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| The Mad Mexican | |
| By bwoz | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 03 March 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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The Cowboy The old cowboy ambled toward me from across the corral. His pace was loose and gangly, but steady and unswerving. There was no wasted motion in his actions – each move had a purpose and a result. He unlatched the loading shoot and swung the gate open in one fast motion to let a stallion out into the corral. He turned toward me while closing the gate, then leaned against the fence rail and pulled a can of Copenhagen from his shirt pocket. An old herd dog stood about twelve feet away, as if watching a parade, his attention on each subtle movement of man and beast. The mongrel followed the cowboy everywhere, always at a distance, but never far away. Not wanting to seem too bold, I waited for the cowboy to load his lip with Copenhagen, and then I pointed to the dog, “You have a pretty reliable partner there.” I said. “What’s his name?” “I think his name is Hombre, but everybody calls him Merle.” The cowboy buttoned his shirt pocket and raised his hat a little higher on his forehead. “Guess it’s because he’s as ugly as Merle Haggard. The vet tells me he’s blind in one eye, but I don’t know if it’s the blue one or the brown one; hard to tell. I got him from a bet I made with a mad Mexican who came up from Chiapas. He said he got chased by a swarm of bees, and said he heard the voice of Jesus telling him to go to New Mexico and raise cows. I met him near Idabel Oklahoma, that was in ’78 I guess.” The cowboy raised his shirtsleeve to his lower lip, wiped some dried tobacco from the corners of his mouth, and shifted his weight before he continued. “We were waiting for a stock auction to begin, watching a crop duster spray the crops on both sides of highway 70. That pilot brought that old plane down across the bean fields about nine feet off the ground, released the spray, then he’d pull ‘er up just like a kite, barely miss the power lines, leap over the highway, then set her down low again for another pass on the other side. More than once I saw the dust fly from where his wheels touched ground as he leveled off. I told that mad Mexican ‘I bet he clips those power lines before he’s done, or forgets to pull up enough and ends up parking that bi-plane in the alfalfa field.’ The Mexican said ‘I bet he don’t.’ So I asked what he had to bet, he pointed to the dog.” I thought about that exchange. It seemed to fit the life style perfectly. A weathered old cowboy betting a mad Mexican over an ugly dog; I could picture it – Oklahoma, 1978. “So, did the crop duster clip the power lines, or forget to pull up?” I asked. “No, he never did clip the power lines. Made every pass all day long without even a hiccup, except kicking up dust now and then.” “But, what about the bet?” I was a little confused at this point. “You bet he would clip the power lines or wreck. You won the dog; he’s right here.” "Well, not exactly. I lost the bet so I had to take the dog. The Mexican was trying to get rid of him. He’s been with me for fifteen years now. Don’t know how old he is; the vet thinks about twenty in human years.” The cowboy stepped through the fence rail in one easy motion and strode off toward the tack shed. The DogThe more I watched the old dog I began to notice he seemed to have the ability to predict the cowboy’s next move. Before the cowboy opened the shed door the dog moved to one side, just behind and to the cowboy’s left. The cowboy swung the shed door open to the right and stepped inside. The dog walked over to the other side of the shed and sat in the shade. A minute later the cowboy stepped out from the tack shed and as he closed the door, the dog was already walking toward the hay barn. He stopped just inside the barn and stood next to a pitchfork. As the cowboy stepped inside the barn to grab the pitchfork the dog walked to the hay loft ladder and stood next to it. As the cowboy climbed the ladder the dog trotted out of the barn into the feed stall on the other side of the wall to watch the hay as it was pitched down from the loft. While the cowboy climbed back down the ladder the dog walked to the corral gate and sat in the shade of a water trough. The cowboy ambled over to the gate, swung it open and followed the dog into to corral. The MexicanI followed the cowboy and dog into the roping corral, not sure why. The last thing I wanted was to seem like a total greenhorn by asking a lot of stupid questions. And since the cowboy, like all cowboys, was not much for idle conversation I kept my mouth shut. A group of men was gathered in the roping arena about forty paces on the other side of the corral. Four horses were tethered to the fence while their riders