Jackpot. Chapter 2
Having neglected to bring any water with him, José finds himself in desperate need of a drink. His mouth dry, his head pounding, he finally spots a lonesome shack in the distance, BAR painted on the roof in red letters.
He pulls up in the dirt lot and parks his rusty pickup.
His spurs rattle when his boots hit the dust.
All heads turn as the double doors swing open. José squints and sizes ‘em all up, then saunters up to the bartender and puts a coin down.
“One drink, please.”
The bartender pours him a tall one and slides it over.
“Ain’t seen you round these parts.”
“I’m a roamer,” says José. “I do my thing out here, wandering the desert, and I don’t abide by any rules.” He toasts to the sky and his glass sparkles. “Dios guía mi corazón!”
The bartender frowns.
“Look, hombre, I don’t care which rules you don’t abide by so long as you abide by that one!” He points to a sign above the liquor that says “Talk American!”
“Porque? You don’t like Spanish?”
“Nope. Can’t speak it, won’t learn it. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
José’s about to retort when a trio of mustachioed bandits burst through the doors. They fire their revolvers in the air and the bullets punch holes in the ceiling and kill the TV. Sparks spill out the busted screen and set some clothes on fire and the people inside them yelp and knock over chairs and pour drinks on each other.
“Nobody move!” shouts the leader. “Even if you’re on fire! Come on, stop squirming around! This is a stickup, there are rules––”
In three swift shots, José shoots the bandits dead. The bar is silent, save the crackling death rattle of the shattered television. Everyone realizes it ain’t a stickup no more and they put their hands down, extinguish the fires, and get back to drinking. José takes a swig.
“So what was it you were saying about talking American?” he says in such a way that, if you knew Spanish, you’d want to run straight out of there and call your mama.
“Nada, señor, nada!”
The bartender flips the “Talk American” sign around and starts re-organizing some bottles.
“Correctamundo.” José chugs the rest of his drink and slams the empty glass down on the bar.
“One more drink, comin’ right up!” The bartender pours another and slides it down the bar, but José misses the catch and spills it all over himself. Everyone laughs and his confidence vanishes. He doesn’t understand. He just killed some outlaws! He’s supposed to be a hero!
“Stop it! Por favor! Don’t be mean to me! Please!” But his protests only fuel their mockery. In a last ditch effort to preserve his dignity, José straightens up and lays his American on thick. “Guess I better mosey on out for a spell to dry off.”
The laughter only grows louder. Nobody’s buying the tough guy act after all that whimpering, the bartender even flips the “Talk American” sign back around. Struggling to keep the pain inside, José soldiers past the other patrons, carefully stepping over the bodies of the mustachioed bandits as he goes back out into the merciful heat.
He takes off his wet shirt and lays it flat on the hood of his pickup. When he’s sure nobody’s looking, he lets a single tear streak naked down his cheek. How could he have been such a fool? If only he’d caught the drink, if only he’d stayed tough the whole time, if only––let it go, José. What’s done is done. Dazed by the heat and drink and his turbulent emotions, he wishes he had a cigarette to straighten him out, then roots around in his pockets and finds an old grape lollipop. He unwraps it, pops it in his mouth, and instinctively pulls out a lighter. Just as the flame licks the stick, he remembers a promise he made to his mama, a promise to quit smoking. He sighs and puts the lighter back in his pocket.
“No way, José. Not today.”
The bartender and a couple patrons come out dragging the mustachioed bandits. Eager to repair his image, José tries to lean against his truck like a cool guy, but it burns his skin and he cries out in pain and drops the lollipop. The undertakers glance over, but luckily they’re too busy to make fun of him. The bodies paint thick red stripes in the sand.
An engine sounds in the distance. Ahoy! A great white van appears over yonder, rumbling through the desert. José pulls out his binoculars. There’s a hissing rattlesnake wrapped around a television painted on the side and the text below reads: “Rattlesnake Television Repair: Don’t Tread on Us!” Soon the van pulls up to the bar and a tall cowboy carrying a toolbox steps out. His warm eyes have seen the worst in men, and he gives José a toothy grin.
“I heard some banditos broke your TV.”
José lowers his binoculars. “You heard right.”
“Reckon I could take a look?”
“Sure. The owner’s out back, but he’ll be around in a second.”
“Then I guess for now I’ll take a look from out here. You mind?”
José hands the cowboy his binoculars. He peers through the window and whistles.
“Now that’s a doozy. I’ll see what I can do. Thanks, partner.” He hands them back.
The undertakers come back round front, their hands covered in blood.
“Well if it ain’t Leroy McMenahan!” says the bartender.
“Howdy.”
The bartender looks at his hands and chuckles. “Apologies for my appearance. There were some––”
“No need to explain. Bandit troubles, I take it?”
“Yes, sir, but we took care of ‘em just fine.”
“You mean I took care of them,” says José.
Leroy furrows his brow. “Is that so?”
The bartender’s smile goes flat. “Yes, sir.”
“I see. Well how about y’all go clean up while me and, what’d you say your name was?”
“José.”
“While me and José fix that television set. You wouldn’t mind giving me a hand, would you?”
“Not at all,” says José, grinning wide. This is just what he needed. If he can share some of the credit for getting the TV fixed, everyone will have no choice but to respect him again! Leroy holds the door open for the undertakers so they don’t get blood on it. José slips his shirt back on, puffs out his chest, and follows them inside.
