Faces stuck out in the crowd, and I began assuming things. Archaeologist on vacation sitting over at the small two-top table. Sports radio announcer from Sacramento here with his city councilor wife. Hey, that looks like Rick Perry over there in the corner!
Of course, they were all incognito, in their red-plaid shirts, artsy-fartsy boots and bandannas. Truly a “Prairie Home Companion” moment.
And perhaps those fellows leaning against the wall beside the stage, the ones wearing the sullen faces, were the locals. I just don’t know.
“Beautiful Mestizo! Raped! Our children are anathema! Our children are a long, sweet rain after a spring drought!”
Or something along those lines…
A beautiful, incensed Latina poet, and college professor, grasped at a microphone, admonishing the silent throng about the plight of the Mestizo, tattooed numbers on blanched skin, blond-haired/blue-eyed plunderers and the injustice/blessing of perpetuating a disenfranchised people.
It was pretty profound stuff (pass the beer nuts); however, nobody had any real passion for anarchy, so the prairie band re-took the stage and started playing a Freddie Fender number, “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights.”
I didn’t quite grasp the brevity of Johnny’s avocation over at Jett’s Bar & Grill earlier ( ironwork ) until he sashayed me across the small dance floor. Certain parts of Johnny’s large palms felt as if I were grasping at lava rocks.
“Looka' here!” We stopped in mid-twirl so that he could extend his hands into the amalgam of soft pink lights from various neon beer signs. The cracked black patches that covered strategic parts of Johnny’s palms looked like furry spiders.
Iron work equals mighty thirsty work. Pure and simple.
We were no longer dancing, but still standing on the dance floor…
“Didn’t get the chance to tell you ‘bout my cottonwoods, did I!”
Cottonwoods? I’m pretty sure that my facial expression resembled this man's...
“Bev and I got these big ole gorgeous cottonwoods lining the stream on our property. Couple summers ago, we were havin’ a big drought, you see? Those trees started looking mighty sickly. I tried everything I could imagine, and then I decided I’d bring them back to health with a big ole shot of nitrogen.”
I wasn’t following.
“Drove down to this pet shop sorta deal over’n El Paso, where they have all them – I don’t know -- rat-things that live in all those shavings. I asked ‘em if they’d let me bag up all their left-behinds.”
“Left-behinds?”
“You know – and pardon, ma’am – their droppins’.”
“Gotcha’! How did that work out?”
“Worked out fine! However, it lead to another problem. Ever’ rattlesnake within a 15-mile radius moved onto my place!”
A small hand went over my shoulder and I almost wet my pants. “You shoulda’ seen em! Things were everywhere!” Beverly had walked up behind us and began supplementing Johnny’s tale with arm gestures. “Some were this long!”
“She ain’t lyin’ bout that either. We’d kill one, here come another to take its place.”
“That’s right!” Beverly continued, “and don’t it teach us a beautiful lesson about leaving nature alone? We eventually just started watching the ground real close and learned how to move around between ‘em. They got used to us, we got used to them. It was a beautiful thing.”
Suddenly Johnny’s eyes light up. “Who wants ta’ go outside and sample some of my home-made liquor! Got two varieties, but they ain’t allowed in here!”
“What you got Johnny?” I was intrigued and started speculating about the brews… peyote punch? Rattlesnake-venom vodka?
“It’s a homemade Kahlua and just plain Shine, but it’s good quality shine!”
“Sounds delicious!” … but I didn’t feel like staggering around and hallucinating for 18 days out in the desert, so I politely declined.
Johnny walks his offer over to the rest of our motorcycle gang....
We were no longer dancing, but still standing on the dance floor…
“Didn’t get the chance to tell you ‘bout my cottonwoods, did I!”
Cottonwoods? I’m pretty sure that my facial expression resembled this man's...
“Bev and I got these big ole gorgeous cottonwoods lining the stream on our property. Couple summers ago, we were havin’ a big drought, you see? Those trees started looking mighty sickly. I tried everything I could imagine, and then I decided I’d bring them back to health with a big ole shot of nitrogen.”
I wasn’t following.
“Drove down to this pet shop sorta deal over’n El Paso, where they have all them – I don’t know -- rat-things that live in all those shavings. I asked ‘em if they’d let me bag up all their left-behinds.”
“Left-behinds?”
“You know – and pardon, ma’am – their droppins’.”
“Gotcha’! How did that work out?”
