Calamity Jayne Heads West (6 page)

“Eeow! Gross! Look at the ding dong on that dude!” Townsend’s nephew exclaimed and I shot him a dark look.

“Hey! Have a little respect there, young man,” I said with a harshness that rarely escaped me. “Kokopelli is very much revered by the Native American culture. He was featured in cave drawings thousands of years ago. It was believed his arrival in a village and the lyrical tones of his flute chased away winter and heralded the coming of spring and warmth and rain.”

Ranger Rick gave me a surprised look.

“How do you know this stuff?” he asked.

“Wikipedia, of course,” I replied with a dark look. “How do you think I know it? I learned it. Kokopelli’s cool. And as I understand it, quite the Casanova.”

“How come he’s got such a huge, gigantic—?”

Townsend shoved a hand over his nephew’s mouth, beating me to it.

“Kokopelli is the Elvis of Native American fertility gods,” I explained. “He’s in charge of reproduction—be it crops or kids. Therefore, he is represented in a certain anatomically enhanced way.”

“How come he’s all hunched over?” Kelsey asked.

“If you had to carry that much weight between your legs, you’d be hunched over, too,” Nick said, once Townsend removed his hand.

“Eeow! Make him stop, Uncle Rick!” Kelsey yelled, putting her hands over her ears. “Make him stop!”

“For your information, he’s depicted hunched over because one legend says he carries a bag of seeds andsongs with him,” I told the trio. “The Hopi legend has him carrying unborn babies on his back to distribute to women.” I decided not to mention the myth that rendered Kokopelli’s penis detachable so he could leave it in the river to mate with the young women bathing there. I so didn’t want to explain that one.

“And you think Grandpa Joe and Grandma Hannah would like
that
as a wedding gift?” Nick pointed to the figurine with an unbelieving look on his face.

“For reasons known only to me and, maybe an addi-tional person or two, yes. Absolutely. I believe this would make the perfect gift for the happy couple.” I reverently picked the figurine up and turned it over. And about dropped it when I saw the price.

“Holy bags of babies!” I yelled. “Three hundred and eighty eight smackaroos!” I gently placed Kokopelli back on the glass shelf and ever so carefully backed away, my hands out at my sides to motion everyone to remove themselves to a safe distance. No way was I gonna risk a
you-break-it-you-bought-it
scenario. Not when I had first-hand knowledge of how fragile cer-tain body parts were.

Once out on the sidewalk I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Dang it,” I said. “And that would have been the per-fect gift.” A bona fide Native American Kokopelli for my gammy with the sweet, sweet added satisfaction of Joe Townsend having to greet the legendary lover of epic proportions each and every day thrown in.

Perfect. I sniffed. Just perfect.

In a noble attempt to cheer me up, Townsend treated the four of us to dinner at Oak Creek Grill in Tlaquepaque Arts and Crafts Village. I must’ve looked forlorn because Townsend ordered appetizers of wings and beer-battered onion rings. The two kids split a cheese pizza while Townsend opted for the steak sandwich. I debated over the menu until I sensedthe natives were getting restless and then promptly de-cided on the Triple Decker Brew Pub Club, a sandwich guaranteed to challenge even my bite radius. Having ordered the Pub Club, it was a given I’d have to order an ice-cold draw of the pub’s best light beer brewed to be the perfect complement to any appetizer or meal. Hey, I wasn’t driving.

By the time I’d consumed my sandwich, I was too full to eat the three-layer dark chocolate cake that was their specialty, so I ordered a honking slice to go. I figured given my metabolism, I’d be hungry again in an hour.

“I’ve never seen a girl eat so much,” Nick Townsend remarked as we left the restaurant. “Most of Uncle Rick’s girlfriends eat like birds, picking at their food and moving it around on their plates.”

“Oh, really?” I said, stifling a beer belch. “Good thing I’m not your uncle’s girlfriend then, as I’m not a big fan of starving myself to conform to society’s un-healthy appetite for women who, if you stuck a sesame seed on their heads, they’d look like straight pins.”

Next to me, Kelsey giggled. “That’s a good one, Tressa,” she said, and reached out to take my hand.

I stared down at our joined hands, both uncomfort-able with the contact and touched by it. Most of my ex-perience with kids came from the snotty, demanding little bozos who came into the Dairee Freeze looking for ice cream and to screw around with their friends until Uncle Frank or I kicked their sorry butts out. This type of closeness I wasn’t accustomed to. To be frank, I’m not a touchy-feely person. Expressing affec-tion is as hard for me as giving up M & Ms. Well, as hard as I think that would be since I’ve never actually given them up before. And don’t anticipate doing so.

