Luis Alberto Urrea - The Water Museum

“Nice hat,” Hubbard said.

Horses walked past, saying nothing.

He rested his fists on his hips and observed the landscape. He didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to rescue Hubbard. “Pronghorn,” he said.

“Excuse me?” he shouted, barely maintaining.

“Pronghorn. Antelope. Right over there.”

Hubbard squinted.

“I mean. Really! For Christ’s sake!” he declared.

“What?” said Horses, thinking: Oh, wonderful — white boy’s crazy.

Hubbard waved his hand as if to show Horses it was nothing.

“He’s watching us,” Horses said.

“As we are watching him.” Hubbard smiled.

“You stretch out on the grass over there,” Horses said, pointing with his chin. “He won’t be able to stay away. He’ll be so curious, he’ll walk over to take a look.”

“Do tell!” Hubbard enthused.

Horses said, “Watch this.”

He took off his hat, waved it above his head. Suddenly, like a tawny ICBM, the little antelope sprang straight into the air. He pogoed away, bouncing along and casting disapproving glances back at them.

“Hey!” Hubbard cried.

“Yeah,” Horses said. “Wish I had my rifle out.”

“Pronghorn steak,” said Horses. “Marinated in wild blueberries. That’s good eatin’.”

Screw it. He reached into the cab. Grabbed out his red pack. Tapped out a smoke and hung it on his lip. “Smoke too much,” he said, lighting up. “That’s my Indian name.” He rasped out a laugh, blew a stream of smoke at Hubbard. “Is that a bear claw?” he said.

Hubbard fingered his Chittimacha hoodoo on its thong.

“Gaaatorrr. Tooothhh.”

Horses fished out a chain from under his shirt.

“Grizzly,” he said. “Clawwww.”

Hubbard started weeping.

“What about the carrr?” he asked.

“The car?” said Horses. “It’s a Volvo.”

Hubbard just stared at him, eyes wet.

White guys, Horses thought. They’re just not that funny.

* * *

While Don Her Many Horses tried the ignition and listened to its screech, Hubbard’s pills kicked off like cheap Fourth of July fireworks. Pop! Pow! He flew off the hood and bounced around on the blacktop. Holy SHIT! The SUN! It was SO BRIGHT! He hopped around like a pronghorn at a rave. He was WHOLE. He was fully REALIZED. His high-tops were full of freakin’ Flubber.

He pointed at Horses.

“Hey, Smoke Too Much!” he said. “They call you boo in Louisiana!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Cajun guys say Poo-Yi before they kick your ass!”

“That right.”

“Boo!”

“Don’t call me boo.”

“Right!” Hubbard agreed. “Right, right, right? Who, me? Never. Not once. Never said boo in my life. I’m so amped.”

“How’s about that,” muttered Horses, fiddling with knobs and the ignition. He got out. He stretched his back. “Your car’s broke, for sure,” he said.

“Not my car. Not really. I mean, I paid for it, sure. But it’s hers. Still, I forked over the cash. Every cent! So it should be mine. Right? Did you see that crow? I own it now, I guess.” He patted the Volvo. “My war pony!”

Horses crossed his arms and leaned against the car. Butt on the fender.

“You done paid every cent,” he prodded.

“Right! Right-right. Every goddamned cent. Put her through grad school. How do you like that? Took her five years to get a stinking M.A.! Not to mention five years of couples therapy. Out of my pocket.”

Horses listened as the whole sad story fell out.

“Smoke. Can I call you Smoke? Or do you prefer Mr. Too Much? Have you ever been in therapy? Did I ask you that? Whatever. Probably not. What do you do? Sweat lodge, am I right? Can we do a sweat lodge? As I was saying: therapy. That was the key, you see. The key to everything. Second only to recovery. Recover this!” he cried, grabbing his crotch.

“Whoa, now. You’re getting skittish.”

Hubbard sadly noted, “We’d even made out our serenity contract right before she left.”

Horses looked bored with this happy horseshit.

Horses said, “Pop the hood latch.”

Hubbard reached in and yanked the handle.

“Oh,” he sighed, starting his long descent. “I suppose it was all inner-child-related.”

Horses, bent into the maw of the car, said, “Inner child? You got an inner child?” He backed away. “What are you, pregnant?”

Then he laughed: HAW!

He walked around in a circle. Shook his head. HAW!

He raised his hands as if warding off a blow.

“Just funnin’,” he said.

He reached into the engine compartment and pulled out the oil dipstick.

“Got a rag?” he said.

Hubbard reached in his pocket and pulled out his wife’s panties.

Horses said, “Jesus Christ! Get rid of that!”

But Horses didn’t need a rag after all. The dipstick was clean. Shiny. Devoid of oil. He whirled upon Hubbard and brandished it like a fencer approaching with a foil.

“Look at that,” he said.

“What.”

“No oil.”

“So?”

“So — no oil.”

“So what?”

“How far did you drive this rig?”

“I don’t know. Boston to Florida. Texas. Here.”

“Five thousand miles?” Horses cried. “Six? Are you kiddin’ me?”

“It was a long journey,” Hubbard declaimed. “Perhaps epic in scope. Still, it had to encompass my grief and sense of…”

“Bud,” said Horses. “You drove six thousand miles and never checked your oil!”

Hubbard sneered.

“It’s, like, a Volvo,” he said. “Built to last. Duh.”

Horses slammed the hood.

“I tell you what, kola,” he said. “You done toasted this engine dead.”

Hubbard, fully into his crash now, hung his head.

“Graveyard dead.” He said.

* * *

What Don Her Many Horses did not want to do was to give this clown a ride to Colorado. He could either head on out, or stall long enough for somebody else to come along and take over the rescue operation. Ol’ Mr. White Bread could hop in their car and be on his way.

Hubbard had started in on his recent domestic crisis again.

Horses said, “Hey, get over it.”

“Excuse me — it’s only been a week. Not even a week.”

“Yeah, and a week ought to be long enough for you to get over it. Way I see it, you came out ahead.”

“I. Was. Abandoned.”

“You was set free. She set your spirit free, man. You ought to say a prayer for her.”

Hubbard was silent.

“You owe her,” Horses said.

He was looking south. He might have seen a windshield sparkle down there. You never knew. Deliverance seemed at hand.

He was dismayed to see the sparkle veer left and cut across the plain, trailing a vague dust cloud.

“Mind if I borrow your rifle?” Hubbard blurted.

Horses blinked at him.

“Your rifle. Can I use it? Just for a minute.” Hubbard was riding back up the slope.

“What for?”

“I’m going to put my war pony out of its misery.”

“You can’t shoot a car. It’s a felony or something.”

“I already stole the damned thing.”

This was getting interesting again. Horses had seen a lot of things, but he’d never seen a guy kill a car with a rifle.

“You know how to work a rifle?” he said.

“Sure. I got a marksmanship merit badge in the Scouts.”

“He got a merit badge,” Horses muttered.

He retrieved the rifle, loaded a few rounds from a box under the seat. Worked the lever.

He handed the rifle to Hubbard. “One thing,” he said. “You even begin to aim that thirty-thirty at me, and I’m going to run you over.”

He trotted to his rig, jumped in, locked the doors, and fired her up.