The Land of Debris and the Home of Alfredo

202 Pages·2016·0.72 MB·English

by  Amdahl Kenn

The Land of Debris and the Home of Alfredo
by Kenn Amdahl
Clearwater Publishing
PO Box 778
Broomfield, Colorado 800380778
The Land of Debris and the Home of Alfredo
by Kenn Amdahl
Copyright by Clearwater Publishing Company all rights reserved
ISBN 978-0-9627815-8-2
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or
stored in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, and
including storage, reproduction and transmission methods not commonly used or
invented at the time of this publication, without permission in writing from the
publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover paintings by Susan Contreras of Santa Fe, New Mexico and used by
permission.
Cover design by Janel Martensen and Kenn Amdahl.
July You’re a Woman written by John Stewart, published by Chapel
Publishing and used by permission. Thanks to John for that. We are humbled by
his kind words that he was “honored” that a portion of his song was included.
Edited by Suzanne Venino.
First edition printed on “Trailblazer Paper” made in the United States
by Vision Paper of Albuquerque, New Mexico. This paper is made from the
kenaf plant grown in Mississippi and is completely tree free, acid free, and
chlorine free. And thanks to the kind words of the Clinton Administration
praising our use of this paper, a first for any novel
Clearwater Publishing Company
P.O. Box 778 Broomfield, Colorado 800380778
303 436 1982
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
ONE
The equatorial deserts of Hell are probably hotter than western Oklahoma in
August. The good news for Oklahoma sinners is that Hell is also likely to be
more interesting and easier to escape.
I trudged down an endless black snake of pavement so softened by the
relentless sun that my sneakers depressed it with each step. Tumbleweeds lay
motionless in the ditch, all hope of a breeze abandoned, while I alternately
cursed the vast featureless prairie and talked to my blisters. I was a bug beneath
God’s magnifying glass, slowly frying. When the heat seeping through my
sneakers became unbearable, I walked on the shoulder where the round gravel
twisted my ankles and jabbed at my raw feet. After my shoes cooled, I stepped
back onto the pavement and shook sweat from my hair.
For no particular reason the words to an old John Stewart song kept repeating
in my mind: “July you’re a woman, more than anyone I’ve ever known…” I
pictured the songwriter driving down this very stretch of deserted road toward
some anonymous gig, bored and alone, humming to himself and writing the
song. “I can’t hold it the road when you’re sitting right beside me…”
Why name the woman July? Was the woman in his mind really named Julie
but the sound didn’t play as well for him? Or did he have a Playboy magazine on
the car seat and Miss July kept distracting him? I decided I would never know
the answer.
A brief gust of hot wind stirred dirt then died. In the distance a white bird
soared and swooped. It rode the wind then glided the calm, twisting in a crazy
pattern. As it flew in my general direction I realized it wasn’t a bird at all but a
scrap of paper. I stopped, fascinated, as the fitful wind carried it closer and
closer and finally deposited it at my feet. Impossible odds. With a thousand acres
of vacant prairie to choose from, Oklahoma chose to direct this paper to me. I
picked it up and stared at a tattered centerfold. Miss February.
“Pure coincidence,” I muttered, not completely convinced. “There’s a logical
explanation.”
“Right,” I argued sarcastically with myself. “Completely logical. You ask a
question and then, perhaps for the first time in your life you simply shut up and
wait and the answer falls from the sky. Maybe somebody’s trying to tell you
something.”
I folded the paper and stuck it in my shirt pocket, embarrassed that I would
even consider some mystical answer but not confident enough to throw it away.
“Just don’t want to litter,” I explained to myself as I began walking again.
The brown dirt was punctuated sparingly with short, thorny bushes, some
close to the highway. Each time I passed one, it rustled wildly for a few seconds,
then fell silent. After this happened several times, startling me each time, I began
to consider it remarkable. Finally, as much from exhaustion and boredom as
curiosity, I decided to investigate. I left the road and walked toward the nearest
bush, twenty feet off the road, grateful to be walking on soft dirt.
The bush seemed completely inanimate and quiet. But I would not be fooled.
What self-respecting mystery would reveal itself to a casual tourist? I lay down
and stared at the bush, wishing it was tall enough to create shade, and made
myself as still and silent as the ragged weed itself.
