Tin.Can.Goat

I can’t tell a story without someone making a comment about the number of jobs I’ve had in my life. It’s true I’ve held quite a few, but it was all part of my personal growth processes. At least that’s what I tell myself. Although most of my growth time was spent working retail, it’s grocery that I hold dearest to my heart. It’s nestled right alongside bus driving down deep in the cockles of my heart.

I started out in grocery. Technically, it was my second job, right after farm work, but that’s only because farming wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. My dad worked hard selling the concept of farming to me, and though I bought into it, after a month of topping corn—a thankless, backbreaking, underpaying job—I quit.

That was the summer of 1987, sometime in July. A day when the owner’s 14-years old son showed up in his cherry 1987, over-sized Ford F-150 crew cab. The kid had some trouble climbing out of the cab, the big foot tires and specialized lift-kit raised the truck a good five feet off the ground, but he flicked a switch and extended the automatic step ladder from beneath the cab. He rode the stairway lift to the red carpet two of my co-workers had rolled out when I wasn’t looking.

“Payday,” said Ramon with a pat to my back. He walked to the line and I hurried after.

The kid handed each of us our monthly paycheck—this was my first—and while my co-workers folded their blue checks in two and stuffed them into pockets of dirty Wranglers or dusty, tassel-pollen speckled flannels, I took one look at mine and said, “Fifty-seven bucks?”

“You feel blighted?” said Ramon.

I thought Ramon was the mouthpiece of our crew because he was the toughest guy around, but it turns out he was the bilingual one, even though his English was broken and difficult to follow. I couldn’t complain, my knowledge of Spanish was in the form of swear words and personal insults.

Ramon liked me. He said it was a combination of my stupidity and size. He told me it odd that I let the others name me ‘Mariposa’, but I told him it was kind of cool. After all, only the cool guys got nicknamed after a car.

Though not much larger than me, Ramon had some pretty big balls. He’d never let the others pick on me. If they tried, he’d stop it. He stood his ground a fearless bull, or maybe a billy goat, and point me to safety.

“Fly Butterfly, fly,” he’d cry, and bleat a maniacal, gritty laugh.

Sometimes I felt bad leaving him alone, but I figured anyone who could quote Muhammad Ali—even if slightly wrong—well, that person knew a something or two about fighting.

“Sting like a bee,” I’d cry, stumbling over corrugates and broken stalks.

I held a lot of respect and awe for that man, still do. He was a pretty tough guy to stand up to those bigger men the way he did; tougher still to be a supporter of Ali amongst a gaggle of Chavez fans.

“Butterfly?” Ramon said, and waved a hand in front of my eyes.

“Bee,” I said, remembering the check in my hands. “This feels light.”

“It is papal.”

“Paper. But I mean it feels light, as in I didn’t get paid enough.” I showed him the check and his eyes widened.

“You are related?”

“What? No. He’s in my class.”

“He must like you. You are well-paid.”

I shook my head, “Once I pay mom back, I’m lucky to have seventeen dollars to my name. Let me see yours.”

“No Butterfly. I am ashamed,” he said, and buttoned his flannel’s pocket.

The farmer’s kid misted himself with a water bottle and smiled as he talked to a worker shading him with an umbrella. The co-worker laughed and slapped his free hand against his thigh.

“I thought Eduardo was deaf, or mute?” I said.

“Both,” said Ramon. “But he laughs like a donkey, and that is why he holds the umbrella. The boss jokes, the boss smiles, and Eduardo brays. Everyone is happy.”

He waved his arm.

Our crew sat in the shade of the corn and watched the kid and Eduardo as if it were a Sunday matinée. Each of them laughed and poked each other in amusement at the braying Eduardo and the smiling kid. I realized I wasn’t as funny as I’d previously imagined and made a mental note to throw away the comedy material I’d been writing at home and working in the fields for the past month.

Ramon smiled and patted my cheek with a leathery hand. “You are simple Felipe. Don’t change.”

[791]

“Who’s to say the damn thing flew at all?” Chester said.

I pa-shaw’d, and he flicked his still-burning cigarette into the wood-chip landscaping.

He turned and walked towards the apartment door. I started to follow, but stopped and stamped out the smoldering fag.

“Yeah, you’re the genius here, believing anything you read,” he said, and shook his head. “All I’m saying is there are other possibilities. I mean, were you there when they lived? Did you steal an egg and nurture a young one to be ridden at adulthood? I’d say no. So how do you know they’re correct?”

“Because they’re scientists,” I said. “That’s what they get government funding for. To tell us all that we know so little.”

Chester waited for me to enter the apartment and then followed behind me, closing the door with one hand, and flicking the light switch with the other.

It smelled like dog inside the kitchen, and it made me think twice before accepting an opened beer from him, but I took the bottle and waved it under my nose.

“It’s fresh,” he said, and grabbed another bottle.

