Desert's here; where are the rice fields? A Fictional Story

Desert's here, where are the rice fields?

Foreword

A few years ago, I adapted a powerful short story written by Marcus Sakey. The end result was that I contributed about 75% of the words in the adapted story (I acknowledged the intellectual debt to Sakey at the end of the story). I felt cleansed after I was done writing it. Writing it was therapeutic to me. I recently came across Sakey's story again. Its impact on me was still the same: I was on fire and at peace at the same time. The sad thing is that I couldn't locate the adapted story. It got lost somewhere in the cyberspace. So I'm writing another story from scratch. I hope it's going to be half as good as the one I wrote three years ago, but at least will be more original, now that my imagination is more fecund and despairing. 

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Story

You love talking, especially if there's a chance of seriously hurting myself. You like your food so hot that any woman sitting next to you would be on fire and invite you home. You like to live dangerously, close to the abyss and far away from the stars. You used to live in fear, but not anymore. Now you live in rage. You know one day you will not die in bed. 

Early Spring may be somewhere else in North America, but where you live it's already summer.  The sun comes out early and stays late. By mid-morning, it's already scorchingly hot, sucking moisture and energy out of all living things. The sunshine is white and blinding. Most of the time, the air is still. There's hardly a breeze. Leaves and branches on trees hang motionless most of the time. Rustling sounds made by swaying foliage are rare events. You stand motionless in the shade of some tree which sports tiny, waxy leaves in the parking lot of a Vegas public library, thinking of what happened a few months ago.

James Joyce once wrote in the Ulysses: "A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery". It may be so, but since you are no genius, you know you've made mistakes and they are legion, and your mistakes are portals of horror and anguish. It's reasonable to worship financial success. In fact you had financial success once upon a time. 

One day, however, you decided to embark on a journey of self-discovery and haven't looked back. You don't regard yourself a failure, nor do you think the journey has been of no use.  You still have money. There's no way you will spend all of it before you die, unless you become stupid, fall in love, and give it away to some beautiful, sexy bitch. You have had a very rich life, compared with most other humans who decided to play safe. You could have a net worth of at least $5 million by now if you played safe like most monkeys and cowards, but Money was not what motivated you. Love and Knowledge kept you going. And now something else really keeps you going. Did you ever regret over what you did? The head softly says yes while the heart keeps screaming, "Fuck No!"

You went to Vegas, not by volition, but out of necessity. Vegas is big and full of transients and tourists, a place where an appearance of anonymity is alluring. It gives people like you a second and possibly last chance to start life all over again. You thought long and hard of other choices like Los Angeles and Biloxi, MS., but they came up short, although Biloxi came a very close second. Biloxi's slow pace of life, the quiet, and Southern hospitality appealed to you, but the anonymity was not assured. Besides, you don't like humid, hot climate, even though you originally came from the tropics. You like dry, arid, hot climate. Vegas, its size, climate, and culture appealed to you.

Like you said, you used to live in fear. Fear of failure, of poverty, of ignorance, and of death. The fear drove you to books and kept your mouth shut. But that was not exactly how you wanted to live your life. You loved talking, opening your mouth and letting whatever pass through your mind to exit through your mouth, consequences be damned. But fear made you become a stranger to yourself. So you read more books and saved more money until one day only one fear remained: fear of ignorance. The more you were fearful of ignorance, the more you read books. In the process you discovered that you were different from most humans. They had no fear of ignorance at all. Consequently, they were poseurs and full of pretenses. They presented to the world they had a high regard of themselves. They had a fear of disrespect and rejection. But fear was a strange animal, whatever its manifestation. They could shut it off in a room and threw away the key, hoping the animal would die and they wouldn't hear of its presence. But the animal didn't die. It kept growling and beating on the door until one day the hinges got loose and the door got busted open and the beast got out and found them. It grabbed their shoulders and looked at them in the eyes and grinned, showing its yellow, mildewed teeth. A foul odor exited from its mouth when it said to them, "Hello, it's me. We met before. Do you remember?" At that time, most of them had a stupid, sheepish look on their faces. The assholes and scumbags craved respect so they brazenly lied and/or put others down by cheap innuendos and insinuations instead of owning up to facts and truths. Deep down the assholes and scumbags had no self-respect nor a sense of honor. They were basically animals, fearful of just about everything, except the only thing that would make them human: ignorance. It was Knowledge that set humans apart from non-humans. Real humans know who they are, why they are on this planet Earth, and where they go after they die. They also know that concepts like God, reincarnation, heaven and hell are products of the imagination of mind controllers and absolutely have no basis in physical reality, and are produced for the consumption of the human animals who are too stupid or lazy to think for themselves.

