Marisi
Ornstein
The black-haired girl leans the bike up a dirt driveway and glides to a stop in front of a completely dark adobe house.
At the door, Will takes off his engineer boots and holds them, along with her boombox.
She enters the house with her boots on, and lights a few candles.
Will notices a typewriter on the coffee table with typing paper neatly stacked, “Who’s a writer?”
“I’m a writer.”
Upon hearing this, Will’s heart swells so suddenly that he fumbles the boombox and drops one of his boots.
She takes the boombox and hands him his boot, “What’s your name?”
“I got a lot of names.” Will looks to the floor, “William, Will, Billy, Henry, Willie. Call me anything but Bill, I don’t like that one.”
“What name’s on your birth certificate?”
“Ain’t got a birth certificate.”
“How come?”
“My family don’t exist on paper.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
He decides not to go further with that, “Call me Will.”
“Okay.”
He meets her eyes, “What’s your name?”
Will timidly asks again, “Can you tell me your name?”
The black-haired girl walks to him, their lips almost touching, “You’ve got to earn my name.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to give you my name until you earn it.”
“How am I gonna earn it?”
“You’ll know when you know.”
Will searches for words, but can’t find any.
She throws a blanket on the couch, “You can sleep on the couch if you want, nobody’s coming home tonight.”
The black-haired girl disappears up the stairs.
He hears her door close and stands awkwardly holding his boots, looking around the room. He focuses on photographs in frames on a side table, and especially on a particular photograph of her.
Will carefully takes the photograph out of the frame and slips it into the top left pocket of his Levi’s jacket, then puts the empty frame back on the table where it was.
Will blows out the candles, slips on his boots exits the house, and coasts the Triumph down the driveway, smiling wide under the layers and layers of new gleaming stars, swimming deep in the sea of the New Mexican sky.
Down the road, Will approaches the scene of Skull’s accident.
The shambles has been cleared away. Soon, the area will have a white cross installed by Skull’s friends and family, decorated with flowers and notes to serve as a monument of remembrance that will remain on the spot until it turns to dust and blows away, like nothing ever happened there at all.
As Will walks the area, his boot kicks something heavy in the sandy dirt. He uses his Zippo to find Skull’s silver skull ring. He tries it on all of his fingers until he finds a fit and lays back in the dirt crying his heart out.
Will arrives at the gate post of his family’s Territory just before dawn.
Scratch guards the gate, armed with a shotgun. He’s turned in his fine suit for Carhartt overalls and red flannel.
He rides to his cabin and leans his Triumph on a very old and crooked lamp post near his old International semi cab.
Will runs inside his cabin and slides his uncle Francis’s military footlocker out from under his bed.
He packs a sturdy knapsack with two pair of stiff new Five-O-Ones, four white t-shirts, a Zippo, a reasonable stack of cash, a Composition notebook, two boxes of Ticonderoga #2 pencils, and a sealed deck of cards.
He slides a small pistol into the back of his waistband, sits on his bed and takes the old knife from his boot.
He runs his finger over the initials carved into the heavy wooden handle, then slides his thumb over the blade, drawing a small amount of blood, and massages it between his fingertips like ointment.
Will slides his knife back into his boot and unwraps a fine silk revealing an antique silver and turquoise squash flower necklace.
He wraps the necklace back into the silk, drops it into the side pocket of his knapsack, and slides the trunk back under his bed.
Will double-checks his jacket pocket for the black-haired girl’s photo, throws the knapsack over his shoulder, takes a deep breath, and leaves his cabin for his very first Ramble.
Beatrice is sitting on the porch of a large and elegant stone and log house, wrapped against the desert night in a vintage red, black and white handwoven blanket.
Her hair is long, pure silver with jet black streaks. She is royal, in a timeless manner. She takes a pull from a lacquered Japanese hash pipe and a sip of ginger tea with fresh mint.
Francis is sipping home-made Mezcal, seated near to her in his chair, his boots up on the porch railing.
Beatrice squints as Will coasts up on his bike.
“Going somewhere, William?”
“Going on a Ramble, Mama. It’s time.”
Francis stands, “That my sack you got on your back, Willie?”
“Yes.”
He sips his Mezcal, “Got cash, knife, zippo, t-shirts, cards, dungarees? Got my pistol?”
“Yeah.”
“Give me my pistol.”
Will hands the pistol to Francis, who puts it in his pocket, “Can’t make it with a knife, best to stay home.”
“Okay.”
Francis opens his arms, “Come on over here.” He gives Will a warm hug, “Good luck out there.” He brushes his nephew’s curls back, “Keep awake. Alert. Eyes open.”
Francis kisses Will on the cheek, “I love you.”
“I love you, too, uncle Francis.”
Francis goes inside to avoid crying in front of his sister.
Beatrice points to the photograph poking out of Will’s pocket, “Who is that peeking out of your pocket?”
Will hands her the photo and Beatrice studies it, “What’s her name?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. Said I have to earn it.”
Beatrice hands the photo back, “She did, did she.”
“I’m gonna earn it.”
“How are you gonna do that?”
“I’ll know when I know.”
Beatrice sips her tea, “Love is a rare wind, Billy.”
Will glances down at his boots.
She gazes to the distance beyond the Piñon trees, “Don’t lose her, now.”
“I won’t.”
Beatrice puts her tea down, “Come, William.”
She gently takes his hand and slips him a small pistol from underneath her blanket, “Never be without a pistol. We’re not other people.”
Will slides the pistol into his waistband.
“Be careful.” Beatrice squeezes Will’s hand, “Take care of my son.”
“Down the Road, Mama.”
“Down the Road, William.”
Will kickstarts his bike and rides away from home.
He reaches the black-haired girl’s adobe and sees candlelight in an upstairs bedroom. He whistles and she comes to the door wearing pajamas and boots. Will hands her the silk, which she unwraps to find the necklace.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
She lifts her hair so that he can clasp the necklace.
He looks into her eyes again, “I’ll come back for it.”
She puts her hand to the necklace, “You’re leaving?”
He walks to his bike, “I hope it don’t take too long.”
“Where are you going?”
He glances back, “To earn your name.”
And, he’s gone down the road before she could speak.
Will flies independent, fresh and free through the desert, the morning sun painting his face a brand new flavor of bliss, and the vibrating buzz still running through his body conjures an overwhelming smile so wide that his jaw cracks.
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