Post by Johnny Reb on May 10, 2010 13:42:00 GMT -5
…And so the quest had begun. Johnny and his manager, trainer, mentor, and spiritual advisor, Don Jesus Luis de Guadalupe, had no idea what strange adventures awaited them as they set off in search of burritos and enlightenment.
The two men opted to take Chuy’s vehicle, as it seemed the most appropriate choice for a trip to Taco Bell. It was a 1979 Ford Ranchero, painted a sparkling metallic green, with a detailed image of La Virgen de Guadalupe airbrushed right on the hood, and a ghostly flame job along the front fenders. Gold-plated rims added a further touch of class. Inside, the car was pristine. Shag carpeting lined the floorboards; fuzzy green seat covers protected the original vinyl upholstery of the singular bench seat; a chrome chain steering wheel and a custom shifter knob, bearing the colors of the Mexican flag, completed the overall effect.
Don Jesus had told Johnny once that the Ranchero was more than just a car. He had insisted that it was, in fact, a time machine; built by none other than William of Occam sometime during the 14th Century, and entrusted to Chuy’s care. Johnny hadn’t bothered questioning the tale, mostly because he figured the old man was probably high at the time. Which was a pretty safe assumption, all things considered.
And so, with the sun setting behind them, and Jesus at the wheel, they drove through the streets of Omaha. A left turn, a right turn, and then straight for some time, passing innumerable fast food places along the way. As the evening grew darker, their surroundings seemed more sinister. Office buildings gave way to run-down apartments; well-lit convenience stores and strip centers, to tiny shops with bars on doors and windows. Even the pavement here was in poor repair, with cracks and potholes in dire need of patching. Johnny Reb turned to his manager, mildly apprehensive.
“Um… Chuy?” he asked. “Where’re we goin’?”
“To Taco Bell,” Jesus replied easily.
“But we passed three of ‘em on the way here!”
“I know. There is one stop we must make first, for I am all out of mota.”
Reb’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked this plan. The deeper they drove into the ghetto, the more uncomfortable Johnny became. Dangerous-looking people loitered on the sidewalks, stopping to stare at the passing vehicle and its occupants.
“I don’t think any of these folks got what you’re lookin’ for,” Johnny said reasonably. “An’ I really doubt you’re gonna find a single Mexican in Nebraska.”
Don Jesus looked at Johnny askance.
“There is one. He is spoken of only in whispers, and his name is…”
“Bernardo?” Johnny supplied.
“Si,” Chuy replied, nodding. “He is Bernardo.”
At that, Johnny fell silent and slouched in his seat, his brooding stare directed out the window. They drove on for a few more minutes, before Jesus rolled the car to a stop in front of the most derelict apartment building yet. Had it not been for a single light in a window upstairs, and the two burly black men keeping vigil out front, Johnny might’ve assumed the place was abandoned. As they got out of the car, the two guardians approached Johnny and Jesus.
“Oi!” said one, in an uncharacteristic-seeming Cockney accent. “What’re you lot doin’ ‘ere?”
Uneasy under the close scrutiny, Johnny nevertheless stood his ground and let Chuy do the talking. The other man looked them both over carefully before casting a glance at his compatriot.
“I say, brother,” the second said, in a far more cultured Oxford-type manner, “I do believe this gent is one of those…rednecks.”
He spat that final word out in disgust. The first suddenly seemed much more interested in Reb than in Jesus. He stalked a little closer, flexing the bulging muscles in his forearms.
“Oh, yeah? I’ll ‘andle ‘im, I will!” declared the first.
“Enough!” Chuy cut in at last, his voice authoritative and commanding. “We have come to see…. Bernardo.”
The first man hesitated as Jesus fixed him with a penetrating glare. The second appeared to relax, but only slightly.
“Of course you have, chaps. Nobody comes here without good cause. But you gentlemen don’t have an appointment.”
Chuy flashed the guy a wicked smile.
“You tell Bernardo… Jesus has come.”
The guard eyed the elderly Mexican critically for several moments, before giving him a nod and disappearing inside. After another minute or two, a head poked out the upstairs window and called down to them.
“Jesus? Get your ass up here, ese! And bring your redneck amigo!”
And so the two of them went inside. The interior of the place was as dilapidated as the outside, with wallpaper peeling away and light fixtures that worked only intermittently. The stairs were especially difficult to navigate, and at one point, an entire section of railing came off in Johnny’s hand. With a shrug, he dropped it to the floor and continued on.