It was precisely fear of disrespect and rejection that led Yvette to you. She was the mother-in-law of Chuck. Chuck was a poker dealer in one of the Indian casinos in Scottsdale, a wealthy suburb of Phoenix, AZ. Poker has exerted on the imagination of the public and has its own myths  and mythos. It can be played as a recreational game, a gambling pursuit, or as a deadly mind contact sport where honor, fortune or bantrupcy are at stake. It is a social equalizer.  At the poker table, the social status doesn't mean didly shit; neither does money because if one plays poorly in a gambling way without a good grasp of mathematical probability, the nature of luck (good and bad), understanding of the human mind regarding courage, saving face, pain threshold, self-control, and money management, the money would not last and will migrate to those who initially had less money.  

Poker attracts all kinds of players who think they are smart and can think. People who like to take risks and love excitement also flock to the game. So at the poker table, a wide range of humanity assemble and duke it out for supremacy. Only the best hand wins. Coming in consistently as second place is a financial disaster and a blow to one's conception. There's no other human adventure where a man's true nature is laid bare for him and others to see. It is an activity where lying to others is acceptable but lying to oneself is disastrous. Poker, properly played and managed, can be a good builder of character, not counting bankroll. Poker is life condensed and distilled where conversations can turn deadly as what happened three months ago in a poker room in Scottsdale where Chuck worked. 

The game was no-limit hold 'em where one could bet whatever the amount one had in front of him. The poker room was full, as usual. You showed up there right after work, having called ahead for a seat reservation. 

You ambled into the poker room, feeling tense and ill at ease. It was not so much from fear of losing as having a foreboding sense of something dramatic, out of joint, and unusual that was to occur. You were directed to a table that was full of regulars. The banter was friendly as usual, but a bit more risqué, being Friday night and the Super Bowl was just two days away. Then it turned sick. Two old, cynical players started talking about death, cancer, and suicide, then "progressed" to necrophilia and murder and cannibalism. They seemed to relish the conversation. Now and then several others chimed in, adding wisecracks and double entendres. The conversation was now about Jeffrey Dahmer and how sick he was. Alberto, one of the two cynics wondered out loud if Dahmer's death was a spontaneous jailhouse execution or it was a murder for hire commissioned by one of Dahmer's victims' relatives. He then added that he would kill Dahmer for free. That was when you felt you had to speak because you didn't like Alberto's motor mouth and braggadocio.

-You just talked. You wouldn't have the balls to kill him even if somebody paid you.

-Oh yeah, how the fuck that you know so much about me?

- I just know, shithead. I know your type. All talk. No action. All fucking lies to make yourself look good. Assholes like you are dime a dozen. Shit, in my college days, assholes like you, I ate for lunch.

-Oh yeah, eat me then, suck my dick!

Chuck, the dealer told us right there and then to cut it all out, otherwise he would have to call the poker room shift manager over. Alberto glared at you and said nothing. You looked at him and smiled in contempt. A few minutes later you won $375 off him and you got up and left. Chuck was still dealing. You tossed him two red birds ($5 chips) as tips. 

You were still steaming while walking to your car in the parking lot. You hated scumbags like Alberto. They never owned what they said. They just wanted to look tough by talking tough. You ran into assholes like him all the time. You should have kept your mouth shut, however. You knew better. 

Instead of going straight home, you stopped by the 24 Hours Fitness Club. You swam laps non-stop for over an hour until you could hardly raise your arms above water. When you got home you were in a somewhat better mood. You took off your clothes, soaked yourself  in the bathtub and listened to the sound of bubbling brook on tape wafting from the bedroom. 

The next evening you were back to the poker room. You were somber and laconic. You were led to a table with no regulars. You were there for no more than 15 minutes when Chuck came over and gave you a piece of paper. It said, "Meet me in the men's room 30 minutes from now. Something very serious coming up. Stop playing at once. Be alert. Watch your back. Destroy this note. Tell nobody about the note nor about meeting me. Your friend, Chuck ".

