“I said, ‘Get out of my light.’”

Sadeeq was stunned. “Really? Get out of my light?”

“Yes, old chap. We were about to start filming a segment for my Squiffy Skewers America series. It was on how to debone a turkey on the White House lawn. And then, he interrupted so I told him to move.”

We weary pack of travelers were a bit speechless, and if I’m honest, the burros even seemed to shrug at that one.

Exasperated, Squiffy Wellington exclaimed: “The show must go on, dearies. I suppose you’d have to be a celebrity like Ronald Reagan or myself to understand.” Being misunderstood as he was, the man restored to the ‘comfort’ of his 100proof canteen. “Yes, I’ve known PMs, presidents, princes and the lot, but not a one of them would bow to me today, so far have I fallen.”

“Cheer up, Squiffy, old boy,” Sadeeq told him.

“No, no, it’s true. As a bum and a beggar, I make a tragic figure.”

“How so?” Gordon asked.

“Simple. Put a lame man out there, on the sidewalk with a tin cup, or put a woman with a white cane in a train station with a plate for coins, and they’ll be able to profit a bit by their misfortune. It’s true; they’ll be able to eke out a living from the able-bodied masses. But, put me in the same locations…?”

“Yes? And what would happen?” I asked.

“Why, nothing would happen; I’d starve. Do pay more attention, dear boy. The moral of the story is this: people will mindlessly toss coins at the lowly in an attempt to assuage an angry Fate from making themselves go limp, or as tribute to a capricious godhead who might smite them blind at any moment, but none of those selfsame kindhearts ever imagine they could be a down and out television celebrity, so I’d go hungry. Just me and Matt Lauer, I suppose….”

Gordon and I exchanged eye-rolls. We wanted to laugh in relief of the tension, but it would be wrong to chortle at another man’s genuine misery, no matter how flamboyant a form that suffering took.

“And worst yet,” added Squiffy, “never mind hunger; I thirst!”

“Not with us you won’t, my friend.” Sadeeq was quick to reassure by patting the extra canteen of jet juice he’d packed on his donkey. The sagacious poet knew the man leading us through this wasteland as guide had to be placated and properly lubricated, lest he turn as capricious as the godhead so recently cited.

The landscape opened up again and the trail began to rise. It appeared as if we were heading to a pass through two sloping mesas, but it would still be quite a long time until we surmounted the highest point.

Our donkeys started to labor a bit with the incline, and I looked to my boy. He’d been a bit quiet on this trip.

“What about you, young man,” the washed-up TV personality said to me. “Any war stories about conquests?”

Gordon laughed. “Don’t ask him. We’ll be here for days.

“Yeah,” Sadeeq chimed in. “I imagine as a teacher, some temptation or other has presented itself to you.”

Not immediately acknowledging Gordon’s blush – because the poet’s description fit Gordon’s taking me in the supply closet to a tee – I said, “No, not really.”

The lecherous poet smiled in a way I knew would get me in trouble with my boy.

“Well, there’s one personal experience I could be convinced to share…” Sadeeq got into storytelling mode. “This happened pretty soon after I graduated from college. I needed some money, so I accepted a job as a live-in tutor to shape up this boy’s ability to take university entrance exams.

“I knew I’d just be living there for a few months, but this kid – let’s call him ‘Ralph’ – proved a huge temptation, not the least of which was because of his innocent face belying an already-raunchy heart. He was truly beautiful and I wanted him, only learning later that he’d already seduced every boy in his class.

“One fine evening, we were studying in my room well past midnight and he fell asleep on my floor, only I knew it was all an act. So I knelt by his side and pretended to pray: ‘Dear god of Love, who art in heaven or wherever, if only I might kiss this boy without his awakening, I’ll give him a pair of video games as reward.’

“Once he heard the value of the requested favor, he started to snore.

“So I ‘stole’ a few passionate kisses with the hot boy lying there like a faker, and good to my word, the next morning I trotted off to the store and got his games.

“As soon as we found ourselves in the same situation, a couple of days later, my prayer became: ‘…Let me kiss and caress his body all over – and I’ll give him a puppy.’

“Well, never a stone slept more soundly than that boy. Again I started with kisses, but soon made off with his clothes. The result was me giving him a half and half, where his little moans of pleasure and the fact that his ‘rover’ was stiff long before I got down to it told me I was not trespassing in the least.

“So the next day I go down to the shelter and picked out a nice poodle puppy for my boy.

“Ralph was so happy and appreciative, the same night while we were studying I decided to let the kid take charge. Pretending to fall asleep on the bed, I heard the young man say: ‘Oh, god of Love, if I go all the way with Sadeeq, I pray he’ll give me a car!’

“Well, no shrinking violet was Ralph, and I had a devil of a time remaining ‘asleep.’ But the boy on top knew what he was doing, and eventually I moaned and made his dream come true.

“Now, cars are not as easy to come by as games or puppies, but I walked around town until inspiration struck.

“That evening, when he entered my room to study, he dropped all pretenses, along with his books. He came up to me, wrapped hands around my neck, and gave me a cock-rousingly hot kiss.

“’Please, Sadeeq,’ he said. ‘Where’s my car?’