“Stay tuned, kid. I got a million of ’em,” I told Kelsey, an attempt at levity to get me back on safe, wise-cracking- Tressa turf.

We piled into the Suburban that Townsend’s dad had rented and set out on our sightseeing trip through Oak Creek Canyon. On the way to Sedona, we had taken I-17 and cut across Old Schnebly Hill Road, but on the return trip we planned to take the se-ries of switchbacks via Route 89A and stop along the way to explore various trails and overlooks, and appre-ciate the crimson-colored cliffs and crystal-clear pools.

We decided to head south on 89A for a ways and then double back so we wouldn’t miss any of the spec-tacular scenery. We’d driven ten miles or so when I no-ticed a dull, faded van sitting down a side road, a pull-up awning erected for shade. As we drove by, I no-ticed a collection of figurines on a long table beneath the awning.

“Stop!” I yelled. “Stop the car!”

Townsend looked over at me.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Back there. The vendor. He had some cool stat-ues,” I said. “He might have a Kokopelli. Or a reason-able facsimile thereof. I’m thinking maybe his price could be right,” I added.

Townsend took a look in his rearview mirror.

“I don’t know, T,” he said. “An old beater van. Way outside Sedona. I’m thinking unlicensed.”

“And I’m thinking cheaper,” I said. “Turn around! Please!”

“Yes! Please, Uncle Rick!” Kelsey chimed in.

Townsend took another look in his rearview mirror, sighed and pulled onto the shoulder, performing a U-turn.

“The things I do to please the women in my life,” he said, and I felt my tummy do a belly button flip like you get when you crest a hill too fast. I looked over at Townsend, my eyes feeling as big as Sacajawea silver dollars.

The women in his life?
Hello. When had I blinked and missed earning that notable distinction? And was I even ready to deal with everything that role implied? Like getting “nekkid” in front of Rick Townsend with my post-Easter pounds still clinging to my hips and thighs like a city slicker clings to the saddle horn on a dude ranch trail ride.

I continued to stare at Townsend.

“What?” he said, catching my scrutiny. “What? Are you all right?” he added, probably catching my pallor, as well.

“Yeah. Sure. ’Course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be all right? Full stomach. Beautiful scenery. Great weather. Chocolate cake for later. Who wouldn’t be all right?” I replied, running out of breath toward the end. I tend to babble when I’m nervous.

Townsend grinned, and I suspected he figured out the reason for my fluster.

“Don’t forget to add perfect companions to that list,” Townsend reminded me. “Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter, you know,” he re-cited as he pulled the Suburban onto the shoulder. “Izaak Walton,” he added for my edification.

I nodded. “I’ll file that bit of wisdom away for future reference, Mr. Ranger, sir,” I told him. “Right along-side the mating habits of the common bull snake and the manual on defusing a C-4 explosive device.”

We carefully crawled out of the vehicle and walked back to the sky-blue van. It looked like the kind of setup that should have Elvis tapestries and puppy dog wall rugs on display and blowing in the Arizona breezes. No Elvis sightings—thank you, thank you very much—however my hero, John Wayne, was more than adequately represented with his distinctive persona pasted on rugs, mugs, posters and coasters. He was on canvas and velvet, bookends and blankets. Even a Duke Wayne bobble head. I picked it up and jiggled it. Sweet.

“Who is that?” Nick said, pointing to the bobble in my hand. “He looks weird.”

I gave the infant a shocked look and put a hand to my heart.

“You live in Iowa and you don’t recognize John Wayne? Sacrilege!” I said. “Uncle Rick has been most remiss in your education,” I scolded.

“What’s wrong with his eyes?” the youngun asked. “They’re all squinty.”

“That’s his ‘don’t mess with this cowpoke’ look. He’s famous for it,” I replied.

Nick shook his head. “He looks like Grandpa Joe does when he’s taking a nap and we suddenly turn on the light,” Nick told me. I grinned. I’d have to remem-ber to razz Joltin’ Joe about that.

I approached a woman sitting in a lawn chair read-ing an issue of
People
magazine that featured stars who’d packed on the pounds. The vendor wore a so-faux suede vest and denim skirt. With her bleached hair and red roots, she didn’t look like any Native American I’d ever seen.