I breathed deep, then cough-gagged at the wet-canine smell. “Yes sir, it is,” I said, and implanted the bottleneck into my nostril.

He pried the cap from his bottle, and with a POP! it clattered across the countertop. I flicked it into the metallic sink with my thumb and watched it circle the sides like a motorcyclist in a ring-of-death at the circus, then slide into the  before sliding into the strainer.

“Even so,” he said, redirecting the conversation back, “being a scientist doesn’t make them one-hundred-percent correct. I mean, a farmer invented the TV remote, so just hear me out for a second.”

“Ok, I’m listening,” I said, and looked at the wall clock. “Go. Stop.”

“Not literally,” he said. “C’mon, just listen.”

“Ok, go. You’ve got five seconds.”

“Ok, so if the—“

“Stop.”

“Fine. I’m done.” He threw his bottle into the sink and walked out onto the balcony.

“Oh come on,” I said. “I’m only kidding. Don’t be such a puss.”

He slid the glass door shut, and feeling bad that I might lose an opportunity for more snide remarks, I followed him.

“Sorry,” I said, and closed the door. “I’m listening.”

I leaned on the railing next to him, and he blew smoke from the side of his mouth and into my face.

“Funny,” I said, and coughed. “You’re wife did the same thing last night.”

“No I didn’t, you dick,” she called up from below.

I looked at Chester. “You could have warned me she was down there,” I whispered.

He smiled, and said, “Could have.”

“Fine, you got me there, even if it was indirect.” I moved from the railing and sat on a lawn chair. “Tell me your”—I made air quotes—“theory.”

He sighed and flicked his cigarette. It exploded against the seamless siding, and the women below hurled curses at him.

He leaned over the rail. “Sorry boo,” he said, and turned and sat in the lawn chair next to me.

He pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and packed it against his palm. “So,” he said, and took a cigarette, lit it, and pulled a long drag. “A Pterodactyl has leathering wings right? At least that’s what they theorize.” He made air quotes around theorize, and I nodded.

“Ok, so you know what animal has leathery wings now?”

“No idea,” I said.

“Flying squirrels.” He smiled, took a drag, and blew a smoke ring in the air.

I chewed on my lower lip. “You sure about that? I always thought it was just skin and they stretched it out between their limbs when they jumped and glided from tree-to-tree.”

He leapt to his feet and the chair crumpled behind him. “Exactly,” he yelled, the cigarette in his hand quivered with his delight, though I was unsure exactly what “exactly” meant. Luckily, he took time to explain it.

“And that’s what I am saying,” he said, and wiped a tear from his cheek. “Think about it. How do we know Pterodactyl flew? We don’t! But think, just think about it—“

“I’m thinking! I’m thinking,” I said. “What am I thinking on?”

He pulled his cigarette and the ember climbed dangerously close to the filter. “Pterodactyl’s were the ancient world’s flying squirrels.” He smiled and blew smoke between his teeth.

“Does that make the Velociraptor the moose? The T-Rex Natasha?”

“What?” he said.

“Never mind,” I said. “I don’t think that was the ‘ancient world’ though. Ancient world makes me think of the Romans.”

His wife walked into the apartment with the dogs and closed the door. The air pressure vibrated the sliding glass door, and the dogs licked and scratched at it trying to get out to us. I thought I could smell them through the glass, but realized it was the throw pillow in my lap. I tossed it onto the deck and Chester frowned, then picked it up and brushed it off.

“Yeah, that will help,” I said.

He set the pillow on the barbeque and flicked his cigarette off the deck into a dry bush below. A cat shot from behind the bush as if fired from a cannon, and Chester snorted and laughed.

“Anyways,” he said, and picked up his chair and opening it up, sat down. “If you think about it, with their size, and leathery wings, who’s to say the damn things flew? What I’m saying, is maybe they glided from place to place. They had huge claws and their hands and feet. I’m thinking they used those to climb the rocks, trees, whatever, and then spread those big damn wings and glided from spot to spot. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“They were probably terrible swimmers,” I said, and pulled my phone from my pocket. “I gotta run dude. Wife texted me to come home.”

“Really? That sucks,” he said.

I stood and looked out at the smoke curling over the railing, the bush below smoldered from the cigarette. I tipped my bottle and extinguished the flame below.

Chester shook his head. “That’s a waste.”

“I had to put out a fire,” I said, and he stood and walked next to me and peered over the side.

“Whoa, what do you think started that?” he said.

I shrugged. “Flying squirrels?”

He looked at me and shook his head. “You laugh, but think about it. It’s possible. You’re going to be jealous when it’s my name that’s published Mr. Writer.”

“When you get published for that story, I’ll quit writing forever,” I said, and opened the sliding glass door. “Until then, I have to get home. Thanks for the beer.”

“Think about it,” he said, and waved to me.

I waved, but kept my hands high and away from the dogs. I closed the door behind me and thought, What a nut, but then thought, Maybe he’s right?

[1160]