Sacrificing neither pride nor vanity I became a wrought iron devotee,
a guru of the black metal under a blistering Tucson sun, while Mack went into town
for supplies. At my side were others or at least one
of like ilk and mind. On the ground was a Morris wrestling with and ultimately
losing to a large wheel barrow and miles of hostile desert. Mack returns. Floridays and Dead
on loop, their hard plastic cases softened in the sun and permanently coated by
the sand blaster.
Mack goes for supplies. Sitting makes me happy and I do a lot of it. Besides I am good at it, an
overachiever in my chosen field. We are temps at everything, patient and
empowered with that knowledge. These days are a calling, an epiphany, freeing the soul and coalescing
a world view. Mack comes back with Lime which eats at the soft skin at the end of
the rubber gloves, scarring
my flesh.
There is no wrought iron bible. Although some might hope that there
was. An easy fix, a Dummies guide to a sense of humor. I cling to nothing. I
know more now than when I started. I can teach a class in the philosophy of
wrought iron. Mack goes for supplies.
Pilgrimage begins
before we are paid, Ben's is our Mecca and drinking our redemption. We radiate
awareness, kings of the common man. We sit outside and are noticeable, we smell and are sun burnt but are less
uptight than the people around us. The shade on the deck is pleasant after the
desert heat, and we drink copious amounts of beer.
A reggae band kicks in and we
enjoy ourselves. After the sun goes down we move inside, down the stairs to the
dead hour. Mack pays us at the bar, at the end of the night we will wind up owing him money.
Tomorrow we will be at the site before any of these people are awake. We will sit
in the cool of the morning, drinking Circle K coffee and watching the javelinas.
Mack will arrive late and then go into town for supplies.
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