*Author’s Note – In my travels this far, everybody that becomes aware of the fact that I am an Arizonian wants to tell me their opinion of SB 1070. I find this makes for boring conversation. It does have me thinking about Mexico though, that and the fact I had a chile relleno burrito yesterday. *
How did it get this far? Walter thinks over his Clamato beer. He drinks out of 55-gallon drums. He drinks a big beer; He is a big crab.
His morning thus far has been spent tailor-fitting his new weapons of death. They are almost ready. He is bloated from cigarettes and $1 potato burritos. He is becoming irritable.
Puerto Penasco, he thinks, where the girls are always at least 18 and food is always $1. He promised himself he would never come back to Mexico. This is business, no choice. These brass knuckles are taking too long to make, Walter thinks with extreme impatience.
Another hour. Another 55-gallon Clamato Beer. He might as well get his buzz on. Half way through what must be his 17th plate of $1-sktechy-cart-in-front-of-Manny’s-tacos, he sees an octet of draught donkeys pulling a set of knucks his way. !Andele Pues!! Walter yells to hurry them.
Finally!! He tries on the brass knuckles, they fit perfect. Oh yeah bud, Walter says. He starts waving them around, they are lighter than he expected, he is drunker than he expected.
People gather, watching this marvelous beast get set up. Walter feels their anticipatory energy. He flexes for them, he winks at the women. The crowd reciprocates with loud cheers. He begins swinging his claws through the air. First delicately – jab, jab, hook…..jab, jab, hook. The old one-two. Faster the crab spars, multi-punch combos, footwork.
Now the crab is vicious in his demonstration, until all of the Mexicans on the strip are cheering and dancing. Music sounds from a car stereo borrowed from Tucson, perpetuating the energy!! He begins to dance. He is unexpectedly agile and something of a suave dancer, accounting for the fact – he is a giant crustacean.
A shout from the crowd, !!Eres chingon guey!!! Walter knods and lifts his Claws of Mass Destruction overhead. All while keeping rhythm, he brings the CMD’s back down and obliterates a few beer bottles being thrown at him for practice! Fireworks begin!! Holy Shit!! The streets are alive!!! Walter is alive!! He is a monster!!
The dancing Walter turns ocean-bound, with a legion of partiers following him. This is great, Walter thinks, but I must get back to the Northwest, I must put these CMD’s to work. Joseph dies by my brassed-claw soon.
On the beach, he takes a snapshot with a group of girls that are probably at least 18. They yell Spring Break 2010!! It’s summer. He dives into the sea and vanishes.
13-hundred miles North, Joseph sits relaxed, drinking beer, eating chips ‘n salsa, on a dock in Waldport, OR. Spicy. This makes him think of Mexico, to the east side of the train tracks in Nogales. Joseph amassed a respectable bit of work down there in his yesteryears. He thinks about going into detail – He thinks about the audience that is possibly reading this. He thinks he will stop thinking about Nogales, now.
Anyhow, Joseph hasn’t been to Nogy since the time he tripped and fell into the brass-knuckled right hand of a neck-tattoed, spider-web goateed, gentleman, providing momentary loss of consciousness, and 9 stitches in order that his eyelid be properly relocated. His backbone chills. Brass Knuckles. He thinks of going south to retaliate, this thought is short-lived however – when his iphone alarm sounds -time to pull up the crab rings.
Joseph pulls the rings from the ocean floor. No keepers. Women, children – throw them back. He giggles at that. He checks his bait and tosses the crab rings back into the water.
Crab fishing, started as a hobby, now has quickly become the focus of his life. That’s fine, he needs something to do – he has almost finished mastering the list. Items left are charm and pastry discernment. Those will come.
He has added a few skills, he felt mandatory, to the Astoria outhouse loves of great men list: picking bad stocks, returning library books on-time, parking in the space absolutely farthest in the lot from the entrance to the grocery store, and lastly, smoking cigarettes in sleeping bags.
He continues to work this list, for it is this list that has made him the great man that he stands today. So great has he become, that his inner voice now sounds like John Wayne.
He turns up to the bar at the top of the dock, where old weathered sea-dogs sordidly gather to whistle-wet and fish-story. A homeless god-fearing drunk, who looks like his name would be Leroy, often stands on the bar, cigarette in-mouth, and acts out age-old epics of a clawed leviathan named Walter. These stories fascinate Joseph. He imagines, though, that a man of his standard could easily deal with this Walter.
Joseph spends the rest of his morning then afternoon, between bar and dock. What crabs he catches, he subsequently trades for pints. He is good at this. Accordingly, he decides he will spend evening then night between bar and dock as well.
This is the last good day that will be had by both parties. Walter knows he must attack tomorrow, as to not let Joseph strengthen his skill-set further. Joseph knows that he must fish and drink, for it is his life’s work at current.
The author surmises that either Walter or Joseph, would be delighted with THIS DAY serving as their penultimate. Who wouldn’t be?