“Hello there,” I greeted the dour-faced woman. “How much for the John Wayne bobble head?” I asked, thinking J.W. would make a nifty addition to my bobble head family. I could stick Duke between William Jefferson and George Dubya to keep the two in line.

“Twelve-fifty,” the woman answered. “It’s a good deal.”

“I thought we were looking for a wedding gift,” Townsend said, joining me at the table.

“We are,” I said. “But this would make a rootin’ tootin’ addition to the bobble bunch, and an afford-able souvenir of our trip to Sedona for me. So I canlook back and remember our good time. You know, Like the time dishy Trooper Dawkins insisted on win-ning that giant Nemo for me on the midway at the fair last summer,” I added.

Townsend shook his head and heaved a quantum sigh. “Give it here,” he said, and I handed it over.

“Oh, Townsend, you spoil me so,” I gushed, batting my eyes in as coy a manner as I could manage.

“Lots of John Wayne stuff,” the clerk said, sensing maybe some gullible tourists. “John Wayne filmed many movies here in the Red Rock and Oak Creek Canyon area. The Duke loved it here. He even owned a couple ranches in Arizona.” She picked up a bronze statue of John Wayne sitting on a rather dispropor-tionately crafted horse. “The Duke was a real horse-man, that one.”

I snorted. Obviously this woman didn’t know Duke like I knew Duke.

I snapped my fingers at the whippersnappers. “Listen up, you two,” I said. “This is Lesson One in John Wayne Trivia.” I turned back to the woman seated in the lawn chair. “Actually, Wayne was known as ‘Duke’ not ‘the Duke,’ as is often mistakenly expressed. You see, as a child in Glendale, California, he’d visit the local fire sta-tion with his Airedale terrier, ‘Little Duke,’ and the fire-men started calling him ‘Big Duke’ and since he preferred Duke to Marion—and who wouldn’t?—the nickname stuck. Trust me. I know about nicknames. Secondly, despite his brilliant portrayals of tough-as-nails soldiers, cowpokes, and lawmen, Marion Michael Morrison didn’t really care for horses all that much. He much preferred the deck of a boat to the back of a horse.”

The saleswoman stared up at me.

“Marion who?”

“Marion Michael Morrison—better known as JohnWayne. You see, a director figured ‘Marion’ was too sissified a name for a big, tough hero type, so they changed it to John Wayne. And the rest,” I said with a wink, “is history.”

“Is that a fact?” the clerk said, clearly not impressed with my demonstrated knowledge in this area.

I nodded.

“And I’ll bet you didn’t know Duke was born in Iowa either,” I went on. “Just a couple counties over from where I live, as a matter of fact. They even have a mu-seum at his birthplace site in Winterset,” I told her.

“Fascinating,” she said, not bothering to cover her yawn. “So, you’re from Iowa?” she asked, taking in our little party with her query.

I nodded. “Yep. The ‘if you build it, they will come’ state.’ ”

“Huh?”

“
Field of Dreams
. Kevin Costner. Academy Award. Any of these ring a bell?”

The woman shrugged. “I know Iowa. I buy potatoes.”

My ears began to burn. I hated it when folks got the corn state confused with the russet one. And I sus-pected this woman had done it on purpose.

“Actually that’s not Iowa, that’s Idaho. And nothing infuriates a Hawkeye more than—”

Townsend grabbed my hand.

“We need to get moving, Tressa,” Townsend said. “Wasn’t there something else you came for?” he urged as he led me over to the figurines.

I gave the woman an
I’m from Iowa and I’m proud
look and let myself be led away. I looked through the fig-urines, disappointed that none of them was quite right when I spotted a statue set apart from the others on the top shelf of a rickety old wire stand sitting behind the clerk. Approximately eight inches in height and, judging from certain anatomical attributes that couldnot be overlooked, it was obviously a fertility god of some kind. However, it certainly was not my friend, Kokopelli. This image was cruder. Rougher. With a phallus of phenomenal proportions. And totally, with-out a doubt, the butt ugliest statue I’d ever laid eyes on. Well, except for the gross outdoor one on the cam-pus at Carson College back home that someone with a college education and smart enough to know better had slapped down six figures for, that is.

“That’s it!” I yelled. “That’s the perfect gift for the happy couple! I’m sure of it!” If the price was right, as Bob Barker would say. I pointed to the statue. “Could I see that please?” I asked. “The statue there. The ‘no guess as to how happy I am to see you’ one.”

Townsend shook his head.

“That’s not for sale,” the woman snapped, obviously annoyed with me for my biographical moment earlier. “It’s on hold for another customer.”