The one occupied apartment in the whole place was a complete contradiction to the rest of the surroundings. The structure here was in good repair, and cleaner, probably, than Johnny’s own apartment. An eclectic conglomerate of decorative elements dazzled the eye and bewildered the senses. Posters of Che Guevara, Bob Marley, and, for some reason, the Pussycat Dolls were tacked to the walls amid bright red drapes that hung from the ceiling. Reclining on an aging camelback sofa, his feet propped up on a cheap modular coffee table, was a young Hispanic, probably in his mid-twenties. He smiled and gestured at a pair of mismatched chairs.
“Please, have a seat,” he invited, and they did so. “What can I do for you?”
Don Jesus leaned forward, peering intently at the other man.
“You know why I have come, Bernardo.”
Slowly, Bernardo nodded.
“But why did you bring the gringo?” he asked.
“Do you not recognize him? This is the Inveterate Confederate. The greatest white lucha I have ever seen.”
Bernardo took another look at Johnny, studying him carefully. Then, he relaxed and smiled.
“I should have known, old man. So, you have come to me for my special …magic? Yes?”
“Yes. I have brought the payment,” Chuy replied solemnly, reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a letter-sized envelope.
Bernardo gestured vaguely at the table, and Jesus tossed the envelope there, as Johnny watched in a sort of fascinated bemusement. The other man didn’t even bother to look at it; he simply reached beneath the couch and pulled out a wooden cigar box. Opening it, he began to sort through the contents, then paused as a thought occurred to him.
“But his opponents, they are no challenge for Johnny Reb.”
“That… is the problem, Bernardo. The less challenging they are, the more likely he is to lose.”
“Hey! That’s not – ” Johnny began, then fell silent again as Jesus shot him a dark look.
Finally finding what he was looking for, Bernardo pulled a small plastic bag from the box and handed it to Chuy. Then, stretching, he stood. Taking that as their cue, Johnny and Jesus followed suit. The two Mexicans embraced briefly before Bernardo led the way back to the door.
“Use it sparingly,” he warned, as he opened the door. “And in good health, mi amigo.”
Chuy gave him a nod, smiling, and turned to leave, with Reb right behind him.
“Oh, and Juanito,” Bernardo said.
Johnny turned to face him once more, and Bernardo stuck out his hand, grinning. Reb took the proffered hand, and was pulled into a complex sort of handshake, the kind usually reserved for secret fraternities… or the ghetto.
“Good luck!” Bernardo told him, and then sent them on their way.
*****
Sometime later, Johnny and Jesus finally emerged from the oppressive darkness of the less savory part of town, turning onto a brightly lit street. They passed a joint back and forth, each lost in his own thoughts. There was really no telling what was going on inside Don Jesus’ head; that mind, great as it may be, was a convoluted and chaotic maze of neural connections and synapses that made since to few. Johnny, however, was reflecting on his upcoming match.
It was true, what Chuy had said at Bernardo’s hidden sanctuary. Johnny had a tendency to put forth less effort than he should have when faced with a challenger who wasn’t up to the task. And while he respected Adam Young as a fellow Southerner and a serious competitor, he also knew that he could defeat him this time, as he had before. Bishop, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity. He didn’t seem like much of a challenge, on the surface, and that tempted Reb to be a little lazier in his consideration of the man.
Reb’s train of thought was derailed at the sound of a siren just behind them. He glanced back to see flashing lights in the rear window, and swore softly.
“Damnit! We better get rid of that weed before you pull over, Chuy,” he said.
Don Jesus shook his head.
“Relax, Bernardo. Put this in the glove box and toss the roach. I’ll handle the rest.”
With that, he passed over the baggie of illicit contents; Johnny promptly followed the old man’s instructions, then took one last hit off the joint before tossing it out the window. Don Jesus pulled to a stop in the parking lot of an auto repair shop, already closed for the evening. The police car parked right behind them, and the officer got out, walking over to the driver’s window. She was a slim brunette, about thirtyish, with a huge rack and a stern expression on her face.
“License and registration, please,” she said, sounding simultaneously annoyed and bored; a tone of voice perfected by traffic cops over the years.
Jesus grinned at her.
“No ingleis,” he said, using a tactic developed by Mexicans long before there were such things as traffic cops.
She scowled and peered into the car at Johnny, who did his best to look innocent.
“Does your buddy have a license to drive this thing?”