readied their gear. One rider sat on his mount and waited. “That’s the mad Mexican right there.” The cowboy motioned with his head to the mounted rider. “He’s a damned good roper, probably the best horseman in the state; teaches these youngsters how not to get killed on their way to becoming rodeo stars. I met up with him about four years after I lost the bet and had to take the dog. He had a small herd of about forty cows up around Clovis. Guess that’s where the bees stopped chasin’ after him.” The cowboy shot a glance in my direction, pushed his hat a little further back on his head and smiled widely at my appearance; I was all decked out in stiff new blue denim jeans, John Wayne Cavalry breasted trail blazer shirt, suede leather boots, and a straw cowboy hat, a one size fits all. He continued while suppressing a laugh. “I was up there looking for a good bull. The Mexican wasn’t making any money raising cows; the bank had him over a barrel, so he offered to merge his herd with mine for a small stake. I wasn’t too sure ‘til I saw his herd, all fat and healthy and a good bull in the mix. And he has a lot of command, good cowboy skills. It’s damned hard to find real cowboys anymore, and it didn’t cost me anything to bring him out here. Fact is, I think I’ve made a better living at this cow business since we joined forces. He really knows how to pace a heard. And he works harder than any three men I know; up with the crack of chickens and he don’t stop until supper.” I watched as the mad Mexican motioned instructions to the other riders. “What’s his real name?” I asked. “Juan Carlos Balderama; the mad Mexican.” The cowboy smiled when he said it. “He’s not really mad; never seen him even raise his voice. Probably the nicest human you’ll ever meet.” “Why do you call him the Mad Mexican then?” “He always looks mad. He has a crooked nose and a nasty scar across his left cheek from going head to head with a Brahma bull once. Nearly lost an eye I guess. That was years before I met him. Anyway, he looks as evil as the devil, and with the bad eye you never know what direction he’s looking. I called him a cock-eyed Mexican say about looks. Anyway, he’s damned sure the best cowboy I’ve ever seen. “After he left Chiapas he wound up in Laredo. He worked for a few years in the stockyards, and spent most of his free time and all of his money at a whorehouse across the border in La Jarita. Most of his money went to one whore, and Irish girl named Jade, who treated him good and didn’t seem to mind his looks. Most of the other whores wouldn’t spend a minute of time with the Mexican because of his looks. “But Jade was different. First of all she wasn’t Mexican, so she was kind of an outcast herself. But she also had talent; she could sing like a songbird. When she took the stage the cowboys all shut up to listen; it kept ‘em from getting too rowdy and tearing up the place. Her ambition was to save enough money for a move to Acapulco where she could sing and act on stage for the resort tourists. She figured that was her best chance to be discovered by some vacationing producer or something like that.” The cowboy spat and pushed his hat a little higher on his brow. JadeA few years before Juan Carlos came into her life, Jade took a train ride on the old Santa Fe Northern, in 1971. The train derailed outside of Salinas and as a result Jade lost her right leg. She spent a year rehabilitating at her sister’s house in Laredo. By the time she was fitted with a prosthetic she had lost most of her charm and became very disillusioned; a lot of the nasty Irish came out in her for a while. She figured her dream of discovery in Acapulco had been smashed like a parlor mirror against the rocks of misfortune. She started singing in the whiskey clubs across the border in La Jarita. Since she could sing so well, and in English, she became a very popular local attraction. One night a club owner from Texas offered her $500.00 a night to perform “privately” for some wealthy clients – she accepted. She knew what “private performance” meant, but the lure of making more money in one night than she could make in two weeks at the whiskey clubs had her hooked. It was a very lucrative deal at first, but eventually her steady flow of clients thinned out to just a few a month. It wasn’t just her appearance; most of those Johns could accept her stump leg. But her rattlesnake attitude, along with her stump leg drove the customers away like a fart in church. Nobody wants a stump legged whore with a pissy disposition. Her personality was to blame for a lot of her misfortune after the train wreck. She would tease and insult her clients during the act, and mock their manhood with nicknames, like “Stumpy” and “Peter Little”. Her sarcastic humor compelled a lot of them cowboys to pull out, call her a two-bit whore, and then threaten to spread rumors about