You felt short of breath after reading the note. Your throat was dry. You gulped down almost all of your bottled water. You got up from the table. You had a small loss. After cashing your chips, you went outside for fresh air and to clear your head. You kept walking around in the casino  parking lot in the cold but invigorating winter air. Steam of breath escaped from your mouth. You kept wondering what Chuck's cryptic note was all about. You were back inside the casino after 20 minutes of walking and headed to the restroom next to the poker room. Chuck appeared 5 minutes later, looking real serious and weary. He motioned you to get to the last two urinals along the wall. He whispered:

-After you left, Alberto was talking trash. Others laughed at him, saying you had a point. Then he blurted out that you and everybody else didn't know the fuck you guys were talking out. The way he talked really concerned me. The tone and the quiet fury. Then Bobby asked him what he meant. He just clammed up and got up and left. If I were you, I'd leave town immediately. 

-You really think he has the balls to do something stupid? 

-No, but he could hire somebody. He has the money and he is mean.

-Thanks a lot, Chuck.

-If you're in Vegas and need a place to stay for a while, call me. I have friends there. 

You didn't leave town immediately, but you acted fast. Death would come to those who didn't draw fast enough. You couldn't afford to diddle and dawdle around. You left the apartment after taking with you the bare essentials (including a Glock and two magazines) which fit into two suitcases. You checked into a motel that night, paying for a week in advance in cash, using a false name and making up the car license plate number. Your car was parked not in the motel's parking lot. It was parked a block away in the visitor's spot in an apartment complex. 

You holed up in the motel room, surfing the net for Alberto's address. You found it within an hour. Google Earth indicated that the house was not in a gated community. A very good sign. Then you thought and visualized and meditated and doing Yoga exercises. You didn't go out, even for food. You had pizza and Chinese meals delivered to your room.

On Monday morning, you called in sick. You opened a post office box, completed a forwarding address card, and closed your bank accounts. Then you went on a reconnaissance mission with a rented car, after selling your car at Carmax. You already dyed your hair and were growing a beard. By the time you got to Alberto's house, it was almost half past ten in the evening.

You drove past it with a normal speed. It was in the cul-de-sac, fairly big, two stories, no cars parked in the vicinity. The street looked quiet and empty. No toys or bicycles in the front lawns. 

You drove past the house again, this time more slowly. Curtains were not closed in neither floor. You knew Alberto was widowed. His wife died last year. He made a big stink about it at the poker table. Everybody, including you,  made a show of conveying sympathy while he gravely acknowledged the condolences. He could live by himself. He could have roommates to share the expenses although he didn't really need the money. He was a retired successful CPA. He told everybody so. There was one way to find out if he was in the house and alone. You took out your cell phone.

About 30 minutes later, a rather beat up old car with Papa John's Pizza sign on the roof stopped in front of the house. An middle-aged Hispanic delivery man stopped out of the car and marched briskly to the door. By that time, you were by the side of the house, looking nonchalant and cool. You blocked his path.  You gave him $20 for a $15 pizza, telling him to wait if your friend Alberto would answer the door, and if he did, just saying to Alberto he was delivering a free pizza, at the courtesy of a friend, and hanging around if Alberto would give him any tip. If Alberto did not, you would give him another $5. The Hispanic looked excited and happy. He rang the door bell. The door was yanked wide open in less than a minute. Alberto barked, "I didn't order any pizza!" You stepped right inside the house, your right hand was already on the trigger of the Glock inside your jacket, and said, "But I did, as a pleasant surprise, Al." "Here's your tip, " said you as pleasantly as you could as you gave the $5 bill to the Hispanic pizza man with your left hand. He bowed lightly his head, saying "muchas gracias, señor", handed the pizza to Alberto and ran back to his car. You kicked the door closed, and said gravely to Alberto: "I came to make peace, Al. Are you hungry? Let's eat pizza and have a talk. Anybody else in the house? They can share with us. The pizza is big enough. Do you have any beer?"

-Stop the bullshit! How did you find my house?

-You told us. You forgot? A nice, big house just for one person.

- Get the fuck out! And take the damned pizza with you. 

-Al, be nice. I am here on a peace mission. Let's take a ride. There are two persons I want you to meet. I want to check your words against theirs. 

At that time, you pulled the Glock out and raised it  to the level of Al's head and gravely intoned, "please don't force me to use it." By that time, you had already determined that there was nobody else in the house. You had looked at his eyes all this time and they had never left yours . Al never looked furtively at other rooms in the  house nor raised his voice to alert his roommates, but you didn't want to be over-confident, so you forced him to walk with you, with the Glock on his back to check all the rooms and closets in the house. Finally, you told him to give you his wallet, his watch, and his diamond ring. He asked you why and you told him in an über-serious tone of voice if he did as he was told, he would be okay. You added, " listen very carefully because your life depends on it. Just do as I say, no screaming for help, no running away, just sit still in the car, look straight ahead. We'll take a ride for about 45 minutes, meet two guys, have a talk, then I will return to you the wallet, the watch, and the ring, and you can go home again."

