"Funny how in this moment of darkness I see the light. Why couldn't I see when I still had a chance for living?"
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(LAREDO) 1887. Mexican bandit Luis Chama was apprehended today after a bloody shooutout in the main square, killing four and wounding two others. Chama, long sought by authorities for his attacks on properties he believes were improperly deeded away from original Mexican landholders, has agreed to stand trial and make his case in court.
Opposing this was rancher Frank Harlen, owner of over 600,000 acres of disputed territory. Mr. Harlen was killed during the shootout as he and his party attempted to assassinate Mr. Chama before he could surrender. Also killed were an associate of Mr. Harlen, Olin Mingo, and hired gun Joshua Goldstein. Ramon Dominguez, an associate of Mr. Chama, also died from wounds suffered during the fight.
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Sally read the paper and shook her head. "Well, it finally happened. Josh got his name in the paper. He always wanted to be famous." She wadded it up and pitched it in the fire, losing herself in the flames. "You always thought you was somebody - but you died a nobody."
When it happens so slowly, sometimes it's a shock to the rest of the world when you finally reach the end of your rope. For Joshua, this had been the worst day of his life - and not even because he died. For though his behavior never changed - or maybe because it never changed - his mood edged ever deeper into darkness over the years, like a body pulled under water a drop at a time. This dry, dusty day the final culmination of a lifetime, his life passing with no more notice than a tumbleweed blowing down the street.
"Why should I give a fuck about anything!"
It had always been more a declaration than question, the catchphrase of Joshua's life. As a twenty-year-old rebellious firebrand it got well received laughs from his fellow troublemakers. In his thirties, his drinking absorbed him as he surrounded himself with like-minded nihilists feeding his urge to oblivion. But now, isolated and turning forty, his was a ship lost at sea and few were the ports who'd still receive him.
But the cry for oblivion can be made only so many times. If only Joshua had known that secret number, would his life have turned out differently? Could he have kept the words inside? But he did say them, and thus started his final day on earth.
The mid morn sun was already brutal as it encroached mercilessly up the exposed back porch of the white clapboard house. Joshua observed the coming solar assault with eyes blazed and dazed from another night of hellish nightmares, these not stopping even with the light of day, wretched imagery wrestled his mind and pierced his soul, reaching out as if to pierce Jesus upon the cross.
What if I never escape this? What if I'm tormented every night the rest of my life? Suddenly, the dog started barking, peering straight up at him as if to chastise Joshua for his loser life. "Shut up, dog! Why should I give a fuck about anything!"
***
Next thing Joshua knew, his final port closed its harbor to him. He didn't live with his ex-wife Sally but he often came to stay despite the inconvenience of the two children. But there was no mistaking the finality in her voice - he'd heard before this lecturing tone.
"You're sick, Josh. You're sick and I won't have you around my kids ever again! I don't care where you go or what you do, but go."
"I can't...I can't..."
"I said go! You shoulda been put in jail long time ago. Maybe it'd of done ya some good. Lord knows something needs to! How could you do something like that, killing a poor defenseless dog? You're nothin' but a monster and I got two screaming kids crying their hearts out!"
"It was barkin' and my head-"
"Stop it! Just stop it! I don't want to hear another word you sonofabitch!" Her voice pitched into frustrated hysteria with dirty blonde hair flying across her face in trembling anger. Joshua thought maybe if she had a gun right then she'd of shot him down cold. She cut the ties to his mooring and forever he was doomed to roam the seas alone. What future now on the vast horizon?
She's right. I am a monster.
Like any weak person, Joshua only found remorse from enduring pain. He stumbled back in shock and disrepair to his rented room in the boarding house. Can I just not feel anymore? Is the pain too great? He grabbed a bottle off the chest and plopped down on the bed aiming his gun at the door in case Sally sent someone to kill him. Where did I go wrong?
He'd never gone right.
Joshua's father, his hero and rock, died at eight, putting a chip on his shoulder to stay. When his mother remarried, she was scared and latched onto security above all, the taste of life alone panicking her like a gun to the head. But his new stepfather never wanted to be a father and sorely resented the boy who came to represent an incarnation of his own inadequacies and he regularly beat the boy, swearing each time: "I'm going to beat the Jew out of you!"
As if his identity were the source of all things wrong. Joshua's mother kept any feelings she had on the situation to herself.
Determined the boy would join him in his prison before he left the house, Joshua's stepfather never passed on a chance to discount him for every mistake and declare him unfit for life and responsibility any time he reached out to find himself. Thusly caged, the boy knew his odds for survival weren't good in a world surprisingly blind to human pain. So Joshua started looking for shortcuts.
He skirted the edges of the law at first, trying amateur scams and schemes that could never pan out. Sometimes even he was taken in the process. The life was ruthless and heartless and left him feeling stupid. But what choice had he if not to be himself? But then he met the Special One...
Joshua didn't much think of her anymore. His vacant eyes stared at the room's ceiling, having dropped both his bottle and gun. How many times had he sought an answer while gazing at the same yellow blotched stains of the overhead plaster. No matter how many times he looked the damn patterns never changed. He felt if the ceiling changed then somehow he could too. Instead he found only crushing oppression, compressing his mind in hopeless agony. Thank God the Special One couldn't see him now.
