Fire in the Hole

A few nights ago, Festus showed me how to mine for gold and even gave me a bag of gold dust and a chunk of fool’s gold. I get the gist of gold mining despite Festus’s unintelligible mutterings. As Ed would say, “All those sentences and the only word I understand is ‘rock.’” Gunsmoke Gulch has to be given credit for keeping Festus on. As it is, he appears indigent. Who else would employ him? Since that night, Festus is suddenly my new best friend. He hugs me every time he sees me or, if I’m able to dodge that, at least pats my shoulder with one of his grimy hands. I wonder if the poor man thinks he really is living in the 1800’s and only takes a bath the first Saturday of every month. Tonight all I can obsess on is how I just washed my dress and now Festus’s scent lingers on it. I want to run when I see him coming, but I don’t because he is sweet...and sad...and lonely. Or maybe that’s just me. Lonely people seem to gravitate to Gunsmoke Gulch. I put on my costume and suddenly become a goodwill ambassador for the place. I say hi to people, welcoming them all to the happiest place in Albuquerque. I am actor, ambassador, therapist. I say hello to a woman the other night. She is fairly young and the only characteristic that distinguishes her from other customers is that she appears to be alone. “Hi, how ya doing?” I ask. “Well,” she sighs, “I’m not so good. My roommate, who I’m closer to than anyone, just moved out because her dog died, and my dog, a poodle, well, it’s his birthday today so I came out to dinner to celebrate.” “Well, you be sure and take your dog home some leftovers. Since it’s his birthday and all.” “Nah,” she says, “he don’t eat steak. I wish he could, but he don’t. He’s too old. He’s probably gonna die soon and then I won’t have anybody.” With that, she shuffles into the steak house. I am on the verge of tears by the time the woman walks away. I quickly pray to God that one, I never become that lonely, and two, I don’t ask how someone’s doing unless I’m prepared to know. Tonight, Art becomes Wile E. Coyote in a Warner Brothers’ cartoon when he inadvertently sets his hair on fire. He is waving the dynamite as Crazy Curly and a spark from the wick ignites the top of his head. It isn’t until he hears people laughing and smells something burning that Wile E. realizes he is a life-sized match. Art dances around like he’s got fire ants in his pants, his bowed legs alternating up and down, up and down like a string puppet. Finally, Art throws a handful of trail dust in his hair and extinguishes the flame. By then the hysterical crowd is practically on the floor, thinking this is a great bit in the show. I suck at twirling the pistol in the medicine show. I drop my cylinder of iron one out of every three times. Tonight, it almost lands on the audience volunteer’s naked toes protruding from his sandal-clad foot. The big problem with my inadequacy is that it’s still hotter than H-E-double-toothpicks in Albuquerque and the crowds are wearing only sparse footwear. This volunteer looks at me, shocked at my ineptitude. I smile sheepishly. “Sorry, sir,” I say. I come within an inch of nailing a woman’s manicured big toe, but she moves it out of the way at the last instant. She glances down at her bright red digits and then up at me. “Sorry, ma’am,” I say. “I thought those things were only dangerous when loaded,” she says, backing away. Donna and David come see me do the show tonight and bring two-year-old Dominique. I call up David as my volunteer, certain it will be hilarious. But the moment David hands Dominique to Donna and walks towards this strange woman on the stage, Dominique starts to bawl. Another show where I’m scaring the audience. I wave to Dominique from my elevated position. “Dominique, it’s me. Aunt Colleen. I won’t hurt Daddy.” She doesn’t believe me. She continues to bawl. I’m not Aunt Colleen; I am a scary lady in a bright red dress and funny hat. My bit with David is lame. Lamer than usual. No one can hear over Dominique’s crying. And people start walking away. When I release David and he returns to Dominique, she stops crying. I can now be heard. This causes the rest of the crowd to walk off. In the end, my audience consists of Donna, David, and Dominique. The burden of being family—they have to suffer through anything. After my show, I walk my burdened family around the grounds of Gunsmoke Gulch. We ride Conductor Dillon’s train for free. We stroll the boardwalks. We pass the Old Dodge City Mine. Dominique is giggling with joy. As soon as he sees me, my best friend Festus runs over. “Weberty, wablurty, weh, woh,” he says. Donna stands inches from me, holding Dominique. Dominique takes one look at Festus and, in an instant, her happy face flushes red and contorts with pain. Donna wordlessly glances at puss-laced Festus and flees with her crying baby. I am left with Festus and David. “Festus, this is my cousin, David,” I say. David forces his hands deep in his pockets and nods. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “Weedle ho woodle woo,” Festus says. David gives a dazed grin then starts away himself. Festus blathers on. “I’m sorry, Festus. I have to go,” I say. “I’ll see you later.” I have often seen kids, four and five years old, hanging onto flea-bitten Miss Kitty and hugging spit-encrusted Festus. I would cringe, knowing about Miss Kitty’ frequent waxy ear infections and Festus’s tendency to not bathe. But I never saw a kid cry. I chuckle thinking of Dominique’s tortured mask of angst and the speed with which Donna hauled her away. Since David is the only one to have met Festus, Donna and I torture him repeatedly about “his boyfriend, Festus.” It is our way of getting back at him for siding with Mr. “I Love American Breasts.” Every night during the medicine show I kick Bob in the groin. It’s a bit meant to prove the powers of my magical elixir. And it’s a cheap laugh. If nothing else it always elicits a gasp. Tonight after I sack Bob in his package and the mandatory gasp ensues, a man clutching a beer bottle stumbles up to the stage. “Man, that musta hurt,” he yelps. I ignore him and continue with the show, but he doesn’t stop. “Ouch, man, are you okay?” our drunk fan asks Bob. Bob ignores him and continues on with the show. But he doesn’t stop. “Man, that hurt me. Didn’t that hurt you?” I look down from my perch, weeks of performing for an often drunk public is stripping away my tentativeness. “He’s fine, sir. I castrated him long ago.” The man staggers off. I hear Terry say, That-a-way, Kiddo. Bring on Mr. “I love American breasts” now. Tonight during the second medicine show, Bob chooses an older man as my audience volunteer. The man is probably in his sixties and is a good sport about getting up on stage. Then it’s time for the spelling test bit...“Spell “post”...spell “most”...spell “boast”...What do you put in the toaster...” “Toast!” “No, you put bread in the toaster!” When I ask him to spell “post,” he shrugs. And it dawns on me—he’s illiterate. So I quickly spell “post,” “most,” and “boast” myself then ask, “What do you put in the toaster?” and he answers, “Toast.” We’re back on track. Then I give him a bottle of my cure-all elixir since his incorrect (wink-wink) answers prove he’s obviously a very sick man, and he swigs half the bottle. The thing that strikes me is that he doesn’t seem at all self-conscious about his inability to spell. He chugs his sarsaparilla and smiles, pleasantly helping me through my show. The constant stream of tobacco draining from Festus’s lip ensures that he always reeks of chew. The other added feature is that it emphasizes the gumming of his words. As Ed says, “You can’t make out strings and strings of his one syllable words then all of a sudden, he’ll come out with some sophisticated phrase that’s clear as a bell.”