her and run her out of town. But each time they made those threats Jade mocked them with her own threats. She told them all that her best customer was the devil himself, a ruthless Mexican bandito with death and destruction in his eyes who would cut their hearts out if she told him too. And besides that, she promised to visit their wives and children at Sunday services if even one little rumor about her popped up. That brought her “private performances” to a skidding halt, but she stayed on at the club because there was a stage where she could sing to bored johns, and rekindle her dream of performing in front of resort crowds in Acapulco. Love at the Crystal PistolOne night in 1974 Juan Carlos walked into The Crystal Pistol for the first time. The local clients sitting at the bar and in the supper booths took one look at his scarred, evil visage and began leaving the club at once. The threat of Jade’s bandito boy friend was well known by then, and when Juan Carlos walked in, quite innocent, but looking hell bent, it was as if Jade’s idle threat had suddenly materialized in the flesh. As the cowboys shuffled out the door they all wondered which one had finally pissed Jade off to the point that she called in the bandito. Juan Carlos backed himself into a corner and watched the place empty out, wondering where all the excitement was going. He scanned the rest of the room until his eyes met Jade’s. The mutual admiration was instantaneous. Jade set her drink on the bar and turned to face Juan Carlos. Juan was drawn toward her, powerless and oblivious to the few stragglers making their way toward the door. Juan Carlos bowed slightly, took Jade’s hand and kissed it, then said “Buenos dias Señora. I am so happy to meet you at last.” Jade began to melt inside; her sarcasm and repulsion toward the male gender condensed into puddles in her eyes, and she blushed for the first time in her life. Her Knight in shimmering armor had arrived – wearing dusty jeans and work boots. The obedient devil she had concocted only as a threat had actually materialized and walked right in the front door. “All be damned,” is all she could say. In the years they have been together since that first meeting neither of them seems capable of seeing one another’s physical limitations. To Juan Carlos, Jade is the most beautiful red haired Irish lass in the world, with the face of an angel and the voice of a canary. For Jade, Juan Carlos fits her dream of gallantry; the nicest and most considerate man she has ever met; a man with no preconceived expectations, or disregard for her place in this world – past, present or future. Juan Carlos told Jade about his close call with the swarm of bees, how he heard the voice of Jesus, and of his quest to go to New Mexico and raise cows. At first Jade was put off by the idea. But when she found out that a run down old time theater and playhouse sat empty in the town of Clovis, she simply shifted her dreamscape from discovery in Acapulco to a life of relative anonymity in Clovis with her perfect man and her own stage and theater. As long as she could be on stage, Jade would go anywhere with Juan Carlos. When Juan left the following week, Jade was on the bus with him. They had pooled their savings, and with eighteen thousand dollars and a shoebox full of dreams they headed northwest on a Greyhound. The Photograph“Well anyway,” the cowboy shifted his weight, leaned against the corral fence and took a can of snuff from his shirt pocket, “they managed pretty well I suppose, until the banks all started going belly up and a lot of us lost our investments. Everything the mad Mexican and Jade had was lost to the savings and loan fiasco, that greedy bunch of Wall Street bastards. Anyway, the Mexican’s gal decided to stay in Clovis where she teaches acting and singing and directs musicals at the theater. It’s only about forty minutes away, and the Mexican spends his free time and weekends with her, and sometimes she comes out her for a few days. She feeds him boiled onions and gizzards and they kiss and coo at each other like lovebirds. I think they might be the only truly happy people on this planet.” The cowboy waved his arm toward Juan Carlos, stepped through the corral fence, and followed the ugly dog to the center of the corral. Juan reined his horse over to where Merle stood waiting for the cowboy. I took my camera from my pack and shot a whole roll of pictures as they talked about cows and horses and weather, and probably supper. One of those photos is a 12X15 of the cowboy pushing his hat a little higher on his forehead, looking up at a smiling Mexican on a horse, leaning forward over the saddle horn, with a shaggy old dog standing about twelve feet to the side, watching the cows. It hangs in the Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
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