I may have spent a lifetime staring at that bush, holding my breath, sweat
dripping from my forehead. Perhaps it was less than a minute.
And then it rustled, loud as a potato chip sack. I waited another lifetime.
Suddenly, as if conjured by a crazed desert genie, a lizard smaller than my hand
darted out to stare at the steaming mountain that had materialized in its front
yard. We communed silently for several minutes, curious man and unblinking
reptile, until I understood. As usual, there was more logic here than magic. The
bush snagged dry leaves and candy wrappers from the wind, each one as
sensitive to movement as a snare drum. Its thorns repelled large predators, like
hawks and little boys. The barbed tangle formed a safe little monastery for the
poor of brain and the thin of skin. To survive, lizards hid within the noisy debris
at the base of the bush. But to eat, they had to venture into the brutal arena of the
open prairie. At the first hint of danger, the first thud of an approaching footstep,
they scuttled back to their porcupine of a home. Interesting.
A sound on the highway startled me. I looked up in time to see a state patrol
car pass by, sleek, official, and shiny as a shark. The driver had not seen me.
I could have jumped to my feet and run to the highway, yelling and waving
my arms. The driver might have noticed me in his mirror and given me a ride.
I did not move. The lizard did not move. The bush remained silent. Finally,
when the sound of the car faded away completely, I started to get up, frightening
my reptilian friend into a panic of insect-quick activity as he disappeared into the
safety of thorns, ancient fast-food wrappers, and faded scraps of newspaper. The
patrol car was gone. But another vehicle appeared in the distance and I froze.
There was something ominous and familiar about the speck on the horizon, and
an instant later I was sure. The white van of my nightmares was approaching.
“It’s not possible,” I whispered. “It’s not possible.”
In seconds it would be near enough for its occupants to see me, but there was
nowhere to hide and no time to run. Terror bulldozed the exhaustion from my
body. My mind raced wildly and I could not breathe. I had to do something.
I sat behind the bush and furiously scooped handfuls of dirt onto my feet and
legs until they became a long and dusty burial mound. Lying back on one elbow,
I covered my stomach and chest. I could hear the engine now, but there was no
time to look up. I dusted my hair and face, threw what I could onto the arm
nearest the approaching evil, flattened myself against the earth, and held my
breath. I am not here, I said to myself. I am part of the prairie, only dirt and
spiders and tumbleweeds. I do not exist. There is nothing to see in this patch of
emptiness.
The sound of the terrible vehicle came closer and closer, like the deliberate
footsteps of an executioner at dawn.
They’re going to see me, I thought. I should leap and run while I still have a
chance. A scream writhed its way up from deep within me but I struggled to
catch it at my throat and only a choking sound escaped. No. I must remain
perfectly still, invisible as a desert lizard.
The van passed without slowing, but still I did not move. Its whine faded to
silence as I slowly exhaled. Too close, I thought.
I sat up to the fanfare of dry leaves and scraps of paper and brushed myself
off. The dirt and sweat had formed mud on my face and my hair was a wet clay
sculpture. It doesn’t matter, I thought. Nothing matters. I stood and clapped
clouds of dust from my jeans, then cautiously resumed my journey.
But now I walked a hundred feet off the road, where the dirt was soft and not
nearly as hot as the pavement. There was no point in staying exactly on the road
when the prairie was headed in the same direction. No need to keep torturing
myself with a rigid straight line when mere distance made me less conspicuous.
After an hour or so with no signs of traffic, I stopped turning every ten seconds
to watch the road. The van was a dream and could not hurt me. I could relax.
I bowed my head, watching for rattlesnakes as my feet plowed through dust
and shimmering heat waves.
The flatness of the prairie changed to gently rolling hills and valleys, still
unburdened by green vegetation. As I crested one of these low hills I was
surprised to see a plot below that was different from the hundred that preceded
it. Half a dozen dead trees stood like white skeletons in two straight rows, as out
of place as I felt, and they drew me toward them. Someone had lived down there
years before and planted trees, probably before I was born. Scattered chunks of
charred wood and rusted cans hinted at the story. When the house had burned
and the survivors moved away, there was no one left to water the trees, to repair
the well, to fill the stock pond. All had dried and died and been consumed by
scavengers, drifting dirt, and crusty weeds. Now only thick wooden ghosts
marked the spot where some family had celebrated Christmas and birthdays,
made love and grown old.