The TV’s still sparking and belching smoke and the hole in the screen is only getting wider as shards of glass break off and shatter on the floor.
“I was right about this one being a doozy,” says Leroy. “But it ain’t nothing we can’t fix! Why don’t you sweep up the glass while I find the right tools?” He opens up his toolbox and José grabs a broom and dustpan. He sweeps like a maniac, inspired by Leroy’s optimism in the face of the most horrific television mutilation he’s ever seen. Soon enough, the bar’s kind of clean and Leroy’s ready for action. He shoves the tangle of wires back into the screen and stretches out a swath of tape. José wipes a bucket’s worth of sweat off his brow and tries to keep his teeth from chattering. Leroy’s only got one shot at this, and if it doesn’t go right––well, José doesn’t want to think about that.
The tape makes contact. Leroy slowly guides it along the glass and over the hole. José can’t bear to watch but he can’t look away. A few swaths later, Leroy seals the patch and turns the TV on. A blizzard of static fills the screen and slowly clears up until some yankee reading the news comes into focus.
“Good as new,” says Leroy, wiping nothing off his hands.
Everyone in the bar cheers and gives them a round of applause.
“Now how about some drinks?”
“Two drinks, comin’ right up!” The bartender pours ‘em up and slides ‘em over. Neither spill.
Leroy raises his glass. “To a job well done!”
José raises his and they clink and drink up. As the ice cold drink takes the edge off for Leroy, he notices José is still wound up tight.
“What’s wrong, buddy?”
“Nada, nothing.” José takes another sip.
Leroy looks around and spots the “Talk American” sign. “Were they––were they being prejudiced towards you before I showed up?”
José takes another sip. Leroy catches the bartender’s eye and the bartender looks away and starts a conversation about the weather with a patron in the corner, passed out drunk. Leroy shakes his head and climbs up onto the bar.
“Listen up, y’all!”
All heads turn, except some gamblers in the corner watching the horse race.
“Y’all better turn that TV off before I break it again.”
The gamblers ignore him but the bartender rushes over and switches it off.
“It has come to my attention that racial prejudice, no longer the law of the land, no longer socially acceptable, never right in the first place, is still welcome in this establishment. Am I wrong?”
Besides some muted grumbling, nobody says anything.
“I said, am I wrong?”
The patrons shake their heads in shame.
“Come on now, y’all, that ain’t how we do things no more! We won World War II out in Europe and the Pacific, but it seems to me we ain’t done winning it here at home. In our hearts.” He taps his heart a couple times. “Now I don’t care who did it or who didn’t, I want every last one of y’all to apologize to José. We can get it over with quick. Ready? One, two, three.”
“Sorry, José,” says everyone. Everyone but the bartender.
Leroy walks down the bar and crouches to look him in the eye. “We got a problem?”
“I ain’t saying sorry if I ain’t sorry.”
“I reckon you’d better, old buddy, or you’re about to be.”
The bartender frowns, but he knows Leroy don’t make idle threats. He turns to José. “I’m sorry.”
“Come on now, say it with a little more feeling.”
“It’s okay, Leroy,” says José. “Apology accepted.”
The bartender snorts, then disappears into the bathroom.
Leroy hops down and reclaims his seat. “There now, that better?”
José smiles. “Si.” Actually, he’s pretty embarrassed, and he knows most of those apologies were baloney. But it’s nice to have a guy like Leroy stick up for him.
They clink glasses and take another drink.
“Now don’t you worry about folks with prejudice no more, you hear me? They’re just a pack of fools. This is America, you work hard and you make your way and you get what you get!”
“Okay.”
“There you go! Let me tell you, I wasn’t always a television repairman. No sir, I worked my way up from nothing and here I am. You see…” Soon the heroic duo are deep in conversation, blazing through their drinks on autopilot, having a damn good time. Caught up in the heat of the moment, they swipe a sombrero from a sun-dried old vaquero who’d just wanted to enjoy his day off. They head out back and play monkey in the middle with it. The vaquero keeps tripping over the bandits’ corpses as he runs back and forth.
“Come on, old timer, is that the best you can do?” shouts Leroy.
“Si,” he wheezes. “Please, give it back. My mama made it for me many years ago. She died when I was young, and it’s the only thing I have left to remember her by.”
“Sure, you can have it back,” says Leroy, throwing it.
“When you catch it!” shouts José, catching it with glee.
The vaquero trips over a bandit and accidentally kisses another one on the lips.
“Gross!” says José.
The three amigos share a laugh, even the vaquero once he’s done spluttering.
“Alright, you old fossil, we’ll give you one more chance to catch it!” José reaches all the way back and tosses the sombrero as hard as he can. The vaquero springs into action, but the hat sails over his head and far past Leroy, gliding through the desert air with the grace of a UFO over Area 51.
“No!” The vaquero watches helplessly as the sombrero lands on the main trunk of a tall saguaro cactus. From afar, the cactus now looks like a friendly renegade, arms stretched upwards, ready to give a prickly hug to whoever wants one. As the vaquero sprints towards it, cursing our heroes in vulgar Spanish, the sun begins to set. José and Leroy glance over at each other, their minds tuned to the same thought:
Jackpot.