Song of the Saugaro

My friends were well ahead of me on the Cactus Trail in Sabino Canyon.  Both were old enough to be my mother, but I was pleased with myself just for just for steaming along at my own pace.  No complaints here midst the long shadows of the saguaros.  The sun, a feeble winter flame, would go out shortly.

 “C’mon, buddy.”

His voice was in my right ear, and his hand rode up my right forearm and tugged me both forward and closer to him.  I turned and looked into that other prospective and saw a man that could be kindly called ‘local color’.  His hat was just short of ridiculous---measuring in at about five gallons, and the kerchief around his neck was as luminous as the precious stone it tried to copy, turquoise.  The vivid hue intensified the glow of his golden tan and hazel eyes---the later shining with both confidence and a most familiar manner.

For a boy who can’t say no, being picked up by a spirit does have its advantages.  There is no capitulation, no latter hour regret.  There was no secrets as the man in the five gallon hat's history unfurls back down the canyon and over the foothills into 1920s Tucson.  During the winter season, he was handy at most anything---from fixing a drippy faucet to filling out a dinner party.  Dessert was often a husband or son.  No time was wasted on seduction.  His survey started during cocktails and by the main course the exchange of suggestive glances was well under way.  He was so adept in these readings that he was rarely surprised by the positions he got into.  The men, whether they realized it or not, were grateful for the clarity of the act---and so there was occasional if not perennial reoccurrence, but nothing frequent enough to suggest emotional attachment.

The mistress of the house was sometimes more problematic.  He preferred the ones who didn’t like him in their kitchens, although he was gracious about mixing cocktails, setting the table or laying out a buffet.  Ideally he did chores for a slightly avant garde household, cutting out early to clean himself up and change into his evening persona of raconteur.  His ability to spin recent Arizona history into amusing stories of---yes, local color---was a highly regarded talent in these circles.  In return for his services he was given small amounts of money, hand me downs and expensive but useful gifts at Christmas---not to mention leftovers to tide him over for a day or two and a knowing grin on his face.
 
Since he knows I'm ‘reading’ him, he points out his new lace up boots---a Christmas gift from a couple he regularly assists.   The rest of his attire is worn and eclectic enough to suggest that he’s authentic to any outsider.  The fact is he has only been here longer ---and through all seasons---than the rest.  His youthful appearance points both to his lack of adult cares and the fact that he started living for himself at a time when some boys drop out of school for the factory.

I’ve caught up with my friends now.  They stand silently at a precipice overlooking Sabino Canyon, listening to the wind sing through the stubby needles of the saguaro.  He steps back, well aware that I’m listening to a slightly sexed up version of that song---the song that is called romance.  Not that he’s thinking of my husband any more than I am.  No dishonor harbored on our parts.  His intentions were never to destroy or possess---and although what little philosophy he had he left to his stories, he thought he was providing an amicable service of sorts.  If his actions caused household discord, he simply banished himself.

It is clear to him that even though my husband is removed by a thousand miles my emotional world does not evolve much.  Any broad male variation of the body beautiful can be installed in his absence and sensual situations played out, but even in this space it’s required that the body will remain to play out a new scene tomorrow.  It’s the fantasy of consistency more than anything else.

My friends and I murmur about the song of the saguaros and then start down into the shallow canyon before us.  He comes up to my side again.

“I know a man like you,” he says in my ear.  “We were buddies once, but I couldn’t live the way he wanted to.”  He flashes me a mental picture of a blond young man with a ruddy beard in a canyon bower. I’m intrigued, and his insinuation is that by literally going through him I could meet this young man.

I’m amused by his persistence.  There must be a reason for it---and not a superficial one like I experienced a few times in my younger and prettier days.  I recall a long forgotten courtyard fountain at a Hollywood restaurant and a handsome Latino of dogged determination that evolved into a good-natured argument.  Just why should I go home with him?

But I’m already at home in my body, and the man in the five gallon hat can play my record as much as I can read his.  We start at the beginning because for me this life is all about resolving the beginning.  Father and my crib as his alter.  There was a ritual from the beginning, but the idol was abandoned along with the religion somewhere along the way.  Ever since I’ve searched for a carnal type of loyalty.

to be continued