“Well, ma’am, I can’t say as I rightly know,” Johnny told her, smiling his most charming smile. “Lemme ask. Jesus, el license-o? For the nice, uh, policia…”
Still grinning, the old Mexican nodded and pulled out his wallet. He dug around for a minute and produced a green card, passing it to her through the window. She glanced at it, clearly not amused, and handed it back.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car, please.”
“Now, hold on a minute,” Reb interjected. "His English ain’t so good, but he does have a license. Musta left it back at the hotel.”
“I’m sorry, but the law requires him to have his license with him if he’s going to be driving,” the officer told him.
“I know, I know. It’s just a li’l mix-up, ma’am. This is his first time in the good ol’ U. S. of A., and he ain’t quite got the hang of it all yet… Are ya sure there ain’t maybe some way we can work this out?”
The woman took another, longer look at Johnny, frowning. Then, recognizing him at last, her eyebrows shot up in surprise. He gave her a roguish grin, as she appeared to reconsider.
“Well, Mr. Reb, maybe I can make an exception. Why don’t you… come over to my car with me, and we’ll have a little…chat.”
Hastily, Johnny got out of the car, pausing just long enough to tell Chuy to wait for him, and accompanied the officer back to her vehicle. Don Jesus watched in his mirror as the flashing lights were suddenly turned off, and both parties got into the cop car. After a few minutes, it began to rock slightly. Chuckling softly, Chuy quickly found something else to look at. He turned on the radio, glancing up every so often to look for his young charge.
Twenty minutes later, give or take, Reb came walking back to the car. The police vehicle silently took off, heading back in the direction from whence it had come. Silently, Johnny got back in and fastened his seatbelt.
“You smell of sweat and shame, Bernardo,” Jesus commented, starting the car up again.
Slowly, Johnny turned an incredulous gaze on his mentor, while the old man pulled out into traffic once more.
“Well,” Reb replied at last, “it got us off the hook, didn’t it?”
“That is not the point,” Jesus told him. “There is no shame in what you did. It was necessary. Besides… you got to nail a cop! How many guys can say that?”
The Inveterate Confederate was quiet, contemplative, for several minutes before he nodded in agreement. He was about to say something to the effect, when he spotted a familiar sign in the distance ahead. The image of a bell, in yellow and violet, on a white background; he felt like Galahad, blessed with a vision of the Holy Grail, and pointed.
“Look! There it is! Punch it, Chuy!”
And so ends the tale of one man’s quest for enlightenment, and another man’s quest for a bean burrito. And in the end, who’s to say they’re not the same…?
The two men opted to take Chuy’s vehicle, as it seemed the most appropriate choice for a trip to Taco Bell. It was a 1979 Ford Ranchero, painted a sparkling metallic green, with a detailed image of La Virgen de Guadalupe airbrushed right on the hood, and a ghostly flame job along the front fenders. Gold-plated rims added a further touch of class. Inside, the car was pristine. Shag carpeting lined the floorboards; fuzzy green seat covers protected the original vinyl upholstery of the singular bench seat; a chrome chain steering wheel and a custom shifter knob, bearing the colors of the Mexican flag, completed the overall effect.
Don Jesus had told Johnny once that the Ranchero was more than just a car. He had insisted that it was, in fact, a time machine; built by none other than William of Occam sometime during the 14th Century, and entrusted to Chuy’s care. Johnny hadn’t bothered questioning the tale, mostly because he figured the old man was probably high at the time. Which was a pretty safe assumption, all things considered.
And so, with the sun setting behind them, and Jesus at the wheel, they drove through the streets of Omaha. A left turn, a right turn, and then straight for some time, passing innumerable fast food places along the way. As the evening grew darker, their surroundings seemed more sinister. Office buildings gave way to run-down apartments; well-lit convenience stores and strip centers, to tiny shops with bars on doors and windows. Even the pavement here was in poor repair, with cracks and potholes in dire need of patching. Johnny Reb turned to his manager, mildly apprehensive.
“Um… Chuy?” he asked. “Where’re we goin’?”
“To Taco Bell,” Jesus replied easily.
“But we passed three of ‘em on the way here!”
“I know. There is one stop we must make first, for I am all out of mota.”
Reb’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked this plan. The deeper they drove into the ghetto, the more uncomfortable Johnny became. Dangerous-looking people loitered on the sidewalks, stopping to stare at the passing vehicle and its occupants.
“I don’t think any of these folks got what you’re lookin’ for,” Johnny said reasonably. “An’ I really doubt you’re gonna find a single Mexican in Nebraska.”
Don Jesus looked at Johnny askance.