Alberto did as he was told, including carrying the pizza and putting it in the back seat of the car, although he looked scared and confused. A couple of times he tried to ask you questions, but you told him to shut up as there would be plenty of time for questions later. You drove with your left hand, the Glock in your right hand, pressing against his ribs. The car heater was on, but you could tell that Alberto was shivering. After all, he was 70 and didn't appear in robust health. You doubted if he frequently the gym as often as you did, and you were 6 years his junior. You took him to a quiet, remote part of a Arizona National Park that you went hiking from time to time in the summer. You stopped the car, motioned him to get out of the car, the gun trained on his chest. 

-While waiting for the two guys to show up, l want to ask you a few questions.

-What guys? Do I know them?

-No matter. Just answer my questions truthfully. After I left, did you threaten to have me wasted?

- No (after a slight hesitation of about one second).

-Are you sure?

-No, I meant yes, listen Roberto, we knew each other. We all bullshit for "fun". I meant nothing by what I said.

- So that meant you actually did threaten me. So what was your plan? You would do yourself or you had a contract out on me? 

Then the fucker stupidly tried to act smart and brave. 

-Killing me would just get yourself into deeper shit. Yes, there's a guy looking for you.

-You sure about that?

-Yeah. 

-Thanks, Al (for a CPA, he was fucking dumb)

You shot him at the chest. The impact blew him off his feet. He landed on his back, looking very pale and in shock. You walked over and shot him one again in the chest, aiming for his heart. You then followed up with two shots in the head. You didn't bother to check his pulse as they did in the movie because it was extremely unlikely an old man in his condition would survive with most of his face and brain missing, not counting two chest wounds. 

On the way back to the car, you noticed that there was some blood on your jacket, but first thing first. You took out a baseball bat, put your gloves on, came back to the corpse, and bashed all Al's teeth out of his jaw. You picked up all of those you could find, put them in one of the pockets of the jacket, and came back to the car. 

You drove away. You met nobody on the way back. You didn't expect any, being in January, the park was closed. Where Alberto and you had got off from the car was about a mile from the park's gate. You dumped Al's teeth in the toilet in a highway public restroom near Scottsdale. You broke the bat into two and threw them in the dumpster. You threw away the blood-stained jacket in the drainage ditch near the restroom after looking around and seeing nobody. You put on another jacket and drove at the speed limit all the way to Vegas, too keyed up to sleep, too worried to stop at any rest stop for long. 

You checked into a nondescript motel in downtown Vegas, paid cash for the room, and crashed after getting on the Net and flipping on CNN and Fox News for any news about a missing retired CPA named Alberto Gonzalez. The next day you returned the rental car, called Chuck up and told him you were in Vegas and needed a place to stay.

He got you hooked up with his mother-in-law named Yvette who lived alone in a big house after her husband of over 40 years walked out on her and moved in with a Thai woman 30 years his junior whom he had met at a bar. After living with Yvette for 3 weeks, you understood why her husband had left her. She was demanding and controlling and vengeful. She developed a crush on you but told everybody that you had a soft spot in your heart for her. You played dumb as you needed anonymity and a quiet place to stay out of sight. You changed your appearance. The mustache stayed on and so did the dyed black hair instead of the normal salt and pepper. You didn't talk at poker tables anymore. You didn't want to stand out. You didn't make friends. You just played poker for a few hours to keep you happy and sharp. Chuck never once asked you about Alberto. You kept surfing the Net about the stupid former Hispanic CPA, but apparently his disappearance was a non-event. 

You've been in Vegas for 3 months now. You're not getting complacent. However, there's very little circumstantial evidence to tie you with Alberto's disappearance, let alone his demise. Yesterday, Yvette asked you for pointers on how to make the Thai woman with whom her husband is shacking "disappear". Shocked, you tersely asked her what on earth that gave her an idea that you knew something about that "area". She said that Chuck had told her you knew some "friends" who were "experts" in that "department". You told her that Chuck got it all wrong. You had no such friends. 

The conversation with Yvette shook you up. You're telling yourself that maybe you need to go back to the tropics where you originally came from. But doing that would deprive you of "amenities" like freedom, democracy, human rights, excellent health care, and good library system, not counting the arid, hot climate to which you are acclimating and with which you are falling in love. 

Killing is easy, it's living with the consequences is the bitch, if not the butch. 

Wissai

April 08, 2013