For a time, he'd walked on the clouds, she lifting him up, reversing everything he thought of life and fortune, gently feeding him sips from the cup of self-belief - because he believed in her. As his spirits soared, the secret, stored up dreams of his youth sprouted amid the thorn patch of his life. But Joshua balked at clearing out the thorns. Why should he have to endure such an injustice as that? Why should he do anything when he was inherently bad?
The Special One knew Joshua had to make a decision.
"You're an angry little boy, aren't you?" her deep brown eyes pleaded. "One thing you're going to have to learn in this world is that no one's got a say in what for the shit happens to them. And one day you're gonna realize what just one helluva gift that is!"
Joshua never accepted that gift, insisting on life on his own terms.
Twenty years later, the words echoed all the way to his sparse, neglected room in a town in a forgotten corner of the New Mexico territory. Anger had become too much the comfortable old friend over the years and Joshua came to trust only it. He pushed away the Special One ("Why are you saying these things just to hurt me, Joshua?") and drifted back to his life of aborted shortcuts - only more so now.
Joshua liked nothing more than playing the big shot, a badass outlaw fearless in his pursuits. To those not in the know, he made that image real - but that didn't make his life any grander. Truth was he was low man on the totem pole in the operations he partook. He never initiated the jobs, just tagged along and took orders. For while Joshua was smarter than most, his part time commitment never made him one of the main guys - a status that allowed him to escape more than once.
It also prevented the big score he needed to escape this empty life he fed like a prisoner feeding his guard.
His pocket watch said two o'clock. Sure felt later than that. Shit, what a day! Sally will never forgive me for killing the kids' dog. What made me do it? I just can't seem to stay in me right mind. Now it's too late. Too fucking late... Joshua rolled over on the bed, all the fight beat out of him. I'm just gonna give up. Be who I am and die. Maybe that will finally make the cocksuckers happy.
It was fragile and a bit amorphous, but a creeping sense of peace rested over him as Joshua surrendered. At first he tried to explain but then thought better of it. Was he really doomed as a "goddam Jew"? But he let the question rest and the room settled into a stable solitude, unfreezing the waves of time trapped within. In the corner of his eye, Joshua spotted a glimpse of elusive hope. Dare he trust it?
Then his eyes shut under the weight of long unsated weariness and when they opened again he felt more refreshed than in years. Was any of it real? But he smiled and remembered an ancient yearning of his youth as every object in his room came suddenly alive and he knew he must capture that for all time. But you have no paint and what money could be made from it? interrupted his stepfather's voice, condemning the no-good Jew from beyond the grave.
But the urge remained and Joshua was tired of feeling eaten up about everything he did. This would feed him - and it excited him just to think of it. Art was a connection to the universe, a lifeline to God and all that exists outside of time. Even the idea of merely attaining the supplies rejuvenated him and he grinned at the thought of surprise an easel and paint tubes would put into all his naysayers who never expected him to give a fuck about anything.
But isn't art a special commitment above and beyond the world, a flower to be guarded?
A crashing, thundering knock banged in demand upon his door and for a split second Joshua thought his stepfather come back to life. He had to consciously push the thought aside and woozily answered the door. He saw the hardened face of Olin Mingo, looking at him as if he'd read his thoughts in contempt.
"Mr. Harlen needs some men quick. That Chama fucker's coming in and we aim to stop him. Mr. Harlen don't want any more trouble from that Mexicano. There's a bonus in it for ya if we get him 'fore he makes it to the courthouse."
No! No! No !No! resisted Joshua the artist. Sure maybe it was a foolish venture but doing something he felt good about, that was just too precious.
"Nah, man, I don't feel like it. Maybe next time," he replied weakly.
"What do you mean?" scoffed Mingo. "This is a big job. Mr. Harlen won't forget it you let him down like this. You suddenly don't need money or something?" Mingo was a hard man but he had savvy eyes that always spotted a man's weak points.
I can't tell him the real reason but I have to give him something. "It's been a bad day. Me and my ex, you know how it is." Mingo the statue stood his ground. "It was really bad this time...," Joshua found himself explaining.
"We all got women problems. Comes with having a dick." Mingo knew just when to play the understanding father to get his way. He was an expert with a long range sniper rifle and it always satisfied him to hit his mark. "But you've got to pull out of it. You can't just lie around here feeling sorry for yourself."
I guess technically I do need to get the money. Then I can make the commitment after that. Joshua sold himself the lie, too afraid to see otherwise.
Feeling sorry for himself was the most devestating charge the Special One had laid on Joshua. He knew she was right and if he didn't stop he'd forfeit his future. Oh, how it killed him not to stay and tend the inner garden he'd just planted! But that's the price of growing up, he told himself, time to get rid of the dark cloud once and for all.
"OK," relented Joshua, feeling sorry for himself. "What else have I got to do?"
"That's the spirit!" assured big brother Mingo, his ploy having worked. He strode over to Joshua's gunbelt and handed it to him, shutting the door on any change of heart. The gun looked extra heavy to Joshua.
***
Joshua stepped out the door, never to return, crying a stream of tears for his stillborn painting, seeing the light only as a fatal bullet brought him home to reality.
The painting imagined but never born
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