“There is one. He is spoken of only in whispers, and his name is…”
“Bernardo?” Johnny supplied.
“Si,” Chuy replied, nodding. “He is Bernardo.”
At that, Johnny fell silent and slouched in his seat, his brooding stare directed out the window. They drove on for a few more minutes, before Jesus rolled the car to a stop in front of the most derelict apartment building yet. Had it not been for a single light in a window upstairs, and the two burly black men keeping vigil out front, Johnny might’ve assumed the place was abandoned. As they got out of the car, the two guardians approached Johnny and Jesus.
“Oi!” said one, in an uncharacteristic-seeming Cockney accent. “What’re you lot doin’ ‘ere?”
Uneasy under the close scrutiny, Johnny nevertheless stood his ground and let Chuy do the talking. The other man looked them both over carefully before casting a glance at his compatriot.
“I say, brother,” the second said, in a far more cultured Oxford-type manner, “I do believe this gent is one of those…rednecks.”
He spat that final word out in disgust. The first suddenly seemed much more interested in Reb than in Jesus. He stalked a little closer, flexing the bulging muscles in his forearms.
“Oh, yeah? I’ll ‘andle ‘im, I will!” declared the first.
“Enough!” Chuy cut in at last, his voice authoritative and commanding. “We have come to see…. Bernardo.”
The first man hesitated as Jesus fixed him with a penetrating glare. The second appeared to relax, but only slightly.
“Of course you have, chaps. Nobody comes here without good cause. But you gentlemen don’t have an appointment.”
Chuy flashed the guy a wicked smile.
“You tell Bernardo… Jesus has come.”
The guard eyed the elderly Mexican critically for several moments, before giving him a nod and disappearing inside. After another minute or two, a head poked out the upstairs window and called down to them.
“Jesus? Get your ass up here, ese! And bring your redneck amigo!”
And so the two of them went inside. The interior of the place was as dilapidated as the outside, with wallpaper peeling away and light fixtures that worked only intermittently. The stairs were especially difficult to navigate, and at one point, an entire section of railing came off in Johnny’s hand. With a shrug, he dropped it to the floor and continued on.
The one occupied apartment in the whole place was a complete contradiction to the rest of the surroundings. The structure here was in good repair, and cleaner, probably, than Johnny’s own apartment. An eclectic conglomerate of decorative elements dazzled the eye and bewildered the senses. Posters of Che Guevara, Bob Marley, and, for some reason, the Pussycat Dolls were tacked to the walls amid bright red drapes that hung from the ceiling. Reclining on an aging camelback sofa, his feet propped up on a cheap modular coffee table, was a young Hispanic, probably in his mid-twenties. He smiled and gestured at a pair of mismatched chairs.
“Please, have a seat,” he invited, and they did so. “What can I do for you?”
Don Jesus leaned forward, peering intently at the other man.
“You know why I have come, Bernardo.”
Slowly, Bernardo nodded.
“But why did you bring the gringo?” he asked.
“Do you not recognize him? This is the Inveterate Confederate. The greatest white lucha I have ever seen.”
Bernardo took another look at Johnny, studying him carefully. Then, he relaxed and smiled.
“I should have known, old man. So, you have come to me for my special …magic? Yes?”
“Yes. I have brought the payment,” Chuy replied solemnly, reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a letter-sized envelope.
Bernardo gestured vaguely at the table, and Jesus tossed the envelope there, as Johnny watched in a sort of fascinated bemusement. The other man didn’t even bother to look at it; he simply reached beneath the couch and pulled out a wooden cigar box. Opening it, he began to sort through the contents, then paused as a thought occurred to him.
“But his opponents, they are no challenge for Johnny Reb.”
“That… is the problem, Bernardo. The less challenging they are, the more likely he is to lose.”
“Hey! That’s not – ” Johnny began, then fell silent again as Jesus shot him a dark look.
Finally finding what he was looking for, Bernardo pulled a small plastic bag from the box and handed it to Chuy. Then, stretching, he stood. Taking that as their cue, Johnny and Jesus followed suit. The two Mexicans embraced briefly before Bernardo led the way back to the door.
“Use it sparingly,” he warned, as he opened the door. “And in good health, mi amigo.”
Chuy gave him a nod, smiling, and turned to leave, with Reb right behind him.
“Oh, and Juanito,” Bernardo said.
Johnny turned to face him once more, and Bernardo stuck out his hand, grinning. Reb took the proffered hand, and was pulled into a complex sort of handshake, the kind usually reserved for secret fraternities… or the ghetto.