Set in a slight depression, it was completely hidden from the road, and I
needed to rest. I sat and leaned against a smooth trunk, white as old bones, and
tried to imagine exactly where the house had been and the inevitable vegetable
garden. Perhaps there had been a chicken coop, and two pots near the front door
with brightly defiant flowers.
I dozed off for a moment but was rudely awakened when a grasshopper the
size of my thumb landed on my cheek, its feet gripping my skin like tiny lobster
claws. I slapped it away and the sting of my own hand made me cry out in
surprise. I was getting sunburned. My tongue felt thick in my mouth. Sleeping
out here was suicide.
I struggled to my feet and my blisters reminded me that I was still a long way
from any peaceful place to sleep. “Blisters won’t kill you,” I muttered, wincing
with each step. Without looking back, I climbed the hill and continued to march
through the barren landscape. My mind was very tired.
It was also very empty. Something was missing, but I couldn’t put my finger
on what it was exactly. I tried to retrace my journey, but somehow that was more
effort than I could muster. The prairie seemed to be spinning slowly and
unevenly beneath my feet, like a carnival ride that wasn’t working right. My
tongue was a wooden stick rattling around my teeth, and I could not blink the
dust from my eyes. Something big and important is missing, I repeated. At last I
realized what it was.
It was my memories. No matter how hard I tried, I could not recall where I
had been. I stopped walking and stood alone in the vast heat and concentrated.
All my memories had vanished like a scent in the wind. I didn’t even know my
own name.
Somewhere in the heat and the dust and the sweat and the boredom, I had set
down part of my mind, perhaps to rest, and had forgotten to take it with me when
I started walking again.
Panic crashed like a tidal wave against me and threatened to drown me. I held
my breath, flailing around for something familiar to clutch – but there was
nothing. My life had disappeared without a trace, a footprint on yesterday’s
beach. Nothing existed but the cold blackness of a deep, dark ocean. I was dead.
I started to run, but my legs refused to cooperate. After fifty feet, I collapsed
face first onto the hot ground, panting like a dog, inhaling dirt with each breath,
coughing and sneezing.
Then as suddenly as it had struck, the panic dissipated, flowing off me like
green water sliding from a mossy boulder. Sunlight glinted on a tranquil tide
pool within me. I rolled onto my back and stared at the perfect blue sky and
imagined I was staring into lovely deep water. You’re just tired and dehydrated,
I said to myself. Everything will be all right if you can get to some water, find
some shade, and rest. My choice was simple: I could keep moving slowly and
calmly, or I could panic and die. My memories could wait. All obligations were
now deferred. However black my sins, they had been forgiven and forgotten. At
the least, my penance had been postponed. If people loved me, they would
understand. If I was hated, my enemy’s malice could not touch me. You’re thirty
years old and in good shape, I said to myself. It was all I knew, but it was all I
needed right now. I could not afford to waste energy on anything else.
I realized with some surprise that I didn’t miss my memories. How could I
miss what I couldn’t recall? I felt loss, but no real psychological distress. My
mental condition was neither good nor bad.
I reached for my wallet, but it wasn’t there. My jeans7 pockets were empty
except for two quarters. I had no wallet, no cash, no car, no extra clothes, no
home, and no one to call for help.
I started to laugh out loud. This was absurd. My body did not have surplus
energy to burn by laughing, but I couldn’t stop. I howled like a wolf from an old
fairy tale, and rolled in the dirt until my sides ached. I had absolutely nothing.
No. That wasn’t quite right. I sat up, suddenly sober, and squinted at the
shimmering horizon as a single memory flickered and flared within me. Not a
person or place
I concentrated very hard. There – a number. A telephone number. I repeated it
several times. There could be no doubt. I knew a telephone number, and it would
surely lead me back to my life.
If only there was a telephone in the middle of the Oklahoma desert.
Be logical, I told myself, look for clues. And keep walking. I did not want to
go crazy, and calm disciplined thought would keep me sane.
The first clue, of course, was my own amnesia. Surely something had caused
it. With both hands I examined my head for bumps or sore spots. With a mixture
of relief and exasperation I concluded there were none. I had not fallen or been
struck. Interesting, I thought. I don’t remember the events of my life, but I do
remember that a blow to the head can cause amnesia.