“’Here,’ I said, and presented him with a radio-controlled toy Porsche.

“He looked at it disappointed, and then laughed, saying the god of love can be such a tricky little trickster.

“I agreed, but soon his laughter turned to more kisses, and we made love for the first time with our eyes open.

“Now, after Ralph had properly initiated me, I had no qualms about seeking his favors. Whenever he was too tired or not in the mood, he’d tell me pettishly: ‘You better watch it, or I’ll tell my father.’

“One night, the teen was particularly randy, and even though we’d had our fun three times in one evening, his little probing hands woke me up for a fourth shag. I hugged him tight and said, “You better watch it, randy little boy, or I’ll tell your father.” The poet ended with a rhetorical flourish. “Now that’s a true story! You can put it in the bank.”

The chef rattled off some horrible mangling of vowels: “Nihil est tam arduum, quod non improbitas extorqueat. Or, ‘No obstacle is too great for a lack of scruples to overcome.’”[2]

Talk of scruples raised my hackles. I turned to see the cause, and realized too late that Sadeeq’s big mouth had given away lots of sordid details previously withheld from my new husband. Ooops….

“That’s a piece of schoolboy Latin I remember,” explained Squiffy. “Not that I remember much of last week, but fifty years ago – now that is clear as a bell.”

“That is a true story, isn’t it, Sadeeq,” stated Gordon, “but not yours.”

The poet grinned and split guilty glances between me and my newlywed husband.

I told Sadeeq, “Remind me to never again tell you anything in ‘strictest confidence.’ If I want a thing advertised, I’ll do it myself.”

“So that was your adventure, young man,” said Squiffy. “How interesting.”

“I agree.” Gordon had an arch tone to his voice. “Details not even I’ve heard before.”

“Why don’t you finish the story for us then,” asked the tipsy ‘travelling gourmet.’

I smiled at my boy. “Not much to tell really, just that Rolf got me in trouble. In Germany, he was old enough to decide on a lover, but not old enough to know any better concerning money.”

Gordon said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I didn’t ask him to do this, but he started giving me coins from his father’s bullion collection. One per fuck, he said, to keep as souvenirs of our times together.”

“So, that’s why you had to leave Germany,” my husband observed.

“Yeah!’ exclaimed Sadeeq. “Cuz they fucked a LOT!”

‘Oh, boy,’ I thought. ‘I’ll have a great deal to make up for with Gordon tonight.’ But, on the other hand, at least now the full story was out to my boy.

Our donkeys were plodding along switchback trails, leading us gradually up and up to the side of this scrubland cliff.

I changed the subject. “And what about this place we’re going to; what’s it called?”

“Crotones, old chap. There’s a sad story of how adherence to rote convention obscured the average person’s ability to accurately evaluate human avarice, evil, etcetera.”

“What do you mean, exactly?” Gordon asked.

“Once rich, they rolled headlong into decline as people allowed the profiteers to squander public wealth on an army too large and grand to ever use. To appease the masses, these Crotonian political carpet-baggers imported tons of trinkets from overseas, and all the rest of the peoples’ hard-earned pesos poured into foreign banks.”

Sadeeq laughed. “Bullets, not bread – what a way to go.”

“Yes, old soul. Subsequently, nowadays the only way for Crotonian fat-cats to hold onto power through the people’s misery is by misinformation and fear. Lie to them, tell them it’s all the fault of outsiders, not the constipated men who have had their hands on the levers of power for decades and sold them out. It’s a sad situation not to trust what you are told. It reduces once-honest men into two camps, and two camps only: the cheat or the cheated.”

“Yes,” I said, “but what about the reason we are going there?”

“Oh, that. Well, my fine Germanic Schatzi, Crotones is a very ancient settlement, and existed long before the Spanish set foot on Baja. In the center of town is a spring, which all the people used to visit to take the cure for their sexual problems. At one time, Crotones had a massive festival to the Aztec god of fertility, with many days’ worth of feasting, drinking and orgy. They believed the pool was where the feathered serpent god bathed before taking his eternal journey to the west.”

“They don’t have this festival anymore?”

“Well, perhaps they do, but it’s different, dear boy. Everything’s different. The Spanish rolled in, walled off the sacred precinct and built a church atop the springs.”

Sadeeq chuckled. “Horny priests. They keep it all the sacred love juice for themselves.”

“Funny thing is,” explained Squiffy, “the church uses the spring as the source for its holy water. People come, fill up bottles from the stone founts to take home and souse their privates in private.”

The poet joked: “Would Jesus approve…? Probably.”

“And I hear the hospitality of the people is generous, as long as they think there’s something in it for them. Keep that in mind….”

While Squiffy prattled on, and as our burros neared the summit, my mind was stuck on the image of Quetzalcoatl bathing in the waters. Maybe it was simply my imagination, but there seemed something positively Priapic about it.

I glanced up in time to see Gordon’s ass keeping an eye on me with a spark like a knowing smirk. Perhaps we were being led here the whole time.

Just then, we finally cleared the crest of the hill. Down below us was a desolate valley with a glittering walled town in the center of it.

‘Almost there…’ I thought.

_