Having begun her project in earnest, she soon uncovered details better left in the past. Illuminating the activities of our ancestors was apparently an unnerving experience, and after arriving at that conclusion, she folded her tent, locked the offending documentation in a chest, and abandoned the undertaking. It is clear from what little information Cindy disclosed that our antecedents were mostly outlaws, misfits, vagrants, miscreants and Democrats; the latter category being most worrisome. Intuitively understanding our lineage should never be open to the public, before Cindy began her investigative adventure I had consciously avoided the truth. Indeed, fearing what I might find, I steadfastly refused to interpret our family narrative.
Last Tuesday as I sat at my desk trying to sort out trading post accounting,
which is always challenging, I was reminded of Cindy’s quest. Having heard the
doorbell ring, I looked up to see a slender, well-dressed, middle-aged man
enter the store through the Kokopelli doors. Since it was late in the
afternoon, Barry had given up trying to peddle turquoise and was reclining in
one of the wooden chairs strategically located in the middle of the showroom.
“Good afternoon,” I heard Barry warmly greet the guest. “Good afternoon to you,”
the man replied affably. “Are you one of the Simpsons?”
Knowing our history all too well, Barry’s posture straightened and he cautiously responded, “Well, that depends on whether you are from the CIA, FBI, NSA, IRS, ATF, EPA, BIA, BLM, or one of those other governmental agencies designate by consonants and vowels, designed to trip up ordinary human beings. If, on the other hand you are from ABC, CBS, NBC, or Netflix, I have a story to tell.” While Barry was not interested in being incarcerated long-term, he was still looking for the fifteen minutes of fame Andy Warhol guaranteed us all.
Several years before, after a particularly harrowing federal raid in Blanding, Barry and I had been advised by a lawyer who came wandering into Twin Rocks to always stonewall when anonymous individuals asked for information. This shyster had counseled that we should never voluntarily divulge personal affairs. “Never give ‘em anything,” the ambulance chaser cautioned. “Make ‘em work for it. If you directly ask ‘em if they work for the feds, they have ta tell ya. Then you’ll know and won’t be entrapped.” Since I cannot keep a secret, that guidance was lost on me. Barry, on the other hand, was obviously following the jurist’s instructions. Barry seemed worried I may have made some grievous error he had yet to identify, and this guy knew more about that particular issue than he was revealing.
“No, no, none of that,” the gentleman replied. “Just met a character in Blanding who said he has two sons here in Bluff. Thought you might be one of them. I think his name was Acey or Ducey.” “Duke,” Barry corrected. After a bit, Barry relaxed and began chatting amiably with the visitor. Barry had obviously forgotten about going to the Big House and was thinking there might be one last chance to sell a Navajo basket, rug, folk carving, or piece of silver jewelry.
As I watched through the tinted glass of my office, the dapper man closely inspected Barry. Sensing nothing was amiss, after a time I went back to my accounts and left Barry to address any ongoing issues. When he had concluded his analysis, the dandy turned to go. Before exiting he said, “By the way, while I may not be employed by any of those organizations you mentioned, if I were with the fashion police I would have to charge you with a first-degree felony for violating the IDC, International Dress Code.” Obviously impressed with his own humor, and chuckling to himself, the man strolled out, glowing like a new penny in the late afternoon sunlight. Barry self-consciously smoothed the wrinkles in his Twin Rocks Cafe tee-shirt and uttered an oath he had long ago learned from our neighbor Opal Hooper.
Knowing our history all too well, Barry’s posture straightened and he cautiously responded, “Well, that depends on whether you are from the CIA, FBI, NSA, IRS, ATF, EPA, BIA, BLM, or one of those other governmental agencies designate by consonants and vowels, designed to trip up ordinary human beings. If, on the other hand you are from ABC, CBS, NBC, or Netflix, I have a story to tell.” While Barry was not interested in being incarcerated long-term, he was still looking for the fifteen minutes of fame Andy Warhol guaranteed us all.
Several years before, after a particularly harrowing federal raid in Blanding, Barry and I had been advised by a lawyer who came wandering into Twin Rocks to always stonewall when anonymous individuals asked for information. This shyster had counseled that we should never voluntarily divulge personal affairs. “Never give ‘em anything,” the ambulance chaser cautioned. “Make ‘em work for it. If you directly ask ‘em if they work for the feds, they have ta tell ya. Then you’ll know and won’t be entrapped.” Since I cannot keep a secret, that guidance was lost on me. Barry, on the other hand, was obviously following the jurist’s instructions. Barry seemed worried I may have made some grievous error he had yet to identify, and this guy knew more about that particular issue than he was revealing.
“No, no, none of that,” the gentleman replied. “Just met a character in Blanding who said he has two sons here in Bluff. Thought you might be one of them. I think his name was Acey or Ducey.” “Duke,” Barry corrected. After a bit, Barry relaxed and began chatting amiably with the visitor. Barry had obviously forgotten about going to the Big House and was thinking there might be one last chance to sell a Navajo basket, rug, folk carving, or piece of silver jewelry.
As I watched through the tinted glass of my office, the dapper man closely inspected Barry. Sensing nothing was amiss, after a time I went back to my accounts and left Barry to address any ongoing issues. When he had concluded his analysis, the dandy turned to go. Before exiting he said, “By the way, while I may not be employed by any of those organizations you mentioned, if I were with the fashion police I would have to charge you with a first-degree felony for violating the IDC, International Dress Code.” Obviously impressed with his own humor, and chuckling to himself, the man strolled out, glowing like a new penny in the late afternoon sunlight. Barry self-consciously smoothed the wrinkles in his Twin Rocks Cafe tee-shirt and uttered an oath he had long ago learned from our neighbor Opal Hooper.
No comments:
Post a Comment