Cougar/Mountain Lion
Thanks to: http://dhreno.files.wordpress.com/2007/08/mtnlion.jpg
I’m heading for the Grand Canyon three weeks from today with a couple other old farts. We’ll be in the abyss for five nights, then up to the North Rim for a couple of days. I’ve been to the canyon before, but never hiked it. Of course this is the hottest time of year to be there, so I’m taking as little as possible weight wise, but am still potentially overloaded. It’s the small things that count: glasses, binoculars, ear plugs, towel, gloves, utensils, toilet paper, thermometer, camera, tripod, space blanket, headlamp, matches, safety pins, clothes pins, mirror, moleskin, foot powder, etc. I’ve been reading a lot about the canyon. The history is pretty interesting, but the feeling I get is that when all’s said and done the canyon’s the canyon and what anyone says about it doesn't matter a hoot. It's only when you're in it that you're in it.
In the early part of the last century there was a guy named James T. Owens who was appointed game warden of the North Rim by rough and ready Teddy Roosevelt. Uncle Jimmy, as he was fondly called, was known for his skill in killing mountain lions and other predators—wolves, coyotes, etc. The big guns were trying to set up a hunting preserve out there, and the feeling was that the fewer predators you had, the more game would be available for hunting. Jimmy claimed that he and his dogs killed 532 cougars. That's right--532, although some believe he killed more than a thousand. Their skins covered his walls; he drove their claws into trees and into the siding of his house to show them off. He was much admired. Trouble was that once the cats and wolves were gone, the deer bred like rabbits. They ate everything green on the North Rim, and the population soared from 4000 to 100,000. Eventually they starved to death in droves, an ecological disaster and an early lesson in "wildlife management."
The thing I find interesting about all this is that a man actually had the will and desire to destroy 532 wild souls like that. Not for food, not for protection--just to kill them. These individuals were there long before Jimmy, minding their own business. It seems to me that violence like this against innocents leaves a man at the bottom of the barrel in the karma department. How do you look yourself in the mirror when you kill like that? But Uncle Jimmy Owens lived to be an old man, happy and venerated, making me wonder whether karma's a ruse. As someone wrote to me last week: "you can do whatever the hell you please, just so long as you can deal with the consequences." My guess is that Jimmy felt fine about it all, and life--his, anyway--was fine and good.
That was two months ago and since then they'd seen each other almost every day. And been seen all around town, much to the dismay of Tess's father, the indomitable, abominable Max Macahado.
Max, a hard nose Portuguese immigrant set in the old world ways, much preferred to keep his daughter's embarrasing condition out of the public eye.
Clarkie however, saw things differently.
April 17, 2008
Clarkie saw Tess as a tidy package. No fluttering hands or stubby toes. Just her heart and fast brain. Her eyes were there too. Green like marsh grass in summer. And there was no denying those breasts.
April 17, 2008
The thought of Clarkie caressing those milky whites drove Max mad. Like most fathers, the picture of a young man intimately touching his daughter made him nuts. He'd had thoughts of contacting Alfonse Spinoza, his enforcer from bygone days, to do a number on Clarkie. He figured Clarkie would take the next stage west after a little chat with the Spinner.
But he had to be careful. Spinoza had bedded his wife a few years back and he knew from the phone records that they still talked now and then. He allowed her this little secret because he knew they no longer had their weekly rendezvous at the Notell Motel. Besides, it somehow freed him of his guilt when he met clandestinely with his current lover, the sanguine Ms Sally Klampus.
So when Clarkie strolled into work that day, late as usual, he was unprepared for what awaited him.
April 18, 2008
"Well," she thought, "he's got at least one friend." Nancy had just brought a huge ham sandwich to Clarkie's desk. A tall man wearing a diamond ring had delivered it. He asked Nancy to give it to Mr. Clarkie Muldoon. The tall man didn't leave his name.
When Clarkie arrived at work he passed Nancy sitting down and chewing on pencils. He flashed her a sly grin and disappeared into his cubicle.
April 18, 2008
"That friggin Renaldo," muttered Clarkie when he spied the attractive hemp bag tied with orange raffia cord. He couldn't believe that his sweet lover boy had shown up at work yet again. He knew there would be a sumptous lunch within the bag and although he tried to maintain his aggravation he could not. Renaldo was damn thoughtful, and he was an amazing cook. Not only was there a ham sandwich (and tassia ham not that rubbery gelatinous shit) but the bread was home made, spread with unsalted Irish butter and the finest French mustard. There were cheese straws, radish roses and tiny gerkins. A porcelain dish covered with plastic wrap held fresh strawberries and champagne grapes. Finally there was a perfect dark chocolate truffle with the scent of cinnamon and chipolte pepper. Oh my God how he loved that man, talented beyond belief in the kitchen and the bedroom.