“Worked out fine! However, it lead to another problem. Ever’ rattlesnake within a 15-mile radius moved onto my place!”
A small hand went over my shoulder and I almost wet my pants. “You shoulda’ seen em! Things were everywhere!” Beverly had walked up behind us and began supplementing Johnny’s tale with arm gestures. “Some were this long!”
“She ain’t lyin’ bout that either. We’d kill one, here come another to take its place.”
“That’s right!” Beverly continued, “and don’t it teach us a beautiful lesson about leaving nature alone? We eventually just started watching the ground real close and learned how to move around between ‘em. They got used to us, we got used to them. It was a beautiful thing.”
Suddenly Johnny’s eyes light up. “Who wants ta’ go outside and sample some of my home-made liquor! Got two varieties, but they ain’t allowed in here!”
“What you got Johnny?” I was intrigued and started speculating about the brews… peyote punch? Rattlesnake-venom vodka?
“It’s a homemade Kahlua and just plain Shine, but it’s good quality shine!”
“Sounds delicious!” … but I didn’t feel like staggering around and hallucinating for 18 days out in the desert, so I politely declined.
Johnny walks his offer over to the rest of our motorcycle gang....
rough digs and fierce winetasters...
Beverly liked our group, in spite of the fact that we were affluent Harley riders from the Big City (not exactly her favorite kind of people, and she let me know that, right off) -- but God said it was good, Amen, and Beverly and I continued to talk.
“Beverly, how long have you and Johnny been married?
“We’re not.” she replies.
“Why not?”
“Whyever for?” Beverly is smiling like a Cheshire cat.
Beverly has strong and well-researched opinions about togetherness, human determination and spirituality. Beverly and Johnny have been together for almost 30 years. I could learn a lot from a woman like Beverly.
“Beverly, I would love to see that limousine.”
“Too bad we didn’t know you all were coming! We’d be driving you around in it.”
Beverly liked our group, in spite of the fact that we were affluent Harley riders from the Big City (not exactly her favorite kind of people, and she let me know that, right off) -- but God said it was good, Amen, and Beverly and I continued to talk.
“Beverly, how long have you and Johnny been married?
“We’re not.” she replies.
“Why not?”
“Whyever for?” Beverly is smiling like a Cheshire cat.
Beverly has strong and well-researched opinions about togetherness, human determination and spirituality. Beverly and Johnny have been together for almost 30 years. I could learn a lot from a woman like Beverly.
“Beverly, I would love to see that limousine.”
“Too bad we didn’t know you all were coming! We’d be driving you around in it.”
I thanked her and made a mental note to arrange that the next time we came back to Marfa.
“Kimberly, we were very close to Clifford, the artist that painted our limo. One hot afternoon, Clifford started digging a very deep hole in the ground.
(I need to interrupt this story for an important announcement: Desert ground is near impossible to dig into, even with the toe of your boot.)
“Not two weeks after that hole was dug, Clifford up and dies. Within two hours, his best friends had him gussied up in his finest (think Jamie Lee Nudie) and had him in the ground.
(... and most of the graves are above ground around those parts.)
“Two hours? How is that possible?”
“We just knew.”
The cowboy-artist had dug his own grave. How romantic is that?
If I didn’t already have such strong, positive opinions on cremation, I would toy with the idea of digging my own grave one day. Just saying…
And, like that, we started chatting away freely about death, religion and enlightenment.
“Young lady, take the time to do your worshipping right here, between these two temples.” Beverly frames her small, tanned face with both of her strong, calloused index fingers. “These temples right here, young lady!”
Beverly is my friend.
Johnny and Beverly are the epitome of worry-free happiness. People like Beverly and Johnny make me realize how full of shit I can be sometimes: “I have seen the enemy and it is me” kind of stuff.
“When you come back, just drop in! Don’t bother calling! If we’re not home, we’re probably in Mexico. Just come on in and we’ll be home eventually!”
** Turns out, there was a local noise ordinance in Marfa - and a nervous show organizer at The Laguna – so the dance hall shut down around 11:00ish. Way too early to stop serving music, I say!!
Which was fine and humpty-dandy with me. We had to get up early and on the road to Austin the next day, and Austin was 400-plus miles down the road…
(* Later, after we had arrived safely home, I started poking around on the internet and learned just how beloved and infamous Johnny and Beverly are. Not only are they local celebrity icons but they are iron artisans. )
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