Salt 1

A “holy hacienda,” that’s what he calls it, the man who was not quite anything at all.  Height, neither short nor tall; figure, neither skinny nor fat.  But “average” didn’t suit him and if said regarding him she considers it a pejorative.  

“Jezebel!” he shouts, then, “hey, you, Judas!  Both of you get over here!”  Neither dog abandons its exploration of a patch of wandering jews, their priestly color seems a mirage in the desert of weeds in the middle of which the hacienda was built back in . . . when?  No one knows for sure, though everyone agrees that “it’s been there since dirt.”  He shouts for the mutts again.  They disobey.  “I rescue them and they betray me.”  

What does he expect?  They are self-fulfilling prophecies with the names he’s given them.  Rescued them?  As if he charged into a burning building and carried them out, one on each of his shoulders.  To be fair, he could have.  He’s deceptively strong, he even deceives himself.  Look at him sweating like a migrant picking someone else’s harvest.  Well, at least he’s not afraid of work.  Physical sweating work.  He has fortitude on his side.  Stamina.  He has shit for brains.  This place isn’t a hacienda. 

It’s a homestead protected by the local historical society.  When a prominent city councilman urged its condemnation and destruction the old ladies and progressive students of the community college advocated for its preservation on the grounds that it represented the rural industry upon which the community itself was founded.  He bought it with the agreement that he could not alter its original structure which did not have the Spanish sprawl or the grand Latin laxity of a hacienda.  He told one of the old ladies that it was not originally Spanish, but Indian and the old lady admonished him through loose dentures, the wattle that must’ve been a throat worthy of vanity in her youth, weirdly waddled, “That is an ugly word, Mr. Derrick.  They are Native Americans.”  The shit stirred he countered, “What’s wrong with ‘Indians?’  It comes from ‘gente en Dios,’ ‘people of God.’  And none of us are native.  We all crossed a land bridge to get here.”  His Spanish, spoken with the soft, yet cavalier accent of Southern aristocracy, stiffened the wattle, “You, sir, are no gentleman.”  And the historical society was not one of fools.  They sold the property for the much needed profit and, a little less than half a year later, he stands on its narrow porch, manufactured stones, really, resenting the “rescue” of the brown-furred betrayers, brother and sister, probably.  

Look at him.  Always he is confronting.  Even when I take a picture of him he stares at the camera as if negotiating terms of surrender.  You will have my image so long as you agree to . . . that’s why most of my pictures of him are candid.  He hasn’t seen most of them.  Hasn’t asked to see them.  Just curses after the flash in dimness or the shutter and click in light, “Damn it, Caterina,” and goes about his business.  

Most folks called her “Cat” or “Kitty” if they wanted to raise her hackles with a teasing diminutive.  She introduced herself as the former and warned him against using the latter.  “You dislike ‘Kitty?’  . . . well . . . then here pussy, pussy” said with the come hither movement of his index finger.  When they had their first true fight and she resolved to leave, walking quickly across the lawn of weeds, he stood on the same porch and shouted, “Don’t look back!  For this is Sodom and you are Lot’s wife!”  Whatever that meant.  After, when they reconciled, she asked the meaning.  She asked why he peppered his talk with seemingly random and obscure references and analogies.  “I don’t pepper it,” he answered, “I salt it.”  For a long time she tried to season whatever she said to please him or combat him, she wasn’t sure.

“Jezzy, Judy . . . c’mon, let’s get a drink.”

“I heard that.”

“I wasn’t trying to be discreet.”

“‘Jezzy’ sounds like the texture of semen and ‘Judy’ is emasculating.”

“They don’t know what semen or emasculation are, so it doesn’t matter.”

“I know what they mean, so it does matter.”

“Please, Mr. Derrick, it’s too hot and too buggy to argue.”

“Buggy?”

“Yes, aren’t you being eaten alive?  I swear, the mosquito should be the state bird.”

“Thank God you have no power with the state judiciary.”

“It wouldn’t matter if I did.  The legislature has the power.”

“So, you have been paying attention.”

“That’s the deal, isn’t it?  I help you with the hacienda and you help me with my studies.”

“How close are you to graduating?”

“Two semesters.”

“I expect a native garden and a courtyard before you graduate.”

“And I expect a perfect GPA.”

“For an associate’s degree in general studies?”

“You never said my major made a difference.”

“We might have to renegotiate our terms over lunch.”

“Some lunch.  You eat like a POW.  The beans are soaking and the rice is clean and waiting to be cooked.  There’s also corn.  You know that’s a luxury at the food bank these days.”

“Don’t talk to me, talk to the Lutherans.”

“I just go to them for the food.  If you want them talked to then get your Baptist butt over there and talk to them.”

Yes, I said it.  And look at him.  His mom said that to him whenever he wanted something.  Told him to get his Baptist butt over there and make happen whatever he wanted to happen, get whatever he wanted to have.  Look at him bristle.  He looks like a baby with colic.  Maybe I should rub his gums with a whiskey-dipped finger.  I’d like touching his teeth, anything inside his mouth.  But not his tongue.  That’s too private a muscle.  If I ever touched his tongue I couldn’t call him ‘Mr. Derrick’ any more.  The poor bastard.  I think he breathes with his mind and his mind is always heaving.  Panting.  Stewing the shit.  Sweat stains on his shirt.  He smells like labor.  Like effort.  Spent energy.  But all he’s done is stand on the bogus porch and shout at the dogs.  A pair of emasculated semen.  They were just fine living off of tossed scraps.  But no, he had to ‘rescue’ them.  They disappear for days sometimes and return none the worse.  Now, maybe, if he returned none the worse, maybe . . . 

“And when will you get your butt baptized?  That’s also part of the deal.”

I’m walking past him with Jezzy and Judy, toward the water hose.  I look back.

“Mr. Derrick, if you sprinkle me on your beans I’m sure it’ll help the flavor.”