“Good luck!” Bernardo told him, and then sent them on their way.
*****
Sometime later, Johnny and Jesus finally emerged from the oppressive darkness of the less savory part of town, turning onto a brightly lit street. They passed a joint back and forth, each lost in his own thoughts. There was really no telling what was going on inside Don Jesus’ head; that mind, great as it may be, was a convoluted and chaotic maze of neural connections and synapses that made since to few. Johnny, however, was reflecting on his upcoming match.
It was true, what Chuy had said at Bernardo’s hidden sanctuary. Johnny had a tendency to put forth less effort than he should have when faced with a challenger who wasn’t up to the task. And while he respected Adam Young as a fellow Southerner and a serious competitor, he also knew that he could defeat him this time, as he had before. Bishop, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity. He didn’t seem like much of a challenge, on the surface, and that tempted Reb to be a little lazier in his consideration of the man.
Reb’s train of thought was derailed at the sound of a siren just behind them. He glanced back to see flashing lights in the rear window, and swore softly.
“Damnit! We better get rid of that weed before you pull over, Chuy,” he said.
Don Jesus shook his head.
“Relax, Bernardo. Put this in the glove box and toss the roach. I’ll handle the rest.”
With that, he passed over the baggie of illicit contents; Johnny promptly followed the old man’s instructions, then took one last hit off the joint before tossing it out the window. Don Jesus pulled to a stop in the parking lot of an auto repair shop, already closed for the evening. The police car parked right behind them, and the officer got out, walking over to the driver’s window. She was a slim brunette, about thirtyish, with a huge rack and a stern expression on her face.
“License and registration, please,” she said, sounding simultaneously annoyed and bored; a tone of voice perfected by traffic cops over the years.
Jesus grinned at her.
“No ingleis,” he said, using a tactic developed by Mexicans long before there were such things as traffic cops.
She scowled and peered into the car at Johnny, who did his best to look innocent.
“Does your buddy have a license to drive this thing?”
“Well, ma’am, I can’t say as I rightly know,” Johnny told her, smiling his most charming smile. “Lemme ask. Jesus, el license-o? For the nice, uh, policia…”
Still grinning, the old Mexican nodded and pulled out his wallet. He dug around for a minute and produced a green card, passing it to her through the window. She glanced at it, clearly not amused, and handed it back.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car, please.”
“Now, hold on a minute,” Reb interjected. "His English ain’t so good, but he does have a license. Musta left it back at the hotel.”
“I’m sorry, but the law requires him to have his license with him if he’s going to be driving,” the officer told him.
“I know, I know. It’s just a li’l mix-up, ma’am. This is his first time in the good ol’ U. S. of A., and he ain’t quite got the hang of it all yet… Are ya sure there ain’t maybe some way we can work this out?”
The woman took another, longer look at Johnny, frowning. Then, recognizing him at last, her eyebrows shot up in surprise. He gave her a roguish grin, as she appeared to reconsider.
“Well, Mr. Reb, maybe I can make an exception. Why don’t you… come over to my car with me, and we’ll have a little…chat.”
Hastily, Johnny got out of the car, pausing just long enough to tell Chuy to wait for him, and accompanied the officer back to her vehicle. Don Jesus watched in his mirror as the flashing lights were suddenly turned off, and both parties got into the cop car. After a few minutes, it began to rock slightly. Chuckling softly, Chuy quickly found something else to look at. He turned on the radio, glancing up every so often to look for his young charge.
Twenty minutes later, give or take, Reb came walking back to the car. The police vehicle silently took off, heading back in the direction from whence it had come. Silently, Johnny got back in and fastened his seatbelt.
“You smell of sweat and shame, Bernardo,” Jesus commented, starting the car up again.
Slowly, Johnny turned an incredulous gaze on his mentor, while the old man pulled out into traffic once more.
“Well,” Reb replied at last, “it got us off the hook, didn’t it?”
“That is not the point,” Jesus told him. “There is no shame in what you did. It was necessary. Besides… you got to nail a cop! How many guys can say that?”
The Inveterate Confederate was quiet, contemplative, for several minutes before he nodded in agreement. He was about to say something to the effect, when he spotted a familiar sign in the distance ahead. The image of a bell, in yellow and violet, on a white background; he felt like Galahad, blessed with a vision of the Holy Grail, and pointed.
“Look! There it is! Punch it, Chuy!”
And so ends the tale of one man’s quest for enlightenment, and another man’s quest for a bean burrito. And in the end, who’s to say they’re not the same…?
