On the late-night swing at the office — the one my coworkers call the “presidential death watch,” standing by just in case something major develops — I wait for the product to churn. When it does, I hear once more the locomotives rolling into Union Station overhead, their rumbling through concrete walls as my grandmother returns from Detroit or Fort Wayne. It’s the same rolling thunder I hear later in Manhattan, in the pavement of Lexington Avenue, under the taxis and human footsteps. Tonight these trains roll along spider webbing.
Although I now live in desert, my office resembles offices everywhere. In the morning, chubby wheeler-dealers strut into the room and bark orders. In this case, they’re Texans clad in polyester and strings ties. More gyrating rolls spit out headlines under the ceaseless deadline.
At times I long for an appointment as serene as a winter pond. Make an offer. The owners want more. They grin and demand, boy. Watch the shit.
I ask Kokopelli, “Why do people avoid bare truth? What virtue is found in complication? Why can’t I simply stick to the steps of the Way? How much opportunity slips away when entanglements dim my view of my Guide? What will be my first big break? Or three?”
“How the hell should I know,” he grins.
He knows, all right. No doubt about it.
When I arrive home, she greets me with a mischievous grin: “I’ve only lied once or twice in my life and this is the third time. Welcome to the split-pea patch of my existence.”
For more insights from the American Far West and Kokopelli, click here.